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. 

The Sacred Container of Community

 This week in my Indiana hometown, two eighth grade girls went for a hike in the country. Their bodies were found the next day and the hunt for their murderer continues.  My heart hurts for the families, friends, teachers and neighbors of those sweet girls. I watch the montage of photographs shared by high school friends and I weep. I spent many days of my youth in the woods, rode my bike on country roads, spent entire days outside without my parents  wondering or worrying about me.  Today, we’re revising our narrative of a town we thought we knew, shaken to our core, as my sister put it. I imagine there will be new warnings to children to avoid strangers, in an understandable attempt to keep them safe.

Yet this week, a ten year old Minnesota boy was honored for rescuing a woman who had fallen on the ice in her driveway and was immobilized, calling for help, yet hidden behind trash cans. Had no one come she would have gotten hypothermia.  At a school convocation, the boy commented that although his parents had always warned him not to talk to strangers, he moved toward her cries anyway. Something deeper led him to help.

There’s another story I can’t get out of my head. Earlier this month immigrants from Africa, afraid of persecution and deportation, walked into Canada across the borders of northern Minnesota and North Dakota in 22 below zero weather.  One man lost fingers, another lost both hands to frostbite. They literally risked life and limb for the sake of their children. The pictures of Canadian police greeting these refugees with smiles and hugs flood the internet.

When we hide, judge, close our eyes, doors, and hearts, we’re letting the most frightened parts of ourselves call the shots. It might feel safe for a time, but it’s not who we are as full human beings. It’s when we’re sick, helpless, poor, and bereft that we realize how much we need each other. Challenging times call for us to open our hearts wider, to trust more and to care for strangers.  There’s been a huge outpouring of support, benefits, and prayers for the families of the murdered girls. That response to tragedy shows me we are hardwired to be connected and take risks to create a beloved community.

While money can insulate me from dependence on others (I hire help when I'm in trouble most of  time), I want to say yes when I’m invited to stretch my hand to the next person in need, look them in the eye, and offer support. That’s the only way I know that the fabric of community, so horrendously broken each day in some way, is healed and repaired.

Disciplined by Love

I’m reading Cynthia Bourgeault’s new book, The Heart of Centering Prayer, and although I’ve been a practitioner of centering prayer for years, I feel like a beginner again.  I know that’s a goal of meditation—to become so present that each moment is new--but there’s part of me that also says, “I’ve been doing it wrong for years.”

Bourgeault describes her own profound shift from thinking that the point of this meditative practice was to become empty for God’s presence to realizing that letting go of the current thought was “the main event.”  She writes, “thoughts were not the obstacle; they were the raw material, as every opportunity to practice releasing that focal point for attention deepened the reservoir of “free attention” within me and strengthened the signal of the homing beacon of my heart.”  At some point during her practice, “the strength of this signal becomes stronger than the attraction exerted by the thoughts.” 

It’s perfect timing to read this book that returns my attention to my heart and invites me to dwell there for twenty minutes, twice a day.  I’ve been on a food plan that I’ve followed for three weeks where the elimination of sugar and flour, again, I know, has brought joy and a more profound love for others than I’ve experienced in a while, if ever.  When I wrote about the waves of love I’m feeling in the online support community, a leader commented that’s a result of radically loving ourselves. I get that taking actions aligned with who I want to be is an act of self-love, but I hadn’t realized it also opens pathways for love to flow through.

I hadn’t thought of my sugar addiction as blocking the flow of love, although it made me cranky and irritable often enough, and while I’m not even close to the loving, kind, tolerant person I want to be all the time, I have felt real progress these last weeks.  I’m frequently ambushed by love for the client, sponsee, or directee talking to me, the group I’m sitting with, the stranger who looks me in the eye, and for my sweet husband.

It’s nice to recommit to a meditation practice that is grounded in this love,  and that invites me to become disciplined in this spiritual instrument, the heart.

To what are you devoted?

Last year I chose three words to guide me: clear, calm, and kind.  To keep them in the foreground, I used them as passwords for various log-ins, and while I can always become clearer, calmer and kinder, it’s time for a new word.

For 2017, I’ve selected the word devoted because I concur with Matthew Kelly that “the way to say no to something is to say yes to something deeper.”  I want to focus my energies on what I do want rather than what I don’t want and to do that with a level of commitment that’s best described as devotion. Mindfulness might be a synonym, but somehow devoted implies that my heart is fully engaged and that I’m leaning into something rather than releasing something in order to be present.

So, devoted to what? There are so many worthy causes, and I always start with the personal before moving out, so here are the five things I want to devote myself to each day—connection, writing, movement, marriage and fun.

If I’m paying attention in each of these areas, then I’ll be likely to see and seize available opportunities, and I suspect that really devoting myself to these, beyond writing about them once in January, will have an effect on me.  I’ll get to notice my resistances, my fears of living so wholeheartedly or fear of missing out on something else because these are my foci. I’m hopeful that having this intention will help me discern what to do when faced with choices or nudge me when inertia and old habits feel more comfortable.

I’m happiest when I’m learning, changing, and growing, and I love life when it’s intense and things are happening quickly. For momentum to increase, I need to be devoted to what I value. Devoted implies the deepest yes inside me.

Each day I intend to connect (look people in the eye, stop whatever I’m doing and listen, pray and meditate, journal and tune in), move (stretch, walk outdoors, swim, yoga, take the stairs), write (daily pages, more blogs, essays, manuscripts and letters), celebrate my marriage (savor my mate, appreciate his charm, intelligence and goodness), and have fun (seek comedy, spend time with funny people, attend live entertainment, sing more, create gatherings of family, neighbors, friends, say yes to invitations that surprise me).

