Allegiance to the Earth

 

For years I’ve flown a blue flag with a picture of planet Earth rather than the flag of the United States. 

What if everyone was first a citizen of the Earth and each other, and secondarily a citizen of a particular nation?

Despite mottos that we’re all one in our diversity, nationalism actually conflates our differences as we wonder if those whose lives aren’t mirrors of our own are truly part of the nation.

If, however, I become curious about difference, I realize those divergences of belief, attitude, cultural practice, language, food choice, etc. are sites of expansion, exploration, and possibility.

If Earth were our guide to difference, we would celebrate the astonishing diversity that allows every single entity to flourish at a granular level. That’s the kind of individualism we talk about supporting when we tout our freedom, but don’t actually enact very often because of the crushing conformity of a cultural story to assimilate and fit in to belong.

What does it mean to belong to Earth first? Prioritizing what makes this earthly home sing, not ache. Taking actions based on the answer to the question—does this wound or heal the planet? Protecting remaining wildness and beauty. Taking time to be in the natural world and receive its gifts.

To belong to each other means I’m as safe and successful as the least secure human. Utter poverty may not seem to impact my daily life, but if affects my soul.

What decisions, purchases, and choices honor the artisan, worker, farmer, and laborer who actually made this product? What decisions lift them into sane living with clean water, shelter, enough food, education and opportunities to create and which ones keep them scrambling?

Living under an Earth flag means growing up. Looking beyond my own tastes, desires and comfort and acknowledging that I have a contribution to make and a responsibility to keep my eyes open when I see challenging circumstances and to do hard things.

Belonging to the Earth and to each other could transform the little interpersonal difficulties that dot my days by providing a larger, and far more urgent, context in which to work, live, and interact.

Belonging to Earth and everyone could seem overwhelming, but it’s actually what feeds us, gives fresh oxygen to our psyches, and keeps the lifeforce moving.

Today, on the eve of a national holiday of independence, I choose the Earth and you, which can only nourish this struggling democracy.

 

Chasing the New

 

I am recovering from a bout of new car fever.  After sorting all my clothes from a huge pile based on the principle “does this spark joy?” I realized my current car does not bring me joy. Surely, I deserve ecstasy every time I drive to the grocery store.

I remembered the other model when I was test driving my current car. I loved that car but decided to be practical and get the one that easily fits into our 1928 garage.

So off I went in search of perfection. I test drove and asked questions, drove more and created charts, researched specs and made columns to see which of these cars hit all the requirements.  I did more internet research, went back and drove different versions, and after two days, I went to bed unclear except that it had to be blue and asked for guidance.

Woke up the next morning knowing which one was it and texted the salesman. Sweet relief with such clarity.

And then, second thoughts.

Did I really want to spend this much money in a couple years on cars? After all, I work from home and rarely drive!

Did I really want to sell my 2020 Prius which has depreciated so much that I’d have paid almost $1 per mile it’s been driven since purchase?

Did I really need a bigger car, one that would make every single in and out of our narrow garage an exercise in mindfulness?

Why did I think a new car could deliver joy?

Whose agenda of prestige or status was I pursuing?

What would help me love my current car?

The next time I got into my grey Prius I said, “Good morning, sweet pea”  and gave it a tender pat. She now has a name. She tucks into my garage so effortlessly, gets 50 mpg, is paid for, and aligns with my values.

I can buy a better cushion to sit higher and get lumbar support. I can wash and vacuum more often, use an air freshener, and pay myself the savings with an experiential destination.

There’s no end to projects, areas to develop, and ways to grow, but shopping, hunting for that perfect something, is the easiest, most familiar use of my loose energies. That itch really means it's time to stop and create something, express myself, listen more deeply, or steep in silence.

If I didn’t get a new car, what other areas would get that money, attention and energy?

Time to deepen friendships, make my yard a beautiful sanctuary, write twhat  I want to create, visit my dream list of destinations, and immerse in the topics I teach, like addiction recovery, transformation, and resistance to change.

I am so relieved I promised myself I would NOT purchase something the very day I test drove it.  Those 48 hours allowed sanity to emerge and the dopamine rush of a spontaneous purchase to settle.

What do you do with your inner restlessness?

 

18 Years Today

 

Today I celebrate 18 years of continuous sobriety and want to reflect on tackling the beast of addiction and the benefits of recovery.

Not long ago I had a dream in which I bought a pack of cigarettes, drank alcohol, and ate ice cream. It’s been 34 years since I’ve had a cigarette and 10 months since I’ve had any sugar, and yet my inner addict is never far away.

Brian asked me if there were times in these 18 years when I was close to having a drink? Nothing recent came to mind, but the beginning certainly wasn’t easy.

Omar Manejewala writes, “You can’t fight cravings; you can only outgrow them.”

Facing an addiction requires growing in new ways when times are hard and the old coping mechanisms are ones I don’t want to use. I’ve learned to pray more earnestly than ever and to tell people what’s going on, even when it’s not pretty or doesn’t look like the put-together image I’d like to present.

