Mothers

My husband has a sweet relationship with his mother.  She’s now 91 and he visits her many times each week, manages her finances, and attends her medical care conferences. Apparently they’ve always been close. When he started kindergarten, he preferred her company to the folks at school.  He tells me he stayed home more days than anyone in his class.

My own relationship to my mother was complicated; I didn’t much like my mom because of her sharp tongue, critical nature, and mercurial temper. She seemed self-absorbed and childish to me, even when I was a teen. My dad provided a buffer between us, until he died when I was 16.  Then I reluctantly took his place as Mom’s bridge partner and confidante.  I came home every holiday and my mother supported my ongoing education by supplementing my graduate student stipend and writing checks on my birthday and Christmas.

Despite her generosity, I often felt judged and so hid my inner life from her. My mother was a strong-willed, tiny woman who smoked herself to death.  Although I was physically present when she died, I wasn’t yet sober, so on a spiritual and emotional level, I was pretty distant.

While I was able to quit smoking when I was 27, I’ve spent the last 30 years unable to lose weight because I’ve equated being tiny with being mean and critical. However, I’ve come into a new phase with my mother by focusing on the best traits we shared: we’re both organized, energetic, opinionated, independent, good with money, and love solitude.  Today I’m much more accepting of my mother for what she was capable of and can discern all the ways she loved me without saying so outright.  

And in the process, I’ve shed 27 pounds.  While I’m not as tiny as she is—yet--I’m no longer afraid of becoming her if I look like her. And that seems to have made all the difference. 

A Love of Work

I’m out of town for a week’s work at a spa resort.  All my delicious meals are prepared, the room is cleaned daily, the schedule offers many options for physical and spiritual nourishment, but I don’t have to attend any of them.  My own, already prepared, talks aren’t until the end of this week’s stay, and while I’ve brought lots of reading materials, my laptop, and have internet access, I don’t HAVE to do any of it. I’ve finished just the novel I was halfway through when I arrived, have read the NY Times every morning, and have fulfilled the two hours required daily for my job.

This leaves me with vast swatches of unscheduled time, something I claim I want dearly in order to meditate, contemplate, and create. And yet, I’m startled at my discomfort at being so at “loose ends,” even as I do not participate in most of the yoga, swimming, exercise classes, demonstration kitchen, creative arts, comedic talks, or hikes.  Most of this time, I have not been overly happy or even content. A wise woman I talked with Friday morning suggested I ask my higher power/inner being what I might be or do for small chunks of time, as looking at a week of possibilities has felt overwhelming.  When I reign in my horizon, the next right thing usually appears—go to lunch, wash your hair, journal.

Still, I yearn for meaningful work and feel slightly off-center when I’m just focused on self-care. There’s a balance I’ve long sought between service and self-care, and this week feels as though I’ve tipped into self-indulgence.  Maybe because in my regular life I take good care of myself and don’t overwork as a daily practice I haven’t needed such a deep dive into relaxation. Or maybe because I’m always busy and focused, this kind of spacious time and ease is just so unfamiliar as to feel uncomfortable.

I know I could be appreciative for the luxurious conditions and unique opportunity. I know I could be open to explore, connect, and learn more about this particular place and the people here. I know that this too shall pass. And I’ve learned that, even as I can’t be here wrong, my soul longs for a grittier experience and my heart needs community to thrive.

What to bring to Spiritual Direction?

At a recent poetry workshop with Naomi Shihab Nye, I became aware of what I love so much about this artist—she finds poetry everywhere, and she shares it enthusiastically with her audience. It’s enlivening being in her presence.

So too, as spiritual seekers, we can find the sacred in everything, and sharing the discoveries can be transformative. The monthly hour of spiritual direction is a time to sift through everyday life and see what comes to the surface as guidance, a nudge, or an invitation. Sometimes people think they don’t “need” to come to spiritual direction if there’s nothing major happening in their lives.

Actually, without external drama, we can attend to subtle, inner movements with new ears. In that monthly session, without an agenda, we can learn to listen more deeply to the guidance which is always leading us to our heart’s desire. For example, when there’s a troubling event, I can look for a message from the universe. When I have a negative response or reaction to someone, I can better understand my own history and beliefs. When I move slowly with openness, I can find beauty in simple movements, commonplace objects, and ordinary activities. Meaning, understanding, and beauty all nourish my spirit, one of the benefits of spiritual direction.

