On Not Fighting the Early Morning

I woke up this morning around four am and got up to read and meditate before my 7 am meditation meeting. I wondered if this was overkill but did it anyway. After sitting with 25 people for 20 minutes of silence, several shared that they too had been up for hours already. Whether I know it or not, I’m always in community, never alone. What would shift if I consciously acknowledged that? Does my crabbiness stem, in part, from thinking I’m all alone? Doing all the work myself? Experiencing all the good stuff in solitude?

A morning reading suggests that spiritual practices crack open our hearts to love, and that if we don’t cultivate such practices, we will become bitter and hateful in the last third of our lives.  We need to consciously counter the human tendency toward negativity with a practice of receptivity and kindness. I’ve been a hateful old woman this past week or two, and I don’t like it one bit. I’ve been negative and resentful despite a daily practice of meditation and writing. What gives?

Since negative thinking is part of the disease of addiction, I’ve had plenty of signs that my addiction is ascending, and with that information comes the truth that I need to enlarge my spirit.  I suspect that’s the invitation in waking at 4 am: use this time wisely. Lately, I’ve been filling my time with distractions in the guise of holiday cheer.  I’ve been filling my body, closet, and calendar with food, stuff, and busyness rather than the true nourishment of connection.

All the celebrity deaths that seem too soon remind me that I don’t know how many days are left.  How might sitting quietly enhance the moment? How might speaking my truth enlarge the space or keeping silent perfect it? If I shift  from being critical to being curious, such a small move, really, could that crack of love let in more light? Maybe that's the soothing that awaits at four am.

Moments from Christmas Past

                                                                                               

                                                                      ***

In the 1960s, Dayton’s department store in downtown Minneapolis had a shopping area set up just for kids.  When I was five, my mother listed my gift recipients, put money in an envelope, and sent me off with my personal shopper, who led me through a screened off area where I selected presents.  I bought ladybug soaps for my mom and watched as they were carefully wrapped and labeled.  The story goes that on Christmas morning, I rushed past my own Barbies and games toward the presents for others I couldn’t wait to give.  My mother kept those soaps, unused and dusty, until she died.

                                                                       ***

When I was nine I got a record player, a brown plastic case that snapped open like a suitcase to reveal the turntable.  Dad took me to Delphi’s  Wynkoop Pharmacy to pick out an album, my very first.    It was 1967 and I selected a compilation album with “Hey Jude” and “123 Red Light.”  That year Dad filmed a home movie of all of us dancing in the living room. I looked self-conscious but happy.

                                                                         ***

Our newly reduced family sat on the floor around the Christmas tree, my sister, 12, myself 16, and mom.  My father had died two days earlier and we had a brief respite from the constant stream of visitors bringing their shock, grief, and casseroles to our door. Apparently people were staying home Christmas Day. We chose the presents from Aunt Mary to open—the best ones—first. Mom pulled out a pretty white shawl. “Where will I ever wear this now?” she asked with a crack in her voice.  It was the only time I saw her cry during that entire time.

***

My mother lay in the living room in a hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen at the highest setting. A fellow teacher came over to bring a Night Before Christmas book. “What day is it?” Mom asked. When told it was Christmas Eve, she said, “That’s a good day to go.”  Within a couple hours her breathing changed and she didn’t appear conscious.  Now in our forties, my sister and I stayed up all night talking to her, thanking her, assuring her we would be fine.  Toward morning Lori went to bed, exhausted.  A while later some movement caught my attention; Mom had raised her head, opened her eyes and was looking directly at me.  I shouted for Lori, who ran back and we each took her hand.  One tear rolled down her cheek as we also cried. Mom gave a shrug, sighed, and was gone. Light streamed into the window. It was 8:15 Christmas morning, the end of an era.

***

Brian and I call the boys into the living room to open presents. This family doesn’t take turns. Everyone tears into his own stash and thanks you are murmured. I’m not even sure what anyone gets. After 15 minutes,  I clean up the ribbons, boxes, and papers and stack each person’s gifts. Each year Brian writes a beautiful note to his sons. These cards do not contain money. They read them and say thanks but usually leave them, no sentimental scrapbooks for these young men. Still, they know their father loves them, and perhaps that I do too.

Drinking in the Dark

Maybe it’s my Scandinavian roots, but I absolutely love the darkness this time of year and get a bit sad when it gets lighter.  I’m an intensity junkie so living in Minneapolis is good, but I think I’d been happier some days in Greenland. Each winter I feel it hasn’t been cold enough or dark enough long enough.  While some people are counting the days until the solstice and growing light,  I enjoy cocooning and spent yesterday afternoon in bed for a long nap, snuggly warm. The cold darkness gives me permission.

This morning in meditation, I felt I was literally drinking in the quiet, quenched by stillness. It seemed delicious and yet I was sad the 20 minutes were almost up. I wanted to experience more, deeper, closer. I felt myself on the precipice of a deeper dive and was eager. Or am I?

