Chapter Nine: Could It Be Love?
Funny that I should be led to the page of The Alchemy of Fear on Valentine's Day. For whatever reason, I was. A bit of a goose chase as it was, starting with my dream work from last night. When I translated the symbology, the message was clear. The quote at the front of this chapter captured it in English words:
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us...We were born to manifest the glory of God within us...And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
The words are those of Marianne Williamson, but many people believe them to be from the late South African President Nelson Mandela because he quoted Williamson's words in his 1994 inaugural speech.
These are the words to which my dream led me this morning. Without great detail, the images in my dream were of my power--great power--surrounding me on all sides, and I sat in sheer terror. Frozen. Afraid of my "power beyond measure." Afraid to let my light shine. But, the power was moving in on me, getting closer and closer, and as it did, the power seemed to increase. And as it did, so did my fear. Small wonder that I recalled this passage.
Only when I returned to the volume this evening to get the exact quotation did I realize that this--these haunting words--headed a chapter entitled "Could it be love?"
It has been said that we teach what we need to learn, and we write what we need to know. Could it be that in this book, written 21 years ago--reaching the age of maturity, I was exploring the same spiritual questions that I am even today? Actually, it has been longer. As I am writing this, I recall a similar dream, recurring when I was younger. Perhaps I've been working on this lesson my whole life.
On the second page of the chapter, I wrote, "The love...is an unconditional, universal love that spiritually connects us all through time and space. Time as we know it stops. A deep resonate peaceful energy seems to flow through us when we feel this kind of love. It is peaceful. It is joyful. It brings us to life with enthusiasm. We discover faith and trust."
The premise of the chapter is that there is only love and fear, and when we move beyond fear Universal love is what remains. "Love is what life is about...Our purpose in life and work is to be love and bring more love into being."
My dream seemed to be saying, "Step into God's love and claim your power," and by so doing, make it safe for others to let their lights shine. Before I can do that, though, I must look my fear in the eyes and move beyond into the "deep resonate peaceful energy" that "seems to flow through us." Apparently, I've been trying to do this for decades. I believe it is time for me to get over it.
Given the size of the power in my dream, the Universe is showing me that I can no longer run from it. My power will have its way with me, and I've fought the Universe on other things: it doesn't end well. The real power is in the surrender. Surrender to God. Surrender to Love. I really know not what that means, but if I've been trying to learn this lesson most of my life, I would say it is time to hang on and find out.
Showing posts with label The Alchemy of Fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Alchemy of Fear. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Spiritual Loneliness
Most of us have seen movies or television depictions of addicts in drug withdrawal. One of the most moving performances that I recall was that of Diana Ross in the 1972 movie, "Lady Sings the Blues," which portrays the struggle that jazz icon Billie Holiday had with heroin. Ross made her audience feel Holiday's pain. (I still think she deserved the Academy Award for the performance.)
As I've been withdrawing from work addiction, I too have been adjusting to physical changes. While I have been working fewer hours and having more fun, I do find that I am often very tired, and I've been sleeping...a lot.
Work addiction triggers other addictions, and it ends up that one of the most destructive is adrenaline addiction. Adrenaline is a powerful hormone, which nature gave us for emergencies--when we needed to pull out the stops and do something extraordinary. The classic example is the mom which finds it within herself to lift a car when her child is trapped beneath it. Adrenaline is supposed to help us do something extraordinary in unusual circumstances.
However, increasingly, adrenaline is being used just to get through our normal daily schedules, where multi-tasking and long hours have become the order of the day. We, myself included, have often used it to keep us focused on what is in front of us in that moment...and the next...and the next.
I am sure that, rarely having needed the addictive hormone in the last month, I should expect some withdrawal symptoms. Most troubling to me is how detached that I must have become to my body's physical needs. Somehow the adrenaline has allowed me to push down my exhaustion so I didn't notice it until I was out from under the destructive influence of the hormone's destructive power when it is used habitually to just get through life.
More important than the physical withdrawal is the spiritual loneliness that I've been feeling. Back in the day when I lived a normal, relaxed life, I meditated daily, and I prayed off and on all day. Dancing gave me a physical creative outlet almost daily.
My writing kept me in touch with my soul and how I connected with all of human kind through my soul. Although I've had more time recently, I haven't written much in this blog for these weeks. I have almost never, even as a child, sat down to write and not had words flow through me.
But, they just haven't been flowing. I would sit and stare at the computer screen, and nothing would come. Or a thought would come, and it would be gone as fast as it came because I'd be so physically tired from the adrenaline withdrawal. Only this week have I been able to sit and get my words again.
