Like many others, I’ve always been deeply moved by the hymn, Amazing Grace. The brilliant blending of a melody, which so perfectly fits the message, with the captivating words seems to speak to and transfix anyone who hears it. The story behind the song has been made into a movie, and is often the subject of lessons from pulpits.
Profoundly influenced by the song all my life, my relationship to it and was beautifully deepened when I became aware of the version sung in the Unity churches.
In Unity teachings the words, “that saved a wretch like me,” were changed to “that saved a soul like me.” What a difference the change of that one word made for me. Albeit moved by the remarkable melody and words, I did not think of myself or others, as wretches – but souls, yes, I could relate to being a soul and could see everyone else as one as well.
Now I could not only relate to this amazing song, I could identify with it. I am a soul, everyone I love is a soul, everyone I know or don’t know is a soul; and my name is Grace – this is a hymn that is particularly meaningful to me. Sometimes I say, “Yes, Grace, as in Amazing,” when giving my name and hearing it repeated back. I love my name, and I love feeling closely related to the song.
Because of my eponymous relationship to Amazing Grace, I think about the principle of Grace a lot – in fact, much of the time. I contemplate every definition of grace that I come across. My own definition, derived from all these ponderings, is this: Grace is the demonstrable love of God, regardless of what is being held in consciousness.
So I can be expecting the very worst when the baseball my grandson Nate has whacked with all (I can tell by the exquisite pruning up of his face) his strength, is irrevocably headed for the Gadani’s picture window, but falls harmlessly into the flower bed, not even denting a petal in its descent. Amazing grace.
In January, as I was carrying the recycling to the garage, I stepped on a dustpan that had fallen from its place on the wall. Arms around the bin of reuseables, I didn’t see it, and perhaps, that dustpan finally got to fulfill its life long dream of being a skateboard. Whoosh! I went flying, along with the bin of paper, plastic, and glass.
I came down on the cement floor with my ankle bent backward. The first thing I did was scream, "NO!” . . . loud and elongated like you’d hear in a horror movie. My next awareness, and oh, it was instant, was that I was home alone – so without knowing how badly I might be hurt, I became afraid - afraid like a thumping heart and visions of dying right there, on the cold floor of the cluttered garage. I started panting, - hard - like giving birth panting, to regulate my breath and center myself.
My mind was crazy – flashing through every disastrous possibility, while praying for every possible grace. I was scared and hurting and furiously saying, “Fuck off!” to another part of my mind that was chanting John Lennon’s – “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans,” interspersed with the words of his song, Imagine. Apparently the sound track for my life has already been scored - I can only hope there’s some Jackson Brown in there somewhere.
Somehow, I prayed and breathed myself calm enough to drag my ravaged ankle out from under my body. Oh, it was ugly, already bruising, and, as soon as I saw it, I began hurting uncontrollably, hurting like fire, hurting like the worst of vulnerable powerlessness. How instantly we know that everything is different now – I’d been on my way out to swim, when would I be able to swim again?
The gratitude took over about half an hour later when having dragged myself back into the house, I began to think my ankle might not be broken – it wasn’t, thank you, Spirit. Each person I called for support answered the phone – thank you, Spirit. My daughter was able to leave her job, come attend to me within the hour and return in time for an important meeting – thank you, Spirit. My friend Richard, a physical therapist, knew exactly how to take care of me – thank you, Spirit. It felt like amazing grace.
I moved into gratitude as if it were a welcoming country. Yes, I was hurt and immobile, and frighteningly uncertain about when I’d be up and around again, but each time I looked at my bandaged elevated foot, I felt gratitude. My ankle isn’t broken, I’m warm and fed, my loving family is nearby, Richard is taking good care of me, I’m grateful, thank you, thank you.
I became aware of those who were suffering far more than I – somehow my mind kept fixing on those who’ve experienced torture – a sprained ankle would be the preferred pain. Thank you, Spirit – deliver all those who suffer into your amazing grace.
Six days I sat immobile with an elevated foot and contemplated grace. I kept falling into gratitude – blissfully like a child falls onto a trampoline. “How is this perfect?” my teacher Byron Katie would ask. “In every way,” I answer gratefully, gracefully, feeling both naïve and somehow wise as I do.
Who falls down hard and sprains their ankle and feels grateful? The words from Imagine come again and I hear Lennon singing, “and I’m not the only one.” I remember that Ram Dass called his stroke, Fierce Grace. I think that countless more before me have found gratitude in painful or unexpected events and I humbly join their ranks. I’ve read that those who have suffered beyond belief, those who have felt pain beyond measure, those who have been tormented, come to know that pain, suffering, and torment exist in a spectrum of severity. A sprained ankle brings some pain, some fear, some inconvenience, and surely sends plans flying out the window; but barely registers on that spectrum – except perhaps as a reason to feel gratitude for what didn’t go wrong – and amazing grace.
POSTSCRIPT: Progress and Patience
Richard said it would be at least two months before I’d be walking normally. It’s been two months since my fall, and most days I’m almost walking normally. I’m back to swimming as usual, but not yet able to walk the dogs twice around the park fast. We’re still working on once around the block slowly. I’m learning patience.
The two steps forward, one step back progress is too much of a pun to not evoke head shakes, eye rolls, and chuckles. But the progress is undeniable. From two crutches to one to none; from always bandaged and elevated to two bare feet blessedly flat on the floor; from the playful nickname 'Hobble,' to lots of 'wows' about how well I’m walking. I can garden a little bit, and rarely have any pain; although I wonder if my ankle will ever again be the same size and color as the other one, and I long to wear heels again.
My ankle has become my latest teacher – of patience, of course, and also how healing is a process, how slowing down brings new stillness, how suffering really can be optional, and how change is inevitable. Thank you, Spirit.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Of Birthdays, Despair, and Dreams
My birthday falls within two days of Dr. Martin Luther King’s. I didn’t know this until he was assassinated in 1968, and I don’t think the closeness of our birthdays began to influence me until years later during the public debate over establishing a national holiday in his honor.
Twice the holiday observance has fallen on my actual birthday. The first time, I was in a small boat floating down the Ganges River with a man named Moon. The second time I teased my little granddaughter, telling her that she had a school holiday because of me.