In both the darkness of winter and the stillness of a morning meditation, I started mourning before the time was up, grieving something that, although inevitable, isn’t here yet.  This may be a form of protection from the richness of experiencing what is, for preparing for loss buffers the intensity of the present. How else do I do that?

We have a number of social engagements between now and the new year. At times I worry about being overwhelmed or too tired, but I believe all these connections can fill me up in this darkest time of year. Being with others in a warm home, with candles, a lit tree, a fire, laughter and hugs replaces the loss I have from not being outside as much, on the water, in sunshine, immersed in the woods.  Instead I will enter a human forest, nourish the blossoms of friendship, and deepen my roots in community. That should get me ready for spring. 

Addiction--subtle and overt

Brian and I saw the film Manchester by the Sea last night, and as we were leaving this powerful movie about grief, he asked if I would recommend it to the alcoholics and addicts I work with.  After all, he said, it’s all about addiction.  His opinion baffled me because the movie didn’t strike me as being about addiction. And then we dissected it: the main character drank steadily, got into fights in bars, and the heartache at the center of the film was created by his drinking.

How had I missed that?  What picture of addiction do I have that precluded the centrality of it in this richly layered film?  The only thing I’ve come up with is that I’m now so used to stories about much harsher drug use that something as benign as 8 beers in 7 hours doesn’t strike me as excessive.  I’ve come to normalize this level of use because, after all, he was functioning. Or was he? The main character had no access to his emotions, no way to express them except when they erupted in violence. 

That’s what addiction does—cuts us off from the very thing that helps us reach for others, ask for help, and make a human connection.

I’ve been very interested in ambient addictions lately, the subtle, socially-sanctioned habits and activities that nonetheless keep me buffered from what’s going on internally and often in the world.  I’ve been noticing all the little ways I distract myself from reality to feel a bit more comfortable.  Lately it’s been novel-reading, and while I’ve read some wonderful books,  I’ve put down a couple mid-way after realizing they aren’t good enough to take up my time. 

I’d be better served phoning a friend, taking a walk, or simply looking out the window than filling my head with mediocre words and stories. But first I have to let go of the need to be productive, even in my spare time.

When it's hard to hope

Have you seen the John Oliver clip about the opioid epidemic?  He provides statistics, (30,000 people in the US die each year from an overdose), he analyzes the pharmaceutical companies’ role, and he skewers their misinformation about how addictive prescriptive painkillers can be.

The sad recital of these facts always raises a bigger question for me—Why? Now that I work with young adult addicts who are in the earliest stages of recovery, I’m feeling the weight of this epidemic as well as the need to understand the context. In her newest book, Tears to Triumph, Marianne Williamson contextualizes individual problems within our society and challenges us to ask connected questions. She writes, “Someone is depressed over a child having died of a drug overdose. The collective issue is, what kind of society have we created where so many young people are rushing to drugs to begin with?”

Of course, there’s some need that draws a young teen towards drugs— wanting to belong, soothing a pain, or numbing abuse by trusted adults.  But I too wonder about the spiritual vacuum in this society, the lack of community, and stratification by age that prevents us from weaving a safety net of connection.

It’s heartbreaking to hear about someone dying of a drug overdose. It’s heartbreaking to hear of the relapses that happen in early recovery, for every one of those is a potential death. As a spiritual director, I find it challenging to offer comfort to people who often have no belief system to make meaning of these untimely deaths.  Would it help to see this as part of a larger cultural failing?

Growing up, I had plenty of adults in my life, teachers I looked up to, people in church, neighbors, my parents’ bridge partners, my friends’ parents, and the shopkeepers in our small town. I remember my dad and I discussing drugs when I was 15. I found comfort in his saying he hoped he knew me well enough to recognize when something was different. I felt known and truly seen, and I think that helped.

This is not about assigning blame. This is an inquiry into what avenues of hope are available to a generation that is dying way too young. I want to demonstrate that recovery can provide a good and full life. But I’m old, I’ve been sober for many years, and my drugs were not opioids, so when I tell my story it’s hard for them to find parallels.

I hope every single young person in recovery knows how necessary you are.  Any outreach you do at treatment and detox centers, schools and gathering places helps. I hope you sponsor as soon as your sponsor says you can. Your story is the one that resonates. Your strength lights a path, and your joy may be the best seed of hope for us all.

I wish I turned to prayer more often.

 As a spiritual director, I advocate listening to your inner guidance, asking a higher power for help, and connecting with the light of the universe before acting.  Sometimes I take my own advice.  Yesterday I brought someone to get a haircut because I was asked.  It wasn’t a simple operation—the whole thing took two hours and required great patience.  After I’d parked the car and was heading into the salon, I was not happy with my attitude. I was doing the right thing but could feel my impatience and resentment rising. If nothing changed this afternoon would become unpleasant for everyone involved. How to shift?