Each of these lightens and nourishes my spirit, and I have the privilege of a life that allows me to put my focus here because survival and meaningful work, nourishing people and safety are in place. It’s really a gift and a responsibility to not complain and be the brightest light I can be.  In a year of impending darkness, I want to be devoted to something bigger.

What words might guide you this year? 

On Not Fighting the Early Morning

I woke up this morning around four am and got up to read and meditate before my 7 am meditation meeting. I wondered if this was overkill but did it anyway. After sitting with 25 people for 20 minutes of silence, several shared that they too had been up for hours already. Whether I know it or not, I’m always in community, never alone. What would shift if I consciously acknowledged that? Does my crabbiness stem, in part, from thinking I’m all alone? Doing all the work myself? Experiencing all the good stuff in solitude?

A morning reading suggests that spiritual practices crack open our hearts to love, and that if we don’t cultivate such practices, we will become bitter and hateful in the last third of our lives.  We need to consciously counter the human tendency toward negativity with a practice of receptivity and kindness. I’ve been a hateful old woman this past week or two, and I don’t like it one bit. I’ve been negative and resentful despite a daily practice of meditation and writing. What gives?

Since negative thinking is part of the disease of addiction, I’ve had plenty of signs that my addiction is ascending, and with that information comes the truth that I need to enlarge my spirit.  I suspect that’s the invitation in waking at 4 am: use this time wisely. Lately, I’ve been filling my time with distractions in the guise of holiday cheer.  I’ve been filling my body, closet, and calendar with food, stuff, and busyness rather than the true nourishment of connection.

All the celebrity deaths that seem too soon remind me that I don’t know how many days are left.  How might sitting quietly enhance the moment? How might speaking my truth enlarge the space or keeping silent perfect it? If I shift  from being critical to being curious, such a small move, really, could that crack of love let in more light? Maybe that's the soothing that awaits at four am.

Moments from Christmas Past

                                                                                               

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In the 1960s, Dayton’s department store in downtown Minneapolis had a shopping area set up just for kids.  When I was five, my mother listed my gift recipients, put money in an envelope, and sent me off with my personal shopper, who led me through a screened off area where I selected presents.  I bought ladybug soaps for my mom and watched as they were carefully wrapped and labeled.  The story goes that on Christmas morning, I rushed past my own Barbies and games toward the presents for others I couldn’t wait to give.  My mother kept those soaps, unused and dusty, until she died.

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When I was nine I got a record player, a brown plastic case that snapped open like a suitcase to reveal the turntable.  Dad took me to Delphi’s  Wynkoop Pharmacy to pick out an album, my very first.    It was 1967 and I selected a compilation album with “Hey Jude” and “123 Red Light.”  That year Dad filmed a home movie of all of us dancing in the living room. I looked self-conscious but happy.

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Our newly reduced family sat on the floor around the Christmas tree, my sister, 12, myself 16, and mom.  My father had died two days earlier and we had a brief respite from the constant stream of visitors bringing their shock, grief, and casseroles to our door. Apparently people were staying home Christmas Day. We chose the presents from Aunt Mary to open—the best ones—first. Mom pulled out a pretty white shawl. “Where will I ever wear this now?” she asked with a crack in her voice.  It was the only time I saw her cry during that entire time.

***

My mother lay in the living room in a hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen at the highest setting. A fellow teacher came over to bring a Night Before Christmas book. “What day is it?” Mom asked. When told it was Christmas Eve, she said, “That’s a good day to go.”  Within a couple hours her breathing changed and she didn’t appear conscious.  Now in our forties, my sister and I stayed up all night talking to her, thanking her, assuring her we would be fine.  Toward morning Lori went to bed, exhausted.  A while later some movement caught my attention; Mom had raised her head, opened her eyes and was looking directly at me.  I shouted for Lori, who ran back and we each took her hand.  One tear rolled down her cheek as we also cried. Mom gave a shrug, sighed, and was gone. Light streamed into the window. It was 8:15 Christmas morning, the end of an era.

***

Brian and I call the boys into the living room to open presents. This family doesn’t take turns. Everyone tears into his own stash and thanks you are murmured. I’m not even sure what anyone gets. After 15 minutes,  I clean up the ribbons, boxes, and papers and stack each person’s gifts. Each year Brian writes a beautiful note to his sons. These cards do not contain money. They read them and say thanks but usually leave them, no sentimental scrapbooks for these young men. Still, they know their father loves them, and perhaps that I do too.

Drinking in the Dark

Maybe it’s my Scandinavian roots, but I absolutely love the darkness this time of year and get a bit sad when it gets lighter.  I’m an intensity junkie so living in Minneapolis is good, but I think I’d been happier some days in Greenland. Each winter I feel it hasn’t been cold enough or dark enough long enough.  While some people are counting the days until the solstice and growing light,  I enjoy cocooning and spent yesterday afternoon in bed for a long nap, snuggly warm. The cold darkness gives me permission.

This morning in meditation, I felt I was literally drinking in the quiet, quenched by stillness. It seemed delicious and yet I was sad the 20 minutes were almost up. I wanted to experience more, deeper, closer. I felt myself on the precipice of a deeper dive and was eager. Or am I?

In both the darkness of winter and the stillness of a morning meditation, I started mourning before the time was up, grieving something that, although inevitable, isn’t here yet.  This may be a form of protection from the richness of experiencing what is, for preparing for loss buffers the intensity of the present. How else do I do that?

We have a number of social engagements between now and the new year. At times I worry about being overwhelmed or too tired, but I believe all these connections can fill me up in this darkest time of year. Being with others in a warm home, with candles, a lit tree, a fire, laughter and hugs replaces the loss I have from not being outside as much, on the water, in sunshine, immersed in the woods.  Instead I will enter a human forest, nourish the blossoms of friendship, and deepen my roots in community. That should get me ready for spring.