If you've been reading this blog for any time at all, you know that I watch for "spiritual trends" that are sending me a message. Over the last five hours, I've been bombarded with the message "Always be ready."
The Old Testament reading in church this morning was from Isaiah, and the prophet was saying to the Jewish people to be ready because they never knew when the "savior" would appear.
A few minutes later The New Testament lesson was to early Christians to always be ready because they never knew when their savior would return. A further admonition from the passage was that you couldn't wait until you thought the time was imminent to change behavior because there wouldn't be that opportunity. We had to always be ready.
I awakened this morning with a raspy throat. I've been fighting a cold for several days, and my initial instinct was to curl up in bed and get some extra rest before leaving on a business trip. Almost as quickly as I had the thought, I remembered what I'd written in my last post about consulting my inner compass before making decisions. When I did, I clearly knew I was to go to church. If I hadn't, I would have missed those lessons.
As I returned from church and started to make lunch, I thought my mind darted to habit. Since I was out with friends last evening, I was going to flip on the replay of the "Hallmark Hall of Fame" presentation that I'd missed. In my last post I wrote that I planned to spend my Sunday afternoon in a meditation on the floor of my bedroom closet, consciously choosing what would be part of my future and what I need to leave behind by December 21. I thought I was hedging on my commitment to watch a television program that I know will be replayed a number of times in December.
One thing that became very clear to me when writing Choice Point, my as-yet-unpublished book about life as a meditation, was that everything, every thing, is connected. There truly are no accidents or coincidences if we are listening: we will be led.
The gathering last night was a somewhat impromptu one, or I would have watched the program on its first broadcast. That is important because, without the scripture lessons this morning, I might have missed that the theme of this television play was also "always be ready" or more precisely to "live your life like there's no tomorrow." Could I have guessed that the gathering was contrived by the Universe to help me "get it"?
Fortunately, when I checked in, it became clear to me that I was to watch the Hallmark program. I thought to myself that I could bring some of the boxes into the living room and sort while viewing, but again a very clear message: the sorting was to be a meditation, and I couldn't watch TV and meditate. So I ate and watched, and then I just watched.
The protagonist in the movie was a woman who worked too much. (Anyone I know fill that bill?) As a consequence to a happy accident, she learns that she has been neglecting what is really important while giving every aspect of her life away to work, which we might say is pretty much what I've been doing over the last 16 years....maybe longer. Of course, since there are no original story lines in Hallmark movies, I won't be giving anything away when I stay she does get a second chance, and this time she remembers what is important to her and to those around her.
So it is that in five short hours, the Universe has bombarded me to remember what is important in my life, an important lesson any time, but especially as I've been looking at my overly busy December over several days and struggling to find a time to put up my Christmas tree.
I got a headache about two-thirds of the way through the movie. What is important? I have known for a long time that I've squandered my relationships, and I've struggled to know how to intentionally choose to build a different life. I am sure that quandary is what gave me the headache, which lingers even as I write.
I truly do not know the answer, but as I wrote in Choice Point, I don't need to know. I just need to consciously choose my path, and I will be led. That is all I need to know, and I will "always be ready."
Showing posts with label consciousness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label consciousness. Show all posts
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Digital Detox
There is an expression, maybe from the I Ching, "when the student is ready the teacher will appear." My last post on "Digital Addiction" was hardly stalled in my iPhone, when it seemed that everywhere I turned, I was encountering something about the deleterious effects of digital addiction. I hadn't even realized that there even was such a thing as digital addiction until about six weeks ago. Now I am bumping into it everywhere.
First, though, I owe a report about how well I did, or more precisely didn't do, during my effort to walk away from my devices for one day. I found that every few minutes I would start to do something that involved one or another device. I would catch myself at least half the time, but that suggests that half of the time I mindlessly turned to the radio, iPhone, notebook, or television. Most of the time, I noticed within seconds, but at 5 p.m., I abandoned the experiment and decided that I would wait until my staycation. My little experiment has been a good lesson in not being present.
I am now six days into my annual vacation at home, and I realized two things going into my leave. First, I really needed to be off devices more. Second, going cold turkey was not going to work for me since I did want to arrange lunches, coffee, or drinks and other outings with friends, and doing so would require one or more of my devices. So, rather than shutting down all devices for 10 days, I took an approach we might call mini-withdrawals.
With my mini-withdrawals, I have brought more conscious to my use of electronics. That allowed me to actually choose when I wanted/needed to use by devices and be aware of how much of the time I was turning to them out of pure habit...and addiction. It has also allowed me to choose more consciously what I will watch or listen to. I quickly discovered that I often had something mindless on in the background just to fill space rather than because I really wanted to watch or listen.
How has this actually worked? When I was cooking for a dinner party Friday night and Saturday, I normally have had NPR, a podcast, Spanish lesson, or audiobook in the background. I made the decision to cook in silence. My cooking became a meditation. I was able to really be present. My guests arrived and I was relaxed and present to them.
This evening I walked about 20 minutes to the hardware store to pick up some things, and again normally, I would have been listening to something. I made the conscious decision to just leave the iPhone in the charger. I ended up having a leisurely shopping trip during which I was able to just enjoy looking...and a little buying.
I took a book to read on my commute to a lunchtime concert at the Library of Congress rather than my usual practice of catching up with email and reading The Washington Post on my phone, while listening to podcasts or TuneIn Radio. I was enjoying the book so much that I just left my phone in my purse until I got home, and when I was present, I decided to have a lingering lunch rather than putting myself on autopilot and jumping on the Metro to return home.
When sitting by the pool yesterday, I didn't check anything on my iPhone, but I do confess to loving the "Ocean Waves" soundtrack in the background while I read. I was able to actually get into the book I was reading and with which I had been struggling for two weeks while reading a couple paragraphs before checking some device.
While I do find the level of my descension into this addiction distressing, given the number of places I've been bumping into media coverage of the problem, I am not alone. Last night on the shuttle from the Metro to the Kennedy Center, where we can safely assume everyone is going to enjoy a live performance, a woman was totally freaking out that she'd forgotten her iPhone. I was glad that I'd decided to turn mine off until I was headed home. It ended up that I was so relaxed from not looking all evening, that I didn't even look at the phone until I was home.
In the last two weeks, I've discovered a Digital Detox Boot Camp in the jungles of Costa Rica, where they take people's devices and lock them up for a week, while providing lots of physical activity to distract participants during withdrawal. In the coverage about the event, I learned that the average American looks as his/her smartphone every 4 minutes! Given that I do often go hours without looking at mine, I felt some righteous relief with that data point.
During a conference that I attended last week, I learned that there is actually a name for what happens to people who spend too much time on their devices: Cognitive Capacity Overload. The symptoms are the same as ADHD--Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, including inability to focus and really be present to what one is doing.
Just this evening on a Freakonomics Podcast--yes, I am still listening, but I have been much more judicious and have deleted about 3/4 of the podcasts to which I would normally have listened. Anyway, the podcast was exploring the health concerns related to lack of sleep, and you guessed, it all of our screens contribute to difficulty falling asleep and the quality of sleep once we do.
I love my iPhone, and it does provide me with efficiencies and effectiveness that I otherwise couldn't enjoy. (Thank you, Google Maps.) I am sure even those who will sojourn to Costa Rica for serious cold turkey withdrawal will pick their devices up again when they return. However, I have learned enough from my little experiment into mini-withdrawals to know that I will do them more frequently. The quality of my relaxation and the relaxation in my work is dramatically improved. And, I am able to embrace that most difficult of spiritual lessons: being present...in the present.
First, though, I owe a report about how well I did, or more precisely didn't do, during my effort to walk away from my devices for one day. I found that every few minutes I would start to do something that involved one or another device. I would catch myself at least half the time, but that suggests that half of the time I mindlessly turned to the radio, iPhone, notebook, or television. Most of the time, I noticed within seconds, but at 5 p.m., I abandoned the experiment and decided that I would wait until my staycation. My little experiment has been a good lesson in not being present.
I am now six days into my annual vacation at home, and I realized two things going into my leave. First, I really needed to be off devices more. Second, going cold turkey was not going to work for me since I did want to arrange lunches, coffee, or drinks and other outings with friends, and doing so would require one or more of my devices. So, rather than shutting down all devices for 10 days, I took an approach we might call mini-withdrawals.
With my mini-withdrawals, I have brought more conscious to my use of electronics. That allowed me to actually choose when I wanted/needed to use by devices and be aware of how much of the time I was turning to them out of pure habit...and addiction. It has also allowed me to choose more consciously what I will watch or listen to. I quickly discovered that I often had something mindless on in the background just to fill space rather than because I really wanted to watch or listen.
How has this actually worked? When I was cooking for a dinner party Friday night and Saturday, I normally have had NPR, a podcast, Spanish lesson, or audiobook in the background. I made the decision to cook in silence. My cooking became a meditation. I was able to really be present. My guests arrived and I was relaxed and present to them.
This evening I walked about 20 minutes to the hardware store to pick up some things, and again normally, I would have been listening to something. I made the conscious decision to just leave the iPhone in the charger. I ended up having a leisurely shopping trip during which I was able to just enjoy looking...and a little buying.
I took a book to read on my commute to a lunchtime concert at the Library of Congress rather than my usual practice of catching up with email and reading The Washington Post on my phone, while listening to podcasts or TuneIn Radio. I was enjoying the book so much that I just left my phone in my purse until I got home, and when I was present, I decided to have a lingering lunch rather than putting myself on autopilot and jumping on the Metro to return home.
When sitting by the pool yesterday, I didn't check anything on my iPhone, but I do confess to loving the "Ocean Waves" soundtrack in the background while I read. I was able to actually get into the book I was reading and with which I had been struggling for two weeks while reading a couple paragraphs before checking some device.
While I do find the level of my descension into this addiction distressing, given the number of places I've been bumping into media coverage of the problem, I am not alone. Last night on the shuttle from the Metro to the Kennedy Center, where we can safely assume everyone is going to enjoy a live performance, a woman was totally freaking out that she'd forgotten her iPhone. I was glad that I'd decided to turn mine off until I was headed home. It ended up that I was so relaxed from not looking all evening, that I didn't even look at the phone until I was home.
In the last two weeks, I've discovered a Digital Detox Boot Camp in the jungles of Costa Rica, where they take people's devices and lock them up for a week, while providing lots of physical activity to distract participants during withdrawal. In the coverage about the event, I learned that the average American looks as his/her smartphone every 4 minutes! Given that I do often go hours without looking at mine, I felt some righteous relief with that data point.
During a conference that I attended last week, I learned that there is actually a name for what happens to people who spend too much time on their devices: Cognitive Capacity Overload. The symptoms are the same as ADHD--Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, including inability to focus and really be present to what one is doing.
