Slow Subtle Progress

I just returned from a silent retreat at House of Prayer in Collegeville, MN. The minute the topic “Silent Fire: Consumed by Love” crossed my email I knew I wanted to attend, and I'd been eagerly anticipating this weekend of silence, meditation, and quiet community for a month.

When I arrived at the retreat center, there were three rooms left, so I peeked in them and selected one that faced the woods.  The next day I read the room’s book of reflections by past occupants.  Dated Feb. 18, 2007 was a paragraph in my own handwriting. Almost eight years to the day I had been on retreat in that same room.  I took that as a confirming sign that I was listening to my guidance and was in the right place. Yet I also remembered what had preoccupied me eight years ago, and that same issue was up for me last weekend too. I began to wonder if I've made any progress.

What kinds of scales and standards measure spiritual progress?  I’m a scorekeeper, so it’s tempting to use numbers, yet what numbers can gauge the health of my spirit? Certainly not the size of my clothes, how many have registered for my retreat, how many spiritual directees I have, what rating I got on the recent performance review, or how many minutes a day I meditate. (And yes, I keep a mental tally of these numbers and more.)

The trouble is when I measure my value by an external standard I feel like eighth grade JoAnn, taking my skates off early when the last song was couples only and no one asked me to skate.  If my mood depends on things I cannot control, I’m always hoping or praying for a shift in conditions to make me feel ok. To feel my worth deeply, I have to look beyond measures of popularity and to what is much more subtle and sacred--those moments of waking up, those small miracles of connection.  Like landing in the same room eight years later and reading an encouraging note from myself.

Loving the Question

I love questions.  I happily answer surveys that cross my desk, take quizzes in magazines, and stop for anyone with a clipboard and a questionnaire. When I meet strangers I ask questions about what they do, what they’re passionate about, where they’ve traveled; I like to get beyond the headlines and into the heart of their story.   As a spiritual director, I ask questions that invite people to go beneath what they think they know and deepen an inquiry into mystery. However, I’ve come to see that this practice of questioning can be a block to intimacy and connection.

Because not everyone asks questions. Some people think it’s rude--they don’t want to pry.  I have interpreted a lack of questions from people as a lack of interest and have an unwritten rule that I will only share if you demonstrate that you want to know, and you’ll let me know you want to know by asking me a question. And then ask me a follow-up.  Imagine how this works with someone who believes asking questions is rude.  It’s not a mutual exchange. I come off as a prosecuting attorney, they’re relieved when I stop asking, and I believe they don’t care a thing about me.  It's time to let people off that hook and do the work myself.

Questions open my mind and heart and help me grow. So I’ve started writing questions in my morning journal and answering them later in the day.  These questions are a mixture of idle curiosity and a real desire to know.  They often surprise me. For instance, in one session I’ve asked myself where are the top ten places I’d like to live and what does it feel like to love with my whole heart.

I’m having fun asking and answering these questions. While I will always appreciate someone who asks me a question that makes me reflect before responding, today I’m not going to wait until that person crosses my path.  I’ll be my own happy questioner—a social gathering of one.

Expect the Best

Have you ever had an experience where a rule was changed or ignored to accommodate reality?  This past weekend my husband and I traveled to a warm spot and returned home through customs.  We had a tight connection to our next flight, and the lines were long and slow.  Knowing there was not one thing we could to do speed things up, we remained patient and told ourselves that all would be well, whether we made the plane or not.  In reality, this was the last flight to Minneapolis that night and we both had to work the next day.

Once clear of customs, we sprinted through the airport to the security line, which was also long, slow, and impossible to speed up.  Another sprint to the gate through the very big busy airport.  Wheeling my suitcase, clutching my travel purse, I ran until out of breath, and then reminded myself that there was no time to rest, and started up again flat-out sprinting.

When we arrived at our gate, another couple was pleading with the gate agent to let them on the plane.  The woman was literally crying—“I have to get home tonight.”  The agent shook her head. The door was closed, she had cancelled our reservations.  Brian went to the window and waved at the plane sitting at the gate.  He walked away.  The runway door retracted.