I also have learned to take a deep breath, take a walk, take a nap, read a book, take a bath, drink tea, or journal about what’s eating me in order to ride the wave of desire, which is an old neural pathway that gets lit up when a situation emerges and escape seems like the best action.

Of course, I still escape. I read voraciously, I shop with tenacity for the “perfect” whatever I’m hunting for at the time, and I spend too much time rehearsing what I’m going to say, should have said, or should have kept to myself.

And none of this recovery happened overnight.  Identity gets formed over time, and in community, so hanging out with other recovering alcoholics and food addicts helps normalize what affects only a small percentage of the population actually. There's still plenty of stigma surrounding addiction, yet people in recovery are the happiest, most honest and generous people I know.

If someone had told me 30 years ago that someday I wouldn't smoke, drink, eat sugar or flour I would have gasped. But it gets easier.  I can do hard things because I don’t do them alone. I believe that anyone else can too. There’s nothing special that allows me and millions of others to be sober or abstinent while someone else struggles. We just made a decision and kept coming back until it stuck.

It’s not the easiest path, but it’s so worth it, that if you’re in a place of deciding to give up something that’s not serving you, please reach out and let others help.  You may, as I have, be given a life beyond your wildest dreams.

Puzzle Me This

 

It’s the season for jigsaw puzzles in our house.  Our dining table has been cleared and right now there are two 1000-piece puzzles being constructed on the ends.  Brian’s working on Van Gogh’s The Irises, which is too difficult for me. So I bought a puzzle that was my skill level. Every time I work on a jigsaw puzzle, the way I eventually see distinctions I didn’t at first strikes me.

When I first dump the puzzle out and turn the pieces over, I pile the edges together and make some large groupings by color. I’m not sure how many hours I need to immerse in the scene for finer differences to emerge.  In this puzzle—portraits of women in a museum—the frames seemed all the same at first, but each one is slightly different. The blues take on more subtle variations of shading, etc.

It feels magical when I find the exact piece for a spot after scanning what had once been an undifferentiated mass.

In life, what have I clumped together without seeing differences? It might be a group defined by race, ethnicity, gender, income, caste, occupation, age, etc. It could be a geographic, educational, or political affiliation. But not until I immerse myself in the actual community, through literature, media, or in-person connections, does the rich variety within every group get revealed.

What I know for sure is that the pieces don’t change; I do. It’s my perspective that grows more sophisticated because of the time, attention, and lack of judgement I bring. If I hated all the green puzzle pieces, I wouldn’t be as likely to notice variations. While some pieces/people are more immediately visible, every piece is essential, and ultimately we are all linked. It matters to look on the floor for missing pieces so that each one gets placed into the whole, creating a complete puzzle, a healthy community, and a well-functioning nation. We can’t afford to leave a single soul behind.

Only when I invest time, attention, and curiosity to the uniqueness of non-interchangeable people and ideas does something whole and holy emerge.

A Spacious Year

 I often choose a word or phrase to guide my year, and for 2021 it is spacious.

Here’s what happens when I don’t claim spaciousness during a day:

I snap at people to keep them away.

I eat too much to give myself a break.

I read anything, typically falling into the black hole of social media, rather than carefully choose what to read.

I shop.

I cut corners on meditation because the silence, which feels more like emptiness than spaciousness, has become less familiar and therefore scarier.

When I stop writing morning pages because writing by hand annoys me, I lose what has become a portal to inner wisdom.

Space is not a hole to be filled but something to explore, shape, and curate. 

If I have space in my day, without appointments, errands, meetings and chores lined up like spices on a too-small rack, I listen to my body, drink more water, rest, or stretch the muscles that call for attention.

On a spacious day I brush my hair, clean my glasses, put on earrings because I notice what’s needed.

With enough space I find my puppy charming and can give him guidance with a light heart. Without space our power struggle consumes me and I channel my own mother at her worst.

With space I drink tea when it’s actually hot, savoring the nuanced flavors. Without spaciousness, cups grow cold, get microwaved over and over, and I start longing for half and half to make the tea more enjoyable.

A spacious moment allows me to take in what is happening, process what I'm feeling, express it appropriately, and decide how to act next.  Otherwise I'm simply reacting to one atrocity after the next outrage, never feeling the deep grief that underlies most anger.

Spaciousness may be a privilege, but it is not a luxury. 

If people had the breathing, living, playing, creative, political space to attend to their dreams, desires, and loved ones, we’d have more creative solutions to our daily challenges.

May your 2021 be S P A C I O U S.

What if you just let yourself weep?

 

Today an inner voice said, “What if you just let yourself weep?”

Because having a puppy is harder than I thought

Because all the work decluttering seems for naught when I see how much I still have and how obscene it is in a global context

Because even being sober and abstinent isn’t a magic potion against feeling overwhelmed somedays

Because isolation is lonely and virtual connections don’t quite meet some primal need to connect

What if I just let myself weep without even knowing why?

Because we’re all connected and so many are hurting

What if I just let myself weep instead of bucking up, counting my blessings, or thinking of someone else for a change?