Just this evening on a Freakonomics Podcast--yes, I am still listening, but I have been much more judicious and have deleted about 3/4 of the podcasts to which I would normally have listened. Anyway, the podcast was exploring the health concerns related to lack of sleep, and you guessed, it all of our screens contribute to difficulty falling asleep and the quality of sleep once we do.
I love my iPhone, and it does provide me with efficiencies and effectiveness that I otherwise couldn't enjoy. (Thank you, Google Maps.) I am sure even those who will sojourn to Costa Rica for serious cold turkey withdrawal will pick their devices up again when they return. However, I have learned enough from my little experiment into mini-withdrawals to know that I will do them more frequently. The quality of my relaxation and the relaxation in my work is dramatically improved. And, I am able to embrace that most difficult of spiritual lessons: being present...in the present.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Death of a Dream
During my vacation in September, I read The Pilgrimage, a novel by best-selling author Paulo Coehlo's. It had a number of several exercises that I thought might be helpful in my upcoming retreat, which I dog-eared, as well as a some passages that I wanted to note. (When I have finished with a book, it is well-marked with lots of pages turned down.)
The night before I started my retreat, I pulled it out and looked over some of the passages, and one which spanned several pages was about the death of a dream. Now clearly I had not just read this passage but had read it carefully enough that I'd marked it for a return visit, but I really didn't remember it. Yet as I read it on Thursday evening, I did so with great attention. In the almost month since my retreat, I have continued to "chew" on the passages.
The passage is a conversation between a spiritual teacher/guide and his student on the Compostelo de Santiago pilgrimage in northern Spain. The teacher is telling his student how/why our dreams die. "The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams," the teacher says, "is our lack of time." Those who have read this blog for awhile will know that this immediately grabbed my interest. My dream of writing regularly, even for this blog, has seemed to be gobbled up by lack of time.*
As I reread this passage, I looked at it differently. The teacher doesn't say the dream dies from lack of time. He said that we kill our dreams because of our failure to make them priorities--to make time for them. Suddenly, the lack of time for writing has moved from a passive thing that is out of my control to the deliberate and active action of killing my own dream. I am keenly aware of the choices that I make at this busy time of the year.
"The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our certainties. Because we don't want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin to think of ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life...we never see the delight, the immense delight in the hearts of those engaged in battle. For them, neither victory nor defeat is important; what's important is only that they are fighting the good fight."
Hmmm. Fighting for our dreams. Sir Winston Churchill once admonished: "Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never..." I know that fighting the never-give-up fight for all of our dreams is not possible or even wise, which means that we have to choose the ones that we really fight for and which we allow to languish. Yet, more often than not, I do not make conscious decision to let go of one dream so that I can consciously put more energy--more fight, if you will--into a more important dream.
"The third symptom of the passing of our dreams is peace..."** I am passionate about using my special talents and gifts. Doing so may be seen as a "dream." But I do have more than one gift. I like to think writing is a gift. So are dance, gardening, and cooking. When I do any of those things, I do fall into what approximates a peaceful meditation. I lose track of time.
When I write, I also lose track of time, but I also wrestle with angels as I struggle to find the truth of what I want to say. When I was younger, I was much more certain what was true. Now, not so much. I am reminded best-selling writer and psychiatrist M. Scott Peck's work The Four Stages of Faith in which he described those who were most dogmatic as having a lower level of faith than those who have gone through a period of questioning and understand that faith is almost never black and white. My writing dream may have succumbed to the more peaceful passions of dance, gardening and cooking. Questioning is work, often hard work.
What bothered me most as I first read, and continues to annoy me when I reread Coehlo's description of the death of a dream is what happens when we allow a dream to die. "...Dead dreams begin to rot within us and to infect our entire being. We become cruel to those around us..., and one day the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death."***
I am not suicidal, nor do I expect to be. However, I have from time to time begun to feel the rot of dead dreams within me...before slipping back into the peace of auto-piloting through life rather than fighting for them. I don't believe I've been cruel, but I certainly do become irritable from time to time. Some days I just don't like myself much, and I believe those to be the days when I feel the rot of abandoned dreams most strongly.
In five weeks I am supposed to leave the temporary assignment I've enjoyed so much and return to my regular job. Over the last two weeks, I have occasionally felt physically ill thinking about going back, even though I am returning to an almost completely new leadership team. My new boss is someone I've worked with from another location, and I liked working with him a lot. There is some toxicity left among staff that I dread, but as I've pondered, in my heart of hearts I am certain that my nausea is about going back into a situation in which I fear that my dreams will once again succumb to the fast pace of day to day work that doesn't inspire me. What The Upanishads call "The sleeping state that men call waking."
I will write more on another day about consciously choosing to let go of a dream, but, for today, my learning is to just keep my dreams conscious until I intentionally let go of them, rather than letting them rot and making me a person I don't like very much.
*Coehlo, The Pilgrimage, P. 57
**Coehlo, The Pilgrimage, P. 58
***Coehlo, The Pilgrimage, P. 59
The night before I started my retreat, I pulled it out and looked over some of the passages, and one which spanned several pages was about the death of a dream. Now clearly I had not just read this passage but had read it carefully enough that I'd marked it for a return visit, but I really didn't remember it. Yet as I read it on Thursday evening, I did so with great attention. In the almost month since my retreat, I have continued to "chew" on the passages.
The passage is a conversation between a spiritual teacher/guide and his student on the Compostelo de Santiago pilgrimage in northern Spain. The teacher is telling his student how/why our dreams die. "The first symptom of the process of our killing our dreams," the teacher says, "is our lack of time." Those who have read this blog for awhile will know that this immediately grabbed my interest. My dream of writing regularly, even for this blog, has seemed to be gobbled up by lack of time.*
As I reread this passage, I looked at it differently. The teacher doesn't say the dream dies from lack of time. He said that we kill our dreams because of our failure to make them priorities--to make time for them. Suddenly, the lack of time for writing has moved from a passive thing that is out of my control to the deliberate and active action of killing my own dream. I am keenly aware of the choices that I make at this busy time of the year.
"The second symptom of the death of our dreams lies in our certainties. Because we don't want to see life as a grand adventure, we begin to think of ourselves as wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life...we never see the delight, the immense delight in the hearts of those engaged in battle. For them, neither victory nor defeat is important; what's important is only that they are fighting the good fight."
Hmmm. Fighting for our dreams. Sir Winston Churchill once admonished: "Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never..." I know that fighting the never-give-up fight for all of our dreams is not possible or even wise, which means that we have to choose the ones that we really fight for and which we allow to languish. Yet, more often than not, I do not make conscious decision to let go of one dream so that I can consciously put more energy--more fight, if you will--into a more important dream.
"The third symptom of the passing of our dreams is peace..."** I am passionate about using my special talents and gifts. Doing so may be seen as a "dream." But I do have more than one gift. I like to think writing is a gift. So are dance, gardening, and cooking. When I do any of those things, I do fall into what approximates a peaceful meditation. I lose track of time.
When I write, I also lose track of time, but I also wrestle with angels as I struggle to find the truth of what I want to say. When I was younger, I was much more certain what was true. Now, not so much. I am reminded best-selling writer and psychiatrist M. Scott Peck's work The Four Stages of Faith in which he described those who were most dogmatic as having a lower level of faith than those who have gone through a period of questioning and understand that faith is almost never black and white. My writing dream may have succumbed to the more peaceful passions of dance, gardening and cooking. Questioning is work, often hard work.
What bothered me most as I first read, and continues to annoy me when I reread Coehlo's description of the death of a dream is what happens when we allow a dream to die. "...Dead dreams begin to rot within us and to infect our entire being. We become cruel to those around us..., and one day the dead, spoiled dreams make it difficult to breathe, and we actually seek death."***
I am not suicidal, nor do I expect to be. However, I have from time to time begun to feel the rot of dead dreams within me...before slipping back into the peace of auto-piloting through life rather than fighting for them. I don't believe I've been cruel, but I certainly do become irritable from time to time. Some days I just don't like myself much, and I believe those to be the days when I feel the rot of abandoned dreams most strongly.
In five weeks I am supposed to leave the temporary assignment I've enjoyed so much and return to my regular job. Over the last two weeks, I have occasionally felt physically ill thinking about going back, even though I am returning to an almost completely new leadership team. My new boss is someone I've worked with from another location, and I liked working with him a lot. There is some toxicity left among staff that I dread, but as I've pondered, in my heart of hearts I am certain that my nausea is about going back into a situation in which I fear that my dreams will once again succumb to the fast pace of day to day work that doesn't inspire me. What The Upanishads call "The sleeping state that men call waking."
I will write more on another day about consciously choosing to let go of a dream, but, for today, my learning is to just keep my dreams conscious until I intentionally let go of them, rather than letting them rot and making me a person I don't like very much.
*Coehlo, The Pilgrimage, P. 57
**Coehlo, The Pilgrimage, P. 58
***Coehlo, The Pilgrimage, P. 59
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Engaged
Jose Carlos was the evening desk clerk at the small hotel where I stayed in Madrid. Late one evening I went down to ask him for some directions that I needed for the next day. He was so gleefully into whatever he was working on that I just stood and watched for a few minutes. Now I want to clarify that this wasn't the situation which I've often encountered where someone is on their email or having a person conversation. Jose Carlos was doing work. I think he was working on something so unglamorous as charges for those checking out the next day.
Finally, I said something, and it was immediately apparent that he had no awareness that I had been standing there. As soon as he saw me, he shifted his focus completely to me and my question. Whatever he had been consumed by was instantly a million miles away, and there was nothing in his attention except me and my need for directions.
Over the few days that I was stayed in the hotel I witnessed Jose Carlos being completely engaged in what he was doing a number of times. Sometimes it was helping other guests. On a couple of occasions he was helping me. But, always he was completely engaged in whatever he was doing. In an era of multi-tasking, he was a sight to behold.
Since taking the psychology of happiness class this summer and being reminded of the "flow" state, I've increasingly been aware of how rarely I am fully engaged in activities. I am doing a Spanish class on my iPhone while making dinner. I am talking on the phone while checking email. I am taking calls and responding to emails and people stopping by my office while attempting to design a session. As research on multi-tasking has been proving, when we multi-task, we don't do anything well. I know that I don't do my best at anything when I am multi-tasking.
When I think about times when I was really into designing a session or writing a book, nothing else crept into my mind. I was totally focused and extraordinarily creative. Work flowed through me. Time stopped. At the end of the day, often I felt more energized than I had at the beginning. And, it has been a long time since I worked like that.
For four months I am working out of a different office and doing a different job. It is a job I've done before, but a long time ago and in a different setting. I do have to pay attention to new particulars to the job, but it is still familiar enough that I can do a lot on autopilot. What I've noticed in my first nine days on this job is similar to what I wrote about on September 29 in "The Accelerator is Stuck." I've been in a situation that has required multi-tasking for so long that I've forgotten how to focus.
