Just Say Yes to No

After a couple of stormy days, the water has taken a chunk out of our beach, taking away a few inches of sand and covering its tracks with massive amounts of bright green seaweed.

It's one more reminder that winter is coming, and as the weather begins to cool I find myself telling our houseguest stories of past high tides; about this photo, for example, of our neighbor kayaking in our driveway, about the time the propane tank floated loose, and about the time I opened the door to the crawlspace and saw a stool floating by only inches from the floorboards.

It's curious, isn't it, that the weather can change so much from winter to summer and back again, and yet still we find it so hard to adapt to change. You'd think we'd be good at it by now; that after all these winters -- even after all the dark nights that inevitably turn into days when the sun rises -- that we'd be better at accepting the inevitability, both of change and of renewal.

We spent most of this morning sitting around the living room in our jammies with our houseguest discussing jobs and employers, old and new, and all the ways we've succeeded and failed at instigating change over the years. One thing we all agreed about was the importance of asking the right questions (and listening to the answers) right up front, before agreeing to take on anything new, no matter how desperate we are for a job or for money. And the other thing about which we were in total agreement was the importance of learning to say "No."

So I invite you here to join with me on this all-important crusade: Just Say Yes to No! If you're already up to your hipwaders in projects, don't take on another one. If you don't have a kayak, don't promise you can walk on water. And for heaven's sake, VALUE YOUR TIME. If it begins to look like you may be in over your head -- to the point where you no longer have time or energy for the important work you were BORN to do -- get out of the water and step onto dry land: you have more essential tasks calling for your particular energy. Just remember: whatever your gifts are, the world needs you to be giving them. And it's very hard to bring your full creativity to that when you're drowning in to-do lists.

Cultivating awareness

We have a houseguest this weekend, a wonderful old friend from the early days of our marriage whom we hadn't seen or spoken to in decades, and we were delighted to discover that she and I have both been taking improv classes.

So we decided to celebrate the synchronicity of that by going to see our island improv troupe's monthly performance last night, and when we walked out the door at 6:45, this was the scene that greeted us.

Of course she and I both ran for our cameras; wouldn't you? But before we did that, there was that breathless moment of wonder, when we were just stopped in our tracks: Oh, my God, look; so beautiful! I think that in that speechless moment of recognition, when we are totally absorbed by what we are taking in, before we have run for our cameras or labeled anything -- the moon, the houses, the bird, the streak on the water -- there is a kind of healing that takes place, a purifying sense of oneness with what is, that feeds our souls.

And now I'm wondering if that doesn't explain why it is we humans all slow down for the wreck by the side of the road, watch disaster movies, or gather in the parks on the Fourth of July to watch fireworks. Could it be the shock value, the momentary suspension, that breathlessness, that draws us in? Perhaps for some those are the only times when they can be totally aware, present, mindful, and the body -- which knows it needs those suspended moments -- drives through the unconscious to find arbitrary ways of achieving these brief glimpses into that place which is both empty and fully connected.

I don't really know. But I did notice that my meditation this morning had much more "suspended time" than I've had in a long while -- it was as if this moment with the moon had somehow primed my pump, and more of that delicious weightlessness/thoughtlessness was flowing through. Which means it might be true that the more we cultivate that awareness, the more attentive we are to each individual moment, the more awareness will come to us. It's certainly worth a try!

Confessions of an Egalitarian

I've known since I first became serious about my work as a photographer that a lot of what I do is about finding the beauty in the ordinary; helping people to see that the things they pass everyday without looking are just as magnificent as the more exotic locales to which they travel on their vacations. But I always thought that was JUST about beauty. Even though I know there are folks out there who write about finding the holy in the ordinary, I still thought what I was seeing was beauty, and what I was expressing was somehow tied to my own longing to be seen as beautiful -- ordinary though I am.

But over the last 24 hours or so I have become aware that pieces like this one, shot on the ferry from my car window, emerge from a much more deeply held conviction than that, a conviction that lies at the absolute heart of my belief system and informs most of the choices I have made in my life. That conviction -- though I have to be honest and say I am not always true to it -- is that, to phrase it lightly, "we are all equals on this bus;" that every human being has a unique value, a unique gift to offer the world, a unique role to play, and that it is our job as human beings to support one another, honor one another and encourage each other's gifts.