What if I just let myself weep?

How long would it last? 10 minutes? Thirty? An hour or more? Am I afraid I won’t stop?

If I wept every time I felt sad, scared,  anxious, impatient, out of my element, in over my head, or utterly alone, would it be like an afternoon tropical shower that clears the air and enhances the sun?

What if I just let myself weep because others have so hardened their hearts that some of us have taken on their quota of feeling?  

What if I let myself weep because some people won’t make it through these times, at all.

If I cry today I could feel lighter tomorrow and see glimmers of goodness and slivers of solace anywhere I truly looked. 

Why don’t you  just let yourself weep?

On Loving Work

 

I’m not a workaholic, for I can relax and be away from work without becoming anxious. But I do love to work. Intellectual and emotional labor is what my current job entails. I’m a well-trained listener and invite people to share details, stories, and memories of their lives. I notice patterns, phrases, and perhaps most often, what’s absent from speech but somehow here between us. That’s where I gently probe. My career requires concentration, presence, and effort, but it doesn’t exhaust me and is never boring.

I need physical work to be happy as well. My favorite vacations are visits with people who need my help with some project, or travel to beautiful places where I can hike each day. Walking the Camino de Santiago was sublime pleasure for me. I prefer having a destination when I walk.

Work provides purpose, which keeps the life force moving through me. I have noticed that people who retire without a project often turn their health into their life’s purpose. Couples with nothing new to create once the family is raised have a harder time staying together.

As I descended to the basement for a second time this morning, I realized that this kind of physical effort to clean, replenish supplies, and release what no longer serves is what connects me to humans throughout time.

Our ancient connection to the actual work of staying alive played a big part in my love of camping: making a shelter, building a fire, cooking food and cleaning up to prevent animal encroachment feels primal and satisfying. Resting in that deep lap of time brings comfort.

It’s always seemed ironic that the work of tending bodies and souls of children, the old, and the ill pays the lowest wages in this society, whereas abstract work with money, paper, and numbers pays so highly. I’ve come to believe that the intrinsic reward of work that has immediate value offsets the low wage while work that has been made up and doesn’t serve people in a tangible way requires more monetary reward to justify itself. It's  not just but it makes a perverted sense.

Since the start of the pandemic, many people have devoted additional labor to their yards and houses. Now that we are spending more time at home, why not make it completely functional, even beautiful?  The privilege of this work is not lost on me: too many Americans are unhoused, and encampments in parks have highlighted the crisis we face and must resolve.

We have collective work ahead of us. Establishing practices, policies, attitudes, and systems that don’t let anyone fall through the cracks will call upon all our talents, energies, and ancient knowledge. Such work can renew our sense of purpose, connection, and joy. 

I’m ready.

What does writing want of me?

 

Now that I feel some space to breathe, I'm curious what new project I might undertake in this coming retreat-like winter. 

I asked a question--What does writing want of me?--listened, and  wrote. I hope you do the same in whatever form your creative energy wants to dance.

My writing is a lean and sinewy older woman, tanned from living mostly outdoors, with hands that are strong, nimble and capable of healing. This writing/woman has long grey hair in a braid, and she wears jeans and turtlenecks but can put on pearls for special occasions.

What does writing want of me?

Writing wants to be a daily presence in my life because she thinks of herself as my friend, and the more frequently we talk, the better we know each other, and the deeper we can go.

Writing wants a regular time with me. It doesn’t have to be long, or always at the same time. It needn’t be formal or at the computer or a desk, but it does need to be daily because she gets scared and shy when I don’t show up to listen.

Writing wants to be trusted. She wants to take the lead and know that I’m willing to follow, that I’ll let my imagination go and sometimes write a paragraph of fiction.

Writing wants to be in the process and the mix without criticism every step of the way. She knows there’s a time for winnowing and weeding, editing and revising, but most of the time she wants to be trusted, unfettered, and allowed to run.

Writing wants to be well fed. She knows that sometimes I want to check out and just read a good story that makes me turn the page, but she also wants slow food, some poetry, something to sink her teeth into and ponder, language that takes her breath away.

Writing wants not just the message but the way it’s expressed to matter.  She knows that happens late in the process, but she gets sad when I never return to these pieces to polish them and put them out there. She’d love to be in the world more than she is.  It’s those occasions when she puts on her silk and pearls and is admired for looking good as well as being wise.

Writing also doesn’t want to be lonely--she wants to nestle next to others, to be held and thought about in a circle of writers.

If Democracy were a Dog

The last time I saw them we were driving from Indiana to California and stopped at the veterinarian’s office to board them.  My sister and I waved as the black and white mutts we’d had for six months were led into the office on their chains.

We vacationed up and down the west coast visiting cousins and friends, and when we came home, my parents did not pick up the dogs. I don’t remember feeling sad or betrayed. Mostly, I think, I was relieved. That was the end of the Campbell family’s attempt to have pets. 

Happy and Snappy weren’t housebroken, didn’t come when called, and were never walked. My parents had little experience and less patience and skill training dogs, so these two were seldom in the house.  They slept in the garage at night, unheated in the winter, hot and muggy in the summer, and spent their days tethered on long chains on the hill beside of our house.