Almost always in my life, I've been able to push through what was in front of me and get done what needed to get done. I've thought that a good thing. Determination and perseverance of qualities valued in our culture. Now I am not sure that the ability to push through whatever is in front of me is a good thing, certainly not for me. I've used those qualities instead of establishing priorities and setting boundaries. I've tried to prove I could do it all, without ever asking myself "What is the value of doing it all?" And even, "Is that value something that is meaningful to me?"
I've written a lot about intention, and I've even written about buying into our culture's expectations to the exclusion of our personal spiritual intentions. And without adrenaline masking what was happening, I can see how I've been seduced by the cultural norms. Now, stripped of the adrenaline, relaxed, and much more conscious, I feel spiritual loneliness. I am aware that I've lost important pieces of myself along the way, and I haven't really known exactly how to begin reclaiming them.
As I write, deep within me is a muffled chuckle: "You had to come to this," it says. On New Year's Eve 1997, I finished my first draft of a manuscript for the book Choice Point. I worked on it for another couple of years after that, polishing it. About 50 people read it and thought it was an important work. I was never able to find a publisher for it. In the craziness of the last 15 years, Choice Point has gathered dust on a shelf, becoming badly dated.
The book is about choosing your soul's intention for its life, rather than buying into expectations of the popular culture around us. I believe the principles are solid, but when I wrote it in the 1990s, I was in my relaxed period, and I couldn't really understand, or maybe remember, what it was like to make those hard choices. I hadn't made them for a very long time. In the frenetic years, I couldn't write about them, because I wasn't conscious enough. Now, in my spiritual loneliness, I see the potential to bring life to the manuscript with full consciousness of the spiritual sacrifices that we often make, without even being aware we are making them. That is the knowing of the muffled, "You had to come to this."
My experience reflects this truth: when I am writing a book, I need to live it before it can be birthed into the world. So it was with Leading from the Heart, subtitled "choosing courage over fear." I repeatedly had to reach deep within myself to find the courage of my heart. As I was birthing The Alchemy of Fear, I had to face some of my deepest fears. I am not surprised then that the Universe has provided me with this opportunity to step into my spiritual loneliness and find the truth of Choice Point.
As I've been withdrawing from work addiction, I too have been adjusting to physical changes. While I have been working fewer hours and having more fun, I do find that I am often very tired, and I've been sleeping...a lot.
Work addiction triggers other addictions, and it ends up that one of the most destructive is adrenaline addiction. Adrenaline is a powerful hormone, which nature gave us for emergencies--when we needed to pull out the stops and do something extraordinary. The classic example is the mom which finds it within herself to lift a car when her child is trapped beneath it. Adrenaline is supposed to help us do something extraordinary in unusual circumstances.
However, increasingly, adrenaline is being used just to get through our normal daily schedules, where multi-tasking and long hours have become the order of the day. We, myself included, have often used it to keep us focused on what is in front of us in that moment...and the next...and the next.
I am sure that, rarely having needed the addictive hormone in the last month, I should expect some withdrawal symptoms. Most troubling to me is how detached that I must have become to my body's physical needs. Somehow the adrenaline has allowed me to push down my exhaustion so I didn't notice it until I was out from under the destructive influence of the hormone's destructive power when it is used habitually to just get through life.
More important than the physical withdrawal is the spiritual loneliness that I've been feeling. Back in the day when I lived a normal, relaxed life, I meditated daily, and I prayed off and on all day. Dancing gave me a physical creative outlet almost daily.
My writing kept me in touch with my soul and how I connected with all of human kind through my soul. Although I've had more time recently, I haven't written much in this blog for these weeks. I have almost never, even as a child, sat down to write and not had words flow through me.
But, they just haven't been flowing. I would sit and stare at the computer screen, and nothing would come. Or a thought would come, and it would be gone as fast as it came because I'd be so physically tired from the adrenaline withdrawal. Only this week have I been able to sit and get my words again.
Almost always in my life, I've been able to push through what was in front of me and get done what needed to get done. I've thought that a good thing. Determination and perseverance of qualities valued in our culture. Now I am not sure that the ability to push through whatever is in front of me is a good thing, certainly not for me. I've used those qualities instead of establishing priorities and setting boundaries. I've tried to prove I could do it all, without ever asking myself "What is the value of doing it all?" And even, "Is that value something that is meaningful to me?"
I've written a lot about intention, and I've even written about buying into our culture's expectations to the exclusion of our personal spiritual intentions. And without adrenaline masking what was happening, I can see how I've been seduced by the cultural norms. Now, stripped of the adrenaline, relaxed, and much more conscious, I feel spiritual loneliness. I am aware that I've lost important pieces of myself along the way, and I haven't really known exactly how to begin reclaiming them.