Our birthdays have became linked in my mind so that, as they approach, my thoughts expand beyond growing a year older, or how, or if, to celebrate, and into contemplations of both the past, and what progress had been made in the years since.
The night Dr. King was assassinated my husband and I were registering voters door to door in a black neighborhood in San Francisco. I was 19, he was 21; young married college students with an 11-month old daughter.
We’d been successfully door knocking for about an hour when the news of Dr. King’s murder came through. I remember some teen-aged boys angrily yelling the horrifying news as they ran down the middle of the street half a block ahead of us. One was carrying a gun, but while he was wildly waving it about, he wasn’t pointing it at anything. I don’t remember being afraid, and neither was Carlos. I sensed that he, being Chicano, felt some excitement at the display of defiance. I was just naïve.
We were too stunned to fully absorb what had happened enough to stop what we were doing. Looking back, it seems so idiotic that we kept going from house to house with clipboards and registration forms. At each house our knocking was now met with a face quickly peeking out through curtains, but no answer.
At one house our knock provoked the same scrutiny, this time through a small window in the door. Then the door flew open and a middle-aged black man confronted us with, “You kids get in here! What do you think you’re doing?” as he grabbed our arms and yanked us into his house.
He scolded us about danger and our lack of sense, then got our organizer Ben, a black man who lived in the same neighborhood, on the phone and arranged for him to pick us up and drive us back to our tiny student family apartment at San Francisco State.
I think we were both too dazed to think of thanking him, and too full of hubris and idealism to realize we should have.
Later that night the neighborhood, and most other black neighborhoods across the country, erupted in incidents of rioting, violence, arson, and looting. Anger boiled in the streets with cries of “Burn, baby burn!” and “Brothers, unite!” while the pall of sorrow and mourning descended inside the homes.
I still ache deep down in my belly as I remember that night. The pain of Dr. King’s murder is equaled by my anguish at how devastated I think he would have been by the reaction to it.
But at the time, I was angry too, and energized by the fury in the streets. I overlooked the destruction and lauded the public outcry with an “It’s about time!” response. It was an uprising of Black Power that we were absolutely sure would topple the repressive structure of The Man.
Now as I read Dr. King’s words, “The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.” I look back at what wasn’t toppled, but instead made stronger. Two months later Bobby Kennedy was gunned down, and it didn’t seem that much longer before the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast for Children program collapsed, and Clarence Thomas rose to sit on the High Court.
In many ways our country feels even more divided now than it did then. Without the youthful naivety and idealism, it can be easy to fall into despair that it will never be mended, and difficult to challenge that despair with Dr. King’s Dream.
This morning I read the words of 12-year-old Patrice Asher, “I think he was a good man because of what he dreamed of. That was a good dream.” Her 12-year old wisdom sent me to the text of Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech, where his words, “Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.” stood bold and bright on the page while the words around them blurred.
Next I remembered Rebecca Solnit’s words in this month’s Orion magazine, “Despair is a luxury. If I despair I can drive a Yukon and watch bad television. Despair makes no demand upon us; hope demands everything.”
Her words, his words, Patrice’s words, words from the past, words of the present, the words of the future woke me out of a stupor of hopelessness. I remember what I’ve learned about High Holy Dreams, about faith, and see that I’ve just been gifted with another lesson.
Yes, that was a good dream - a good dream that pulls me up out of despair to a place where I can see the progress that has been made. Tomorrow schools and government offices will close to commemorate a man who dreamed. Tomorrow Presidential candidates that include a woman and an African American will speak of progress that still needs to be made to honor this man’s dream. And I, a year older, will honor him too, without the luxury of despair, and with hope restored by the power of his dream.
Twice the holiday observance has fallen on my actual birthday. The first time, I was in a small boat floating down the Ganges River with a man named Moon. The second time I teased my little granddaughter, telling her that she had a school holiday because of me.
Our birthdays have became linked in my mind so that, as they approach, my thoughts expand beyond growing a year older, or how, or if, to celebrate, and into contemplations of both the past, and what progress had been made in the years since.
The night Dr. King was assassinated my husband and I were registering voters door to door in a black neighborhood in San Francisco. I was 19, he was 21; young married college students with an 11-month old daughter.
We’d been successfully door knocking for about an hour when the news of Dr. King’s murder came through. I remember some teen-aged boys angrily yelling the horrifying news as they ran down the middle of the street half a block ahead of us. One was carrying a gun, but while he was wildly waving it about, he wasn’t pointing it at anything. I don’t remember being afraid, and neither was Carlos. I sensed that he, being Chicano, felt some excitement at the display of defiance. I was just naïve.
We were too stunned to fully absorb what had happened enough to stop what we were doing. Looking back, it seems so idiotic that we kept going from house to house with clipboards and registration forms. At each house our knocking was now met with a face quickly peeking out through curtains, but no answer.
At one house our knock provoked the same scrutiny, this time through a small window in the door. Then the door flew open and a middle-aged black man confronted us with, “You kids get in here! What do you think you’re doing?” as he grabbed our arms and yanked us into his house.
He scolded us about danger and our lack of sense, then got our organizer Ben, a black man who lived in the same neighborhood, on the phone and arranged for him to pick us up and drive us back to our tiny student family apartment at San Francisco State.
I think we were both too dazed to think of thanking him, and too full of hubris and idealism to realize we should have.
Later that night the neighborhood, and most other black neighborhoods across the country, erupted in incidents of rioting, violence, arson, and looting. Anger boiled in the streets with cries of “Burn, baby burn!” and “Brothers, unite!” while the pall of sorrow and mourning descended inside the homes.
I still ache deep down in my belly as I remember that night. The pain of Dr. King’s murder is equaled by my anguish at how devastated I think he would have been by the reaction to it.
But at the time, I was angry too, and energized by the fury in the streets. I overlooked the destruction and lauded the public outcry with an “It’s about time!” response. It was an uprising of Black Power that we were absolutely sure would topple the repressive structure of The Man.
Now as I read Dr. King’s words, “The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.” I look back at what wasn’t toppled, but instead made stronger. Two months later Bobby Kennedy was gunned down, and it didn’t seem that much longer before the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast for Children program collapsed, and Clarence Thomas rose to sit on the High Court.
