Loving with Wild Abandon

There are days it feels like a musty closet door of my heart has opened, and there are other days where I’ve put an extra padlock on the door.  Recently I’ve been ambushed by extravagant love for the clients I work with--men and women 18 to 50, at different places in their desire to get healthier.  Last week, as our circle created a sacred container of listening hearts. I heard a dozen stories of grief and loss, some delivered through tears.

Keenly aware that there was not one thing I could say to diminish the pain, I gave thanks that the ongoing work of life in recovery is learning to be present to it all without escape. After my father died when I was 16, I watched my mother close down for the next 30 years from a broken heart.. For decades I used alcohol, drugs, food, and shopping to buffer whatever pain I experienced. Today I have different practices that also need to be dismantled if I am to have authentic connections with others, for I’m just now learning to keep my heart open when it cracks.

One way I have “protected” myself is focusing on the faults, flaws, and what’s missing in those I love. I make up stories, rehearse of old hurts, and spend way too much time wondering what you think about me to be vulnerably receptive to the love I inevitably feel when I sit quietly and simply listen.

What would my life be like if I loved with wild abandon? What if I let go absolutely, not into an abyss, but into a soft feather bed of wonder, joy, and delicious love? I feel like I’m in new territory, willing to get my heart broken by another’s pain or rejection, just as I’m willing to be healed by another’s gratitude and tender love. I’m willing to share what’s really true for me in the moment, including the stories that don’t have a tidy spiritual lesson, yet.

The 12 Steps as Characters

After reading J. Ruth Gendler's Book of Qualities, I thought about what the 12 Steps, which I teach regularly, would be like if they were characters.    Let me know what you think.

The 12 Steps as Characters

One crawls onto the stage, shirt torn, mud under fingernails, thirsty and in need of a haircut. He’s been alone so long that human touch is an immediate balm. He eats and rests so deeply the restoration seems miraculous.  He’s actually been wanting this for some time.

Two walks barefoot across a lush grassy yard, tentative at first, with head up, amazed at the sunshine and blooming flowers. She’s curious, her heart is tender, and she holds the hand of a wise elder, a stranger perhaps, who already loves her.

Three is a student who buckles down to study. While always smart, he realizes this time he has to do things in order, and that people can see through his glib responses. To get where he wants to be, he’ll have to be more disciplined than ever and work with a level of consistency that will be challenging. He decides to give it a try.

Four is a savvy businesswoman who sees clutter and doesn’t look away. She’s pulled everything out of the junk drawer then tosses some items in the trash and finds the proper place for the rest. When she’s finished, she takes a deep breath, the first one in years that truly feels free.

Five is on his way home from school and doesn’t yet know a plate of cookies and a listening ear await him.  He bursts through the door ready to share some details, reluctant to tell other stories, but because the kind person waiting is eager to hear it all, he tells it all.

Six is a middle school girl alone with the door closed standing before a mirror. She’s happy with her eyes, mortified by her nose, yet sees it all clearly--the blemishes and circles she tries to hide from the world. She remembers her friends are envious of her hair and smiles.

Seven is a baseball player ready to be coached. He has a pretty good pitch and swing but it could be even better and he needs help to get there. He signs up for lessons, shows up on time, and faithfully practices because he believes he can improve, with help.

Eight is a mother about to see her son get married. She reviews their years together and wonders about some of the moments—was she selfish? Did she push him too hard? Did she encourage her young man’s emotional intelligence or worry about him fitting in? There’s not a moment she’s forgotten, and she takes out each memory to see it from a new light, the perspective of letting it go in order to see who he is today.

Nine is a police officer who used too much force in his last interaction and needs to go back into the community to make it right. He gets out of the car and walks the neighborhoods without a gun, listening to people’s stories, receiving their complaints, and asking what he can do to restore trust and right relationship. He’s open, non-defensive and ready to learn and grow.

Ten is a night nurse, intuitive, wide-awake, and wise. As she does her rounds, she pays attention to anything out of the ordinary—sounds, movements, irregular breath--and then moves without hesitation to make the necessary adjustments to return things to optional operation.  She’s good at this because she’s experienced and never cuts corners.

Eleven is a farmer who daily puts her hands into the dirt, welcomes the rain, and turns like a plant towards the sun. She greets the wind, the grain moving, and the brook through her property as friends. When she learns what needs to happen next, she doesn’t hesitate to do it. This life depends on her listening and acting in alignment.

Twelve is a troop of boy scouts volunteering at a soup kitchen. They arrive smiling and do whatever is asked of them. They do the work with happy hearts because they are having fun together. Their laughter and occasional singing fills the shelter with light and soon everyone else is smiling. They’re eager to come back next week.

JoAnn Campbell-Rice, May 2017

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.