Dear in the headlights

A friend mentioned the phrase "deer in the headlights" to me yesterday -- I forget the context -- and I decided I'd share this amusing image -- which I'd created over the weekend as a joke -- with you.

But despite the fact that I had a VERY strange dream just before I woke up, in which there was something I was about to do that kept not happening because there were people watching, I'm not finding any deeper meaning in this image: I just find it funny -- or punny.

Because the deer aren't supposed to be INSIDE the headlights, they're just supposed to be paralyzed by the spotlight and terrified to move. If they're actually IN the headlights, that would imply that they have some control over the situation, that they are equal to it, that they're not as vulnerable as they feel -- which is exactly what I began to get as my strange dream wore on. And, eventually, I gave up trying to push for a resolution and just lay back, thinking, when it's ready, it will happen.

Which I see now is a sort of obscure metaphor for the attitude I have finally adopted about my husband's unemployment (I can't believe; it's been almost a year!). They do say that the people and situations in life are put there to teach us things we need to learn. So maybe the gift in this one is that I'm learning to let go; learning both to stay alert to opportunities and to accept that I cannot force or control the timing of their arrival; learning to enjoy the blessings of the present and stay tuned to the possibilities it contains without getting too caught up in worrying about the future.

Which doesn't mean I'm entirely sanguine about the situation! I'm still pretty hyper-attentive: perhaps the lesson in this image is that he is my dear, and those headlights are me watching him for signs he's ready to tackle the job world again -- and though they're still there, I've finally turned off the energy behind the watching? Perhaps that's stretching things a bit.

But at least I'm developing a sense of humor about it... and what I see, watching him adapt, is that he's beginning to release a bit of his control needs as well; beginning to see that if we're just doing the best we can and staying attentive, life has a way of offering unexpected gifts and options. Perhaps that's the heart of faith -- just learning to trust that somehow there's a blessing in the circumstances...

Coming home to the body

"One of the great tragedies of religious history occurred when the physical body was falsely accused for the sins of mankind, and was rooted out of Western religious traditions. The idea that our most basic bodily functions, our sexual passion, and our sensual pleasure are unclean and unholy is not only a regrettable belief system, it's also a profoundly ignorant one. Deep spirituality is not an out-of-body experience; it's an in-body experience. How could it be otherwise?"

-- Elizabeth Lesser, The Seeker's Guide.

I was born with a heart murmur, in a time when such things were just beginning to be understood. My mother was led to believe I was a fragile creature, and might not live past the age of five, and so for the early, formative years of my life, I was prohibited from most physical activities.

When I made it to five, they assumed most of the risk was past, and so I led a fairly normally active childhood, although, of course -- from the combination of earlier restrictions and my ungainly height, I was pretty uncoordinated, and always the last one chosen for games. Recess became a nightmare, and gym class was always embarrassing.

And then, in seventh grade, I began getting palpitations any time I did strenuous exercise. After the first incident, when I was taken to the emergency room, I learned to anticipate the symptoms, and would intentionally sideline myself when I could feel my pulse start to accelerate. So it's not surprising that over time my life became more centered around books and the mind, theater, art and music, rather than the more physical activities of my classmates. It's also not surprising that my body became more of an enemy than a friend, and exercise of any kind (other than sex, which for some reason escaped all these taboos) an unwanted activity and potential source of embarrassment.

But to see one's body as other, as enemy, as embarrassment, as obstacle, becomes a problem as we age: it is, after all, our only home, and we need to spend increasing amounts of time caring for it if we wish to continue enjoying the benefits of living. And so I decided that this would be a year I would start paying attention; taking better care of my physical being. Which would, I think, explain why this series of torsos is emerging from my art. Each of the torsos is youthful, but each began as something old and broken down. (This one began as the hull of a very large old wooden boat which sits, rotting, on a grassy knoll down by the water in Anacortes, on the way to the ferry dock.)

I'm just beginning on this path, and progress is predictably slow -- moreso over this past week, with my back being out. But I am beginning to feel more integrated; to love and respect my body, and see it as friend rather than enemy; to sense it, in the silence within and between its cells, as a sacred vessel for a lively spirit. And I like what Elizabeth Lesser says in the way of encouragement for this path:

"The body is your vehicle on planet earth; its well-being is a gift you were meant to relish. The body that you inhabit, the one you awoke in this morning, the one you washed and dressed, was designed perfectly to carry you through life. It is a wondrous invention of a mysterious creator, an invention that many of us barely understand, rarely contemplate, and often don't nurture."