As I write, deep within me is a muffled chuckle: "You had to come to this," it says. On New Year's Eve 1997, I finished my first draft of a manuscript for the book Choice Point. I worked on it for another couple of years after that, polishing it. About 50 people read it and thought it was an important work. I was never able to find a publisher for it. In the craziness of the last 15 years, Choice Point has gathered dust on a shelf, becoming badly dated.
The book is about choosing your soul's intention for its life, rather than buying into expectations of the popular culture around us. I believe the principles are solid, but when I wrote it in the 1990s, I was in my relaxed period, and I couldn't really understand, or maybe remember, what it was like to make those hard choices. I hadn't made them for a very long time. In the frenetic years, I couldn't write about them, because I wasn't conscious enough. Now, in my spiritual loneliness, I see the potential to bring life to the manuscript with full consciousness of the spiritual sacrifices that we often make, without even being aware we are making them. That is the knowing of the muffled, "You had to come to this."
My experience reflects this truth: when I am writing a book, I need to live it before it can be birthed into the world. So it was with Leading from the Heart, subtitled "choosing courage over fear." I repeatedly had to reach deep within myself to find the courage of my heart. As I was birthing The Alchemy of Fear, I had to face some of my deepest fears. I am not surprised then that the Universe has provided me with this opportunity to step into my spiritual loneliness and find the truth of Choice Point.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Risking Greatness
In my book The Game Called Life, spiritual guide/guardian angel Helen explains to Lizzie, the person she is helping, the steps to "living a prayer in the real world." The "real" world is the spiritual world, as opposed to the "fictional" world, which is the one in which most of us think we exist. Step Six is "risk greatness."
She says: "I am not speaking of greatness in fictional world terms where people reach a high level in their worldly work or make a lot of money. Greatness in the real world means speeding the evolution of humankind." Later she explains why "greatness" is a risk.
"Greatness itself isn't the risk. The risk lies in the willingness to consistently answer a call that usually cannot be understood. The path to greatness requires players to do things that they may never have been done before or at least to do them in unconventional ways."
In recent days there seems to be a magic that as soon as I publish one blogpost, a related idea pops into my head which builds on that post. After yesterday's post on vulnerability, I realized that what I'd really been writing about was risking greatness. Am I willing to be personally vulnerable in order to evolve humankind?
I've crossed that bridge before. Leading from the Heart and The Alchemy of Fear were not exactly conventional business books. I knew at the time I wrote them that I was exposing myself to criticism from traditional management audiences, as well as more conventionally religious readers. I couldn't prove what I was about to write. I had no data (and still don't) that leading and working from our spiritual cores and making the increase of love be our motivation would help organizations, but I'd seen it. I knew what I knew. I could evolve the way we work. So, I wrote, and many people read. Both books received some official recognition, but in serving the spirit world, I did marginalize myself for a long time in the management consulting world. It was as if that community thought that my left brain evaporated, as I wrote what the right brain told me.
Then came The Game Called Life which explained "how the world worked" in a somewhat unconventional way. Life is a game, but most of us just don't know the rules. The Game and Choice Point, which hasn't seen the light of day beyond a small circle of friends who have been deeply moved by it, not only flew in the face of many conventional religious beliefs but also are contrary to many popular "New Age" teachings. I couldn't prove it, but I knew what I knew, so I wrote.
I've stood in front of audiences and shared deeply personal parts of myself because I thought that doing so would help others sustain their own spiritual journeys.
Although I am not sure that anyone would say that I achieved greatness in the normal world (what Helen would call the "fictional" world) context, I still hear from people who were empowered for their own journeys by the words that have moved through me. While it was a risk to take on these major constituencies, my spiritual center told me that it was my work to do.
Have I been vulnerable? Of course. Would I do one thing differently? Never. If vulnerability is how we find God then each of those writing experiences have been other worldly. I have surrendered to the words that wanted to move through me. I have learned for the first time as I read what was on the screen in front of me. To surrender so completely is by definition risking and vulnerable. And, only twice have I felt closer to God than when I am writing.
I stand at the precipice of vulnerability, ready to jump,...again. I am ready to risk greatness in the hope that I can have the teensiest role in evolving human kind.
She says: "I am not speaking of greatness in fictional world terms where people reach a high level in their worldly work or make a lot of money. Greatness in the real world means speeding the evolution of humankind." Later she explains why "greatness" is a risk.
"Greatness itself isn't the risk. The risk lies in the willingness to consistently answer a call that usually cannot be understood. The path to greatness requires players to do things that they may never have been done before or at least to do them in unconventional ways."