In the past I’ve given myself a pep talk, shamed myself for being selfish, or forced myself to find something to be grateful for and pasted on a smile.  Too many times I’ve been sharp and sarcastic, showing everyone what a pain this was for me. Yesterday, though, I prayed out loud walking back to the salon. Help me be loving and kind. Take away this resentment.  Allow me to be present and useful.

By the time I sat down to wait with my book, something had been lifted. My tolerance wasn’t an effort or an act. I understood that I was going to be here for the duration, so I may as well enjoy it. That intellectual awareness saturated my being. Did I have help getting there?  Did expressing my desire to be better effect the change?  I don’t know if we have “better angels” within us or all around. I don’t know what caused the shift. But I believe that when my behavior doesn’t match who I want to be, no amount of self-will can bring me to a better place. Prayer signals I’m willing to change and cracking that door open may be enough.

I’m no saint, but yesterday I felt a subtle shift that momentarily removed some of my selfishness and allowed me to be cheerfully present. Just as I determined that I would not do this again, the hairstylist suggested she come to her client next time, a most generous offer that I gladly accepted. Such gracious service. The teacher always appears when the student is ready.  

What would a changed me look like?

I spent the last two days at a writing workshop with wonderful Karen Casey, best-selling author of 20+ books.  She gave a prompt, we wrote, we read, or not, and did it all over again.  I filled a notebook.

Here’s one of the prompts: “Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.” Leo Tolstoy.  Think about changing yourself. Who would we see?

My favorite response came from a participant who was 82 years old and wrote that she didn’t feel the need to change.  May I lean into this vision and arrive by 80!

Here’s my response:

I walk into a room excited to meet people, assuming they like me, and wondering who is going to be my new friend.

 I focus on others’ best physical qualities, see their inner spark, and encourage their stories.

I never criticize, so people feel at ease around me and are unusually funny and interesting because I laugh easily and accept them just as they are.   

I don’t keep score but trust the economy of gift and connection, knowing I’ll have plenty of time to talk and that I learn more by listening anyway.

I drink water mostly and occasional tea or decaf coffee—my energy is formidable and comes from spirit rather than caffeine.

 I publish most things I write and my blog is read by many.  I love revising and polishing and putting my thoughts out there and then moving onto the next.  I don’t check to see how many likes it got.

I spend as much time as possible outdoors and walk daily in the woods because the trees keep me sane.

My heart is capacious, welcoming, and warm.  Children and animals flock to me.

I’m humble, eager to be of service, and so financially secure that I tithe with ease.

I am calm, clear and kind, lean strong, and healthy.

 

My presence helps open others’ hearts, and most conversations are transformational for both of us.

Wisdom Circles

Is there anything more healing than being truly heard? In ordinary conversation when someone speaks, others respond, interrupt, ask questions, share their own experiences, offer advice, or change the subject entirely. That format works on lots of topics, but for things close to my heart, I prefer a circle of wisdom.

In a sacred circle, people speak without interruption and listeners give their full attention, often without response.  This can be liberating for a speaker who fears judgment or critique and illuminating for one who has spent a lifetime reading cues to shape her story to please the listener. In such a space we often hear our story in a new way.

What makes a circle sacred is a deep trust in the speaker’s own guidance and enough time and space to allow him to find answers.  One person commented after sharing her painful story without interruption, “This is the first time I didn’t have to take care of my listener.” Once at an equine-assisted learning center, my team stood talking in the field and were soon surrounded by nine horses. We were encircled without consciously inviting them, yet clearly something in us was open to that quiet circle.

Listeners too can be deeply impacted by another’s story once the barrier of intellectually formulating a question or response is removed. This freedom to not reply allows listeners to notice their own reactions and responses, a double listening done by trained spiritual directors every session.

In the space between my sharing and the lack of response grace or insight comes forth.  I try to create a safe circle when I’m alone. My daily practice of stillness invites the frightened parts of myself forth. Rather than banning the needy child, the self-absorbed teen, and the critical judge, I use the Welcome Prayer to include all of me in the circle.

I also step into a sacred circle whenever I call upon Spirit, guides, angels, or higher power before I write, eat, drive, teach, or sleep.  A conscious invitation for wise support makes ordinary tasks special and difficult ones easier.

I’ve been fortunate to be part of circles of wisdom in my workplace, with staff at Loyola, in my recovery groups, and in writing circles.  I invite you to notice where such gatherings exist in your life, and if you find yourself lacking supportive circles, to create them, especially within yourself.