Which means, of course, that I get into trouble when other people -- Dick Cheney comes to mind as a glaring example -- fail to operate out of that conviction; when they speak or act in ways that set themselves above and denigrate or deny others' rights: in such situations I tend to demonize the authority figure, and it becomes hard for me to see that Cheney has value, too.

And now I suspect that my attraction to the ideas of awareness, mindfulness, and presence also stems out of that same conviction: that each moment also has value, that what is feeding our senses in any given moment has value. Because I am a visual person, that conviction most often expresses itself visually -- "I saw this thing, in this moment, and see how beautiful it is! What if we could always be that attentive? Wouldn't we realize how we are surrounded by amazing beauty?" -- but it does have broader applications than that.

Exploring the ramifications of these deeply held beliefs, I find it easier to understand my ongoing approach/avoidance issues with the Episcopal Church, which declares so absolutely in its very name that it is by definition about hierarchy (Episcopal means "bishop"). I was not, have never been, am not now and will probably never be fully engaged in a system -- however much I espouse its beliefs and love its rituals -- which persistently acts as if one person -- by virtue of a collar and/or training -- is superior to another, or has the right to lecture or talk down to another. There are teaching moments, things we learn and long to share, but I believe human knowledge can never be absolute, nor can it ever fully comprehend or define God. I subscribe to Rene Descartes' conviction that the only thing we can be sure of is that we are not sure.

Having been steeped in protestantism since birth, I am also a firm subscriber to the priesthood of all believers as it is described in 1Peter 2:9 -- "But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light." Somehow for me that passage, paired with Jesus' statement in the Gospel of Thomas (Logion 3) that "divine Reality exists inside and all around you" leaves me believing that some aspect of God resides within each of us, and that -- even though I know, for me, that Christianity and specifically the Episcopal brand of Christianity is what seems to resonate most deeply with that inner core -- the knowing of God is not now and has never been the unique province of the clergy, or even of the Christians.

I love knowing that so seminal a Christian theologian as Thomas Aquinas was deeply influenced by the thinking of the Islamic master, Averroes, and by Maimonides, the renowned Torah scholar. And I believe that despite differing belief systems the human race is all in this together, each entitled to moments of wisdom, each of us filled with and surrounded by God, each of us born to share that wonderful light, each likely to stumble and fall, all of us called to treat one another with respect as we walk together on the path of life.

At the same time I believe we are all artists, each operating out of the well of creativity that is the Godness within us to bring those resources to the unique challenges we face, whether it's creating a sculpture or a painting, writing a sermon, leading a core of squabbling volunteers, planting a garden, or driving a bus full of screaming children to soccer practice. If we bring our full attention to those challenges, seeing them as opportunities, we are reaching into the deepest recesses of being to know how best to handle whatever it is that arises. And for each of us there will be moments in the inevitable seasons of life when darkness, despair, and sheer exhaustion can hide that resourceful core from us, leaving us to stumble alone with only our thought-riddled egos to guide us through the maze and chaos of daily activity.

Whew! I realize that's an awful lot of belief statements to articulate in a single column, and thank you for listening as I preach/pontificate, doing that very thing I find distasteful! I am reassuring myself that it was okay to do it, just this once, because I'm not really telling you what YOU should believe; I can't even say -- as Oprah does -- "This I know for sure." All I know is that I seem to be a pretty passionate egalitarian, and I'm just learning that my art flows out of that space just as surely as my thoughts and actions do. Thank you for listening!

Too many voices clamoring...

This was the view that greeted me this morning when I took the dog out for his walk. I ran for my camera, got some lovely shots, and was looking forward to a beautiful day. But 10 minutes later it was raining cats and dogs, and now the sun is gone and the sky is gray with clouds: how quickly things can change!

You may have noticed yesterday's post was a bit flippant, devoid of much in the way of spiritual content. It was that way, I confess, because I had a gnarly problem on my mind and couldn't really think of anything else; still can't, in fact.

And it's one of those problems that surprises you, the kind that changes everything in a sudden flash, like this morning's rain. But perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised by either the problem or the rain -- there were, after all, some clouds on the horizon; I could have imagined some darkness might be coming my way. But I guess, like most of us, I was hoping for the best -- even assuming the best.