In recent days there seems to be a magic that as soon as I publish one blogpost, a related idea pops into my head which builds on that post. After yesterday's post on vulnerability, I realized that what I'd really been writing about was risking greatness. Am I willing to be personally vulnerable in order to evolve humankind?
I've crossed that bridge before. Leading from the Heart and The Alchemy of Fear were not exactly conventional business books. I knew at the time I wrote them that I was exposing myself to criticism from traditional management audiences, as well as more conventionally religious readers. I couldn't prove what I was about to write. I had no data (and still don't) that leading and working from our spiritual cores and making the increase of love be our motivation would help organizations, but I'd seen it. I knew what I knew. I could evolve the way we work. So, I wrote, and many people read. Both books received some official recognition, but in serving the spirit world, I did marginalize myself for a long time in the management consulting world. It was as if that community thought that my left brain evaporated, as I wrote what the right brain told me.
Then came The Game Called Life which explained "how the world worked" in a somewhat unconventional way. Life is a game, but most of us just don't know the rules. The Game and Choice Point, which hasn't seen the light of day beyond a small circle of friends who have been deeply moved by it, not only flew in the face of many conventional religious beliefs but also are contrary to many popular "New Age" teachings. I couldn't prove it, but I knew what I knew, so I wrote.
I've stood in front of audiences and shared deeply personal parts of myself because I thought that doing so would help others sustain their own spiritual journeys.
Although I am not sure that anyone would say that I achieved greatness in the normal world (what Helen would call the "fictional" world) context, I still hear from people who were empowered for their own journeys by the words that have moved through me. While it was a risk to take on these major constituencies, my spiritual center told me that it was my work to do.
Have I been vulnerable? Of course. Would I do one thing differently? Never. If vulnerability is how we find God then each of those writing experiences have been other worldly. I have surrendered to the words that wanted to move through me. I have learned for the first time as I read what was on the screen in front of me. To surrender so completely is by definition risking and vulnerable. And, only twice have I felt closer to God than when I am writing.
I stand at the precipice of vulnerability, ready to jump,...again. I am ready to risk greatness in the hope that I can have the teensiest role in evolving human kind.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Being in the Not-Knowing
Yesterday I wrote that "Not-Knowing as a Way of Life" had been being pushed into my face a lot recently. Then, when I wrote about it, the floodgates burst open. Mostly, nothing huge has been turned over, but little things that I thought might be true have been upended all day. One larger idea has been set spinning, not enough to be totally upended, but certainly enough to cause me to examine it for depth and complexity.
So what is all of this about? When I started this blog I said that I didn't intend to share answers but to examine questions with which I grappled on my spiritual journey. That has never been truer than today.
History tells me that when I write about something I am issuing to the Universe an invitation to send me lessons. From the onset of writing Leading from the Heart, a book about courage, I was repeatedly tested for courage. By the time it was published three and a half years later, my life had been taken apart, piece by piece, and put together again, once again piece by piece, very consciously and intentionally. The putting together required me to look into the crevices and the foundations of my life and discover what was true...and then have the courage to act upon it.
Leading from the Heart had not been released when I started working on The Alchemy of Fear, obviously a book about fear...and love...and once again, everything that I truly feared in life looked me in the eye and demanded that I choose the love/God option rather than fear.
At that point, I said I was going to stop writing. I'd spent five to six years learning about fear and courage. Not a walk in the park. Well, of course, it is ridiculous to say I was going to stop writing. I'd been writing since I could hold a pencil and have a permanent knot on the side of my middle finger to prove it. I could no more stop writing than I could stop breathing.
So, I thought, I'll write about a subject that will be fun to learn about. Choice Point is my as-yet-unpublished book on intention. Now, one might think that intention would be a trip. Not! I was writing about the intentions of our soul to do what we came into the world to do. Unless you are really dense, you've already figured this one out: I had to really listen...a lot...to what my soul wanted. You will note that I said my "as-yet-unpublished book"--I am still in lesson on that one.
The Game Called Life was easy. I love it. It has been straight-forward and describes how I aspire to live. Yet, even my beloved The Game Called Life has been playing games with me as I prepare it for electronic version.
Last night, I wrote about "not-knowing." I really don't know (appropriate) how this one is going to turn out. I do know that things I hoped to be certain 24 hours ago are much less so now. I have no answers on this one. I am sitting with the questions, which, in truth, seems appropriate for a topic like "not-knowing." I am back in school, as if we aren't always. :-)
So what is all of this about? When I started this blog I said that I didn't intend to share answers but to examine questions with which I grappled on my spiritual journey. That has never been truer than today.