My job was to shovel the dog poop regularly and to get them in and out of the garage daily. More than once they got loose and ran pell mell through the neighborhood with me chasing them in school clothes.

Years later I realized my parents had no plans to collect the dogs are our three weeks away, and neither is alive to tell me if they were adopted into better homes or euthanized.

Today I have a new puppy, Lucky, who we picked up last week from my cousin. As we drove 90 miles home, I cradled his little head and  flashed to a scene years from now when I would hold my beloved companion again as he took his last breath.

Although I don’t have much experience raising a puppy, I’m going to become a skilled dog guardian, someone who sticks during challenges, who is steady and present, consistent and firm. I will have a well-trained, well-loved dog.

I believe the same is true for tending a democracy.  The United States has allowed all kinds of bad habits to develop: racism and genocide are at the foundation of this nation and we’ve never compensated for that in any way. Yet rather than work diligently to weed those traits out and replace them with rules, policies, and practices that reward our better traits, we’ve chosen a set of policies that reward greed, power, and exclusion rather than generosity, love, and inclusion.

So where does that leave us? Can we be vigilant like never before, consistent in calling out racism, sexism, violence against the working poor and those without homes, disdain for those addicted or mentally ill?  Or do we hand over this experiment in democracy to another owner? Or euthanize it?

I want to be a guardian of the basics—one person one vote, easy access to voting for citizens, fair taxation, sovereignty in our home without fear of invasion—some of which the initial revolution was based on, some of which has evolved as our thinking has evolved to embrace equality and equity of ALL.

This dog called democracy, although not perfect, is worth all our energy right now. We can’t stick it in the garage and hope it develops on its own.  And if, as those who have lived through authoritarian rulers tell us, it’s already taking its last breaths, I need to be there, having attended to it every single day.

On Rage, Grief, Biden, and what's next

 

I’ve been writing a spiritual memoir, which is mostly a record of my life's moments of failure and loss because sadness and grief have shaped my personality and orientation to the world.

Just as they have for Joe Biden. Snarky people tweet that Biden has capitalized on his grief for decades and it’s time to get over it. But it is his story. Losing a wife and child when he was 30, losing a son just recently to cancer--these difficult events have formed who he is, for every loss creates a place of choice:

Do I want to proceed with an open heart, aware that there is surely more grief to come if I do? or Do I want to close up and get smaller to protect my heart from experiencing this kind of pain again?

I grew up with a mother who made the latter choice. When my dad died suddenly, at age 42, a part of her seemed to die too, and she walled herself off from future pain. She never again lit up when my sister or I walked into the house. She never remarried, didn’t even date, and her pleasures were few—a bridge game, a service sorority meeting, an occasional trip to Minneapolis. Mostly she retreated behind a wall of cigarette smoke and noise from the television, piling newspapers and magazines on the couch and other chair in her den so that it took effort to be her companion.

Joe Biden, apparently, chose differently.  He stayed connected to his remaining children, he fell in love again, and he offers himself to strangers. He has used his sorrow as a bridge to connect with others rather than a wall to protect himself from future pain. That may be why he’s malleable on the issues—he’s open to listening, experiencing others’ stories, and adjusting his viewpoints accordingly.

Where have I closed my heart to the pain of the world because it’s so overwhelming? Where do I need to step out and lovingly demand changes in a system that continues to shoot Black people for NO reason at all?

Kenosha Wisconsin is not some big bad city.  White supremacy infiltrates every single institution in America, like carbon monoxide—odorless and deadly.  We have detectors for this poison—the actual deaths, the videos of the shootings, the glaring injustices.

It is past time to remediate and remove this deadly force. Diverting funds from a militarized police is akin to choosing not to build another bomber because we’re the most armed country on the planet.

We’ve over-protected ourselves, America, perhaps because we haven’t ever faced the grief of our origins of indigenous genocide and slavery. In our armoring, we’ve stunted real human connection and growth. We're a country stuck in adolescence. What would an old soul country do?

Wise countries might take 52% of the budget that is devoted to military and enact wages that afford people to have housing when they’re working. A mature country would invest in wellness to prevent our deadliest diseases that occur because of the choices we make. A sane country prioritizes the well-being of its children--with beautiful opportunities to learn, play, and develop occur in safe, healthy environments. 

Despite the appearance of rage, I believe America is grieving, and the choice is clear—we can harden our hearts in hope that we won’t feel more pain or we can remain tender to what’s happening and walk on a bridge of love to what can be if we only remain open.

On Being Brave and Truly Patriotic

When my sister arrived from Indiana for our annual Fourth of July connection at our cabin, she suggested that this year for the boat parade, we decorate the pontoon with a banner Black Lives Matter and put names of Black people killed by the police. Given that I live in Minneapolis, the site of George Floyd’s recent murder, this made so much sense.

