Tutored in Wisdom

 

Yesterday at my desk at home, futzing with my computer, I glanced out the window. On the peak of our shed at the property line was a large brown animal. Was it a cat? It had pointed ears and turned its head as if to lick its shoulder. But how could a cat have gotten up there with no nearby trees and metal walls too slippery to climb?

 

No, it was an owl, a huge one, in plain sight during the day. Almost a year ago in New Mexico, I dreamed about a mother owl. When I told the spiritual director at Ghost Ranch, she suggested I pay attention to my next owl sighting. When I shared that dream with my own spiritual director, she invited me to notice when owl came up in my dreams again. When I told the dream to a friend who walks a Native American spiritual path, she gifted me owl feathers to pray with. I hadn’t seen or dreamed of an owl since.

 

Here in day light, unprotected by trees, was an owl perched on the highest point directly in front of me. What did it mean? What might it want? I quietly moved to the deck with my phone to take a picture. The moment I touched the button, as I knew in my bones it might, the owl flew—gracefully, massively, steadily—away from me.

 

The photo I have is too blurry to tell there’s even a bird, let alone one of such significance, so why did I take a picture? Why the need to document and share (brag about) this remarkable sighting? If I had a do-over I would just observe and commune with this magnificent creature as long as it allowed me to.

 

I would realize that all it was asking of me was my attention--that my presence is all that Spirit ever requests. I hope someday I will instinctively savor the preciousness of the ordinary and the remarkable.  Thanks be for do-overs. Each day I have the chance to give my undivided, wholehearted attention to the holy, which is always and everywhere perched in plain sight.

 

The Insidious Power of Cinderella

 

Brian and I went to see the new Cinderella movie this weekend.  We weren’t the only couple without children on a Saturday night date to see my favorite fairy tale. When I turned seven I received a Cinderella watch with a pink band and her face on the dial. I proudly wore this first watch for a couple days before it stopped.  My parents returned it and I put the new one on my wrist until it too stopped running.  Someone concluded that my metabolism prevented watches from working (is that even possible?)  so for the next many years the only watches I owned were on pendants or rings. 

I had Cinderella paper dolls and a Cinderella birthday party with the round cake forming her skirt.  When Leslie Ann Warren starred in the musical, I learned every word to the songs.  Something about the scullery maid alone in her “own little corner” resonated deeply.

What’s been the impact of being enamored with Cinderella? During the years I was single, I was a feminist with a satisfying career and no desire to be rescued by a handsome prince. However, I did want a man to love me so much—at first sight if possible—that no one else would do.  I wanted someone to search a kingdom until I was found.  It was 52 years before that happened, before I said yes to a man I knew truly saw and loved me.  When we became engaged, I faced the dilemma of wedding attire. What was proper for a first-time middle-aged bride? After a couple months of hesitation, I tried on wedding dresses, walked away, was rational, consulted with everyone, returned to the store and bought a big full white gown with a little jacket to wear down the aisle to meet my husband/prince.

Today, I think about the money I spent on that gown--cheap by wedding dress standards and yet more than I've ever spent on clothing. Today, that dress hangs in the basement untouched and unvisited. Today I wish instead I had bought a beautiful tailored silk suit or dress I could still wear on special occasions.  But I did not.  Today I can be curious about where my desires originate and discern which ones truly fill my heart.  That's a lesson worth every penny.

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.