In many ways our country feels even more divided now than it did then. Without the youthful naivety and idealism, it can be easy to fall into despair that it will never be mended, and difficult to challenge that despair with Dr. King’s Dream.
This morning I read the words of 12-year-old Patrice Asher, “I think he was a good man because of what he dreamed of. That was a good dream.” Her 12-year old wisdom sent me to the text of Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech, where his words, “Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.” stood bold and bright on the page while the words around them blurred.
Next I remembered Rebecca Solnit’s words in this month’s Orion magazine, “Despair is a luxury. If I despair I can drive a Yukon and watch bad television. Despair makes no demand upon us; hope demands everything.”
Her words, his words, Patrice’s words, words from the past, words of the present, the words of the future woke me out of a stupor of hopelessness. I remember what I’ve learned about High Holy Dreams, about faith, and see that I’ve just been gifted with another lesson.
Yes, that was a good dream - a good dream that pulls me up out of despair to a place where I can see the progress that has been made. Tomorrow schools and government offices will close to commemorate a man who dreamed. Tomorrow Presidential candidates that include a woman and an African American will speak of progress that still needs to be made to honor this man’s dream. And I, a year older, will honor him too, without the luxury of despair, and with hope restored by the power of his dream.
Monday, January 7, 2008
A Year of Cherished Kindness
Kate Fleming had a remarkable voice, a soothing alto so amazingly versatile that she could portray a small child or a Native American as easily as she could become the voice of a crusty old curmudgeon or an Idaho potato farmer on the audio books she narrated. She was an accomplished actress as well as an award-winning narrator and, according to her partner Charlene Strong, an elegant and willowy dancer.
Kate drowned in her Seattle home when the torrential rainstorm of December 2006, trapped her in her flooded basement studio.
I don’t know if I ever heard Kate Fleming’s beautiful voice. I’ve listened to my share of audio books on long drives, but never paid attention to the names of the narrators. But her voice spoke the words that will shape my chosen approach to life in 2008.
Kate said she cherished being kind to people all the time. I read her words in an article describing a documentary Charlene Strong is co-producing about the challenges same-sex partners face when end of life decisions are necessary.
She cherished being kind to people all the time. Those few quiet words, a simple sentence in a lengthy article, kept pulling me back. There was no equivocation here – no trying to be as kind as she could whenever she wasn’t tired, or distracted, or busy with the details of her own life – she said “all the time.” This wasn’t being kind to people she knew and loved, who’d been helpful, who deserved or needed kindness – this was, simply stated, people. And this kindness wasn’t a goal or a commitment; it was what Kate Fleming cherished.
Kate’s words have been softly swirling around inside me since I read them. A week after the article appeared I drove behind a car bearing a bumper sticker that asked, “What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness?” As I posed the question to myself, I pretended for a moment that it was Kate who was asking.
The Dalai Lama once said, “My true religion is kindness.” No need to sort through the complexities of Tibetan Buddhist deities and dakinis when the essence of the message is so simply and elegantly stated. A framed picture of him sits across from my desk, and as I look at his comforting smile and sparkling eyes, I know that, like Kate, he too cherishes being kind to people all the time.
I wonder about being kind to people all the time. Would that even be possible for me? I think of my fervent, some would say rabid, political beliefs – could I be kind to those who support the Iraq war, who want to govern through their chosen religion? What about those who believe they are entitled to pollute the environment or own assault rifles; those who think it’s okay to spank children, or drive after drinking – could I be kind to them?
And I’m looking at far more than just being kind to people all the time – I’d want to cherish doing so, as Kate did. I try to spend as much time as possible with the people I cherish, as much time as possible engaged in the activities I cherish. I give attention, time, and energy to what I cherish.
I will need to bring constant consciousness to my practice of cherished kindness, along with time and energy. I will need to learn to be aware of each person I encounter and discover a way to be kind to them. No more slipping into distraction as I wait in a checkout line, there will be people around me that I can be kind to; no more silent critiques of the others in yoga class, or disgruntled eye rolling at those who drive in front of me. I see that this will be a practice of mindfulness.
Many years ago I developed a practice I hoped would maintain peace of mind while driving. Each time I spotted a disabled car on the shoulder of the road, or a person getting, or a trooper writing, a traffic ticket, or a road crew at work, I would offer a prayer of blessing for them and for myself. I would pray, May all be well with you, may all be well with me. Eventually the practice expanded to passing aid cars and fire trucks, those driving or speeding recklessly past, and even the long rubber remnants of blown tires we see on freeways.
I’d been inspired by reading of a monk called Brother Lawrence, who wanted to live a life of constant prayer; and by an overheard comment that our attitude while commuting is an indication of our emotional maturity. Both constant prayer and emotional maturity appealed to me as good aspirations. The Driving Blessings immediately softened my heart and brought comfort, so that I practice them to this day.
Perhaps that same kind of silent practice will help me to be more mindful of cherished kindness. I’m aware that I generate unkindness in my critical or resentful thoughts, Byron Katie calls it, “Going to war with someone in your head.” I will need to learn to practice kindness in my thinking as well as my actions. May all be well with you, may all be well with me.
I think of a woman who swims where I do in the mornings. She is very chatty and likes to engage in conversation while in the water. I like my morning swims to be meditative and quiet, so I keep my distance from her in the pool. I’ve been going to war with her in my head as I've heard her chatting to others, and of course, my mental state of war defeats my desire for meditation. I pledge kind thoughts to her when I swim tomorrow, and in doing so, I become aware of the kindness I will receive from having a peaceful mind.
This seems like the right beginning for me. I see that it is only a beginning; that the practice of cherishing being kind to people all the time will be an ever-expanding one that will increase mindfulness and consciousness and expand my awareness of myself and others. I’m sure it will challenge me as it grows me. I look forward to learning from it.
Kate Fleming once said, “I was born to read books out loud.” Thank you, Kate, for the gift of your voice that so moved and soothed others, and the gift of your words that now inspire me.
Kate drowned in her Seattle home when the torrential rainstorm of December 2006, trapped her in her flooded basement studio.
I don’t know if I ever heard Kate Fleming’s beautiful voice. I’ve listened to my share of audio books on long drives, but never paid attention to the names of the narrators. But her voice spoke the words that will shape my chosen approach to life in 2008.