My friend Amy who is a frequent contributor the this blog recently was guest on the "Transformation Cafe" radio program. She spoke of finding God in the messiness of our lives. I've known for decades that is where the real spiritual learning and growth occurs. If, as spiritual teacher Carolyn Myss has said, "being present" is our most important spiritual lesson, then the ability to be fully engaged in what we are doing at any given moment is an essential aspect of that lesson.
Like taking my foot off the gas pedal of my life, being engaged might actually be more of an exercise in learning to say "no" to things that are less important so that I can focus on what I consciously choose to be really important in any moment.
A little bit ago, I received a phone call from someone while I was working on this blog post. I really didn't want to talk on the phone. In looking back I was so disinterested in the conversation that I am certain that message came across. I might even have been perceived as rude. What I really wanted was to write. I've missed it, and I actually had a 30-45 minutes in which I could write, and I'd been interrupted. But, the truth is that I didn't have to answer the phone. I could have stayed focused on the writing.
That was when it occurred to me how important it is to say "no". Just because my phone rings doesn't mean that I have to pick up. I can say "no" to it, let it roll to my voice mail, and return the call later when I could be fully engaged in the phone conversation.
I recently took samurai training. We learned to live by a set of values, and the lines aren't always clear. How to I choose between loyalty and compassion or commitment and compassion. I need to say "yes" to both. How do I do that? At the end of the day of training, I wrote that to make this work I need to stay centered and stay present. I need to be fully aware of what I am choosing and as importantly to what things I choose to say "no."
Jose Carlos was such a wonderful example of being engaged and choosing to be fully present to whatever has his attention. I can imagine remembering his model as I choose to find God in the messiness of everyday life. If I don't, God could be talking directly to me, and I might just miss it.
Finally, I said something, and it was immediately apparent that he had no awareness that I had been standing there. As soon as he saw me, he shifted his focus completely to me and my question. Whatever he had been consumed by was instantly a million miles away, and there was nothing in his attention except me and my need for directions.
Over the few days that I was stayed in the hotel I witnessed Jose Carlos being completely engaged in what he was doing a number of times. Sometimes it was helping other guests. On a couple of occasions he was helping me. But, always he was completely engaged in whatever he was doing. In an era of multi-tasking, he was a sight to behold.
Since taking the psychology of happiness class this summer and being reminded of the "flow" state, I've increasingly been aware of how rarely I am fully engaged in activities. I am doing a Spanish class on my iPhone while making dinner. I am talking on the phone while checking email. I am taking calls and responding to emails and people stopping by my office while attempting to design a session. As research on multi-tasking has been proving, when we multi-task, we don't do anything well. I know that I don't do my best at anything when I am multi-tasking.
When I think about times when I was really into designing a session or writing a book, nothing else crept into my mind. I was totally focused and extraordinarily creative. Work flowed through me. Time stopped. At the end of the day, often I felt more energized than I had at the beginning. And, it has been a long time since I worked like that.
For four months I am working out of a different office and doing a different job. It is a job I've done before, but a long time ago and in a different setting. I do have to pay attention to new particulars to the job, but it is still familiar enough that I can do a lot on autopilot. What I've noticed in my first nine days on this job is similar to what I wrote about on September 29 in "The Accelerator is Stuck." I've been in a situation that has required multi-tasking for so long that I've forgotten how to focus.
My friend Amy who is a frequent contributor the this blog recently was guest on the "Transformation Cafe" radio program. She spoke of finding God in the messiness of our lives. I've known for decades that is where the real spiritual learning and growth occurs. If, as spiritual teacher Carolyn Myss has said, "being present" is our most important spiritual lesson, then the ability to be fully engaged in what we are doing at any given moment is an essential aspect of that lesson.
Like taking my foot off the gas pedal of my life, being engaged might actually be more of an exercise in learning to say "no" to things that are less important so that I can focus on what I consciously choose to be really important in any moment.
A little bit ago, I received a phone call from someone while I was working on this blog post. I really didn't want to talk on the phone. In looking back I was so disinterested in the conversation that I am certain that message came across. I might even have been perceived as rude. What I really wanted was to write. I've missed it, and I actually had a 30-45 minutes in which I could write, and I'd been interrupted. But, the truth is that I didn't have to answer the phone. I could have stayed focused on the writing.
That was when it occurred to me how important it is to say "no". Just because my phone rings doesn't mean that I have to pick up. I can say "no" to it, let it roll to my voice mail, and return the call later when I could be fully engaged in the phone conversation.
I recently took samurai training. We learned to live by a set of values, and the lines aren't always clear. How to I choose between loyalty and compassion or commitment and compassion. I need to say "yes" to both. How do I do that? At the end of the day of training, I wrote that to make this work I need to stay centered and stay present. I need to be fully aware of what I am choosing and as importantly to what things I choose to say "no."
Jose Carlos was such a wonderful example of being engaged and choosing to be fully present to whatever has his attention. I can imagine remembering his model as I choose to find God in the messiness of everyday life. If I don't, God could be talking directly to me, and I might just miss it.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
The Accelerator is Stuck!
This afternoon I went into the kitchen at work to toss together the ingredients for the lunch salad that I'd prepared the night before. As I was racing around, I man said something to me that just totally shocked me into consciousness. He said, "You have no where to be and nothing to do. Take your time."
Since sometime in late 2000 or early 2001, I've been racing. In the early years, the dot.com bust had tanked my business, and I was attempting to right it before it sank. I raced. When I failed at that, I started teaching. To earn a living as an adjunct college instructor requires teaching a lot of classes. That means lots of class preparation, paper grading, test making, and office hours. Up at 4 a.m. most days, my evening classes usually ended at 9 p.m. I raced all day. Then when I got a consulting job that paid a normal salary, the expectation was that I'd work almost every waking hour to justify the salary. I raced. I often fell asleep over my computer.
You get the gist.
I've been racing so long, and I think my accelerator has been stuck in overdrive. When Thomas said to me, "You have no where to be and nothing to do," you could have knocked me over with a feather. For years there have always been five other things I should be doing and back-to-back meetings. But, not now. Of course, I had no where to be, and nothing I had to do. For a few seconds, I didn't know what to make of that.
When I finally got my head around it, I went into the lunchroom table, and I did something I've rarely done in the last 15 years. First, I breathed. Then, I sat down, ate my lunch, and chewed my food. I tried to see if I could make my food last for 20 minutes. I had conversations with two interesting new coworkers. With one, I shared Italian food/cooking stories. My creativity kicked into gear as I thought about things I haven't cooked for a while, and mentally, I played with variations I might make. I took a full 40 minutes for lunch.
I've been "loaned" by my employer to work for the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC) for 4-1/2 months. I needed a break from the pace of work I've been keeping for years and from the toxic work environment in which I have found myself, which increasingly seems to be spinning completely out of control. I applied for the opportunity and was accepted. Tomorrow I will have been there for a week.
There are times when we are very busy, but on each end of most days, there is time to catch my breath and to do paperwork, return email, make calls, and even to do analysis about how to improve campaign performance. Such a luxury.
Today when Thomas made his life-changing comment to me, I'd been in overdrive for about four hours. In my "regular" job, that wouldn't have slowed down for another seven or eight hours, and when it did, I'd be looking at a ton of email and prep for the next day. Today, my four hours of overdrive was followed by delicious sanity...and lunch, of course.
I've read a number of different estimates of how many days it takes to develop a new habit. Some say 30 days, and others report 21. Some longer, others shorter. But, I have 4-1/2 months to practice breathing, walking at a normal pace, eating lunch, being creative, talking to coworkers, and just generally enjoying myself at work. Surely I can form a useful habit in 4-1/2 months that I can take back to my "real job" with me. That will definitely be my intention, and taking a new habit back to work with me will certainly be a wonderful investment in my life.
Since sometime in late 2000 or early 2001, I've been racing. In the early years, the dot.com bust had tanked my business, and I was attempting to right it before it sank. I raced. When I failed at that, I started teaching. To earn a living as an adjunct college instructor requires teaching a lot of classes. That means lots of class preparation, paper grading, test making, and office hours. Up at 4 a.m. most days, my evening classes usually ended at 9 p.m. I raced all day. Then when I got a consulting job that paid a normal salary, the expectation was that I'd work almost every waking hour to justify the salary. I raced. I often fell asleep over my computer.
You get the gist.
I've been racing so long, and I think my accelerator has been stuck in overdrive. When Thomas said to me, "You have no where to be and nothing to do," you could have knocked me over with a feather. For years there have always been five other things I should be doing and back-to-back meetings. But, not now. Of course, I had no where to be, and nothing I had to do. For a few seconds, I didn't know what to make of that.
When I finally got my head around it, I went into the lunchroom table, and I did something I've rarely done in the last 15 years. First, I breathed. Then, I sat down, ate my lunch, and chewed my food. I tried to see if I could make my food last for 20 minutes. I had conversations with two interesting new coworkers. With one, I shared Italian food/cooking stories. My creativity kicked into gear as I thought about things I haven't cooked for a while, and mentally, I played with variations I might make. I took a full 40 minutes for lunch.
I've been "loaned" by my employer to work for the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC) for 4-1/2 months. I needed a break from the pace of work I've been keeping for years and from the toxic work environment in which I have found myself, which increasingly seems to be spinning completely out of control. I applied for the opportunity and was accepted. Tomorrow I will have been there for a week.
There are times when we are very busy, but on each end of most days, there is time to catch my breath and to do paperwork, return email, make calls, and even to do analysis about how to improve campaign performance. Such a luxury.
Today when Thomas made his life-changing comment to me, I'd been in overdrive for about four hours. In my "regular" job, that wouldn't have slowed down for another seven or eight hours, and when it did, I'd be looking at a ton of email and prep for the next day. Today, my four hours of overdrive was followed by delicious sanity...and lunch, of course.
I've read a number of different estimates of how many days it takes to develop a new habit. Some say 30 days, and others report 21. Some longer, others shorter. But, I have 4-1/2 months to practice breathing, walking at a normal pace, eating lunch, being creative, talking to coworkers, and just generally enjoying myself at work. Surely I can form a useful habit in 4-1/2 months that I can take back to my "real job" with me. That will definitely be my intention, and taking a new habit back to work with me will certainly be a wonderful investment in my life.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
A Wasted Day
During a media interview this morning, I heard a man say, "A day without a memory is a wasted day." He really grabbed my attention.
Almost simultaneously I had two follow-on thoughts:
Almost simultaneously I had two follow-on thoughts:
- Most of my days are consumed with almost mindless routine.
- In order to have a day that isn't wasted, I will have to find something memorable in the sea of routine days. At least for some moment during the day, I will have to be conscious of something that is memorable.
