Personal growth has often been described as being like an onion: every time you complete one layer, there's another under it. The one under it is smaller but more intense, challenging the person on that journey to use everything learned in other layers to continue to progress. Often, it is so much tougher, the traveler doesn't feel like it is actually progress.
Jungians describe personal growth as a "hero's journey," also a circular sequence of lessons, but they would say that the one on the journey of growth is learning a series of successively more challenging lessons in a repeated set of archetypes, such as the lover, the warrior, or the magician.
One of my weaknesses is my appetite for books which significantly exceeds my time and energy for reading. Another is that I am easily distracted by the lure of a new book when the one I am reading ceases to fully engage me. The consequence is that, at any time, my nightstand hosts anywhere from six to ten books in some stage of reading, often overflowing to the floor beside it.
At the first of the year, while flirting with another new book, I looked at the daunting pile, and, after a deep sigh, I decided that I had to surrender to some of the ones on my nightstand before starting another. I slowly looked through them, sorting into two stacks--ones that I really wanted to finish and ones with which I'd become bored and was ready to quit. Sadly, when I finished my sort, they were all in the same stack--those that I really wanted to finish. After another deep sigh, I decided to pick one to concentrate on finishing first.
The one that I chose to start with had been a gift from friends who are also consciously on a growth journey. Falling Upward by Richard Rohr takes a different spin on the journey. He says we have one set of lessons in the first half of life and a different set for the second. His book was to be a guide for the second half.
I remember struggling with the first third of the book. I wanted to stay with it because I knew that, if my friends thought it was a fit, there must be something of value for me. Yet struggle I did. Although I was solidly in the second half of life, was my resistance to admitting so?
For whatever reason I found the book difficult, I've picked the book up a few times a year, read a page or two, and then placed it back in the stack for a few more months. And, for whatever reason that it has a different appeal to me this time, Falling Upward has completely engaged me. There is an Eastern philosophy that says, when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. Perhaps I had finally gotten to the place in the book that was interesting to me, or perhaps, I as the student was finally ready to hear its message.
The content that has intrigued me is about the role of exploring the shadow in the second half of life. The shadow is also a Jungian concept, but I've most often heard it described as our dark side--thus the name "shadow."
Rohr, by contrast, proposes that our shadow side is comprised as our weaknesses. Think of my overactive hunger for books and my habit of abandoning one I am reading for another. Those, who have read this blog for awhile, might also remember my addiction to sugar or my struggle to get back to my 30-year fitness regimen which was abandoned when I started working ridiculously long hours two years ago.
Suddenly, I had a whole different perspective on the shadow, and, almost as quickly, I realized much, if not all, of my posts in this blog have been an exploration of what Rohr described as my shadow side. It would seem that I have intuitively stumbled into this second half of life work without realizing what was occurring.
As I've laid my struggles with my "weaknesses" out in front of me for the whole world to see, I've often wondered why I would want to do that. Rohr says that owning our weaknesses results in a humility that is characteristic of the second half of life. I have certainly been humbled by my "weaknesses," which I prefer to call my life lessons.
While I haven't finished Falling Upward, I am near enough to know there is real truth in the shadow work. Yet on my journey, I've experienced a real sense of urgency about fully using my gifts and talents and being of service--an urgency to assure that I don't squander the precious opportunity that this life offers me to leave the world a better place--while feeling myself regularly thwarted in that resolve, often by my shadow.
A couple decades ago, someone wrote a book entitled something like The Destination is the Quality of the Journey. I never read it but I've loved the title. I have discovered that at this point in my life I am much less tolerant of goals and making things happen than I am with allowing and enjoying what wants to happen.
That change in perspective has certainly been enabled by the humility of admitting that some things are just not going to happen or at least not going to happen in my schedule. There was a time when I thought that determination and perseverance were good things. Now in my second half of life work I wonder if they weren't just part of my shadow, robbing me of the freedom to just enjoy life.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Friday, January 30, 2015
Monday, January 19, 2015
Ladybugs
I've been down with a humdinger of a cold for most of a week, and I'd been fighting it for at least 10 days before that. My body has seemed to be thumbing its nose at my "New Year's resolutions." I generally don't believe in "resolutions," instead favoring "intentions," which are renewed in the decisions of every moment. My "intentions" for this year were to 1) be regular about exercise and 2) to bring a special man into my life.
Unfortunately, I embraced my intentions with the zeal of resolution, and they bounced back in my face. I was off to a magnificent start on both. I walked an hour a day, beginning New Year's Eve and straight through the holiday week. Then the pre-cold fatigue set in, and I could hardly make it through my days at work.
Over the New Year's weekend, I also joined an expensive internet dating site, which boasts of a higher success rate of matches and marriages than others, while updating my profiles on others, and I've been faithful about checking "matches" every day even while being down sick. Quite frankly, I'm weary of it.
During the last week as I lay lifeless, dozing, and curled up under the quilt my grandmother handmade for me when I was 20 years old (literally my security blanket,) I've caught up on missed television programs, Golden Globe winners, Netflix that had been awaiting viewing, and even reviewing some of my favorites.