At any rate, here I am, stewing over stuff, and it's no wonder I couldn't write yesterday. There are all these voices in my head, all arguing about the best way to handle the situation. Fortunately I've been planning to work on a SoulCollage this week, so I had already begun to name all those voices; what Seena Frost, the author of SoulCollage, calls your Committee. And now I see that the Committee has a lot in common with all those voices we learned about when we watched Big Mind.

So, since I'm spending my day listening to them individually and sorting them out, here, again, for your amusement, are the voices from Big Mind and the additional ones I've met through SoulCollage. Do any of them live in your head, too?

Committee:
Worrier
Wise One
Mother
Rebel
Critic
Impulsive One
Excuser
Competitor
Fairness Monitor
Ugly/Unloveable
Lazy One
Pleaser
Greedy One
Fixer/Organizer
Artist
Lonely Child
Ashamed/Guilty One

Big Mind:
Protector
Controller
Skeptic
Fear
Victim
Damaged Self
Fixer
Vulnerable Child
Desire
Seeking Mind
The Mind that Seeks the Way
The Follower of the Way
The Way
Big Mind
Big Heart
Integrated Free Functioning You

Jeepers! No wonder it's so noisy in there I can't think!

Seduced by a bit of chrome...

There's a new house going up in our neighborhood, and yesterday they were scheduled to pour the cement for the garage foundation starting at 8 am.

Ours is a one-lane road, so we were given advance notice to allow us to move our cars to the other side of the pour in case we had morning appointments. So my husband drove the garbage down to the collection point the night before (the garbage trucks refuse to navigate the 10 speed bumps to our house; no surprises there!) and then left my car (the only one that can hold the garbage cans) on the far side of the pour so I could use it in the morning if I needed it.

He was planning to commute by motorcycle, and left just before 8 the next morning, figuring it would be possible to squeeze his bikes by the trucks. But alas, they were already in place and there was no way he could get by. So, knowing that I had no appointments before noon (and they were scheduled to be done by then), he brought the bike back and took the use of my car for the day -- which meant that I ran all my errands in our daughter's 1979 Mercedes, which you see pictured here: I shot this as part of my search for Line.

This car is actually the third in a series of used Mercedes we've acquired over the years. The used ones are delightfully cheap (as long as they're not the cute little collectible convertible ones), and they're built like tanks so they're the perfect vehicle for beginning drivers. The lines of this particular car are beautiful (as is the color); the seats are surprisingly comfortable (unlike my husband's pretty-much-deceased-but-still-in-our-driveway 87 Mercedes, which always throws my back out) and this car runs like a top, so it was no hardship to switch cars -- I just never do it.

And what I found - since I normally drive a dark green Honda pilot, which is an incredibly common and nondescript car -- was that it was kind of fun to be tootling around town in such a distinctive little car. It's been probably 12 years since I spent any time in a Mercedes (I had an old orange one back when we lived in the San Juans; it drowned in a high tide shortly after we moved here) and I'd forgotten what fun it is to be different. It's not a particularly zippy or responsive car, but it felt really good not to be driving a typical SUV (even though the Pilot's more of a crossover).

Interestingly enough, after driving my daughter's car for an afternoon, I found myself feeling kinda perky, a little uppity (in a good way!) and now I'm wondering if there may be some truth after all to that old adage: clothes (or cars) make the man (or woman!). Whatever the reason, I'm glad I stepped out of my usual comfort zone -- if only for an afternoon -- and I'm grateful that life occasionally brings us opportunities to do that. Having done it once, I won't mind doing it again -- she's off at college, after all, so someone should be driving it regularly ... right?

Yup. That's why I'll be driving it. Just because someone needs to. I'm not swayed by its beauty, no, no, not me!

Each heart is a window

One of the challenges I face doing Centering Prayer (which is the only form of meditation that has ever "worked" for me) has been that the artistic visual side of me tends to fixate on images: though it's difficult enough to empty my mind, it seems virtually impossible to empty my inner sense of vision.

I've learned to be gracious with myself about this, and over the years I've settled on one image or another and allowed that to serve as a sort of visual word to bring me back to center. But they do have a way of evolving when I am not strict with them.