I have to admit, I had this sinking feeling that many years of my life must have been wasted with the same routine. Get up, bathe, brush my teeth, do my make-up, stretch, make coffee, make oatmeal, race out the door so I am not late. Once I get to work, there is another routine. At 7:30 I boot up the computer. While that is happening, take my lunch to the refrigerator and maybe go to the restroom. Then settle in to answer dozens of emails before I start into back-to-back meetings. You get the point. My whole day is that way. Somewhere around 5:30, I sink into my chair and think that I really ought to do some creative work, but usually that is dismissed because I am too tired to be creative.
There are exceptional days. In fact this has been an exceptional week. On Tuesday, I received an award for a piece of change management work of which I am very proud--three years of focus...and someone noticed. Wednesday was annual performance review time, and for the first time in five years, I felt like someone actually noticed my work. (Could it be because of the award I received the day before?) On Thursday, my favorite teammate--and maybe my best-ever co-worker--left our organization to take a different job. Friday my retina specialist reported that the impact of my surgery 15 months later has been sustained. I also received an apology that meant a lot. Today I had lunch with a friend, and we talked a lot. Then, I started cleaning off my desk--now that is an endeavor worth remembering.
The funny thing about this exceptional week is that when I started to write this, I thought, "I can't even remember yesterday, except that I know I didn't stop." Then I focused on each day and discovered it had been a week of pretty memorable days. I think that in order to have memories we have to focus our intention on giving attention to what is memorable. I have to choose to make a memory. Without this thought, I might have let this week slip by like so many others--lots of wasted days.
It also occurs to me that I might even mix up the routine a little bit and create so memories.
So, tomorrow, I will choose a memory. Monday I will choose a memory. In the process, I will assure that my life is not wasted, but instead is rich with memories.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
The What and How of Mindfulness
Last week I coached and co-facilitated an agency-wide leadership program that I had helped design 15 months ago. I shouldn't be surprised then at the content, but to a certain extent I was. Major themes of mindfulness kept emerging throughout the five days. While I recall the team talking about mindfulness, I think my mild surprise came more from where I am in my life than the content.
There is a Buddhist quote, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." Last week I think I was ready for the teacher to appear.
Mindfulness has been described as "being here now." In other words, our minds aren't darting off to what we will do tomorrow or next week, nor are they ruminating on what happened last week, last month or last year. They are here, empty of expectation, ready for what will present itself in the next moment.
One of my most important paths to mindfulness has come in my relationship with food. There are others to be sure, but food just seems to always be "in my face." That journey began early in life for me--at the age of 10. My father was diagnosed with a hereditary disease, which my brother and I would almost certainly inherit if we didn't take steps early and consistently to avoid it.
As our friends were choosing foods, based on what they wanted to eat, we learned to choose what would keep us healthy, long before either of us probably understood the implications. That does not mean that we never ate what our peers did, but at least for me, the pizzas, hamburgers, and hot dogs and other ubiquitous teen foods that my friends regularly scarfed down were occasional treats to be savored. While the appreciation was about "what" we were eating, the rarity of the treats resulted in appreciation of each bite in a way that I think my peers didn't delight in quite as I did.
In my 40s when I discovered that I had a wheat allergy, I added another layer of consciousness of about what I would, or safely could, eat. I continue to be surprised that upon learning of my allergy how many people will say, "Isn't there something you can take for that?" Of course, there is. I took allergy medicines for decades, but I always felt tired. When I stopped eating wheat, it was like being shot full of energy. If I could experience that aliveness by just being mindful of what I was eating, why would I want a pharmaceutical solution?
Regular readers of this blog know that in recent years, my struggle with mindfulness in my eating has come with my relationship with sugar, as I give it up each year for Lent, and then usually I have found myself quickly slip-sliding back into that addiction. I am pleased to say that, although I have eaten sugar since Lent this year, I have been able to do so mindfully and very rarely. This has been a huge step in mindfulness for me.
In Cleveland this week, however, I was graced with a presentation by Dr. Susan Albers. Her book, Eat.Q., is about the "how" of mindful eating more than the "what." Although I wouldn't consider myself a master of the "what" of eating, I am light years ahead on the "what" than I am the "how."
What Albers encouraged us to do was "be here now" with our food. While I wasn't aware of what I was doing at the time, I can now reflect back on relishing those foods that I knew I should avoid as a teen and young adult and know that I was very mindful of being totally present to each wonderful treat. Once or twice a year on a special occasion, I will eat a small amount of something with wheat in it. (I wasn't going to be in Italy and not eat any pasta.) I am completely mindful of both the experience...and the potential risks...even as I value that moment intensely.
In her talk, Albers encouraged us to bring that level of consciousness to everything we ate--the how of eating. She reminded us of how often we eat at our desks or in front of the TV or computer, while doing three or four other things and end the meal without remembering or even tasting a bite of it. There are countless other ways that we mindlessly exit our meals.
I live alone, and, as an introvert, mostly I get along OK with that. However, eating alone is one of my challenges. My routine has been to come home, make a large salad, and sit down and watch the previous evening's "The Daily Show." Jon Stewart and I have dinner together. (I will miss my frequent dinner companion terribly come August.)
As Albers talked about the "how" of eating mindfully, I recalled a few years ago when for Lent, I gave up doing anything else when I was eating. It had been an exercise in the kind of eating she described. The entree salads that I make almost always fill a dinner plate, and most of the time, I finish them. During my Lenten exercise, I found that, when I ate mindfully, almost every day I realized that I was full by the time I was halfway through the plate. I'd scrape what was left into a container and have it for lunch the next day. Day in, day out. When I was present, I could actually be aware when I was full.
There are other things that we do mindlessly. Probably 25 years ago I became aware that when I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work, I was still in my rush mode from the day.
As I grabbed the cart, I would notice that, by just shifting my mind into the moment, my breathing relaxed, my shoulders dropped, and I was present. I didn't move any more slowly; I just noticed how I was moving.
I've begun how often people will ask "How are you?" and then upon being asked the same question of themselves, they will repeat the same question without realizing they've already asked it. There are times when I am tired, and I don't go to bed because it is too early, and other days I am not tired, but I do go to bed "because it is time." I find myself going to a job that doesn't nourish me spiritually almost every day.
So, last week in Cleveland shook me from my complacence about mindfulness. This student is ready. I know as with any spiritual discipline, mindfulness is a practice, and I will need to practice over and again. I am happy that the teacher, in the person of Albers and the lessons built into the leadership program, appeared last week.
There is a Buddhist quote, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." Last week I think I was ready for the teacher to appear.
Mindfulness has been described as "being here now." In other words, our minds aren't darting off to what we will do tomorrow or next week, nor are they ruminating on what happened last week, last month or last year. They are here, empty of expectation, ready for what will present itself in the next moment.
One of my most important paths to mindfulness has come in my relationship with food. There are others to be sure, but food just seems to always be "in my face." That journey began early in life for me--at the age of 10. My father was diagnosed with a hereditary disease, which my brother and I would almost certainly inherit if we didn't take steps early and consistently to avoid it.
As our friends were choosing foods, based on what they wanted to eat, we learned to choose what would keep us healthy, long before either of us probably understood the implications. That does not mean that we never ate what our peers did, but at least for me, the pizzas, hamburgers, and hot dogs and other ubiquitous teen foods that my friends regularly scarfed down were occasional treats to be savored. While the appreciation was about "what" we were eating, the rarity of the treats resulted in appreciation of each bite in a way that I think my peers didn't delight in quite as I did.
In my 40s when I discovered that I had a wheat allergy, I added another layer of consciousness of about what I would, or safely could, eat. I continue to be surprised that upon learning of my allergy how many people will say, "Isn't there something you can take for that?" Of course, there is. I took allergy medicines for decades, but I always felt tired. When I stopped eating wheat, it was like being shot full of energy. If I could experience that aliveness by just being mindful of what I was eating, why would I want a pharmaceutical solution?
Regular readers of this blog know that in recent years, my struggle with mindfulness in my eating has come with my relationship with sugar, as I give it up each year for Lent, and then usually I have found myself quickly slip-sliding back into that addiction. I am pleased to say that, although I have eaten sugar since Lent this year, I have been able to do so mindfully and very rarely. This has been a huge step in mindfulness for me.
In Cleveland this week, however, I was graced with a presentation by Dr. Susan Albers. Her book, Eat.Q., is about the "how" of mindful eating more than the "what." Although I wouldn't consider myself a master of the "what" of eating, I am light years ahead on the "what" than I am the "how."
What Albers encouraged us to do was "be here now" with our food. While I wasn't aware of what I was doing at the time, I can now reflect back on relishing those foods that I knew I should avoid as a teen and young adult and know that I was very mindful of being totally present to each wonderful treat. Once or twice a year on a special occasion, I will eat a small amount of something with wheat in it. (I wasn't going to be in Italy and not eat any pasta.) I am completely mindful of both the experience...and the potential risks...even as I value that moment intensely.
In her talk, Albers encouraged us to bring that level of consciousness to everything we ate--the how of eating. She reminded us of how often we eat at our desks or in front of the TV or computer, while doing three or four other things and end the meal without remembering or even tasting a bite of it. There are countless other ways that we mindlessly exit our meals.
I live alone, and, as an introvert, mostly I get along OK with that. However, eating alone is one of my challenges. My routine has been to come home, make a large salad, and sit down and watch the previous evening's "The Daily Show." Jon Stewart and I have dinner together. (I will miss my frequent dinner companion terribly come August.)
As Albers talked about the "how" of eating mindfully, I recalled a few years ago when for Lent, I gave up doing anything else when I was eating. It had been an exercise in the kind of eating she described. The entree salads that I make almost always fill a dinner plate, and most of the time, I finish them. During my Lenten exercise, I found that, when I ate mindfully, almost every day I realized that I was full by the time I was halfway through the plate. I'd scrape what was left into a container and have it for lunch the next day. Day in, day out. When I was present, I could actually be aware when I was full.
There are other things that we do mindlessly. Probably 25 years ago I became aware that when I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work, I was still in my rush mode from the day.
As I grabbed the cart, I would notice that, by just shifting my mind into the moment, my breathing relaxed, my shoulders dropped, and I was present. I didn't move any more slowly; I just noticed how I was moving.
I've begun how often people will ask "How are you?" and then upon being asked the same question of themselves, they will repeat the same question without realizing they've already asked it. There are times when I am tired, and I don't go to bed because it is too early, and other days I am not tired, but I do go to bed "because it is time." I find myself going to a job that doesn't nourish me spiritually almost every day.