Kate said she cherished being kind to people all the time. I read her words in an article describing a documentary Charlene Strong is co-producing about the challenges same-sex partners face when end of life decisions are necessary.
She cherished being kind to people all the time. Those few quiet words, a simple sentence in a lengthy article, kept pulling me back. There was no equivocation here – no trying to be as kind as she could whenever she wasn’t tired, or distracted, or busy with the details of her own life – she said “all the time.” This wasn’t being kind to people she knew and loved, who’d been helpful, who deserved or needed kindness – this was, simply stated, people. And this kindness wasn’t a goal or a commitment; it was what Kate Fleming cherished.
Kate’s words have been softly swirling around inside me since I read them. A week after the article appeared I drove behind a car bearing a bumper sticker that asked, “What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness?” As I posed the question to myself, I pretended for a moment that it was Kate who was asking.
The Dalai Lama once said, “My true religion is kindness.” No need to sort through the complexities of Tibetan Buddhist deities and dakinis when the essence of the message is so simply and elegantly stated. A framed picture of him sits across from my desk, and as I look at his comforting smile and sparkling eyes, I know that, like Kate, he too cherishes being kind to people all the time.
I wonder about being kind to people all the time. Would that even be possible for me? I think of my fervent, some would say rabid, political beliefs – could I be kind to those who support the Iraq war, who want to govern through their chosen religion? What about those who believe they are entitled to pollute the environment or own assault rifles; those who think it’s okay to spank children, or drive after drinking – could I be kind to them?
And I’m looking at far more than just being kind to people all the time – I’d want to cherish doing so, as Kate did. I try to spend as much time as possible with the people I cherish, as much time as possible engaged in the activities I cherish. I give attention, time, and energy to what I cherish.
I will need to bring constant consciousness to my practice of cherished kindness, along with time and energy. I will need to learn to be aware of each person I encounter and discover a way to be kind to them. No more slipping into distraction as I wait in a checkout line, there will be people around me that I can be kind to; no more silent critiques of the others in yoga class, or disgruntled eye rolling at those who drive in front of me. I see that this will be a practice of mindfulness.
Many years ago I developed a practice I hoped would maintain peace of mind while driving. Each time I spotted a disabled car on the shoulder of the road, or a person getting, or a trooper writing, a traffic ticket, or a road crew at work, I would offer a prayer of blessing for them and for myself. I would pray, May all be well with you, may all be well with me. Eventually the practice expanded to passing aid cars and fire trucks, those driving or speeding recklessly past, and even the long rubber remnants of blown tires we see on freeways.
I’d been inspired by reading of a monk called Brother Lawrence, who wanted to live a life of constant prayer; and by an overheard comment that our attitude while commuting is an indication of our emotional maturity. Both constant prayer and emotional maturity appealed to me as good aspirations. The Driving Blessings immediately softened my heart and brought comfort, so that I practice them to this day.
Perhaps that same kind of silent practice will help me to be more mindful of cherished kindness. I’m aware that I generate unkindness in my critical or resentful thoughts, Byron Katie calls it, “Going to war with someone in your head.” I will need to learn to practice kindness in my thinking as well as my actions. May all be well with you, may all be well with me.
I think of a woman who swims where I do in the mornings. She is very chatty and likes to engage in conversation while in the water. I like my morning swims to be meditative and quiet, so I keep my distance from her in the pool. I’ve been going to war with her in my head as I've heard her chatting to others, and of course, my mental state of war defeats my desire for meditation. I pledge kind thoughts to her when I swim tomorrow, and in doing so, I become aware of the kindness I will receive from having a peaceful mind.
This seems like the right beginning for me. I see that it is only a beginning; that the practice of cherishing being kind to people all the time will be an ever-expanding one that will increase mindfulness and consciousness and expand my awareness of myself and others. I’m sure it will challenge me as it grows me. I look forward to learning from it.
Kate Fleming once said, “I was born to read books out loud.” Thank you, Kate, for the gift of your voice that so moved and soothed others, and the gift of your words that now inspire me.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Finishing and Releasing
I’ve often attended end of the year ceremonies where people make a list of what they are ready to release from the previous year and drop their writings into a Burning Bowl. It’s seen as a way to clear space for the promises of the New Year to take root and grow. It’s a wonderful reflective process that can be helpful at any time, and seems especially fitting as one year ends and another begins.
As this year comes to a close, I release my chickens and my truck. Writing those words makes me aware that I’ll be releasing the last vestiges of Gaiabella, the little farm I sold 3 years ago. An aspect of a High Holy Dream comes to a close along with the year, and it feels like a finishing, a natural completion, more than an ending.
That dream of rural living, of animals, pastures, and orchards wouldn’t leave me. For over ten years I mused about it, imagined it, felt it viscerally, unabashedly longed for it, and sometimes, prayed to be released from the desire for it.
Sometimes the longing would fade and I’d assume that the dream had faded with it – that I’d moved on from that dream, and another would soon take its place.
There would be a short respite until, seemingly out of nowhere, the burning urge would return and I’d be poring over the Acreage classifieds in the Sunday paper and picking up the Little Nickel again.
Over the years, every close friend accompanied me on numerous long drives past fields and farmhouses to one or another of the places that just might be The Place. Two times during those years, the journeys turned into repeated ferry trips to possibilities across the water in Kingston and on Orcas Island.
Two other times contractors came along to discuss ways to rehab, remodel, or enlarge one of the places under consideration. I believed I knew exactly how the right place would feel, and I tirelessly sought it the way an unmarried person searches for The One.
The first farm I bought, though I named it Gaiabella, was not The One. My young granddaughter now refers to it as The Old Farm. The hundred-year-old farmhouse accepted my remodeling gracefully, photographers stopped and asked permission to take pictures of the remarkable old barn, but the land was wrong.
The true Gaiabella came almost magically when, having found the right land, my incredibly low offer was immediately accepted because a friend wrote the seller a six-figure personal check (thank you, David), making it an all cash purchase and too convenient to refuse.
In creating Gaiabella, I worked harder physically that I ever knew I could. I learned to use a chain saw and move hundred pound bales with hay hooks. I planted an orchard on the autumnal equinox, dug a pond, cleared a meditation path through the woods, and hand seeded a pasture.