And yet I was nervous because I know there are people up here who support our President.  There is one house on the road with a Black Lives Matter sign, stalwart progressives who have not lost their roots that had them meet during service in VISTA decades ago.  Others fly a Trump 2020 flag. Did I really want their ire? I told my sister I was open.

The next morning in meditation an image came for an additional banner—this one had a peace symbol, a heart, and the scales of justice. I took that as a confirming sign, and we launched our project, driving into the small town to find supplies.  At the dollar store we found white plastic tablecloths, markers and a stencil set.  Lori is quite crafty and artistic and can make anything look good, so I followed her lead as we measured, held the tablecloths to the boat, measured again and cut.

An earlier thought was to fly the America flag upside down, a universal symbol of distress. But both of our husbands cautioned against inflaming observers. Better to reclaim the flag for this anti-racist message.  We festooned the boat with plenty of red white and blue decorations and mini flags from previous years, demonstrating that the very definition of patriotism is the freedom to state your beliefs.  

A couple nights before we started on the banners, I put both leaves in the table so we had adequate workspace, Lori created a stencil for the heart, free-handed the peace sign and justice scales, and I shaded rainbow icolors n the heart at three inch intervals.

After stenciling BLACK LIVES MATTER, we each took a column of names of those killed and highlighted the local names, George Floyd, Philando Castile, and Jamar Clark, making them larger and then added dozens more.  Printing the names was sobering: Lori said she thought of the mothers who named these babies, and then lost them so tragically.

On Saturday the Fourth, we timed the decorations for a big reveal. The next door neighbor said we were “clever,” and another neighbor with a Black son in law up for the weekend came over to introduce herself and thank us.

We headed over to the parade end of the lake, and Lori drove us slowly by the observers. Most of them were ready with water balloons and hoses, as this parade becomes a big water fight typically, despite pleas for the well-being of the fish and birds.  We always skirt their firing range and this time drove slowly and waved flags.

I wasn’t sure how we would be received, and when we got the first applause and thumbs up, my eyes filled with tears.

Some people waved politely, some turned their backs, but one gave a peace sign, another a raised fist in solidarity, and most cheered. What really touched us were the kids who looked and then leaned in to read, mostly pre-teens perhaps on the cusp of becoming aware of the wider world.

Only one woman in a passing boat was close enough for me to hear her say, “oh my God,” and I’m not going to even interpret that.

Takeaways from the experience:

I underestimated my neighbors. I let a few vocal extremists seem more numerous than they actually are.

Taking this action was a little scary. I’m a people-pleaser who avoids conflict. If I’m worried about jeers, how much more do BIPOC feel every time they leave the house? And Breonna Taylor’s murder shows she wasn’t safe IN her home.

There is no passive anti-racist stance, as Ibram X Kendi teaches, where I read important books and think good thoughts. I have to be active in my white privileged world with an anti-racist message that Black lives do, indeed, matter, that police killing Black people, mistreating a race, has to stop. Right. Now.

Being brave is easier if someone else is along.  My sister was the instigator, the courageous one, and I’m forever grateful to her.

Bravery begets more bravery. I actually swam later that day in the lake, something I've avoided for decades because I fear fish, weeds, turtles, and leeches.

I’d like to think we will never need to list the names of Blacks killed by the police again, but I think we are in this for a long, sustained advance. Count me in.

Despair, Distract, Distance, Deepen, Deliverance

I apparently have a new cycle during COVID19 that I’m working through, despite my desire to be calm and accepting of all that occurs.

Despair wakes me up at 4 am thinking of a new password and counting its characters with my fingers, as if I were practicing scales without a keyboard.

Despair keeps me scrolling through my phone during a zoom meeting, favoring a stranger's meme over the nuggets or nuances from someone’s sharing.

Despair gets me out the door, fitbit rebooted, obsessively meeting a 10,000 Step goal.

Distract becomes my new coping mechanism. See above during online meetings for an example.

Distract helps me read a novel every couple days, watch a new series, and perhaps motivates my new napping habit. (See the 4 am waking reference.)

Distance keeps conversation superficial, tears private and quickly squelched, hands busy tidying up.

Distance occurs on every vector: with myself, with others, and with my higher power.

Deepen is my new desire, but too often distraction inhibits the meditation practice that forms a bridge or perhaps acts as shovel.

In order to deepen, I need to journal beyond the tally of tasks accomplished, into the murky, shadowy landscape of today’s setting of pandemic.

Deepening inevitably means letting something go, sharing something raw, trusting someone, almost anyone, with my current state of being even before I can articulate it.

To deepen is to acknowledge this world—green, anxious, hopeful, corrupt.

To deepen is to settle into this body—fit, healthy, sober, achey.

To deepen is to accept this mind—busy, sharp, creative, restless.

To deepen is to welcome this spirit—expansive, settled, awake, curious.

And if I can acknowledge, settle, accept, and welcome, then I am delivered into what’s next. The ultimate unknown.

Which may well lead to despair, and the cycle begins anew.

The Great Pause

The United States has had a Great Depression, a Great Recession, and now we’re in The Great Pause. A friend of mine named it yesterday, and I’ve been thinking about the power of pausing. The suspension of normality is an invitation to notice at least two areas of life:

What did I take for granted that I no longer will?