About 2 a.m. Sunday morning, I was out of new viewing and pulled a favorite movie, "Under the Tuscan Sun," from the shelf. I've watched it so many times that I know the lines before the actors even begin to speak them. Perhaps the movie is a favorite because there is some sage advice sprinkled through the picture. And some of the sage advice flies right in the face of my resolutions.
"Dolce far niente" is an Italian concept, which means "the sweetness of doing nothing." There was no sweetness in my doing nothing over the last week, but this concept, by contrast, connotes that we are capable of doing something and choose to do nothing. I think what it really means is "just being present" and "feeling alive." We choose to meander, following our hearts, instead of focusing on the goals of our minds. Savoring the moment, one moment after another, choosing in each moment the life I want in that moment. Clearly my body hasn't wanted to exercise in the last two weeks.
The protagonist in the movie is a middle-aged writer who has been jilted by her cheating husband. After months alone, she is ready to have someone in her life, not unlike myself.
The other bit of wisdom comes to her from a flamboyant but aging bon vivant relates who relates that, as a girl she would look hard for ladybugs, and when exhausted from her efforts, she would fall asleep in the grass, only to awaken to find herself covered in ladybugs--those delightful little red spotty beetles that just seem to come out of nowhere. The parable of the ladybugs being that some things can't be forced, they will happen in their own time. It was true of the protagonist in the movie, and it is true of me.
When I get away from the craziness of resolutions and settle back into my wisdom, I know that what I need to do it to relax and be what I want to be in a relationship to my body and to a potential partner--dolce far niente--and the ladybugs will find me.
Unfortunately, I embraced my intentions with the zeal of resolution, and they bounced back in my face. I was off to a magnificent start on both. I walked an hour a day, beginning New Year's Eve and straight through the holiday week. Then the pre-cold fatigue set in, and I could hardly make it through my days at work.
Over the New Year's weekend, I also joined an expensive internet dating site, which boasts of a higher success rate of matches and marriages than others, while updating my profiles on others, and I've been faithful about checking "matches" every day even while being down sick. Quite frankly, I'm weary of it.
During the last week as I lay lifeless, dozing, and curled up under the quilt my grandmother handmade for me when I was 20 years old (literally my security blanket,) I've caught up on missed television programs, Golden Globe winners, Netflix that had been awaiting viewing, and even reviewing some of my favorites.
About 2 a.m. Sunday morning, I was out of new viewing and pulled a favorite movie, "Under the Tuscan Sun," from the shelf. I've watched it so many times that I know the lines before the actors even begin to speak them. Perhaps the movie is a favorite because there is some sage advice sprinkled through the picture. And some of the sage advice flies right in the face of my resolutions.
"Dolce far niente" is an Italian concept, which means "the sweetness of doing nothing." There was no sweetness in my doing nothing over the last week, but this concept, by contrast, connotes that we are capable of doing something and choose to do nothing. I think what it really means is "just being present" and "feeling alive." We choose to meander, following our hearts, instead of focusing on the goals of our minds. Savoring the moment, one moment after another, choosing in each moment the life I want in that moment. Clearly my body hasn't wanted to exercise in the last two weeks.
The protagonist in the movie is a middle-aged writer who has been jilted by her cheating husband. After months alone, she is ready to have someone in her life, not unlike myself.
The other bit of wisdom comes to her from a flamboyant but aging bon vivant relates who relates that, as a girl she would look hard for ladybugs, and when exhausted from her efforts, she would fall asleep in the grass, only to awaken to find herself covered in ladybugs--those delightful little red spotty beetles that just seem to come out of nowhere. The parable of the ladybugs being that some things can't be forced, they will happen in their own time. It was true of the protagonist in the movie, and it is true of me.
When I get away from the craziness of resolutions and settle back into my wisdom, I know that what I need to do it to relax and be what I want to be in a relationship to my body and to a potential partner--dolce far niente--and the ladybugs will find me.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Intentions or Resolutions?
We are now several days after most people have made...and many broken...their New Year's Resolutions. I have been very intentional about not making New Year's Resolutions for many years because of the meaning that intention has for me. Yet, each year at this time, I do soul-searching about that decision. I was in the final pages of proofing The Game Called Life, a book about living with intention, when the New Year turned over, so the internal debate took on new meaning.
First, I should probably clarify what living with intention means to me. I believe that our souls chose certain spiritual lessons to learn in this life before we are conceived. Those spiritual lessons are as much a part of our spiritual DNA as the color of our eyes or skin is to our biological DNA. Although we may not be consciously aware, we know in our hearts what those lessons are.
When I speak of living with intention, I mean that each of us tunes in and listens to our hearts in a moment-by-moment choice point about what to do. This process must bypass our brains which are programmed by the culture around us. Our hearts will never ask for a Mercedes, for instance; those kind of wishes are based on externally-driven mental models. The heart is about learning the lessons that are the purpose of our lives--those that serve the evolution of humankind.