I gave home to four dear alpacas and helped with their spring shearing three times. I held one’s head face to face with mine, looking into his eyes and cooing my love for him as he was euthanized. When the rendering truck came to collect his body the next morning, the driver, seeing the tears in my eyes, grabbed me up in a strong arm hug, then sent me into the house saying, “You don’t need to see this.”
I buried many aged chickens and sickly chicks, a duck drowned while mating, and my beloved dog Guthrie there. I planted a red twig dogwood over his grave. My granddaughter wrote prayers on cedar shakes and set them up as headstones for the chickens, singing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star as her father and I buried one she’d named Daffodil.
I planted blueberries, kiwis, corn, and pumpkins. I grew every herb I ever heard of, every flower I ever loved, artichokes the size of cantaloupes, and fertilized them all with the rich alpaca manure that I also shared with grateful gardeners in my book club.
I raised thousands of tomatoes; and ducks named Kwakiutl, Hickory Dickory Duck, and Fiona, along with the countless others who rushed across the grass to meet me each morning when I headed for the feed bins. Wearing a headset, I watched them scuttle noisily to the pond in the early evening as I stood at the window teaching a Healing Money Teleclass to students in Connecticut and Malibu.
I was an ordinary farm neighbor to the people at the feed store and the grange, received hand crafted sausage from a client who raised pigs and was too proud to accept pro bono counseling, and kept a running tab with the vet for farm calls. One Christmas a friend down the road gave me a posthole digger tied with a big red bow.
Gaiabella was an aspect of a High Holy Dream far richer than I’d anticipated in all my years of imagining. It nourished my soul in ways I did not know possible, and swelled my heart with gratitude each time I stood on the porch, awe-struck by the surrounding beauty, and heard the rooster crow.
One day, driving the truck loaded with 700 pounds of hay, I felt a quiet certainty that my time at Gaiabella was nearly complete. I hadn’t expected this part of the dream to some day finish, and yet, a sense of deep peace accompanied the feeling. A few weeks later, I surprised my daughter by saying, “OK, let’s go see what’s for sale around here,” when she told me, during a visit to her home, that she wished I lived closer to her.
Now I’m a suburban householder with theater tickets and an organic lawn service. I drive the zippy white Jetta in the driveway, while the now rarely used red farm truck that sits alongside it will soon be posted on Craigslist. The backyard chickens, whose abundant eggs have identified me as a farm girl for so long will, one by one, go to new homes.
I attend every one of my granddaughter’s basketball games now, and volunteer in my grandson’s kindergarten classroom on Fridays. I vote by mail instead of at the grange, and soon I’ll buy my eggs at the market just as my neighbors do.
And now as the year comes to its close, the Gaiabella chapter of this High Holy Dream is finishing right on time. Part of the next chapter has already been written, part is being written in these words, and in the words of the book I am writing, and still more waits in the Mystery. It's time to turn another page, and contentedly await what comes next.
As this year comes to a close, I release my chickens and my truck. Writing those words makes me aware that I’ll be releasing the last vestiges of Gaiabella, the little farm I sold 3 years ago. An aspect of a High Holy Dream comes to a close along with the year, and it feels like a finishing, a natural completion, more than an ending.
That dream of rural living, of animals, pastures, and orchards wouldn’t leave me. For over ten years I mused about it, imagined it, felt it viscerally, unabashedly longed for it, and sometimes, prayed to be released from the desire for it.
Sometimes the longing would fade and I’d assume that the dream had faded with it – that I’d moved on from that dream, and another would soon take its place.
There would be a short respite until, seemingly out of nowhere, the burning urge would return and I’d be poring over the Acreage classifieds in the Sunday paper and picking up the Little Nickel again.
Over the years, every close friend accompanied me on numerous long drives past fields and farmhouses to one or another of the places that just might be The Place. Two times during those years, the journeys turned into repeated ferry trips to possibilities across the water in Kingston and on Orcas Island.
Two other times contractors came along to discuss ways to rehab, remodel, or enlarge one of the places under consideration. I believed I knew exactly how the right place would feel, and I tirelessly sought it the way an unmarried person searches for The One.
The first farm I bought, though I named it Gaiabella, was not The One. My young granddaughter now refers to it as The Old Farm. The hundred-year-old farmhouse accepted my remodeling gracefully, photographers stopped and asked permission to take pictures of the remarkable old barn, but the land was wrong.
The true Gaiabella came almost magically when, having found the right land, my incredibly low offer was immediately accepted because a friend wrote the seller a six-figure personal check (thank you, David), making it an all cash purchase and too convenient to refuse.
In creating Gaiabella, I worked harder physically that I ever knew I could. I learned to use a chain saw and move hundred pound bales with hay hooks. I planted an orchard on the autumnal equinox, dug a pond, cleared a meditation path through the woods, and hand seeded a pasture.
I gave home to four dear alpacas and helped with their spring shearing three times. I held one’s head face to face with mine, looking into his eyes and cooing my love for him as he was euthanized. When the rendering truck came to collect his body the next morning, the driver, seeing the tears in my eyes, grabbed me up in a strong arm hug, then sent me into the house saying, “You don’t need to see this.”
I buried many aged chickens and sickly chicks, a duck drowned while mating, and my beloved dog Guthrie there. I planted a red twig dogwood over his grave. My granddaughter wrote prayers on cedar shakes and set them up as headstones for the chickens, singing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star as her father and I buried one she’d named Daffodil.
I planted blueberries, kiwis, corn, and pumpkins. I grew every herb I ever heard of, every flower I ever loved, artichokes the size of cantaloupes, and fertilized them all with the rich alpaca manure that I also shared with grateful gardeners in my book club.
I raised thousands of tomatoes; and ducks named Kwakiutl, Hickory Dickory Duck, and Fiona, along with the countless others who rushed across the grass to meet me each morning when I headed for the feed bins. Wearing a headset, I watched them scuttle noisily to the pond in the early evening as I stood at the window teaching a Healing Money Teleclass to students in Connecticut and Malibu.
I was an ordinary farm neighbor to the people at the feed store and the grange, received hand crafted sausage from a client who raised pigs and was too proud to accept pro bono counseling, and kept a running tab with the vet for farm calls. One Christmas a friend down the road gave me a posthole digger tied with a big red bow.