So, last week in Cleveland shook me from my complacence about mindfulness. This student is ready. I know as with any spiritual discipline, mindfulness is a practice, and I will need to practice over and again. I am happy that the teacher, in the person of Albers and the lessons built into the leadership program, appeared last week.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
The Real Cost of Things
During the last week, countless stories have flooded the media, relating tales of heroism during the D-Day invasion of Normandy by the Allied Troops in World War II. The dwindling veterans of the invasion grow smaller each year as their ages increase. Now the teenage boys that made their way onto the French beaches approach 90, and their remaining older compatriots are well into their 90s.
Last weekend I heard one of these nonagenarians sharing brave stories of his role as part of the lead party, conducting reconnaissance for the massive invasion, as they dodge bullets and stepped over bodies of their friends. Another--a medic--told of stealing bandages from the dead warriors because they were the only ones remaining after the boat with medical supplies had been sunk.
One of these men related, "My wife says I've never been the same." The words cut through me like a cold kitchen knife.
My father was among the brave men who invaded Normandy 70 years ago this week. I don't know what he was like before the war, but I am pretty confident that he as never the same either.
There has never been a doubt in my mind that my father loved me totally and completely. He was the only dad that took off work from his blue-collar job to come to special events at school. He was there to cheer my every endeavor. He convinced me I could be anything I wanted to be, even though I was too young to be the first woman on the Supreme Court. Yet, just as surely as I know he loved me, I also know that there was always a distance.
My father left his heart on the beaches of Normandy, at the liberation of Paris, or on other battlefields, just as I suspect had happened with the man in the news report on the radio. The pain, fear, loss, anguish, or anger of the battle were too intense to deal with, so he tucked his heart away. I doubt that it ever came out again. He substituted other things, like attending school events on a weekday, for emotion to communicate love.
In my mid-thirties when my husband had left me to run off with his work colleague, and I was a heap of emotion, my father was clearly distressed, but he just didn't know what to say or do. He asked if I needed money. I think that was the adult equivalent of attending school events on a weekday.
I don't think that we ever calculate the cost of war, and maybe that is a good thing. It was important to stop the Nazis in World War II, and if we had really considered the costs, maybe we wouldn't have jumped in. Most of a generation of men divorced themselves of emotion. The man I adopted as a dad after my own father died told me of still being haunted by the war well into his 80s. Many of them were never able to be emotionally available to their children, who became a generation to play with sex and drugs to experience a substitute feeling.
It wasn't just emotions that didn't come home. Some left limbs on the battlefield. A man at our church was so badly scarred from a wartime explosion that it was hard to tell what he looked like. In whispers people said he used to be very handsome.
But World War II wasn't our most costly war. During the Civil War, 620,000 people died. Many more lost limbs, hearing and sight.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is the new name for what was called shell shock in World War I. Men, who for the first time were victims of modern warfare, had no way to have prepared for that horror. My grandfather spent 25 years in a mental institution from his war's PTSD.
The most recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have seen men and women, who probably would have died in an earlier time, come home without limbs...or the dreaded PTSD or traumatic head injuries from Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs.) Had we really calculated these costs, would we not have been able to predict the impact on our Veterans Administration health system.
War takes other tolls, too. Whole generations of young men die. Beautiful masterpieces of architecture lie in rubble. Looters take off with museum pieces that have been cared for lovingly for millennia. Perhaps a collective amnesia cripples our thinking as we contemplate war.
There are a lot of things that we don't calculate the real cost of. War is just one of them. Do people carrying an extra 30 pounds really calculate the costs of those extra pounds, in both years lost and additional medical costs incurred? Do people who get that bargain shirt for $10 at Wal-Mart calculate the real cost of that garment? Do those who smoke a pack a day realize the costs of their habits? Do people who choose factory-farmed beef for dinner realize the cost to our environment?
It seems to me that the real cost of things is rarely reflected on the price tag. If it were, we would probably all choose to spend differently for things so dear.
Last weekend I heard one of these nonagenarians sharing brave stories of his role as part of the lead party, conducting reconnaissance for the massive invasion, as they dodge bullets and stepped over bodies of their friends. Another--a medic--told of stealing bandages from the dead warriors because they were the only ones remaining after the boat with medical supplies had been sunk.
One of these men related, "My wife says I've never been the same." The words cut through me like a cold kitchen knife.
My father was among the brave men who invaded Normandy 70 years ago this week. I don't know what he was like before the war, but I am pretty confident that he as never the same either.
There has never been a doubt in my mind that my father loved me totally and completely. He was the only dad that took off work from his blue-collar job to come to special events at school. He was there to cheer my every endeavor. He convinced me I could be anything I wanted to be, even though I was too young to be the first woman on the Supreme Court. Yet, just as surely as I know he loved me, I also know that there was always a distance.
My father left his heart on the beaches of Normandy, at the liberation of Paris, or on other battlefields, just as I suspect had happened with the man in the news report on the radio. The pain, fear, loss, anguish, or anger of the battle were too intense to deal with, so he tucked his heart away. I doubt that it ever came out again. He substituted other things, like attending school events on a weekday, for emotion to communicate love.
In my mid-thirties when my husband had left me to run off with his work colleague, and I was a heap of emotion, my father was clearly distressed, but he just didn't know what to say or do. He asked if I needed money. I think that was the adult equivalent of attending school events on a weekday.
I don't think that we ever calculate the cost of war, and maybe that is a good thing. It was important to stop the Nazis in World War II, and if we had really considered the costs, maybe we wouldn't have jumped in. Most of a generation of men divorced themselves of emotion. The man I adopted as a dad after my own father died told me of still being haunted by the war well into his 80s. Many of them were never able to be emotionally available to their children, who became a generation to play with sex and drugs to experience a substitute feeling.
It wasn't just emotions that didn't come home. Some left limbs on the battlefield. A man at our church was so badly scarred from a wartime explosion that it was hard to tell what he looked like. In whispers people said he used to be very handsome.
But World War II wasn't our most costly war. During the Civil War, 620,000 people died. Many more lost limbs, hearing and sight.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is the new name for what was called shell shock in World War I. Men, who for the first time were victims of modern warfare, had no way to have prepared for that horror. My grandfather spent 25 years in a mental institution from his war's PTSD.
The most recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have seen men and women, who probably would have died in an earlier time, come home without limbs...or the dreaded PTSD or traumatic head injuries from Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs.) Had we really calculated these costs, would we not have been able to predict the impact on our Veterans Administration health system.
War takes other tolls, too. Whole generations of young men die. Beautiful masterpieces of architecture lie in rubble. Looters take off with museum pieces that have been cared for lovingly for millennia. Perhaps a collective amnesia cripples our thinking as we contemplate war.
There are a lot of things that we don't calculate the real cost of. War is just one of them. Do people carrying an extra 30 pounds really calculate the costs of those extra pounds, in both years lost and additional medical costs incurred? Do people who get that bargain shirt for $10 at Wal-Mart calculate the real cost of that garment? Do those who smoke a pack a day realize the costs of their habits? Do people who choose factory-farmed beef for dinner realize the cost to our environment?
It seems to me that the real cost of things is rarely reflected on the price tag. If it were, we would probably all choose to spend differently for things so dear.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Listening to Their Wisdom
I have noticed over the years that coaching clients often "present" to me issues which I need to look at in my own life. When I find myself having similar conversations, especially in back-to-back sessions, I figure I should pay attention myself. That happened today. Interestingly enough, I've been involved in several conversations over the last two weeks when the same topic bubbled up. Something similar came up on a class I am taking last night. The Universe is sending people into my life to help me learn. In their answers, I find wisdom.
Each of these clients led me to draw a model for further exploration--the same model. The concept is that we have three levels of "being" in our lives. A colleague of mine draws it with three concentric circles. The innermost is "DNA." That part of us is what it is, and we aren't likely to change it. My brown eyes are not going to become blue because I choose that. The next circle is labeled "Personality," and it is likely to change little. The bigger outside circle is entitled, "Behavior." Now "behavior" is something we can work with.
I think about the difference between personality and behavior as being like an actor or an actress, who plays a role. The role doesn't change the actor's personality, but they behave in the play or movie in a way that can be contrary to their natural personality. Our jobs often require us to behave in ways that are contrary to our natural personality. For instance, I am a strong introvert, who has a job that requires me to extravert about 75% of the time. It is exhausting, but I can and have done it...for decades.
So it is that conversations with two coaching clients today explored their needs to choose behaviors that are not naturally easy to them in order be more effective leaders. As I helped them discover how they could allow themselves to slip into a role, it didn't seem all that difficult. We were able to identify times in their lives during which they'd learned a new role that had by now become so familiar to them that they could hardly remember what it was like before they chose it.
This ability to transcend who we might naturally be and step into a much bigger role opens countless doors. I call it leadership, but maybe it is "just" conscious living. The ability in a moment to be conscious of who we are, what our tendencies are, the stories we've told ourselves about what we can and can't do, and then to choose the behavior we want brings intention to life in our lives. We step into the life that we would have rather than the life we inherited. Consciousness, intention, and action.
I used to struggle with this a bit. "If we choose to act contrary to who we are, is that 'authentic?' I have wondered. But after much reflection, I believe it is much more authentic. If we just act with what comes naturally, we are doing so without thought. Reflecting--even soul-searching--and then choosing what is in integrity with who we choose to be: that is authentic.
I would like to say that I do that all the time. I know there have been times when I acted that authenticity much more than I do now. The pace of my life has lulled me into this trancelike state--the sleeping state that men call waking--where I forget to remember that above all else, we have free will. I can choose who I will become by the behaviors I demonstrate in large and small ways...every day, every hour, every minute.
As I listened to the wisdom spill across my clients' lips, I knew that on some level they were advising me. Wake up and become who you choose to be!
Each of these clients led me to draw a model for further exploration--the same model. The concept is that we have three levels of "being" in our lives. A colleague of mine draws it with three concentric circles. The innermost is "DNA." That part of us is what it is, and we aren't likely to change it. My brown eyes are not going to become blue because I choose that. The next circle is labeled "Personality," and it is likely to change little. The bigger outside circle is entitled, "Behavior." Now "behavior" is something we can work with.
I think about the difference between personality and behavior as being like an actor or an actress, who plays a role. The role doesn't change the actor's personality, but they behave in the play or movie in a way that can be contrary to their natural personality. Our jobs often require us to behave in ways that are contrary to our natural personality. For instance, I am a strong introvert, who has a job that requires me to extravert about 75% of the time. It is exhausting, but I can and have done it...for decades.
So it is that conversations with two coaching clients today explored their needs to choose behaviors that are not naturally easy to them in order be more effective leaders. As I helped them discover how they could allow themselves to slip into a role, it didn't seem all that difficult. We were able to identify times in their lives during which they'd learned a new role that had by now become so familiar to them that they could hardly remember what it was like before they chose it.