Playing in Life

I grew up in a family that played cards and board games; it was one time my sister and I had our parents’ undivided attention.  They preferred games of skill and never let us win, so my sister and I are pretty competitive, especially with each other.  Many times we play a quick round of the card game “Pounce” to dispel tensions.  I like to win and perform better in word games.  The cut-throat nature of Monopoly or Risk is not enjoyable, though it might be if I won.

Is it normal to enjoy a game more when winning, or is this evidence I have too much of my self-worth tied up in accomplishments? My preference to know rather than learn, to be good right from the start, means I’ve never even held a softball bat because I didn’t want to swing and miss. It’s also why the change in job has been so challenging— after three months I’m not as good as I was at the eight-year mark of the old job.  It took someone pointing this out for me to gain this perspective.

I love seriousness, intensity, and depth. I want every conversation to be transformational.   Yet life is often revealed sideways rather than head-on.  And I believe we learn best through joy. My mom was a kindergarten teacher who knew play was the best means of learning for five year olds, and maybe that’s true for adults in some area of life. Twenty-five years ago I took a series of workshops that were experiential, and to this day I remember the games, my teammates, the lessons, and how I showed up.

The idea of play for its own sake is new to me. I’m experimenting with golf.  After four summers I still don’t keep score. As a beginner, I can’t imagine how that would enhance my experience.

 I wonder where else in my life I could stop keeping score, lighten up, and enjoy playing?

Why don’t I write like I’m “running out of time?”

This line from the play Hamilton has been haunting me.  It describes Alexander Hamilton, who wrote 51 of the 85 federalist papers in 6 months.  He wrote all the time. And he did run out of time, dying at age 49. Awareness of mortality can be useful for perspective and discerning priorities, but right now it's paralyzing me because every word must be valuable and every minute productive, 

My father died suddenly of a heart attack when he was 42.  On my own 42^nd birthday I realized I assumed I too had the Campbell heart and would die young.  On that birthday, I exhaled deeply and wondered what to do with the next 42 years.

I work with young people in early recovery from addictions, many of whom believed they wouldn’t live past 20 or 21.  Now that they’re sober, they face the question—what do I do with the rest of my life? It's a lifetime's practice to face the quotidian wholeheartedly.  And yet only in full presence to my daily life do I actually enjoy it.

 Does everyone feel a pull to produce something useful and lasting, or is that need met for most through children and grandchildren? Is my desire to write something helpful, meaningful and wildly popular arrogance, or evidence of a persistent dream of mine? Or is it simply the same human impulse that led our ancestors to draw on cave walls in something indelible?

Maybe I should stop writing about writing or organizing my socks (yes it's fall here and I am packing away sandals) and get to work!

Leaning into the Real

Spiritual Directors have a marvelous process called peer supervision, where we bring a moment when we weren’t at our best during spiritual direction to our peers, and they ask clarifying and deepening questions to help us learn how we got hooked by the spiritual directee. This is an ethical practice that keeps us humbly aware of when the ego may be asking questions rather than spirit.

Today  I had two wise spiritual directors who have been doing this work for decades hear my story, ask me questions, and hold me in their light.  The poet Mark Nepo has a line that describes this experience of being with people who provide “a soft and sturdy place where real things can land.” 

It’s almost magical the effect of such nonjudgmental regard/love.  I learned a lot of things about myself, including a pattern of being vulnerable in certain circles, such as with my spiritual direction peers or my recovery community, but less so in other settings, such as family gatherings or work.  Those distinctions seem reasonable based on history with people and professional boundaries, and yet what I’m learning is that I’d like to be my authentic self every time in every arena.

Is that always possible?  What gets in the way? And how do I notice my progress as well as where I fall short?

Tomorrow I’m asking my group what they’ve done recently that aligns with their values, which, for me, is the hallmark of a spiritual life.  When I answer, I’ll say that today  I shared something real and raw with people I trust, withholding nothing. And I’ve felt lighter all day as a consequence, which makes me more inclined to try this again, and again, until it becomes my only way through the world.

The Messy House of Shame

Someone sat in on my spirituality group this morning, the one that feels as if it’s finally gelling after two months of frustration with their chatting, wandering, or disrespectful ways.  I’ve written about the challenges, prayed about them, we’ve talked about it as a group, I’ve listened to what they want, they’ve stepped up a bit, and I don’t wake at 4 am anxious twice a week. This is progress.

After group today, my visitor’s first question was Do you go over the protocol with them?

Oh. I should probably say it every time—no leaving unless it’s an emergency.

And no cross talk, she said, and not using the F bomb.  People did seem to be authentic, she added, and we went our separate ways.

I felt like someone who lives in a messy house and company drops in.  I felt ashamed.  The truth is  I’m so happy when they share something real that the way they say it doesn’t matter. And, although I am a spiritual director I also swear, a lot sometimes, though never at work. Or at least with clients.   Would setting that rule up be hypocritical or help them in the long run? This is a whole new issue to ponder.