And her advice, for those of us who choose to overturn this ancient concept of body as enemy and source of sin? "Start with the body you have, not the one you want. Come home to the body... start where you are, stay open, and practice fearlessness."

It's not always easy, coming to love the sagging parts, and encouraging the tired parts to keep working. But it's worth it, and a worthy challenge. After all -- as it says on the poster outside my pilates classroom: "Old age is not for sissies!"

Silence as a bridge between

For the last few days I have been reading Robert Sardello's Silence, in anticipation of an upcoming silent retreat. This morning he talked about the role of silence in a relationship, which was intriguing to me because... well, I'm in a relationship, and my husband doesn't seem all that comfortable with silence.

He's one of those people that has the radio going all the time -- and if, as yesterday, he's working in different rooms of the house, he'll have the radio going in as many as three different rooms. I've come home to find 2 radios going and even the TV on -- with no-one watching.

You would think -- given my own predilection for silence -- that this would make us incompatible. And yet -- 25 years in -- it doesn't seem to. In fact, last night we watched Woody Allen's movie, Husbands and Wives, and he continually turned to me to utter variations on the theme, "Do other married people really talk to each other like that?"

Having been married before -- for 10 years -- I could say, yes, I believe they do.

"But, why?" he asked.

I think, I replied, it's because they are so wrapped up in their own insecurities that neither hears the other speak, or has anything to offer when the other is needy. I'm wondering if that's why this image leaped off the computer for me. Perhaps silence is the bridge between two people. And it doesn't matter if one or the other prefers an environment with silence or noise.

What matters is that when one speaks, the other quiets his or her internal voices long enough to listen to what is really being said. And this attentive listening creates a bridge from one soul to the other. At different times we may make different choices about where to stand on that bridge, or how far to walk toward the other. But as long as we continue to create the bridge -- whether in a marriage, or between friends, or just in passing interactions -- we two are linked, and it doesn't matter how different our individual ecosystems may be.

Writing this, I think of the young woman who was running the cash register at our local Rite-Aid Saturday evening. We stopped by on our way home from Prairie Home Companion to pick up some Nyquil (I've caught my husband's cold), and when I stepped forward to pay for it, she looked at it, then looked at me and said, "Oh, do you have a cold?"

When I replied in the affirmative and handed her my money, she rang it up, and then said, as I was leaving, "Happy Easter; I hope you feel better soon!" It is, I know, a small thing. But she stepped beyond her own concerns, if only for a moment; she paid attention, and noticed, and stepped out onto the bridge between us with two offerings -- and it made a difference in my day. I'm hoping I can begin to do more of that kind of attentive listening; that in consciously silencing my monkey mind every morning -- and in my primary relationship -- I am learning to do that more effectively in the presence of others.

We'll see; I still have a lot to learn!

An Easter wish

Happy Easter!
And may you find
that whatever gift has lain
buried within you
for all these years and more,
is now set free,
and when you go
for one last fond farewell
to the dreams you once had
or the longings of your childhood
or the hopes
or the passions
that were hidden
deep below consciousness
you'll find the stone has rolled away
and wholeness stands waiting at the door
to greet you by name
and walk with you
for the rest of your days
as lover, guide and friend.


* * *

The colors of Easter

When I was a little girl, I was utterly enchanted with the idea of Cinderella, and longed desperately for a beautiful ballgown just like hers, with wide full skirts made of layers of chiffon.

The closest I ever came in those days was the dresses my mom bought for me to wear on Easter Sundays -- and the wonderful multi-layered slips I used to wear beneath them to make the skirts billow out. For years Easter meant colored eggs, awakening to an Easter basket, rushing off to church (my parents sang in the choir), and, best of all, beautiful dresses and sweet little hats with ribbons trailing down the back.

I carried on that tradition with my own daughters until, when they were 7 and 9, we moved to Shaw Island. They stopped attending church soon after we arrived, as there were no children there and they found the service boring. So there was no point in buying them new spring dresses, and Easter celebrations devolved into Easter baskets with candy and stuffed animals. And now, this year, with both girls over 21 and away from home, I won't even be doing that.

And what are they left with, after all this? Will they ever come to see Easter as part of the natural rhythm of life, something to look forward to after a long period of darkness and introspection? Will they ever experience the rising of hope I used to feel at midnight on Easter Eve, when after the darkness of the Vigil service we would turn on the lights, ring the bells and dance?