Gaiabella was an aspect of a High Holy Dream far richer than I’d anticipated in all my years of imagining. It nourished my soul in ways I did not know possible, and swelled my heart with gratitude each time I stood on the porch, awe-struck by the surrounding beauty, and heard the rooster crow.
One day, driving the truck loaded with 700 pounds of hay, I felt a quiet certainty that my time at Gaiabella was nearly complete. I hadn’t expected this part of the dream to some day finish, and yet, a sense of deep peace accompanied the feeling. A few weeks later, I surprised my daughter by saying, “OK, let’s go see what’s for sale around here,” when she told me, during a visit to her home, that she wished I lived closer to her.
Now I’m a suburban householder with theater tickets and an organic lawn service. I drive the zippy white Jetta in the driveway, while the now rarely used red farm truck that sits alongside it will soon be posted on Craigslist. The backyard chickens, whose abundant eggs have identified me as a farm girl for so long will, one by one, go to new homes.
I attend every one of my granddaughter’s basketball games now, and volunteer in my grandson’s kindergarten classroom on Fridays. I vote by mail instead of at the grange, and soon I’ll buy my eggs at the market just as my neighbors do.
And now as the year comes to its close, the Gaiabella chapter of this High Holy Dream is finishing right on time. Part of the next chapter has already been written, part is being written in these words, and in the words of the book I am writing, and still more waits in the Mystery. It's time to turn another page, and contentedly await what comes next.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Pumpkins
Our writing circle has convened the morning before Halloween, and Sonya, just back from time with the Dalai Lama has brought beautiful Buddhist wisdom to inspire our writing today. But I want to write about pumpkins. I try re-reading her prompts, all the while something inside me impatiently fidgets and squirms waiting to write about pumpkins.
The pumpkins are lined up in double rows on the kitchen counter waiting to be cut and scraped and baked. Their rock hard exteriors will pucker and darken as the oven’s heat softens their inner flesh, readying it to become pies and soup. They will scent and warm the house while the oven transforms them from bountiful harvest to delicious ingredients.
Seeing them on the counter, the children squeal and lick their lips as they proclaim their love of pumpkin pie. They pat and stroke them and choose their favorites by size and shape. Nate has asked for pumpkin loaf this year along with the pies, and Anabella wants pumpkin butter. I like this idea of pumpkin bread and butter.
Pumpkins are my favorite things to grow, with corn and sunflowers running a close second. Something stirs in me when the raised beds have all been prepared for planting and it’s time to head off to buy the seeds. There’s always a grandchild along for the seed buying and we giggle when we see the little packets with a carved Jack-o-Lantern on the front. While the child is excitedly predicting GIANT pumpkins, I am caressing the packet of Sugar Pie seeds and again marveling, as I do every year, that this little rattling envelope purchased on this warm spring morning will be the source of our Thanksgiving pies on a distant autumn afternoon. To me this is proof of the existence of magic.
It’s become a ritual for us to buy a packet of Ghost Pumpkin seeds every year as well. The children love the spooky thought of ghostly gourds, but no matter how lovingly we plant and tend them, we never see them come forth. While weeding and watering the Jack-o-Lanterns and Sugar Pies, I think of the Ghosts growing robustly in some unseen realm and fulfilling their spectral destiny out of the range of my vision.
The pumpkins have a bed all to themselves. Once planted, the bare earth stares back blankly day after day until that special day when the fat sprouts spring out of the ground with their seed hats still attached.
Watching them grow still fascinates me. Long leggy vines that go on and on to wherever they like. This year some of them wandered over to the corn bed and climbed the stalks. The bendable stickers on their sturdy stems don’t quite sting, but they do discourage anyone from trying to divert the growing path of these determined orbs.
The leaves get so large that the children call them gi-normous and humongous and speak of garden fairies living beneath them.
When the glorious saffron yellow blossoms appear, I think of my recipes for squash blossom sautés but can never bring myself to disturb the plants’ intentions by picking them.
When the fruit is set, I watch and wonder which ones will ripen, remain attached to their stems, and swell up fat and roundy. A few will cast off their umbilical stems and stay small and hard. They’ll go into the chicken coop where the hens will diligently peck away at them until their treasure trove of smooth ivory seeds is revealed and voraciously devoured.
Pumpkins are harvested last, long after the zukes and cukes and corn. I wait until the last possible moment because gathering them signals the end of the year’s garden. I cut them free from their now tough stems with both sadness at the end of another season, and relief at the end of the work of growing food. Loading them into the wheelbarrow, I feel satisfied and abundant.
The day after Halloween I’ll see a few pumpkins shattered in the street when I walk the dogs – sad remnants of the prior night’s raucous revelry. Our pumpkins will have two or three more days of being lovingly lauded on the counter, before taking their turn in the oven. At their Thanksgiving appearance a few weeks later, I’ll remember their journey from seed to pie, and give thanks for the wonder of pumpkins.
The pumpkins are lined up in double rows on the kitchen counter waiting to be cut and scraped and baked. Their rock hard exteriors will pucker and darken as the oven’s heat softens their inner flesh, readying it to become pies and soup. They will scent and warm the house while the oven transforms them from bountiful harvest to delicious ingredients.
Seeing them on the counter, the children squeal and lick their lips as they proclaim their love of pumpkin pie. They pat and stroke them and choose their favorites by size and shape. Nate has asked for pumpkin loaf this year along with the pies, and Anabella wants pumpkin butter. I like this idea of pumpkin bread and butter.
Pumpkins are my favorite things to grow, with corn and sunflowers running a close second. Something stirs in me when the raised beds have all been prepared for planting and it’s time to head off to buy the seeds. There’s always a grandchild along for the seed buying and we giggle when we see the little packets with a carved Jack-o-Lantern on the front. While the child is excitedly predicting GIANT pumpkins, I am caressing the packet of Sugar Pie seeds and again marveling, as I do every year, that this little rattling envelope purchased on this warm spring morning will be the source of our Thanksgiving pies on a distant autumn afternoon. To me this is proof of the existence of magic.
It’s become a ritual for us to buy a packet of Ghost Pumpkin seeds every year as well. The children love the spooky thought of ghostly gourds, but no matter how lovingly we plant and tend them, we never see them come forth. While weeding and watering the Jack-o-Lanterns and Sugar Pies, I think of the Ghosts growing robustly in some unseen realm and fulfilling their spectral destiny out of the range of my vision.