What has been removed that I won’t pick up again?

Taking Things for Granted

I’m learning how much I value the in-person meetings I attend 3-4 times a week. While we meet online now, and it’s wonderful to see familiar faces and hear about their experiences, this virtual community cannot replicate the random connections I made when I sat down next to someone different in the room and chatted before we began. 

When/if we no longer need to physically distance ourselves, I intend to arrive earlier than I used to, hug more people, and linger afterwards to soak up the warmth of this community. Now that I’ve lost it, I know this particular community fills me like no other.

What Will I let Go?

Conversely, as I shelter in place and no longer run errands daily, I see how I used grocery stores to give me the dopamine hit shopping provides.  While I’ve always been aware I buy too many clothes, etc., I now see that I justified spending money if it was for food. Money is a drug like any other, and I could rationalize a little spree because I was out of jicama, for example.  Today when I notice a specific veggie’s gone, I remind myself that celery and radishes will do.

I’m not striving to be an ascetic, but I do want to occupy an inner landscape of enough rather than always wanting more. I’d like to use my creative energies to produce something useful rather than fine-tune what brings me comfort.  

How is the Great Pause helping you notice what you want to savor and what you want to release?

Are You Resisting, Complying, Accepting, or Embracing COVID19?

In the midst of the coronavirus calamity, chaos, and crisis, I read a post by someone I respect who said that those of us writing about silver linings, blessings, or lessons were gaslighting those experiencing anxiety, fear, and depression. She pleaded for us to let people be exactly where they are.

I agree that it’s important not to spiritually bypass the challenges inherent in this situation.  My perspective has roots in the privilege of a home, an income, more than enough food and exquisitely good health. Yet might it not be useful to imagine what could shift if we embraced the situation?

Because I’m a big fan of embracing, I’ve thought a lot about how we get there. Because it doesn’t happen with a decision or even a desire. I offer my thoughts on these stages and invite you to notice where you might be.

Ignore: There are video clips of elected officials in this stage.  We may all have ignored the first murmurs about this virus, and if you’re ignoring it today you’re not likely reading this.  Ignorance requires distraction, diffusion, and an insularity that most of us can’t maintain for long.

Resist: Once information, facts , and testimonials about the situation seep in, there is often resistance, active acting against. You might reject information, question sources, or imagine evil motives for any messenger of scary news.  Much of the energy required to live in resistance is spent arguing.

Comply: At this time in the USA, most recommendations for self-quarantine are not mandated or enforced by martial law. Those complying may look for a loophole, a way to game the system, or  follow the rules without being too invested.  “Another trip to the store for crackers” may justify being out and about as usual. Restlessness often accompanies compliance.

Accept: Acceptance comes from a deeper place than compliance, but not as soulful as surrender. When I accept what is happening and what my role in containing the pandemic is, I make necessary preparations for being in place and begin to settle into the possibilities available. Curiosity may accompany acceptance and you might find yourself reading everything that crosses your screen to stay informed. Panic and anxiety diminish with acceptance.

Surrender: With surrender comes an inner tranquility that can’t be manufactured.  The anger of resistance, restlessness of compliance, and ennui of acceptance dissipate. Clarity emerges as you glimpse benefits or lessons for the world and especially growing edges for yourself.   There may be a sense of being “idle and blessed” as the poet Mary Oliver puts it.

Embrace: This full-hearted approach to the situation can be hard-earned.  What seemed to be boundaries, restrictions, or deprivations are perceived with a sense of adventure and even play.  What gets embraced is not just knowledge and information, not just material circumstances, but a deep awareness of the interconnectedness of all beings. When you embrace this situation, the days are meaningful, conversations feel timely and grace-filled, observations are keener, creativity flows and epiphanies flood awareness. 

Embracing brings us into Kairos, the Greek concept of sacred timing, in which we tap into the powers that create worlds.

Wherever you are in your journey through these challenging, awakening times, please be gentle with yourself and others, for we are all being invited to notice, adjust, and grow.

Getting into the Vortex

This week, I drove from Scottsdale to Sedona to experience the energy vortices those red rocks are known for. I left in the dark and had an easy drive in countryside very different from Minnesota in February. 

I found a parking spot at the first available trailhead, laced up my boots and started out on a dusty, wide trail.  I wound around Bell Rock and up an incline until I was away from other hikers, took off my backpack,  sat down on the warm rocks, and spent a few minutes soaking up the beauty, creating memories for the cold, grey days ahead.

When I was ready to leave, I did. And on my way, I called to two people I know; one of my dearest friends from Minneapolis whom I don’t see often enough and her husband were walking the trail.  She was astonished, I not so much. She had crossed my mind on the drive up. She was in my vortex.

The parking lot attendant at the next trail told me to pay attention to the energy, for this too was a vortex. I gathered my walking sticks, which haven’t been used since Spain, and took off eager for a magical encounter. 