I DO say at the start of each group to please respect the speaker and not talk, but I haven’t enforced that guideline strictly. Ironically today’s reading was about being changed by listening, so why didn’t I use the first side comment as a teachable moment.  What we ignore we condone, and it eventually crescendoed.  That’s the mess my visitor witnessed.

Her comments brought on a sinking feeling I’ve come to recognize as shame. I remembered my mother’s admonition right before we moved to a little town for my father’s new job. “You’re the principal’s daughter now, and all eyes will be on you, so you have to be good.”  I’d always thought of myself as a good girl but apparently I needed to be better. How had I missed that? I became a self-conscious eight year old, vaguely uneasy but unable to pinpoint how to improve.  I couldn’t see this as my mother’s issue and made up something about myself that made sense of her concern. For the first time came the thought I'm not skinny enough, and thus began the 50 year journey of body size=worth.

Today, after my observer’s comment I knew how to improve—I would enforce the codes of behavior.  In the next group when a participant was spitting regularly into a cup, I gently told him he couldn’t do that here. He rolled his eyes, got up to throw the cup away, then stormed back, picked up his stuff and left.  Was that really a better outcome?

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The Ancient Need to Belong

Recently a series of events have shown me how much even adults late in life need to feel we belong, we’re ok as we are, and that our company is wanted.

My sister and I hosted a 50^th wedding anniversary party last week and sat at the nametag table. Beautifully printed by Lori, the cards were alphabetized by first name, which threw some folks off.  As over 140 people entered we welcomed them and helped them find their tag. Again and again a guest would glance at the table, not immediately see their name, or see “Mary” but with a different last name, and then pull back, stop looking and make a comment about not having one.When we helped them find the tag, this was often followed by a perceptible sigh of relief. It seems the default assumption for many is "I’ve been left out, forgotten, or not included." 

How old is that response? Does assuming we've been left out protect us?  If so, from what? Of course humans have needed to be part of a tribe to survive; being excluded or exiled has literally meant death. Yet at something as unthreatening as a Sunday afternoon celebration, it was rare for someone to keep looking optimistically, assuming her name was there.

This week I also observed something else six times, which makes me curious.  I was on retreat with twenty people, and a number of us made a comment and also mentioned our age.  In each case the sharing was some new awareness or insight, and the age was mentioned in a tone that suggested they should have already known this. This group was older, so this  may not be common practice for people in earlier life stages.  Still, it was poignant to hear someone say“I’m 74 and I’m just finding my voice” or“I’m 52-- you think I’d be able to do this by now.” 

My own comment was about this ongoing struggle with sugar--how can I be 58 and still at Step 1? Where else do I compare myself to some ideal and judge that I’m behind or deficient, despite knowing that self-condemnation only slows momentum? What would shift if I accepted where I was today? What's the alternative--a fight with reality? I want my aging to carry the grace of self-forgiveness and some margin of compassion.

What questions about money are alive in me today?

Nothing like a change in circumstances to shake up comfortable assumptions and reveal the fault lines in my feeling of economic security.  In no particular order, here’s what I’m wondering :

How much am I worth per hour?

How much will I need to retire comfortably? When can I retire? How would I spend my days if I didn’t work?

What’s holding me back from unlimited abundance? What is the evidence of my abundance right now?

 If I had one million dollars, what would I buy? Where would I go? To what would I donate?

What does it take to write a best seller?

What good and bad financial habits did I learn from Dad? from Mom?

Who am I jealous of financially?

What would a more honest conversation about money look like? Who do I need to have that with?

 What would more money give me that I don’t have right now?

What would I do for enough money that I’m not doing now?

What would I never do for any amount?

 Who is the richest person I know? Who is the poorest person I know?

 Do I want people to think I’m rich? poor? average?

What objects (e.g. car, purses, golf clubs) show my level of income to others?

How much money saved would make me feel safe? When did I put my safety there?

Where do I pinch pennies unnecessarily? Where do I spend money unnecessarily?

Why do I act poorer than I am? What does that get me?

Impatience, My Old Friend

I call this blog leaning into the light everyday because I believe that’s the best orientation to be happy and useful.  But I can’t ignore those times when life feels dark or hard.  I have to pay attention to my character defects, and lately impatience has been running wild. Yesterday, for instance, I walked several paces ahead of the folks I was with--I just couldn’t slow down. Because every flaw has a hidden asset I can access when I’m in balance, today I got curious about what’s behind my impatience: passion.

For six weeks I’ve worked a new job, which I took to have more time to write. I’ve granted myself a transitional period of grace, bought a book about developing good habits, committed to a writing coach, and spent way too much time reading about this election. I haven’t yet done much work on the projects I want to complete.

This week’s rise of impatience shows me that even though it’s easier to sit back and be critical of everyone and everything, it’s time to turn my energies into creating.  When creative energies aren’t turned toward the light, they become destructive toward self and others.