This ability to transcend who we might naturally be and step into a much bigger role opens countless doors. I call it leadership, but maybe it is "just" conscious living. The ability in a moment to be conscious of who we are, what our tendencies are, the stories we've told ourselves about what we can and can't do, and then to choose the behavior we want brings intention to life in our lives. We step into the life that we would have rather than the life we inherited. Consciousness, intention, and action.
I used to struggle with this a bit. "If we choose to act contrary to who we are, is that 'authentic?' I have wondered. But after much reflection, I believe it is much more authentic. If we just act with what comes naturally, we are doing so without thought. Reflecting--even soul-searching--and then choosing what is in integrity with who we choose to be: that is authentic.
I would like to say that I do that all the time. I know there have been times when I acted that authenticity much more than I do now. The pace of my life has lulled me into this trancelike state--the sleeping state that men call waking--where I forget to remember that above all else, we have free will. I can choose who I will become by the behaviors I demonstrate in large and small ways...every day, every hour, every minute.
As I listened to the wisdom spill across my clients' lips, I knew that on some level they were advising me. Wake up and become who you choose to be!
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Sunday, March 30, 2014
My Amazing Machine
This weekend I've been reading a book about my body.* I read a book about how my body works and what it needs at least once a year. I watch TV programs and read articles about health, nutrition, and exercise. I am always struck by what an amazing machine my body is. Of course, it's not just my body: we all have one, and they are truly remarkable.
When I was 10, my father almost died. He was 39. He almost died because of body neglect and abuse. He rarely exercised, and he consumed all matter of unhealthy fats and sugar. He was significantly overweight at that point in his life. He had a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. A team of surgeons, experimenting with what was a new technique back then, put him together. His task was to keep himself healthy.
My maternal grandmother, who had always been interested in how we create health, took his health on as a mission. She read everything she could get her hands on, and she did a lot of research. My grandfather had been an organic gardener long before it had a name, primarily because he had limited financial resources, and his compost pile was less expensive than buying fertilizers. As Grandma read about creating health, his gardening took on new purpose. For almost as long as I can remember, I have understood that what goes into our bodies determines how healthy we are.
After almost a lifetime reading about my body, I have learned almost nothing new from this book. It is comprehensive, but so is my knowledge bank. Why, then, did I buy the book and spend most of my weekend reading it? And, why do I do so at least once a year with one new body book or another? Reinforcement and discipline. Each author packages the information I know differently, so every time I read, there is a slightly different twist to what I know. But there is more.
A friend once said to someone joining us for a meal for the first time, "Eating with Kay is an exercise in consciousness." I don't think she meant it in a bad way. I don't have expectations that others will eat the way I choose, and I rarely talk about it unless I know someone shares an interest. Most, who have eaten at my home, find what I serve delicious and satisfying, and many, if not most, would have no clue that I am serving "healthy" fare. I think what she meant is that I really give thought to what I prepare, what I eat, and how I treat my amazing machine. (She did ask if I'd leave her my recipes when I die.)
I read because, as conscious as I am, I slip into unconscious patterns. I find something new I like, which is healthy, and I begin preparing that dish a lot. I forget certain nutrients that were in dishes that dropped off my radar when I replaced them with the new recipe. Reading helps me remember.
For example, for much of the last dozen years, dinner has been some kind of spinach salad several times each week. I know that the dark green vegetables have remarkable healing powers, but about 18 months ago, I discovered a different, healthy salad with which I've been obsessed. I didn't even realize it until I read this book, spinach has taken a back burner in my eating. That will change this afternoon.
This time I am also reminded of water. I used to take a gallon jug to my desk with me each morning when I had a home office. I would drink the whole jug every day. My office away from home provides me access to filtered water, but I have to walk for it. I am sure I don't drink as much now as I should. Besides having to walk to my water, I discovered a great new decaf coffee roasted locally, and I've been making and drinking more coffee instead of water. If nothing more, this reading will bring me back to water.
I hope this reading will also get me back to regular exercise. Since I don't have a car, I walk a lot, so I am not without exercise. However, I exercised an hour a day, seven days a week, for much of my adult life. As regular readers of this blog have heard before, the demands of my current and recent jobs have that number down to two or three times a week, and sometimes less, in addition to my necessity walking. I make excuses, but the truth is that they are just excuses. In my heart, I know they are just excuses. I will make time for exercise.
My intention is to live a healthy life, and I know that is fully within my control. My father, who almost died at 39, lived to be 65. I got an extra 26 years with him because of what went into his body--and more importantly, what didn't go in his body. I am sure if he had been able to break the cigarette habit, we would have had him much longer. I have a deeply personal lesson in front of me.
Whether it is creating physical health or maintaining my spiritual practice, living with intention is a matter of constantly assessing how I am doing and what adjustments I need to make to bring me back to my target. (The example of this being at least the third time since I began writing this blog that I have refocused on regular exercise.) So, at least once a year, I read a book about my amazing body, figure out what adjustments I need to make and make them. I am living with intention. The annual (or more frequent) aiming over process is one way that I respect the amazing machine that enables me to do all the things I love doing.
*The Body Book by Cameron Diaz (Harper Wave 2014.)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
When I was 10, my father almost died. He was 39. He almost died because of body neglect and abuse. He rarely exercised, and he consumed all matter of unhealthy fats and sugar. He was significantly overweight at that point in his life. He had a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. A team of surgeons, experimenting with what was a new technique back then, put him together. His task was to keep himself healthy.
My maternal grandmother, who had always been interested in how we create health, took his health on as a mission. She read everything she could get her hands on, and she did a lot of research. My grandfather had been an organic gardener long before it had a name, primarily because he had limited financial resources, and his compost pile was less expensive than buying fertilizers. As Grandma read about creating health, his gardening took on new purpose. For almost as long as I can remember, I have understood that what goes into our bodies determines how healthy we are.
After almost a lifetime reading about my body, I have learned almost nothing new from this book. It is comprehensive, but so is my knowledge bank. Why, then, did I buy the book and spend most of my weekend reading it? And, why do I do so at least once a year with one new body book or another? Reinforcement and discipline. Each author packages the information I know differently, so every time I read, there is a slightly different twist to what I know. But there is more.
A friend once said to someone joining us for a meal for the first time, "Eating with Kay is an exercise in consciousness." I don't think she meant it in a bad way. I don't have expectations that others will eat the way I choose, and I rarely talk about it unless I know someone shares an interest. Most, who have eaten at my home, find what I serve delicious and satisfying, and many, if not most, would have no clue that I am serving "healthy" fare. I think what she meant is that I really give thought to what I prepare, what I eat, and how I treat my amazing machine. (She did ask if I'd leave her my recipes when I die.)
I read because, as conscious as I am, I slip into unconscious patterns. I find something new I like, which is healthy, and I begin preparing that dish a lot. I forget certain nutrients that were in dishes that dropped off my radar when I replaced them with the new recipe. Reading helps me remember.
For example, for much of the last dozen years, dinner has been some kind of spinach salad several times each week. I know that the dark green vegetables have remarkable healing powers, but about 18 months ago, I discovered a different, healthy salad with which I've been obsessed. I didn't even realize it until I read this book, spinach has taken a back burner in my eating. That will change this afternoon.
This time I am also reminded of water. I used to take a gallon jug to my desk with me each morning when I had a home office. I would drink the whole jug every day. My office away from home provides me access to filtered water, but I have to walk for it. I am sure I don't drink as much now as I should. Besides having to walk to my water, I discovered a great new decaf coffee roasted locally, and I've been making and drinking more coffee instead of water. If nothing more, this reading will bring me back to water.
I hope this reading will also get me back to regular exercise. Since I don't have a car, I walk a lot, so I am not without exercise. However, I exercised an hour a day, seven days a week, for much of my adult life. As regular readers of this blog have heard before, the demands of my current and recent jobs have that number down to two or three times a week, and sometimes less, in addition to my necessity walking. I make excuses, but the truth is that they are just excuses. In my heart, I know they are just excuses. I will make time for exercise.
My intention is to live a healthy life, and I know that is fully within my control. My father, who almost died at 39, lived to be 65. I got an extra 26 years with him because of what went into his body--and more importantly, what didn't go in his body. I am sure if he had been able to break the cigarette habit, we would have had him much longer. I have a deeply personal lesson in front of me.
Whether it is creating physical health or maintaining my spiritual practice, living with intention is a matter of constantly assessing how I am doing and what adjustments I need to make to bring me back to my target. (The example of this being at least the third time since I began writing this blog that I have refocused on regular exercise.) So, at least once a year, I read a book about my amazing body, figure out what adjustments I need to make and make them. I am living with intention. The annual (or more frequent) aiming over process is one way that I respect the amazing machine that enables me to do all the things I love doing.
*The Body Book by Cameron Diaz (Harper Wave 2014.)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Squandering Love
On Thursday, I received an email from a friend who knew I was working on a memoir. She shared a number of observations, concluding with the question, "You
have had so many losses, transitions, upheavals, how did you (and how can we)
work through the fear/anxiety?" My immediate reaction was "I have no idea." I just had to.
It was only after writing yesterday's post about being the best we can be that it hit me: my resilience comes from living with the intention to never cease to be the best I can be. I don't always get there; in fact, I am not sure it is possible to get "there" because wherever we get, there is always the possibility to be better. In all things.
There are some things that I've been better at persisting to be better than others. All things considered, I've been good about how I eat and how I take care of my physical body. There are also things at which I have not been so good. I have not been so good at love.
Today I was having a conversation with a dear friend, and in the middle of it, I began to cry. Something we had been talking about just made me think, I've really squandered love. That is the word that came to me: "squandered." It isn't a word I use a lot. I have a sense of its meaning, but I felt like I wanted to look it up to see precisely what it meant. "To spend or use something precious in a wasteful and extravagant way." Hmm...I needed to look it up. That was exactly the word. When it comes to love, I've been like the prodigal who was given everything and wasted it.
A few days ago I wrote about the importance of telling people that I love that I do love them. ("I Love You," 1/7/14.) That is a communication and connection thing. This is different. To really be with love is to be truly present to it (that again!) and to consciously treat it as "precious." Consciously. To be in conscious awareness of love.
I remember falling asleep, night after night for years, thinking what joy love was bringing me. But, somewhere along the way, I stopped appreciating what I had. Appreciation is also an interesting word. We use it to talk about financial investments that grow. To really appreciate love requires investment--investment of self.
A few days a friend sent me an article written by a woman who had been single for many years before meeting her husband. She appreciates him, and she understands how to let go of the petty stuff because it really isn't important. She is treating the relationship as the precious thing it is.
Love is when we see the divine in ourselves and others. We really recognize the wonder that is. I regret having squandered such a precious thing as love. I would like to think that just as the long-time single woman, I will not squander love in the future. Yet, I am a work in progress. All I can truly do is the never cease to be better at appreciating the love I have...when I have it.