I think, as a parent, I did a reasonable job of making it clear that there was more to Christmas than Santa Claus and presents. But Easter, of course, is harder to explain -- partly because I didn't want to burden them too much with the pain of Good Friday. It's hard to get the point or the magnificent promise of Resurrection if you don't walk through death first. And I'm not sure the myths the church has built around the story really provide a way in to the mystery and wonder of Easter; you kind of have to experience the death and rebirth within yourself before it comes alive for you.

But there is a sense of promise in the colors of Easter; the soft yellows and blues, the pale lilacs and pinks. And so I was amused when this image emerged from my labors at the computer yesterday afternoon. Even if I won't be attending church tomorrow (too crowded) or wearing new clothes (too expensive) or buying candy and stuffed animals for my girls (too old, and too far away), something in me still knows the light is coming, still quivers with the hope of glory yet to come.

And so I wish you each a blessed Easter, and celebrate the new life that rises within us all.

The fury of the storm

It's Good Friday, and there's a windstorm brewing outside my window. It seems appropriate for the day, somehow, the fury of the wind, the moaning and the whistling, the thump and clatter of branches and other detritus on the deck.

I drove into Seattle this morning to renew my passport for an upcoming visit to Canada, and the driving wind and rain made it almost impossible to open my car door on the ferry. There are fewer people in the city today -- Good Friday and spring break are coinciding for many this year -- and those who are out and about have their heads down and their umbrellas thrust forward; just trying to get to where they need to go without being blown away.

There's something a bit hellish about it all; a sort of every-man-for-himself feeling, each of us in separate worlds, obsessed with survival -- which is how most of us get when we're feeling under siege. And in it, I hear echoes of the bizarre and venomous rage that people seem to be feeling about the passing of the health care bill. Why such intensity? I wonder.

A friend sent me a link to an op-ed piece in the New York Times, which offers an answer to the question. The author of the article, Frank Rich, compares the disproportionate fury about the health care bill to the reaction, back in 1964, to the passing of the Civil Rights Amendment, and suggests that the rise in right-wing extremism is not about health care, but in reality a reaction to some serious demographic shifts in our country's population. "The conjunction of a black president and a female speaker of the House — topped off by a wise Latina on the Supreme Court and a powerful gay Congressional committee chairman — would sow fears of disenfranchisement among a dwindling and threatened minority in the country no matter what policies were in play." By 2012, he adds, "non-Hispanic white births will be in the minority." He then notes, "The Tea Party movement is virtually all white."

So here it is, Good Friday, and the shadows of extremism are darkening, clouds are looming, storms are brewing. Surely we are all desperate for the message of hope that Easter will bring. Perhaps when we put our heads down against the storm we are really bowing them in prayer.

God yearning to become manifest

A friend called this morning to read to me from Cynthia Bourgeault's wonderful little book, The Wisdom Way of Knowing. And the piece she read was just so beautiful and perfect that I had to share it here:

"Conscience is the pearl of great price; it is both the instrument and the supreme realization of visionary seeing. It is the capacity always and everywhere to see the whole of God yearning to become manifest in all our human beings and doings, like the full of the moon faintly present behind the crescent.

"With the awakening of this eye, you no longer see Wisdom; you are Wisdom. You become a channel of God's peace, and the greatest of all artists as you dance with "the love that moves the stars and the sun."

I loved this; loved that she was reading the book, loved that she called to read me the quote, loved the quote, love that it resonates so beautifully with who she is becoming, love the imagery... And I love it, too, because it feels that in a way this is what I'm doing with this series of torsos I seem to be creating; it's a concrete, demonstrable way of saying what I have always believed: that there is beauty everywhere -- that there is divinity everywhere -- in even the simplest things, in even the most irascible human beings and the most challenging situations.

The image above (can you tell my back was feeling better by the end of the day yesterday? I LOVE this one!!!) had its humble beginnings in the upper right corner of the image shown here, shot on a gray day on the ferry last week. She is, in her way, a guardian angel, a visual reminder of the truth my husband so kindly shared with me yesterday, as I was giving voice to my discouragement about what seemed to be negative progress with my back. "The path to healing is not always linear." (Note: the image for today's poem started with the lower left side of this photo).

We need to be patient with the times that are slow, or stopped, or that appear to be moving backwards, and trust that even in stepping back, room is being created for the divine to become manifest. Sometimes we, or our artistic spirits, or our communities, or our lives, or our hearts, need to curl up in a cocoon for a bit. It is only through that period of stillness and apparent stagnation that true metamorphosis can occur and the butterfly we were born to be can unfold her wings and fly.