Impatience, a form of violence, reveals an insistence on perfection from everyone, including myself, a huge hurdle for putting words on the page.  Everything I write must be beautiful, powerful, and transformative—immediately!! 

When I remember that the effect of the words is not up to me, I reclaim that energy to create. Making mistakes, risking being seen in all my flaws, trying something that might not work is scary but at some point feels better than stagnating, distracting myself, or deconstructing others. 

Today my invitation to lean into the light comes in the form of saying something true for me, at this moment, and releasing it into the world.

Questions Open the Mind

Summer can be a time to slow down and really talk to each other. Nothing satisfies me more than a good question.  Here are some I'd love to spend time with:

If you were to have a six month sabbatical, what would you do and where would you spend it?

How have you experienced the universe as intelligent? Loving?

Was there a time you knew you were not alone in the world, even if physically you were?

When have you been spared death or injury?  How do you interpret that close call?

What is your favorite place on earth?

What's a mysterious thing you've experienced?

Who is an eccentric person you know?

Who have been your best friends throughout your life? Do you have one now? What have you learned from them?

How has your idea of fun changed over time? What’s fun today?

What have you learned from betrayal? 

Who are the nourishing people in your life ? How often are you in contact with them?

Is there an event in your life that has most powerfully shaped you?

What’s the healthiest work environment you’ve ever been in? least healthy?

What question do you wish people would not ask you?

Who were your favorite teachers? Why?

What books have touched you? Changed you?

If talent and time were not an issue, what book would you write? What music would you compose? 

What would your art look like? What kind of dance would you dance?

Which of your ancestors do you wish you could talk to today?

Where in the world do you most want to travel? What calls you there?

What would you love to be asked?

Trusting Time over Money

By recently taking a half-time job with no managerial responsibilities, I made a very conscious decision to trade money for time.  However, Friday I got my first paycheck, and the reality of this lesser income shocked me. For about 12 hours I ran figures in my head, calculated how much I had to work to pay for the cabin upkeep, and wondered what I should never buy again at the grocery store. I’d already made a pledge to buy nothing non-consumable for a year but perhaps I would have to give up tea.

Luckily my sister was in town and we headed out to our favorite Goodwill in Brainerd to shop, one of my favorite distractions.  Without going into too much story, I needed a black bra to work with one of the tops I’d found, and Lori suggested I look around.  Ha, I said.  It’s difficult enough to find my size in a department store let alone a thrift or consignment.  I suppose every woman thinks her size is unique, but mine is truly tricky. “Impossible” was my word.

Nevertheless, at the next consignment store I found myself looking through a bin of lingerie and picked up a nearly new Wacoal black bra in my exact size—on sale for $4, a $60 value. I was astounded and ran to tell the sales clerks, my sister, and anyone else who would listen.  Apparently that wasn’t enough because I’m writing a blog about it, too.

In picking up that piece of fabric mere minutes after I said I’d never find one, I felt a message from the universe—whatever you need, or even desire, you will have--precisely, affordably, immediately.  It’s a matter of looking, being open, and allowing it to come from anywhere. Money is one vehicle but not the only one.

I can’t say all my financial concerns are relieved, but mostly I’m calm and trusting. We are so loved, blessed, and tended by unseen forces, by each other, and by this very earth. 

May I open my eyes and ears to the answers to each question, listen to nudges and intuitions, explore and let go of rigid rules so that I may be in the flow of this endless abundance of life.

Who Knew Leaving a Comfort Zone would Be Uncomfortable?

When I left a job that for eight years felt like a calling, I didn’t connect the dots that leaving a comfort zone meant feeling uncomfortable.  All the affirmations that “this too shall pass” or “things are always working out for me” don’t change the felt sense of displacement and the nakedness of being such a beginner again. While I told myself it’s time to grow and stretch, I secretly believed I was being called to reach new audiences and have even a greater impact.  What arrogance! Right now the impact this change is having is on me, first and foremost.

I feel as though I’m being remodeled as a teacher and a spiritual director, and this remodeling is not simply switching out old cabinets for nicer ones.  I’m being stripped down to the studs of my ego so that I can be rebuilt. I get a glimpse that the remade teacher will be more creative and my spiritual directing will be more authentic, but I’m not there yet. The process, as anyone who has gone through change knows, is not pretty, not necessarily predictable, and not one I’m in charge of, hence the discomfort.

Being in a new place helps me see where I was coasting and thus hiding a little bit.  Every topic and session that was such a hit in the last place doesn’t fly with a new audience that lets me know immediately.  I’ve woken at 3:30 churning with a response I should have made, replaying a conversation I wish had occurred, until I’ve gotten up to write about it and been flooded with similar situations going back to when I was 12.  Gary Zukav would say that the unhealed parts of my personality are emerging to be healed by consciousness, and while I’m grateful for that—heck I apparently signed up for it in this change—I cannot weather this alone.