It was only after writing yesterday's post about being the best we can be that it hit me: my resilience comes from living with the intention to never cease to be the best I can be. I don't always get there; in fact, I am not sure it is possible to get "there" because wherever we get, there is always the possibility to be better. In all things.
There are some things that I've been better at persisting to be better than others. All things considered, I've been good about how I eat and how I take care of my physical body. There are also things at which I have not been so good. I have not been so good at love.
Today I was having a conversation with a dear friend, and in the middle of it, I began to cry. Something we had been talking about just made me think, I've really squandered love. That is the word that came to me: "squandered." It isn't a word I use a lot. I have a sense of its meaning, but I felt like I wanted to look it up to see precisely what it meant. "To spend or use something precious in a wasteful and extravagant way." Hmm...I needed to look it up. That was exactly the word. When it comes to love, I've been like the prodigal who was given everything and wasted it.
A few days ago I wrote about the importance of telling people that I love that I do love them. ("I Love You," 1/7/14.) That is a communication and connection thing. This is different. To really be with love is to be truly present to it (that again!) and to consciously treat it as "precious." Consciously. To be in conscious awareness of love.
I remember falling asleep, night after night for years, thinking what joy love was bringing me. But, somewhere along the way, I stopped appreciating what I had. Appreciation is also an interesting word. We use it to talk about financial investments that grow. To really appreciate love requires investment--investment of self.
A few days a friend sent me an article written by a woman who had been single for many years before meeting her husband. She appreciates him, and she understands how to let go of the petty stuff because it really isn't important. She is treating the relationship as the precious thing it is.
Love is when we see the divine in ourselves and others. We really recognize the wonder that is. I regret having squandered such a precious thing as love. I would like to think that just as the long-time single woman, I will not squander love in the future. Yet, I am a work in progress. All I can truly do is the never cease to be better at appreciating the love I have...when I have it.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Not-knowing as a Way of Life
Most of the time I sit quietly before writing this blog, and a topic gently floats into my awareness. Then I write. Not so today. Sometimes it feels to me like the Universe is beating me over the head with a topic that I need to revisit. So it is with not-knowing as a way of life. I've been writing about it for at least two decades, and I am still a student of its wisdom. Everywhere I've turned in the last couple of weeks, I have found myself talking about this topic. I can really tell it is serious when I start nervous eating when I think of it. I am going to save myself a few thousand calories and explore it more.
There is a relationship between chaos, complexity, and spiritual growth. I've observed it in individuals; I've observed it in groups. The simplified, I'm-not-a-physicist explanation of chaos theory says that chaos is always implicit in order. The easy way to explain this is that no matter how much we think we know how things are in our lives, every now and then, the Universe sends us a learning moment. This happened to me when my husband came home from his run and told me he wanted a divorce. He was showered, shaved, packed, and gone in 30 minutes! Wow! I really didn't see that one coming.
I had a client once who came home to his "happy" home at the end of his normally long work day to find an empty house. I am not saying no one was at home, although that was true. I am saying it was empty. Not a lick of furniture...or anything else. Four walls: that was it. He says he had no clue. Someone else was awakened in the middle of the night with a call from the police, saying that his teenager had been arrested. One of the most fit 40-year-olds that I have known was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's Disease. You get the idea: we are coasting along in la-la land, and something is hurled at us with no warning. That creates a moment...or many moments of chaos. If we are honest with ourselves in the moments that follow, we really are clueless about what is real.
In that period of exploration--for purposes of chaos theory, let's call it complexity--we know that the world is certainly not what we thought it was, but we are in the figurative "wilderness," trying to figure out what is true.
I have observed two ways in which people explore the "wilderness." The unconscious way takes many forms, but in short, this approach uses whatever will numb the reality that our life isn't as we thought. Drugs, alcohol, sex, food, starvation, purging, the three-gallons of ice cream break-up...you get the idea. Inevitably, if we take that journey, weeks, months, or years down the line, knowing nothing more about what is real, we will have another wake-up call, telling us that our world isn't as we thought it was. Normally, a succession of wake-up calls will continue until the Universe has our full attention.
For those of you who have read my book The Game Called Life, this is the space where Lizzie found herself when she fell across her steering wheel, sobbing for help, "There has to be a better way."
Let's call that the second way, what I call "not-knowing." In this approach, we can engage the wilderness. I would like to distinguish "not-knowing" from "I don't know." "I don't know" is passive. It is the shrug of the shoulders of not caring.
"Not-knowing" by contrast is active. Instead of coasting through the wake-up call, we engage in self-exploration, attempting to know self and the world around us in a new way. "Not-knowing" embraces this transition as an opportunity to grow in wholeness. This is where Lizzie found herself after Helen answered her call for help.
If we kick around in "not-knowing" long enough, an Aha! moment inevitably burst into consciousness. Suddenly one day when we least expect it (walking down the street, and it hits you,) you will see the world in a whole new way. Almost always this new world offers rich possibilities we had not considered before.
For those who dislike uncertainty, I hate to relate that life is a sequence of wake-up calls: they cannot be avoided. "Not-knowing as a way of life" is an attitude toward life that assumes the chaos as a given. If chaos is always implicit in order, why not just accept it, embrace it, and flow with it. Life becomes a series of opportunities to learn and grow into ever expanding possibilities.
I am not a surfer, but this is how I imagine it must be life to go for ever bigger waves. What might once have been intimidating can become a real rush...without drugs, alcohol, sex, or any of those numbing agents...a natural high that leads higher and higher. Stepping into our potential by growing regularly, not just when the Universe grabs us by the scruff of the neck and says, "Hey, dude! Listen to me."
During a webinar that I took today, the facilitator teaching about improving communication and listening said, "Just assume you don't understand." She may have been talking about "not-knowing as a way of life." Just assume you don't understand, and embrace the adventure of learning and growth. What else is there that is really important?
There is a relationship between chaos, complexity, and spiritual growth. I've observed it in individuals; I've observed it in groups. The simplified, I'm-not-a-physicist explanation of chaos theory says that chaos is always implicit in order. The easy way to explain this is that no matter how much we think we know how things are in our lives, every now and then, the Universe sends us a learning moment. This happened to me when my husband came home from his run and told me he wanted a divorce. He was showered, shaved, packed, and gone in 30 minutes! Wow! I really didn't see that one coming.
I had a client once who came home to his "happy" home at the end of his normally long work day to find an empty house. I am not saying no one was at home, although that was true. I am saying it was empty. Not a lick of furniture...or anything else. Four walls: that was it. He says he had no clue. Someone else was awakened in the middle of the night with a call from the police, saying that his teenager had been arrested. One of the most fit 40-year-olds that I have known was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's Disease. You get the idea: we are coasting along in la-la land, and something is hurled at us with no warning. That creates a moment...or many moments of chaos. If we are honest with ourselves in the moments that follow, we really are clueless about what is real.
In that period of exploration--for purposes of chaos theory, let's call it complexity--we know that the world is certainly not what we thought it was, but we are in the figurative "wilderness," trying to figure out what is true.
I have observed two ways in which people explore the "wilderness." The unconscious way takes many forms, but in short, this approach uses whatever will numb the reality that our life isn't as we thought. Drugs, alcohol, sex, food, starvation, purging, the three-gallons of ice cream break-up...you get the idea. Inevitably, if we take that journey, weeks, months, or years down the line, knowing nothing more about what is real, we will have another wake-up call, telling us that our world isn't as we thought it was. Normally, a succession of wake-up calls will continue until the Universe has our full attention.
For those of you who have read my book The Game Called Life, this is the space where Lizzie found herself when she fell across her steering wheel, sobbing for help, "There has to be a better way."
Let's call that the second way, what I call "not-knowing." In this approach, we can engage the wilderness. I would like to distinguish "not-knowing" from "I don't know." "I don't know" is passive. It is the shrug of the shoulders of not caring.
"Not-knowing" by contrast is active. Instead of coasting through the wake-up call, we engage in self-exploration, attempting to know self and the world around us in a new way. "Not-knowing" embraces this transition as an opportunity to grow in wholeness. This is where Lizzie found herself after Helen answered her call for help.
If we kick around in "not-knowing" long enough, an Aha! moment inevitably burst into consciousness. Suddenly one day when we least expect it (walking down the street, and it hits you,) you will see the world in a whole new way. Almost always this new world offers rich possibilities we had not considered before.
For those who dislike uncertainty, I hate to relate that life is a sequence of wake-up calls: they cannot be avoided. "Not-knowing as a way of life" is an attitude toward life that assumes the chaos as a given. If chaos is always implicit in order, why not just accept it, embrace it, and flow with it. Life becomes a series of opportunities to learn and grow into ever expanding possibilities.
I am not a surfer, but this is how I imagine it must be life to go for ever bigger waves. What might once have been intimidating can become a real rush...without drugs, alcohol, sex, or any of those numbing agents...a natural high that leads higher and higher. Stepping into our potential by growing regularly, not just when the Universe grabs us by the scruff of the neck and says, "Hey, dude! Listen to me."
During a webinar that I took today, the facilitator teaching about improving communication and listening said, "Just assume you don't understand." She may have been talking about "not-knowing as a way of life." Just assume you don't understand, and embrace the adventure of learning and growth. What else is there that is really important?
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Feeling Our Prayers
Prayer--communion with God. Ahh! Just being with those words makes my heart "vibrate" with warmth. Prayer is a two-way communication with the divine, but deeper and more consuming of our total presence.
It is not always so. As children, we spilled out the words, "God is great. God is good. And we thank him for our food," by rote and quickly at that, lest the food get cold in the few seconds they took.
And, there is the "Lord's Prayer," which many of us have said so many times that we don't even think about the words, much less feel them. When we pray the Lord's Prayer together in church, more often than not, if seems to me as if the congregation is racing through the words without even pausing for a comma much less to put feeling in them.
Several years ago, I studied the "Lord's Prayer" in Aramaic, the original language of the prayer. Since then, at least once each day, I say the prayer in Aramaic. When I first started, the prayer was slow and thoughtful, as I remembered the richness and complexity of the words in the original language. Sadly, the Aramaic words now spill out as thoughtlessly as the English version does most of the time.
After making my blog post last night, I felt my prayers. Why on one particular night did I feel my prayers? Perhaps it was the intensity of the visits to the war memorials that slowed me down or maybe it was the realization of the multi-generational pain of which I've been a part because of those wars. Whatever the reason, I had really felt the presence of the divine in my heart yesterday. As I prayed, I felt my prayers. It is a profound experience to really feel prayer.