This morning, still under the influence of yesterday's celtic cross, I decided to allow that to occupy my visual space. But to my surprise, the circle shifted to become a heart, lying on its side, and the cross was suddenly occupied by Jesus, leaning out of the heart as if it were a window with this benevolent expression on his face.

And then there was a phrase to go with the image, which I will share with you:

"Each heart is a window,
from which Jesus lovingly
watches the world."

So that "bright unquenchable flame of God-ness" within each of us that I spoke of two days ago, is really Christ within us. And now I see that when we can clear our way through to it, it allows each of us to see all that surrounds us -- and one another -- with compassion and love.

Having put all that together, I found myself thinking of that great old hymn, St. Patrick's Breastplate, with its curious middle section:

Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me,
Christ before me,
Christ beside me,
Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort
and restore me.
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ in quiet,
Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of
all that love me,
Christ in mouth of
friend and stranger.

So I wandered off to the internet to listen to it (which you can do here) and particularly loved these two verses:

I bind unto myself today
the virtues of the starlit heaven
the glorious sun's life-giving ray,
the whiteness of the moon at even,
the flashing of the lightning free,
the whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,
the stable earth, the deep salt sea,
around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today
the power of God to hold and lead,
his eye to watch, his might to stay,
his ear to hearken, to my need;
the wisdom of my God to teach,
his hand to guide, his shield to ward;
the word of God to give me speech,
his heavenly host to be my guard.

Perhaps -- once we all come to understand that Christ resides within each of us -- it will become possible to act with God's grace and blessing; to know when to hold back or lead forward; to know when to watch and listen, when to teach and guide, and how to speak with wisdom in total trust and safety.

I look forward to that day.

Breathing in Cosmic Elegance

Later this morning I'll be meeting with some folks at our local congregational church to discuss an upcoming retreat on the topic of practicing faith in the midst of our often chaotic lives.

I've been thinking a lot about this subject over the last few days, trying to be attentive to my own efforts in this area and wondering what could be said in three hours that could help make a difference in someone else's life.

And at the same time I have embarked on this Miksang adventure with my Miksang classmate, Joyce; taking on a new element of photography each week and pursuing it as a concentration. This week our subject is "Line," and yesterday afternoon I spent some time wandering around my immediate neighborhood in search of Line.

I wasn't particularly encouraged by the images I was collecting, but fortunately my new (used) copy of Chogyam Trungpa's book, Dharma Art, arrived in the mail yesterday, so I was reading it this morning to see what new insights it had to offer. What I am learning from my initial reading is the importance of approaching my art with confidence, wakefulness, and an awareness of cosmic elegance, of the rightness of things.

I took that awareness -- both of the challenges of maintaining a spiritual life in the midst of chaos, and of dharma art -- with me into my meditation practice this morning, and for some reason found myself mentally contemplating the image of a celtic cross. Suddenly it all came together in a flash of insight: The cross -- without the circle -- represents all the directions we feel stretched in our chaotic lives: there is the pull of the past and the worry of the future on the horizontal axis, and there is the tension between staying connected to spirit and yet fully grounded in our daily lives on the vertical axis. The circle is all that surrounds us in the moment, the stresses, the to-do lists, the people and activities that create that sense of swirling chaos.

But the way to stay centered -- to rest comfortably and productively at the intersection of the two crossbars and the center of that swirling circle -- is the way of dharma art: to stay confident that whatever we are doing will be the best we can do; to remain fully awake and aware, present in the moment, so we can act wisely; and to know beyond all shadow of doubt the cosmic elegance and rightness of whatever situation we are experiencing; to see that each moment is bringing us exactly what we need, and to accept the goodness and beauty of that.

It's a tall order, of course, and one I rarely fill. But somehow combining the understanding of the cross and the attitude of dharma art I began to see both how this retreat might begin to take shape. It also helped me understand how the images I collected yesterday -- like this one, of the side of my neighbor's boat -- might have intrinsic value. It doesn't matter if they are good or bad, better or worse than someone else's images. What matters is that they are reflections, taken attentively, of particular times and places that have a unique beauty all their own. And that's a good thing.

And so I stand at the center of the cross, watchful, confident, and rejoicing in the beauty of the moment, and just breathe.