What could I bring to spiritual direction this month?

Small moments of grace:

Curling into a white chair when the sun hits and basking like a cat

Times my feelings were hurt and I want to know why:

A best friend shutting the door after twenty-one years

That sentence in a life story that cracks me open:

T’s appreciation of sunshine after 150 days (5 months!) “in the hole”

The contradiction that never heals:

A basement playroom stuffed with dolls and my childless life

Everything counts in the hour of spiritual companionship, so bring your life, every single time.

What do best friends tell us about ourselves?

I just got a friend request from a woman I met when I was eight and we instantly became the best of friends for the two years she lived in Delphi.  My heart was thrilled to connect with her via Facebook, and reading her timeline gave me a glimpse of her life today. She’s a woman of deep faith, which made me think anew about what drew us together in the first place.

I didn’t realize that I have had a string of best friends who wanted to be good girls and actively chose to connect with a higher power and be part of a spiritual community. A couple of them probably didn’t have much choice as they were the daughters of local ministers. Still there was something simpatico about us that was a comfort.

This morning’s awareness comes in the context of a week where I’ve been focusing on a painful pattern of former best friends: over the course of my life at least four women have written me a letter to break off the friendship, the most recent five years ago. I’ve assumed whenever I see a pattern there is some insight to be gained through a thorough analysis. I had planned to journal about that, think about my role in that pattern, and try to understand why I’ve chosen people who once they really know me don’t want anything to do with me.

And then this friend from third grade turns up whose life has been devoted to God and I’m instantly aware of an alternative pattern.  Now the names of deeply spiritual best friends is in the foreground awaiting analysis, or at least curiosity. I am both rejected and desired, and perhaps neither means a thing.

Everyday I have a choice what grabs my attention. Since I have limited time to write, contemplate, and dig deeper, where am I going to put that energy today? If I focus on the nourishing connections and continue to meditate, my experience is that an answer to why I’ve experienced a string of rejections will be revealed in its own time.  

I may have an aha moment or awareness, recognize my part, and be able to consciously choose differently, but I don’t have to dig around for it. Instead, I can respond to the invitation from someone who wants to be connected.

Arrogance--the Swiftest Route to Humility

I’ve been invited to look at my arrogance, which is the opposite of humility, and humility is required to be sober and abstinent successfully.  So here’s what I know.

Arrogance is thinking “I’ve got this” and probably don’t need to talk to my sponsor this week, work so hard on meditation, or be vulnerable with the people in my life.   Arrogance is relying on my past, my own willpower, and my big brain to navigate the treacherous waters of addiction, in which, as a food addict and alcoholic, I always swim.

Arrogance is thinking I’ve just channeled six book ideas, exactly the number the psychic Reiki master told me I would write, and then floating on that high of creative energy, assuming the books will simply be assembled rather than worked on.  Arrogance is having a mastermind call that I initiated and organized and believing I was different from the other three, who struggle with the bright lines.  Arrogance is assuming that because I’ve gone 25 days without sugar this stint, I’m better and wondering what on earth I’m going to “get out of” this group.

Arrogance is going through the motions of recovery without honestly asking if I’m feeling any authentic connection, revelation or progress.

Arrogance is assuming that when a group at work goes well, I’ve got unique abilities and can probably write the manual for the rest of the country to work with young recovering addicts. Only to be told two days later that a sizable portion “hate this spirituality group, and that it’s the least favorite” thing they do all week because it’s repetitious, boring, and dull.

Arrogance is thinking that because I find comfort and insight through writing, reading, and talking, most others will too, and if they don’t, too bad for them. Arrogance is working with the ones who want it and letting the ones on the cusp or actively resisting fall by the wayside as “not my job.”  They are my job and they require me to dig deeper, be more creative, and ask for help from others.

I am grateful I was impassive as I heard and felt that hatred and kept my tears until the bathroom afterwards.  I came home and went to bed, heart sick, but perhaps that was an indulgence in self-pity.  Poor JoAnn, not a total success today. 