I went to the window and waved in SOS style. I didn’t stop until I could see the pilots looking.  Then I put my hands in a prayer posture, held up four fingers, waved some more, prayed some more, and held my arms out in supplication.  I kept doing this until I saw the runway door moving back toward the airplane.  Then I jumped up and down, clapped, and bowed to them.  The ticket agent hung up the phone, opened the door, asked for our tickets and we ran onto the runway.  Another attendant tagged our bags and told us to find any available seat in coach.

I walked onto that plane elated, beaming, and grateful. And out of breath.  We found middle seats. Our plane left on time. when we deplaned I was able to thank the pilot for letting us on.  “No problem” he replied. 

If I had stood in the window and given those pilots the finger or shaken a fist, the results might have been different.  I believe that appealing to the pilot’s good will and common sense helped me get what I wanted, and that life is more efficient and magical when we invite forth the best in others and ourselves.

Collecting Thoughts

In looking at my Christmas decorations, I’m struck by this whole idea of collecting.  I have angels, snowmen, trees, crèches, and joy in various forms.  There’s always a story to a collection, and that’s part of the delight in sharing them. My aunt and uncle gave my sister and me angel ornaments when we were kids, and we’ve continued the tradition ever since, following a “one for you, one for me” practice of giving.  The first crèche I bought was in Israel when I traveled there in eighth grade. I gave it to my parents and now it’s mine, along with several others from around the world.  About the only thing I don’t collect are Santas, though my shelf of Tomtens, a Scandinavian precursor to St. Nick, is full.

Perhaps it’s an ancient gathering gene that makes us collect.  Shopping (hunting) is more interesting when there’s something specific to seek.  Maybe not all families collect, but mine did. My mother had two racks for souvenir spoons on display and when she died, I kept a couple of them. They are too tiny to be useful. My grandmother collected tea cups, which I get out each year for a party, wash, and put away.  Once, at a garage sale the woman told me she was moving and had three sets of Christmas china. I took one off her hands. 

What harm, if any, comes from collecting? I have friends who take great joy in sharing their collections; it’s part of their personality, identity, and social group.  Someone who collects is easy to buy a present for.  Collecting contributes to the economy. Serious collectors need proper equipment, and there are stores devoted to containers for our stuff.  How many storage units around this country hold boxes of collection?  But I’ve traveled and seen enough poverty to realize the imbalance in our excess.

Can consumables be collectables? I have a shelf of blank books I’ve been given, and when they’re filled they go on a different shelf.  I have lots of tea, which I drink daily. I just bought a new tray to organize my jewelry and new hangers for my scarves. How does so much well-organized and cared for stuff serve me? It must fill some emptiness or I’d be willing to let it go. Why else am I scouring stores with 50% off holiday items for more snowmen, angels, or joy.

 As I wrap up the holiday cups I wonder how much courage is required to live just with enough for this day. Looking out on a fresh new year, I want to be sure I’m using my energy for work that really brings me lasting happiness and might be helpful to someone.

This year, when the urge to visit one more consignment store hits me, I hope to pause and see if perhaps sitting still, thinking, reading, walking, or writing might not be exactly what I want instead.  I hope to collect contentment, connection, and other intangibles.

A Happy, Healthy, Helpful New Year

I’ve chosen a set of words to focus on in 2015 rather than specific goals and intentions.  They’re global enough to encompass positive actions and specific enough to keep me focused.  I’ve ordered them in the way they logically proceed.  I need to be happy to be healthy and from that space only can I be helpful, which is my deepest heart’s desire.

Happiness is a vehicle, a pathway, a modality rather than an end in itself.  I was nicknamed “Joy Ann” growing up by a cousin, and I continue to wear my heart on my sleeve. People know when I’m happy and when I’m not. Happiness feels better.  At age 56 I have a good handle on brings happiness: good conversations, connection to spirit, movement, creative work, comfort, authentic companionship, and beauty to name a few. 

I also know that happiness is a habit--that where I put my attention contributes to my state of being.  As much as I admire people who fight for worthy causes, I don’t want to push against anything because that doesn’t bring me joy, just a rush of adrenaline followed by a chaser of righteousness. With only so much time, I’d rather advocate for something, move in the direction of what I want, and call out the goodness in others.

