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?