History tells me that when I write about something I am issuing to the Universe an invitation to send me lessons. From the onset of writing Leading from the Heart, a book about courage, I was repeatedly tested for courage. By the time it was published three and a half years later, my life had been taken apart, piece by piece, and put together again, once again piece by piece, very consciously and intentionally. The putting together required me to look into the crevices and the foundations of my life and discover what was true...and then have the courage to act upon it.
Leading from the Heart had not been released when I started working on The Alchemy of Fear, obviously a book about fear...and love...and once again, everything that I truly feared in life looked me in the eye and demanded that I choose the love/God option rather than fear.
At that point, I said I was going to stop writing. I'd spent five to six years learning about fear and courage. Not a walk in the park. Well, of course, it is ridiculous to say I was going to stop writing. I'd been writing since I could hold a pencil and have a permanent knot on the side of my middle finger to prove it. I could no more stop writing than I could stop breathing.
So, I thought, I'll write about a subject that will be fun to learn about. Choice Point is my as-yet-unpublished book on intention. Now, one might think that intention would be a trip. Not! I was writing about the intentions of our soul to do what we came into the world to do. Unless you are really dense, you've already figured this one out: I had to really listen...a lot...to what my soul wanted. You will note that I said my "as-yet-unpublished book"--I am still in lesson on that one.
The Game Called Life was easy. I love it. It has been straight-forward and describes how I aspire to live. Yet, even my beloved The Game Called Life has been playing games with me as I prepare it for electronic version.
Last night, I wrote about "not-knowing." I really don't know (appropriate) how this one is going to turn out. I do know that things I hoped to be certain 24 hours ago are much less so now. I have no answers on this one. I am sitting with the questions, which, in truth, seems appropriate for a topic like "not-knowing." I am back in school, as if we aren't always. :-)
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Surrendering the Past
A couple weeks ago I wrote about "being present"--really being awake in our lives and fully conscious of our spiritual growth opportunities. Ever since the other "being present" has been gnawing at me: being in the present. Being in the present means not being in the past and not being in the future, but being in the moment--in present time.
One of the affirmations I'm working this six-month cycle is "I surrender the past, leaving only the present." Surrender is an interesting word. Surrender implies that we are willing to fight till we have nothing left to prevent giving something up. For many, if not most, of us, we go to the mat to hang on to what has been. Hanging onto the past robs us of the present, and the present is the only place that we can make change in our lives. Hanging onto the past prevents us from moving forward.
Spiritual discipline is the very act of choosing to be present...again, and again, and again. Spiritual discipline--being the student--means choosing to try something that is hard that we've tried before in the past and maybe failed at once or many times. But today, we can start new. Today we have a clean slate. Today is the day that we can rewrite our stories to be the person that we are becoming.
In The Alchemy of Fear I wrote that our "has been" engage in all out battle with our "becoming." As who we are becoming gains strength, our "has been" fights to retain who we have been in the past. The present is uncharted territory. In the present we can start afresh each day. Our "becoming" in the present holds out the lure of success. Only if we lose sight of what we are becoming can we slip backwards into the past.
I said yesterday that I finally had recaptured the vision of the author, spiritual guide/coach, and professional speaker that I was for so many years. That is what I am "becoming" again. Even though that was a life I had before, I know it will be different this time--even better than I can imagine. I eagerly surrender who I have been to embrace who I AM "becoming" in the present.
One of the affirmations I'm working this six-month cycle is "I surrender the past, leaving only the present." Surrender is an interesting word. Surrender implies that we are willing to fight till we have nothing left to prevent giving something up. For many, if not most, of us, we go to the mat to hang on to what has been. Hanging onto the past robs us of the present, and the present is the only place that we can make change in our lives. Hanging onto the past prevents us from moving forward.
Spiritual discipline is the very act of choosing to be present...again, and again, and again. Spiritual discipline--being the student--means choosing to try something that is hard that we've tried before in the past and maybe failed at once or many times. But today, we can start new. Today we have a clean slate. Today is the day that we can rewrite our stories to be the person that we are becoming.
In The Alchemy of Fear I wrote that our "has been" engage in all out battle with our "becoming." As who we are becoming gains strength, our "has been" fights to retain who we have been in the past. The present is uncharted territory. In the present we can start afresh each day. Our "becoming" in the present holds out the lure of success. Only if we lose sight of what we are becoming can we slip backwards into the past.
I said yesterday that I finally had recaptured the vision of the author, spiritual guide/coach, and professional speaker that I was for so many years. That is what I am "becoming" again. Even though that was a life I had before, I know it will be different this time--even better than I can imagine. I eagerly surrender who I have been to embrace who I AM "becoming" in the present.
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