The pumpkins have a bed all to themselves. Once planted, the bare earth stares back blankly day after day until that special day when the fat sprouts spring out of the ground with their seed hats still attached.
Watching them grow still fascinates me. Long leggy vines that go on and on to wherever they like. This year some of them wandered over to the corn bed and climbed the stalks. The bendable stickers on their sturdy stems don’t quite sting, but they do discourage anyone from trying to divert the growing path of these determined orbs.
The leaves get so large that the children call them gi-normous and humongous and speak of garden fairies living beneath them.
When the glorious saffron yellow blossoms appear, I think of my recipes for squash blossom sautés but can never bring myself to disturb the plants’ intentions by picking them.
When the fruit is set, I watch and wonder which ones will ripen, remain attached to their stems, and swell up fat and roundy. A few will cast off their umbilical stems and stay small and hard. They’ll go into the chicken coop where the hens will diligently peck away at them until their treasure trove of smooth ivory seeds is revealed and voraciously devoured.
Pumpkins are harvested last, long after the zukes and cukes and corn. I wait until the last possible moment because gathering them signals the end of the year’s garden. I cut them free from their now tough stems with both sadness at the end of another season, and relief at the end of the work of growing food. Loading them into the wheelbarrow, I feel satisfied and abundant.
The day after Halloween I’ll see a few pumpkins shattered in the street when I walk the dogs – sad remnants of the prior night’s raucous revelry. Our pumpkins will have two or three more days of being lovingly lauded on the counter, before taking their turn in the oven. At their Thanksgiving appearance a few weeks later, I’ll remember their journey from seed to pie, and give thanks for the wonder of pumpkins.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
You're Right
A Sufi teaching story featuring the wise fool Nasruddin has been dancing through my mind lately. I was asked to facilitate a council of three spiritually oriented groups that were being fragmented by a conflict affecting all of them. The groups, while independent, operate as intersecting microcosms, with some members belonging to all three.
The situation was emotionally charged, and several people felt that they’d been deeply harmed by others’ behavior. The pain being felt by everyone was palpable.
In the Sufi story, Nasruddin is asked to serve as judge to settle a dispute between two families. Upon hearing the first family’s claims and grievances, Nasruddin proclaims, “You’re right!” When the second family tells their version, Nasruddin again declares, “You’re right!” His wife, having overheard the exchange, whispers to him, “They can’t both be right.” Nasruddin replies, “You’re right!”
I don’t see Nasruddin as the naïve fool who too easily accepts influence from anyone; but rather as the sage who expands his judgment to affirm the perception of rightness that each of the three hold. He is a wise one who knows that there is rightness in everyone and looks for it.
When I feel wronged by another, it seems natural to find fault and see them as the sole offender. I can easily move myself in the role of the victimized one and lose sight of the offender’s humanity. I separate myself from any shared longing or experience that I may have had with the other person, and neglect to look for any role I may have played in creating the situation.
There’s a physical quality I notice when I engage in this kind of separation. I tighten and constrict: I literally harden my heart. In their book Embracing the Beloved, Stephen and Ondrea Levine speak of noticing their bellies tighten when they argue. To help one another come back to a place of centered openness, they’ll ask, “How’s your belly?”
Mucking about in my victimhood is often quite delicious at first. It seems to be a familiar inner place that I’ve furnished quite comfortably. But soon I can find myself looking around for other old grievances to dredge up and severe discomfort sets in. I recognize that I am causing myself to suffer, as much or more than the offender did. The painful constriction of my hardened heart prompts me to look for another way to understand what has happened.
Often it’s hard work, and usually it takes some time. Meditative breathing can quickly soften my belly and my hardened heart, but then I must go to work on my mind, which as my teacher Byron Katie says, believes it has only one job – to be right.
She also says that the greatest gift you can give anyone is to let them be right. In Katie’s world, everyone is right.
Sitting quietly with my mind, suspending judgment and curiously watching what comes up can be fascinating – is it ever quiet, I wonder? I notice that once my mind sees the suffering, it begins to shift, and I can see my sameness with the other. I tell myself that, just like me, this person is trying to experience as little suffering and as much joy as possible in this lifetime, and I can both feel and know the truth of that.
My softened mind, along with heart and belly, then helps me to know how I want to move forward. Sometimes I’ll want to reconnect with the other person, sometimes part ways, sometimes do nothing. I know that whichever it is will be a path of peace for me.
This is the energy and awareness I hope to bring whenever I’m asked to help with conflict. Knowing there is rightness in everyone, I’ll look for it, and perhaps, somewhere in the ethers Nasruddin will be saying to each one of us, “You’re right.”
The situation was emotionally charged, and several people felt that they’d been deeply harmed by others’ behavior. The pain being felt by everyone was palpable.
In the Sufi story, Nasruddin is asked to serve as judge to settle a dispute between two families. Upon hearing the first family’s claims and grievances, Nasruddin proclaims, “You’re right!” When the second family tells their version, Nasruddin again declares, “You’re right!” His wife, having overheard the exchange, whispers to him, “They can’t both be right.” Nasruddin replies, “You’re right!”
I don’t see Nasruddin as the naïve fool who too easily accepts influence from anyone; but rather as the sage who expands his judgment to affirm the perception of rightness that each of the three hold. He is a wise one who knows that there is rightness in everyone and looks for it.
When I feel wronged by another, it seems natural to find fault and see them as the sole offender. I can easily move myself in the role of the victimized one and lose sight of the offender’s humanity. I separate myself from any shared longing or experience that I may have had with the other person, and neglect to look for any role I may have played in creating the situation.
There’s a physical quality I notice when I engage in this kind of separation. I tighten and constrict: I literally harden my heart. In their book Embracing the Beloved, Stephen and Ondrea Levine speak of noticing their bellies tighten when they argue. To help one another come back to a place of centered openness, they’ll ask, “How’s your belly?”
Mucking about in my victimhood is often quite delicious at first. It seems to be a familiar inner place that I’ve furnished quite comfortably. But soon I can find myself looking around for other old grievances to dredge up and severe discomfort sets in. I recognize that I am causing myself to suffer, as much or more than the offender did. The painful constriction of my hardened heart prompts me to look for another way to understand what has happened.