Arrogance is assuming I will hit a home run every single time I show up because that’s who I am, or else why show up?  Humility is doing good work regardless of outcome, regardless of the way it’s received, being open to suggestions and improvements, and feeling no shame for being a beginner.  If I want more humility, no problem. Something in life will humble me soon enough. 

The Sacred Container of Community

 This week in my Indiana hometown, two eighth grade girls went for a hike in the country. Their bodies were found the next day and the hunt for their murderer continues.  My heart hurts for the families, friends, teachers and neighbors of those sweet girls. I watch the montage of photographs shared by high school friends and I weep. I spent many days of my youth in the woods, rode my bike on country roads, spent entire days outside without my parents  wondering or worrying about me.  Today, we’re revising our narrative of a town we thought we knew, shaken to our core, as my sister put it. I imagine there will be new warnings to children to avoid strangers, in an understandable attempt to keep them safe.

Yet this week, a ten year old Minnesota boy was honored for rescuing a woman who had fallen on the ice in her driveway and was immobilized, calling for help, yet hidden behind trash cans. Had no one come she would have gotten hypothermia.  At a school convocation, the boy commented that although his parents had always warned him not to talk to strangers, he moved toward her cries anyway. Something deeper led him to help.

There’s another story I can’t get out of my head. Earlier this month immigrants from Africa, afraid of persecution and deportation, walked into Canada across the borders of northern Minnesota and North Dakota in 22 below zero weather.  One man lost fingers, another lost both hands to frostbite. They literally risked life and limb for the sake of their children. The pictures of Canadian police greeting these refugees with smiles and hugs flood the internet.

When we hide, judge, close our eyes, doors, and hearts, we’re letting the most frightened parts of ourselves call the shots. It might feel safe for a time, but it’s not who we are as full human beings. It’s when we’re sick, helpless, poor, and bereft that we realize how much we need each other. Challenging times call for us to open our hearts wider, to trust more and to care for strangers.  There’s been a huge outpouring of support, benefits, and prayers for the families of the murdered girls. That response to tragedy shows me we are hardwired to be connected and take risks to create a beloved community.

While money can insulate me from dependence on others (I hire help when I'm in trouble most of  time), I want to say yes when I’m invited to stretch my hand to the next person in need, look them in the eye, and offer support. That’s the only way I know that the fabric of community, so horrendously broken each day in some way, is healed and repaired.

Disciplined by Love

I’m reading Cynthia Bourgeault’s new book, The Heart of Centering Prayer, and although I’ve been a practitioner of centering prayer for years, I feel like a beginner again.  I know that’s a goal of meditation—to become so present that each moment is new--but there’s part of me that also says, “I’ve been doing it wrong for years.”

Bourgeault describes her own profound shift from thinking that the point of this meditative practice was to become empty for God’s presence to realizing that letting go of the current thought was “the main event.”  She writes, “thoughts were not the obstacle; they were the raw material, as every opportunity to practice releasing that focal point for attention deepened the reservoir of “free attention” within me and strengthened the signal of the homing beacon of my heart.”  At some point during her practice, “the strength of this signal becomes stronger than the attraction exerted by the thoughts.” 

It’s perfect timing to read this book that returns my attention to my heart and invites me to dwell there for twenty minutes, twice a day.  I’ve been on a food plan that I’ve followed for three weeks where the elimination of sugar and flour, again, I know, has brought joy and a more profound love for others than I’ve experienced in a while, if ever.  When I wrote about the waves of love I’m feeling in the online support community, a leader commented that’s a result of radically loving ourselves. I get that taking actions aligned with who I want to be is an act of self-love, but I hadn’t realized it also opens pathways for love to flow through.

I hadn’t thought of my sugar addiction as blocking the flow of love, although it made me cranky and irritable often enough, and while I’m not even close to the loving, kind, tolerant person I want to be all the time, I have felt real progress these last weeks.  I’m frequently ambushed by love for the client, sponsee, or directee talking to me, the group I’m sitting with, the stranger who looks me in the eye, and for my sweet husband.

It’s nice to recommit to a meditation practice that is grounded in this love,  and that invites me to become disciplined in this spiritual instrument, the heart.