So I’m writing about it, talking about it, asking for help, and taking exquisite care of myself in the process.  I'm also praying like I haven't in a long long time. My spiritual progress is that the period between extreme discomfort and shame of not doing this very well to a sense of curiosity and willingness to have hard conversations is pretty short.  I’m noticing my first impulse to run, hide, quit is just that—an old response that won’t work today because I know too much and have tools that really work to enlarge my spirit.  I do want a larger comfort zone, and for that to happen, I have to travel through the territory of discomfort.

Vacationing in Everyday Life

I’m in my second week of a new, half-time job, and my wise sponsor has invited me to honor the transition by not filling every spare moment.  My assignment is to notice how I spend time when I truly have choice and am listening.  

I love to sort and sift.  Now that we’ve brought every last thing over from the Golden Valley house, I spent time in the basement unpacking boxes and putting things where we can find them again. Surprisingly, I had the most fun in the work room, creating a place for hammers, another for screwdrivers, and one for plyers, using containers we already have.

I got my own office/writing space ordered.  I eliminated things from the floor and hung paintings—two oils by Veda Stanfield, a watercolor given to my mother when she retired, and the big piece I brought home from Ecuador simply because I couldn’t live without it. I took immense pleasure just sitting and enjoying this tidy, beautiful space.

I spent time in the yard. I set up the hammock and the chaise lounge that had been lying around and sat in them after work.  Consequently, I had two conversations with my next door neighbor, who I hadn’t yet met in six months. I had time to sweep the sidewalk, something I’ve wanted to do for a week now.  Given my new mode of acting on inspiration, I made the time, in my skirt and sandals, before work. 

I read a couple books, taking one to the pool and reading it in one sitting.  Patrick Rhone’s Enough is an inspiration for my own. His topic and voice kept me reading until the end.  Not pressuring myself to produce a book this week has been lovely and very freeing. Until I let that go,  I had no idea of the ever-present pressure to produce something extraordinary.

I walked, which I’ve wanted to do for years.  I walked before work on Monday. I walked after work because I was home before supper.  I strolled without thought of aerobic exercise, enjoying the flowers and looking at house numbers for ideas.  Just how do you put numbers in stucco?

And I’ve slept. Napping, going to bed early, getting up later all show me how in need of replenishment I’ve been.  More confirming information I’ve made the right move for me.

In short, I’m becoming the person I want to be, which I suspect is what happens on a vacation and can be incorporated into daily living, if I listen and move slowly enough.

Leaning into Change

Feeling Both/And Emotions   

   

I’m in a big period of transition, and my history is to focus on where I’m headed, be excited about it, stay positive. But the place I’m leaving has been a wonderful scene—beautiful setting, healthy environment, colleagues who have become trusted friends, impeccable supervisor and truly fulfilling work.  (You may wonder why I’d leave and the story of how this came about is curious because I wasn’t looking.)

What I’m attempting to do this week is inhabit the whole spectrum of human emotion—the anticipation and the delight of something new, the wistfulness of leaving a place that for eight years has helped me grow and learn new skills in the safest environment I’ve ever worked.  There’s a theory that workplaces mirror our families, reflecting the complicated dynamics of our first relational system and so if we’re not conscious, we can fall into habitual, outmoded roles.  But when we choose to consciously evolve, we mature and attract a family of responsible adults who take ownership for their actions, analyze their motives, and together create something meaningful. This particular group also has an ability to play together and bring out the best in each other. The staff at Hazelden’s Dan Anderson Renewal Center is remarkable and I’ve been blessed to be part of it.

Yet talk of family systems theory is not the way I’ll best make my transition. I need to live these last days from my heart,  to savor the views of the forest and lake as I see it for a last time, to enjoy the guests clamoring for one last conversation,  the special feeling of lecturing in Bigelow auditorium, delivering information and telling stories that might bring someone hope. Mostly I’m tuned into the goodness of the people I’ve worked with, crying smiling when they share what they appreciate about me, crying when I tell them how important they have been to my daily life. 

Even the happiest of transitions has a thread of loss, and for once I want to notice it, tend to it, knowing it doesn’t diminish how excited I am to be joining Hazelden St. Paul on Monday.

"Seek the Source of the Yearning"

I was up at the cabin for five days. At at some point in my planning this became a writing retreat, a silent writing retreat, a vegetarian and sugar free retreat, a fast from facebook retreat.  And I was able to do all those but one.

 I saw on facebook a line from Adyasanti: “Don’t seek what you are yearning for, seek the source of the yearning” and it was the perfect reflection on my day.  I’d gotten an idea to make cookies—peanut butter, chocolate chip, and molasses ginger cookies. I found cookbooks in the cupboard here from various churches and I looked up recipes, scoured the pantry, made a shopping list. The only catch is I don’t eat sugar or flour, and if I made cookies I would do nothing but eat cookies all day long. I’d feel sick, I wouldn’t feel like walking or writing or meditating, and I’d be unhappy.