I did not experience any surges of energy, had no animal messengers appear, and at one point realized that on every long hike, there’s a moment I wish it were over but I have to keep going to get home. Hiking shows me I can do hard things.

I’m not an energy worker, healer, or shaman. I may never “feel” a vortex or be sensitive to other planes of consciousness, and yet, from time to time, when I heed my body’s need for rest or movement, when I listen to someone tell me which trail they enjoyed and I take it because it’s right here, then I experience the synchronicity that suggests there’s nothing random going on.

I have a teacher who says get into the vortex and then act. I make time each day for stillness and beauty, I pause and ask “what next?”, without knowing who or what may answer, and sometimes I allow for emptiness rather than shop, eat, distract, or worry.  

Call that what you will, a vortex, home base, serenity or love. From that place I can be useful, seek the best in others, smile at strangers, and stay open to surprise.

Moving Too Fast for My Soul

I’m in an intense season at work. The course I coach runs for 66 days, and with over 2500 participants, the online activity, coaching calls, and individual connections never let up.  I love the work, the participants, the team on staff, yet I haven’t let go of any previous responsibilities. 

Last week I forgot an appointment. That same day my phone slipped out of my bag into a parking lot, and I didn’t discover that until several hours later when Brian and I came hunting and found it covered in a half inch of new snow, miraculously untouched by tire tracks. (Despite two nights in a bowl of rice, it’s not back to peak performance, however.)

Two taps from the universe in one day alert me that it’s time to make an adjustment. My  pace has crept up and I see I’ve been moving too fast, packing too much in, for weeks.  (I've even found myself postponing using the bathroom until I absolutely had to, though I work at home.) 

Nothing is crazily out of whack, but when I move too quickly, life isn’t as fun as it could be. 

What happens when I push too hard was reflected in a swinging door we have in our 1928 house. This beautiful wooden door hangs between the kitchen and dining room, propped open for the last four years because it catches on the kitchen tile floor. I closed it this week in a fit of pique and cracked the top so the pin wouldn’t hold. It was broken. 

The same day I missed an appointment and dropped my phone,  I ran into a carpenter friend and asked if he could repair it. Within hours I had men at my house figuring out this old puzzle.

The bottom needed to be planed, the upper cracks in the wood glued and held in vises overnight, and the bottom piece of wood shimmed up so there wasn’t pressure on that top pin.  

Each of these adjustments was minor, but together they restored the door and it now swings and catches because of the hinge, as it should.

But I’m an addict and an intensity junkie, so when I have a snafu my first response is to find a drastic solution—cancel all appointments this month, take a retreat in the woods, swear off all electronics --and caffeine while I’m at it!

My life adjustments can be smaller, strategic, and daily so that my life moves smoothly: add an evening meditation, call a buddy every morning, schedule one day a week without appointments.

 I receive a steady stream of information about the pace of my life when I notice my interest and pleasure in each interaction, time of rest, or item I read.  I can return to Christina Baldwin’s advice to “move at the pace of guidance.” 

The small lessons can be the most do-able.

Aligning Inspiration and Action

With every inspiration comes the energy to act. This fact has taken me years to realize. How often have I gotten an idea and tucked it away for later because it just wasn’t the right time—to eat better, stop smoking, call that old friend, write down the idea, etc.?

However, when I don’t act on inspiration it becomes a subtle drain on my energy. I try to hold the good idea for later, or I actively push it away because the action seems too hard or too scary, which drains energy away from everything else that I’m doing.

What I’m learning is acting on the inspiration as soon as possible, which turns out to be so much easier! Riding that wave of momentum is a joy in itself and leads to the next action. When I act on an intuitive thought, often the person is available when I call and we don’t play phone tag, or the perfect person is there to receive my idea, or a book I’ve read and want to pass along lands in the right hands.

These micro moments when I listen, acknowledge, then act keep me in alignment with the source of wisdom within myself and the world.

And because I have so much experience hearing that wisdom and guidance but NOT heeding it, I know the cost of the gap between what I want to do and what I’m actually doing. That gap is where addiction, distraction, and old characteristics that no longer serve me get a toehold and take root. Acting on inspiration caulks those cracks and helps me move forward.

It’s not mine to determine the pace of movement or even the outcome. It’s my joy to receive inspiration and to take a step in that direction, over and over again.

Wishing you all the best for a bright, aligned New Year.

Wise Self Warnings

Dear JoAnn,

I know you’re having food thoughts, but before you act on them, I’d like you to read this letter all the way through. It’s from your wiser, experienced self.

You are a food addict, so it’s quite natural you want to eat. That’s what you do when things are even a little bit out of the ordinary or uncomfortable. Without going into your history, or even the science, let me say why it’s better to make no exceptions, just for now.

Even one bite beyond what you’ve committed and weighed is dangerous, and I don’t use that word lightly. Any substitution or addition has always led to sugar and flour, sometimes in a few days, sometimes the same day. But the exception never serves your body or your highest self.

And when you get on the sugar train, there’s no predicting when you’ll get off.  So as long as you’re within your Bright Lines, I urge you to do whatever it takes to stay there, just for today. Otherwise, you’ll eat junk that might taste good at first but becomes like sawdust you mechanically chew and swallow, which is a far cry from the delight you wanted.

