Monday, September 26, 2016

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 42nd 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!


Thursday, September 8, 2016

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.