Acknowledging my exquisite health means not comparing my body to the 25 year olds in my hot yoga classes but rather celebrating the energy, vitality, and wellness that abounds in me at this time of life.  Being helpful means not just writing, giving talks or leading retreats that teach and inspire, but being a light in the grocery line, and I have a ways to go to develop patience with pokey clerks.

My recovery program asks that I take a daily inventory, and while it’s important to note where I’ve gotten off course, I want to use these three words to acknowledge daily how I’ve shown up and contributed to life. If I can say by the end of 2015 that I was mostly happy, healthy, and helpful, I will count that a success.

The Last Clothes Swap

Last night I hosted my last clothes swap.  For 25 years, beginning in graduate school in Austin, I’ve invited women of all ages, styles and sizes to bring whatever is no longer working in their closets to my house. We sort through the items and organize them and then see what we’d like to try on and take home.  It’s a talkative, happy gathering and after a couple hours, I pack up what remains to bring to a charity.  I’ve done this in four cities for probably a couple hundred women, many of them faithful repeat attendees.

I’m letting this lovely tradition go because  I’m moving to a minimalist lifestyle, though my husband calls me a minimalist wannabe because I still have way too many clothes, books, shoes, coats, etc. My DNA is one of a gatherer and I love to shop, especially consignment stores, where the inventory is varied and unpredictable. Yet I’ve observed my inner addict often enough simply wanting to acquire for the sake of having. I've even noticed in winnowing my closet that the items I don’t love were purchased when I simply had to buy something.  The shopping addiction isn’t as virulent as others I have, and used clothing doesn’t break the bank, but I want to be governed not at all by compulsion and delight in my favorite sweaters I can easily find.

I’m also no longer going to host clothing swaps because I want to make room for a deeper connection with friends. As six of us sat around a table eating soup during a break last night,the conversation was easy and nourishing. This is what I really want. But would people come even without an “event”? For 25 years I’ve believed I have to give my guests something of value beyond my company, that nobody would come just to hang out and talk. I've been devaluing my presence, which is why I've needed to have more stuff to feel legitimate.

 I used to drink before I got to a party because I feared the awkwardness of chit chat before things got off the ground, lubricated liberally with alcohol.  Now, over a decade sober, I’m using activities for the same purpose.  We host fundraisers and pool parties, family holidays and meditation circles,  but rarely do we invite friends over to just hang out, eat, talk, laugh, connect.

To explore that experience, I have to let go of the old and trust that not only do I have enough, but I am enough.

Honoring Intuition

 

My husband and I attended a gala the other night and bought two raffle tickets.  During the dinner, they called the winning number and, in a room of 600 people, it was one digit past ours. That caught my attention; there was a lesson for me here. My timing had been off all day--I got to the gym that  morning at 5:40 when it didn’t open until 6 am.  Had I pushed us to arrive at the raffle table just a tad too soon? There had to be meaning here—perhaps it was about forcing my way in the world.

It wasn’t until a couple days later that I recalled the full conversation as Brian got out his checkbook to purchase the tickets.  He suggested we buy more than two, but I’d said no, he didn’t need to give any more money to this organization.  He bought two tickets and sure enough, the next number won.  My husband has a different relationship with money and risk than I, and he’s more generous. Sometimes he doesn’t follow his gut instinct, but this was the first time I was aware that I discounted his intuition.  I asked why he didn't insist on buying more and he shrugged and replied that since it was my event, he would follow my lead.

What trumps our intuition is a question worth pondering always.  What trumps my partner’s intuition is a new question for me. In every moment I have a choice to expand or contract, spiritually.  I can say yes to a risk, be generous, listen more carefully, grow more patient or I can stick to habitual ways of being critical, ungenerous, self-absorbed, and hurried.  Those pathways have developed over a lifetime to keep me safe, yet unexamined, they block me from experiencing the synchronicities that make a day feel special and grace-filled.

One benefit of living with someone for years is learning to trust his expansiveness when I’m rigid and to support his intuitive hunches when I’m uninspired.  Although we didn’t win the raffle prize, if I learn to listen a bit better and say yes a little more frequently, I will have won an ease and freedom that’s priceless.