Often it’s hard work, and usually it takes some time. Meditative breathing can quickly soften my belly and my hardened heart, but then I must go to work on my mind, which as my teacher Byron Katie says, believes it has only one job – to be right.
She also says that the greatest gift you can give anyone is to let them be right. In Katie’s world, everyone is right.
Sitting quietly with my mind, suspending judgment and curiously watching what comes up can be fascinating – is it ever quiet, I wonder? I notice that once my mind sees the suffering, it begins to shift, and I can see my sameness with the other. I tell myself that, just like me, this person is trying to experience as little suffering and as much joy as possible in this lifetime, and I can both feel and know the truth of that.
My softened mind, along with heart and belly, then helps me to know how I want to move forward. Sometimes I’ll want to reconnect with the other person, sometimes part ways, sometimes do nothing. I know that whichever it is will be a path of peace for me.
This is the energy and awareness I hope to bring whenever I’m asked to help with conflict. Knowing there is rightness in everyone, I’ll look for it, and perhaps, somewhere in the ethers Nasruddin will be saying to each one of us, “You’re right.”
Monday, October 15, 2007
It's The Only Thing That Makes Sense To Me
It was one of our first conversations and we were each offering up the kind of information one gives when wanting another to really know them. I asked about her spirituality and she replied, “It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.” Her plainly stated answer imprinted on me instantly, and I knew that I’d hear her words, spoken in her same soft declarative tone, in my mind a thousand times in the years to come.
She went on to tell of explorations of different paths and traditions over the course of her life. Each was still dear to her, each layered reverently upon the one before it, so that now she could draw from a deep well of the sacred for comfort and expansion.
Later, reflecting on her statement, I marvel that I’ve never framed my own spiritual journey that way, at least to myself. I can feel the quiet certainty of this simple phrase deep within me, and know that this lens will now forever be one through which I view my own spirituality.
I too have explored myriad paths and practices since childhood, and along the way collected many inner lenses to peer through when I find myself once again pondering Spirit, and why its exploration has always been so necessary for me.
Once on a road trip to a meditation retreat with a friend, both of our minds in the free float musing of long highway miles, I asked, “What do people who don’t have God do?” He jokingly quipped, “Drugs, don’t you remember.” I laughed that I did.
As a child of the 60’s, my spiritual questing had included psychedelics, though not instead of God, as much as in search of Her. And decades later at a transpersonal psychology conference in the Brazilian rain forest, I heard a a respected speaker present a professional paper entitled 'Might the Gods Be Alkaloids?' just before I was invited to experience ayajuasca with the Santo Daime people.
Spirituality seems to have always been a guiding principal in my life. My teachers have been the Sisters of St Joseph, the red rocks of Boynton Canyon, the bodhi tree in Bodhgaya, the Sikh seatmate on a flight from Frankfurt. Ammachi, Ram Dass, Myrtle Fillmore, Poonjaji, Gangaji, Tensing Gyatso, Pir Vilayat Kahn, and Demeter all sound like names of relatives in my ear. The license plate on my car says MYSTERY.
Each sage and saint has shaped my way of seeing, each teaching has built upon what came before it, and never has the mix brought discord or dissonance. While the Sufi’s say you can’t cross a river in two boats, their God-drunken poet Rumi says, “Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrong doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”
I like traveling around on Rumi’s field. I take comfort that there is no map to be had, and that sweet encounters with fellow field travelers can happen at any time.
And now comes another field traveler – a lovely woman who says that her spirituality is the only thing that makes sense to her. I receive this as a teaching, one to add to the mélange of personal scripture that I carry tenderly around inside me.
Here is another one like me, another who knows of Spirit as both a quest and a place to rest, a journey and a destination. In offering me a glimpse of her heart, she gives me a new way of understanding myself, and of knowing a little holiness.
I give thanks. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.
She went on to tell of explorations of different paths and traditions over the course of her life. Each was still dear to her, each layered reverently upon the one before it, so that now she could draw from a deep well of the sacred for comfort and expansion.
Later, reflecting on her statement, I marvel that I’ve never framed my own spiritual journey that way, at least to myself. I can feel the quiet certainty of this simple phrase deep within me, and know that this lens will now forever be one through which I view my own spirituality.
I too have explored myriad paths and practices since childhood, and along the way collected many inner lenses to peer through when I find myself once again pondering Spirit, and why its exploration has always been so necessary for me.
Once on a road trip to a meditation retreat with a friend, both of our minds in the free float musing of long highway miles, I asked, “What do people who don’t have God do?” He jokingly quipped, “Drugs, don’t you remember.” I laughed that I did.
As a child of the 60’s, my spiritual questing had included psychedelics, though not instead of God, as much as in search of Her. And decades later at a transpersonal psychology conference in the Brazilian rain forest, I heard a a respected speaker present a professional paper entitled 'Might the Gods Be Alkaloids?' just before I was invited to experience ayajuasca with the Santo Daime people.
Spirituality seems to have always been a guiding principal in my life. My teachers have been the Sisters of St Joseph, the red rocks of Boynton Canyon, the bodhi tree in Bodhgaya, the Sikh seatmate on a flight from Frankfurt. Ammachi, Ram Dass, Myrtle Fillmore, Poonjaji, Gangaji, Tensing Gyatso, Pir Vilayat Kahn, and Demeter all sound like names of relatives in my ear. The license plate on my car says MYSTERY.
Each sage and saint has shaped my way of seeing, each teaching has built upon what came before it, and never has the mix brought discord or dissonance. While the Sufi’s say you can’t cross a river in two boats, their God-drunken poet Rumi says, “Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrong doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”
I like traveling around on Rumi’s field. I take comfort that there is no map to be had, and that sweet encounters with fellow field travelers can happen at any time.
And now comes another field traveler – a lovely woman who says that her spirituality is the only thing that makes sense to her. I receive this as a teaching, one to add to the mélange of personal scripture that I carry tenderly around inside me.
Here is another one like me, another who knows of Spirit as both a quest and a place to rest, a journey and a destination. In offering me a glimpse of her heart, she gives me a new way of understanding myself, and of knowing a little holiness.
I give thanks. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.
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