So I took a walk to make the decision after an hour in the bracing cold.  When I came back, I chose to be true to my initial decision to not run away. I put all the cook books away and roasted brussel sprouts and cabbage, which were delicious.

Next I went online to see what movies were playing within a 20 mile radius. I watched every single trailer, hoping there was something I just couldn’t bear to miss. There was not.  In fact, you would have to pay me a lot to spend 90 minutes watching any of the movies playing locally. So that avenue of distraction closed as well.

Eventually I did write, I did read, and pray, and walk and do yoga and meditate. And still there was empty time. I got out the coloring books of mandalas and the beautiful pencils I’d bought and I just sat still and filled in small areas with various colors. And as I did the thought emerged—I’m lonely.  

As I sat with it, faces of people I know who might also be lonely appeared. Lots of them. I realized that even the most social people perhaps have moments of loneliness. Loneliness is part of being human. In that moment I felt connected to this world in a very sweet way. 

Then the image arose of me at age 3, on a Saturday morning, reaching into a low kitchen cupboard while my parents slept> I spied a box of chocolate only to discover it was bitter baker’s chocolate .  Ugh.  I had to process that quietly because I was alone, doing something I shouldn’t, filled with shame.  

While I’ve remembered that moment before, this was the first time I connected it to being lonely. Of course. I was a three year old who had to keep quiet in order to not wake her parents up, as she’d been instructed. I learned to entertain myself but it was a consolation for the real connection I wanted.

Because my loneliness has been soothed by sugar for so long, at the lake I immediately wanted cookies before I even realized I was lonely. Anything to stave off that feeling.  But by not giving into that impulse/craving a little opening occurred--just enough space for me to learn something, to heal something.

 That’s the gift of recovery.  I learn something and heal something every single time I choose to be healthy.

Letter of Permission

Since I'm the only thing that gets in the way of my happiness, I've written a letter of permission to myself to be as alive as possible.  Are you waiting for someone to give you permission--perhaps a parent, partner, employer or child? What do you give yourself permission to be?

Dear JoAnn,

I give you permission to be strong, powerful, charismatic and funny.

I give you permission to laugh and cry, make mistakes and to heal.

I give you permission to ask questions, sit in silence, talk for an hour, write what’s on your mind without censure.

I give you permission to love your body and brain, ask for what you want, and trust deeply in the goodness of the universe.

I give you permission to be a true original, to be just like everyone else, to be ordinary, dowdy and dull some days and on others to be the shiniest one in the room. 

I give you permission to love deeply, to look like a fool for your truth, to be uncomfortable.

I give you permission to be curious, scared, and wonder-filled. 

You have my permission to rest, to make friends with emptiness, and to be easily delighted.

You have permission to be.

Love, JoAnn

Falling into Grace

When you fall, in my case literally, it’s a chance to reflect before moving on.  If you can take attention back from “what does this look like to others?” and ask “what was I thinking before this happened?” you’ll maximize the learning—at least I hope I have.

This morning I forgot that a plumbing inspection was scheduled. When I heard the doorbell I was upstairs reading the newspaper in bed.  I put on clothes as quickly as I could and raced downstairs.  Why didn’t I simply throw a bathrobe over my nightgown and greet the inspector? Because I didn’t want a stranger to think I wasn’t yet dressed at 8 am.

We have two doors to our new house and I haven’t yet learned which doorbell ring goes with which door. I ran to the side door where most of the work folks come in. No one there. I raced to the front door and no one was there either.  In fact no one was even in sight. Apparently my thought process at this point was “if I miss this inspection not only will the plumbing not be approved but we will be fined and possibly lose our house.”

I flew out the door and saw a car with “City of Minneapolis” at the curb.  I yelled and continued toward it, tripped on something in my loose slippers, and fell sprawling on the frozen ground. The inspector, now out of her car, came toward me asking if I was ok. I got up quickly, wincing, and limped into the house, accompanying her throughout the brief, successful inspection. Her last words to me were “take some ibuprofen.”

I am certainly grateful that nothing is broken; my body is healthy and will heal quickly from the scrapes and bruises. I also think I’ll have a quiet day--soaking in a hot mineral bath, wearing soft clothing, and moving mindfully. 

But because I view everything as an invitation to increase awareness, I’d also like to notice where I might be governed by subtle fears of a worst-case scenario, fed perhaps by what I'm obsessively reading about our current political scene.

When else do I hurry because I’ve packed too much into a day, afraid I’ll miss something important?  How did I forgot the essential spiritual perspective that all is well? And can I be grateful that the earth itself has reminded me?