As you continue to eat sugar, you’re like a robot seeking more, spending too much money and time looking for the perfect item to meet a need or desire you haven’t taken the time to get clear about.

Trouble is, no food can meet that need because the desire is deeper than food will ever address. Those intangible needs for love, acceptance, joy and connection cannot be met by material items. Ever. The problem is, because you’re a sugar addict, there is never and will never be satiation in your body after eating sugar or flour. There will only be more fat stored, more sluggish energy, more foggy thinking, a dampening of your spirit, and insatiable appetite.

Here's what I wish for you: detach and observe these food thoughts and replace them with fond memories of beauty, connections, or contentment.  Take them as information that you DO have a need, and then spend a moment figuring out what it truly is.

Laugh at the indulger who always has a clever argument but never tells the truth.

And make contact with someone—through the phone, on a walk, or online. Be open to all the ways the hard work of recovery can support your happiness and freedom, and watch thin happen on its own.

With much love and care, 

your Highest Self.

Finding Wonder in the Ditch

In the work I do with people addicted to sugar and flour, we have a phrase to describe any time we’re so off our plan it feels hopeless: we’re “in the ditch.”

This path of freedom from addiction has rumble strips to let me know when I’m off course. If I do not heed those warnings, I end up in oncoming traffic or in the ditch.  If I listen to the slight rumbles of discontent daily, I can then make a small adjustment to come more safely into the middle of this broad highway.  Those adjustments usually mean tightening up the habits that keep me safe, such as meditating, journaling, talking to others, offering my attention and love to people, etc.

Some days, this work of noticing and adjusting feels like a burden. Why do I have to keep moving forward, growing, reaching out in order to maintain neutrality around all the foods that I cannot moderate successfully? It doesn’t feel fair.

Anyone who has moved through an addiction knows the humbling truth that we’re always just a foot away from the ditch. What most who are in the ditch don’t realize, though, is that we are also always just a foot away from the lane of recovery.  I just can’t get there by myself.

Self-pity, a go-to state of mine that never ends well, can blind me to the small moments of delight that keep me aligned with a life of no sugar and no flour.  The tonic for self-pity, I’ve learned, is wonder.  What can I find astonishing today? To seek wonder requires a level of attention to the external world, and a level of attentiveness to my internal guidance. When I’m really listening, I hear the invitation to walk down a different block on my way to the little free libraries that pepper this neighborhood. Sure enough, I find exactly the book I didn’t know I needed.

Diane Ackerman writes “Wonder is the heaviest element in the periodic table of the heart. Even a tiny piece of it can stop time.”  Stopping time is essential during a spiral into negativity that fuels more eating, shopping, isolating, etc.  I may not be able to reverse the momentum immediately and head straight to delight, but if I can stop the negative momentum by experiencing a tiny bit of wonder, I have a chance to avoid the ditch.  Assistance comes through beauty, conversation, or a small distracting chore—enough to help me not give into the old neural pathway that tells me this time it will be different—I could eat/drink/buy just one. Wonder fills in the hole I used to put my addictive habits and substances.

Help me seek to be amazed by the person across from me and by my own responses to the natural and urban world.

The Universe Does Not Support Addiction

While my addictions contributed to not having children, marrying very late in life, and never living anywhere longer than 7 years,  I've  always thought my work--the portion of my life that developed smoothly, with what I have called divine guidance—was exempt from addiction’s effects. Numerous times I’ve been nudged to inquire into a new job, leave one that was quite satisfying, and stretch into the next invitation to grow and serve so that I'm able to make a living doing what I love with all of who I am.

But this weekend someone asked me if I’d ever called myself a workaholic, and I've been thinking of addiction's role in that arena. too. Since I started a new full-time remote job January 1st, I haven’t taken an official day off outside of two different weeks of vacation that were very structured and mostly about service.  I can’t seem to claim a regular day (or two) each week where I unplug, listen to my own desires, and follow them wherever they lead. I suspect not taking off even one day a week is the sign of a workaholic.

Has my good enough but not remarkable career path been the result of an addictive relationship to work? These thoughts may seem harsh to those who know me, and many will want to reassure me that I have been successful and helpful to others. But I’m talking about something more subtle, what Mark Muldoon labels ambient addiction, those addictions that are actually sanctioned and rewarded by society, yet cover up our un-owned anxieties.  To name and face these quiet anxieties, such as my need to be viewed as a success, is to truly “knock on the door of the Holy."

I want to lean into the emptiness of one unscheduled day each week and trust my inner being to lead me into realms I’ve not explored or even imagined.  Ambient addiction keeps me hanging at the threshold of deeper joy, one foot in a familiar world even as I glimpse the possibility of living daily in the realm of the sacred.  Since I've lived through addiction to cigarettes, drugs, alcohol, sugar, flour, and shopping, I’m now willing to look at my addiction to work and to an identity forged through my career in order to see what new freedoms might be awaiting.