By definition, we should be checking in moment-by-moment to ask our hearts what will serve our heart's intentions or what will serve the evolution of humankind. In that context, January 1 is no different than 5:20 p.m. on September 6, 4:28 a.m. on March 10, or any other moment on any other day of the year. We are starting over every second. For that reason, I have been intentional about not making New Year's Resolutions because, when I am being conscious, being intentional about a new start should be something I do hundreds of times every day. If I fail, I don't wait to January for a new start, I just wait for the next breath.
I am aware that if we write down resolutions (or probably intentions), we dramatically improve the chances that we will keep them. If we tell someone, we increase our success rate even more, and if we enlist someone to support us in keeping our pledges, odds of achievement are even greater. That all leaves me pondering, "Shouldn't I be able to live my intentions from a place of consciousness and spiritual commitment?" Theoretically, I suppose that should be the case.
Yet, over and over again, I slip from my heart's intentions, and, over and over again, I climb back up and refocus. I tune in and start over. This year, I have been wondering if I could reduce the amount of slip and slide, if I wrote my intentions down, shared them with someone(s,) and enlisted their help in holding me accountable.
One of the challenges of living with intention instead of setting goals or making resolutions is the complexity involved in tuning in to the heart. Instead of three or four resolutions, there are literally thousands of combinations in any moment. Only the heart understands what is the most important one at any given time. Without the spiritual True North of our hearts, all the conflicting goals are simply a jumble of "shoulds."
With all that said, I sit here at this moment, knowing that my heart wants me to be more regular about writing, my heart has the intention of creating health which involves exercise, and it also wants me to be more responsible about maintaining relationships. At least two people are waiting to talk with me and I would like to talk with a third. Even as all those intentions compete for these few minutes on a Sunday afternoon, I am really tired. Chronic pain has exhausted me. I can hardly hold my eyes open. As I take a deep breath and exhale, while asking for guidance, the answer about what I am to do is clear.
My mind struggles with how to get that kind of clarity from mental model resolutions, even if they deal with the same activities. Asking for help is key to living with intention. Even though I've usually written about asking for help with our soul's intentions in the context of asking God for help, this year I will enlist a couple close friends to help me with some intentions with which I've struggled. (Can we ever have too much help?) I don't know how this will work, but I hope that just having someone who reminds me to be conscious and to ask for help will be what I need.
First, I should probably clarify what living with intention means to me. I believe that our souls chose certain spiritual lessons to learn in this life before we are conceived. Those spiritual lessons are as much a part of our spiritual DNA as the color of our eyes or skin is to our biological DNA. Although we may not be consciously aware, we know in our hearts what those lessons are.
When I speak of living with intention, I mean that each of us tunes in and listens to our hearts in a moment-by-moment choice point about what to do. This process must bypass our brains which are programmed by the culture around us. Our hearts will never ask for a Mercedes, for instance; those kind of wishes are based on externally-driven mental models. The heart is about learning the lessons that are the purpose of our lives--those that serve the evolution of humankind.
By definition, we should be checking in moment-by-moment to ask our hearts what will serve our heart's intentions or what will serve the evolution of humankind. In that context, January 1 is no different than 5:20 p.m. on September 6, 4:28 a.m. on March 10, or any other moment on any other day of the year. We are starting over every second. For that reason, I have been intentional about not making New Year's Resolutions because, when I am being conscious, being intentional about a new start should be something I do hundreds of times every day. If I fail, I don't wait to January for a new start, I just wait for the next breath.
I am aware that if we write down resolutions (or probably intentions), we dramatically improve the chances that we will keep them. If we tell someone, we increase our success rate even more, and if we enlist someone to support us in keeping our pledges, odds of achievement are even greater. That all leaves me pondering, "Shouldn't I be able to live my intentions from a place of consciousness and spiritual commitment?" Theoretically, I suppose that should be the case.
Yet, over and over again, I slip from my heart's intentions, and, over and over again, I climb back up and refocus. I tune in and start over. This year, I have been wondering if I could reduce the amount of slip and slide, if I wrote my intentions down, shared them with someone(s,) and enlisted their help in holding me accountable.
One of the challenges of living with intention instead of setting goals or making resolutions is the complexity involved in tuning in to the heart. Instead of three or four resolutions, there are literally thousands of combinations in any moment. Only the heart understands what is the most important one at any given time. Without the spiritual True North of our hearts, all the conflicting goals are simply a jumble of "shoulds."
With all that said, I sit here at this moment, knowing that my heart wants me to be more regular about writing, my heart has the intention of creating health which involves exercise, and it also wants me to be more responsible about maintaining relationships. At least two people are waiting to talk with me and I would like to talk with a third. Even as all those intentions compete for these few minutes on a Sunday afternoon, I am really tired. Chronic pain has exhausted me. I can hardly hold my eyes open. As I take a deep breath and exhale, while asking for guidance, the answer about what I am to do is clear.
My mind struggles with how to get that kind of clarity from mental model resolutions, even if they deal with the same activities. Asking for help is key to living with intention. Even though I've usually written about asking for help with our soul's intentions in the context of asking God for help, this year I will enlist a couple close friends to help me with some intentions with which I've struggled. (Can we ever have too much help?) I don't know how this will work, but I hope that just having someone who reminds me to be conscious and to ask for help will be what I need.
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