The words were really irrelevant. In my heart, I could feel love, ebbing and flowing with my breathing. I actually felt bringing more love into the world so there would be less pain, loss, and grief. Today I've felt love, warmth and mercy being wrapped around me like a warm blanket on this cold and windy night. I feel the relaxation that comes with spiritual surrender. I will feel grateful as I write my gratitude journal, sending prayers of thanks. I will feel delight as I express gratitude that I can wiggle my fingers and toes. I will feel the reality of my affirmations as I say them.
I am quite confident that this is how we are in communion with God, the divine, all there is, or whatever term you prefer. This is how we say to God, this is what I intend to receive into my life. How often though I have prayed out of fear or anger, and fear and anger were the messages that I communed to God. Just thinking about it breaks my heart, but in its breaking open, I also send a prayer. Our feelings are the messages we send to God. If fear and anger are prayers, then so much more are joy, peace, and love prayers.
I am not sure if God even hears those rote prayers; of course, I am not sure that God doesn't hear them either. However, I am certain that when we are present to what we are feeling, we can be intentional about our prayers. A happy thought can be a prayer. A smile may also be a prayer. Delight is most certainly a prayer. Playing the Grocery Store Game can be prayer. Each moment we pray. Consciousness allows us to decide what we will pray and then really be present to the prayer.
It is not always so. As children, we spilled out the words, "God is great. God is good. And we thank him for our food," by rote and quickly at that, lest the food get cold in the few seconds they took.
And, there is the "Lord's Prayer," which many of us have said so many times that we don't even think about the words, much less feel them. When we pray the Lord's Prayer together in church, more often than not, if seems to me as if the congregation is racing through the words without even pausing for a comma much less to put feeling in them.
Several years ago, I studied the "Lord's Prayer" in Aramaic, the original language of the prayer. Since then, at least once each day, I say the prayer in Aramaic. When I first started, the prayer was slow and thoughtful, as I remembered the richness and complexity of the words in the original language. Sadly, the Aramaic words now spill out as thoughtlessly as the English version does most of the time.
After making my blog post last night, I felt my prayers. Why on one particular night did I feel my prayers? Perhaps it was the intensity of the visits to the war memorials that slowed me down or maybe it was the realization of the multi-generational pain of which I've been a part because of those wars. Whatever the reason, I had really felt the presence of the divine in my heart yesterday. As I prayed, I felt my prayers. It is a profound experience to really feel prayer.
The words were really irrelevant. In my heart, I could feel love, ebbing and flowing with my breathing. I actually felt bringing more love into the world so there would be less pain, loss, and grief. Today I've felt love, warmth and mercy being wrapped around me like a warm blanket on this cold and windy night. I feel the relaxation that comes with spiritual surrender. I will feel grateful as I write my gratitude journal, sending prayers of thanks. I will feel delight as I express gratitude that I can wiggle my fingers and toes. I will feel the reality of my affirmations as I say them.
I am quite confident that this is how we are in communion with God, the divine, all there is, or whatever term you prefer. This is how we say to God, this is what I intend to receive into my life. How often though I have prayed out of fear or anger, and fear and anger were the messages that I communed to God. Just thinking about it breaks my heart, but in its breaking open, I also send a prayer. Our feelings are the messages we send to God. If fear and anger are prayers, then so much more are joy, peace, and love prayers.
I am not sure if God even hears those rote prayers; of course, I am not sure that God doesn't hear them either. However, I am certain that when we are present to what we are feeling, we can be intentional about our prayers. A happy thought can be a prayer. A smile may also be a prayer. Delight is most certainly a prayer. Playing the Grocery Store Game can be prayer. Each moment we pray. Consciousness allows us to decide what we will pray and then really be present to the prayer.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Freedom Isn't Free
Today is Veterans' Day. Since arriving in Washington 7 years ago, I've used the holiday to visit one (or more) of the memorials to the veterans of our various wars. This year a friend joined me to visit several. First the World War II Memorial, remembering the contribution of my father. Then we moved on to the Vietnam War Memorial where my friend marked the two tours that her father spent in that war. Next we moved to the Korean War Memorial.
The Korean War has been called the forgotten war, sandwiched as it was between WWII and Vietnam, and technically a war that continues today. I always find the Korean Memorial eerily poignant. The life-sized soldiers are a ghostly white, and etched images on its own black wall come and go, almost like ghosts.
Today I noticed something new. In large letters etched in the black marble were the words, "Freedom Is Not Free." An aging soldier offered remarks to a small assembled crowd, saying early on "War is hell."
The Korean War has been called the forgotten war, sandwiched as it was between WWII and Vietnam, and technically a war that continues today. I always find the Korean Memorial eerily poignant. The life-sized soldiers are a ghostly white, and etched images on its own black wall come and go, almost like ghosts.
Today I noticed something new. In large letters etched in the black marble were the words, "Freedom Is Not Free." An aging soldier offered remarks to a small assembled crowd, saying early on "War is hell."
As I'd moved from one war memorial to another, I'd kept thinking, there really has to be a better way to resolve our differences than in the blood of young men and now women. On the rim of a fountain in front of "Freedom Is Not Free" were US and United Nations casualty numbers. When I came home, I looked up more figures. Casualty estimates vary widely, but in the range of 1 million service personnel were killed on both sides. A total of 2.5 million civilian deaths and injuries were reported. Still missing from UN forces are 470,000. This from a war we hardly talk about.
The truth is the casualties of our wars are much greater than these and numbers from other wars would indicate. Before heading out for our walk this morning, I'd listened to part of a program on the Diane Rehm Show about Veterans Treatment Courts. (http://thedianerehmshow.org/shows/2013-11-11/veterans-treatment-courts.) These are special courts for veterans who had no criminal records before the war they went to turned them into criminals.
What does this have to do with my spiritual journey? My friend, a woman in her 50s, and myself, a woman in my 60s, also carry the scars of our fathers' wars. After visiting the memorials, we talked about our scars. The men who came home to our households were never emotionally available to their daughters (or sons either.) Whatever the experience of "war is hell" was for our fathers, they could not talk about it and repressed their emotions. In order to put away the ugly feelings, my father was forced to repress the good ones as well. Although I am sure my father loved me a lot, he could not show it.
But, you see, this is not the whole story about my father's wounds of war. His father, a veteran of World War I, probably suffered from what we call PTSD (Post Traumatic Shock Disorder) today. Back then, they said he was "shell shocked" as many WWI vets were at the first exposure to modern warfare. He was institutionalized for almost 30 years, unavailable at all for his son--my father--or us, his grandchildren.
The result is that I grew up and am now growing old unable to get close to people. (10/12/13) I am unable to receive love and be taken care of. (11/8/13) Neither my friend nor I ever went to war or experienced the horrors that our fathers did, yet we are casualties, carrying multi-generational wounds. All over the world there are casualties of war--people who went to war and came home forever changed and people that never went to war.
The other thing that this has to do with my spiritual journey is being conscious. I feel like a different person than I was this morning. Touched by the sacrifices and even more moved by the magnitude. I don't ever again want to forget what is doing on at spots all over the world even as I write. I don't ever want to forget that even though there isn't much I can do, I must do what I can to connect us. If ever there was a day when my fervent belief in the need to connect with people heart to heart, it was this one. I must start with myself, dropping the walls of my heart to let love out and perhaps more importantly to let love in.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Rewriting Our Stories
Our minds play tricks on us, and the really tricky thing is they can totally transform for either good or bad how we experience life. Events in our lives are by and large neutral. They only become positive or negative because of what our minds tell us.
For instance, there are number if stories about people who were distressed because they missed a plane only to later learn that the plane had crashed.
Or there is the story about the man walking down the street, who was knocked over by a skateboarder, only see a heavy flower pot land on the sidewalk where he would have been if he'd kept walking.
If we are to experience everything as a gift, I believe it is essential that we become conscious of our stories and then rewrite them so that they help us see the gift.
This morning I cheerfully headed out for work, and I was hardly out the door before I began encountering delays. When I got to the corner where I would normally enter the Metro, the entry was closed. I was directed to a different entry.
I was just inside the alternative entry, when I saw my train leaving the station. When I made it to the platform, there were no times for upcoming train departures. A disabled train had blocked the tracks, and trains were bottlenecked from coming into the city. The missed train was the last for a while. A long delay ensued, thereby assuring that I will miss my first meeting.
I finally entered a train that was packed like sardines. When I was almost to the station where I would change trains, the driver pulled in the station and said, "This train is out of service." So, everyone on the packed train offloaded.
At this point, I decided to walk a long block to another line where I would catch the train I would have changed to if my train had made it to the expected change point. It seems that was not an original thought. Hundreds of others joined me in the race to the other line, pushing and shoving all the way.
I allowed myself only a moment's pity before asking, "What's the gift? What's the gift?" Then I laughed out loud. I'd been struggling to fit exercise into my schedule thus week. Each of my delays had added more walking or escalators to climb. Was this a serious workout? Of course not. But it did get my heart rate up for a bit. By choosing to see all the delays as a gift, I started the day with a smile on my face and grace in my heart.
I was proud of myself for being awake enough to notice and to rewrite my story. That is a powerful act, choosing how to experience life without regard to circumstances.
Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Remembering to Pray
When I finish this blog at the end of most days and then head to bed, I find I often have an Aha! moment. So it was last night, as the night before. As I was writing my gratitude list--things that I have to be grateful for at the end of each day--there were two things for which I was most thankful. First, I was grateful for having spoken truth to power. Almost as I had that thought, I remembered early in the day I had prayed for courage to do so, and then I had promptly forgotten about the prayer. I am sure it was why I finally said what I should have said a year ago.
As I reflected about this little miracle (or maybe not so little,) I "got" on a deeper level than before about prayers being answered. I tend to pray gratitude and for guidance. I rarely pray for help. Now, I know that just by simply asking in the morning, and then "letting it go," made a huge difference to me.
Why then have I rarely asked for help? It is a good question. Maybe it feels selfish to ask for something for me. Perhaps, as the author of a book on courage, I think I should be able to muster my own courage without help. The truth is that I don't think I am very good about asking for help in anything from anyone--human or divine.
I could blame my reticence on events of my childhood that made me fiercely independent, since asking for help just doesn't seem very independent. I might say that all those years of education trained me to take care of myself. Even that my generation of women thought they had to be superwomen to claim our place in the work world. However, I think more likely is that I am terrified that if I surrendered even a chink in my armor of independence that I might just not exist.
Many years ago I heard an essay which proposed that the four most powerful words in any language were, "I need your help." At all of 5'1" tall, I often find myself looking for tall shoppers in the grocery store to reach items on top shelves that are far higher than my fingers can stretch. Over the years when I've needed assistance, I find people are often genuinely happy to help. I asked a friend to pick me up after a recent surgery because the surgery center wouldn't let me leave on my own. How silly! My friend was happy to help and good enough to tuck me in before I drifted back to sleep. Asking for help out of anything except sheer necessity has mostly been absent in my life. Why? I have no idea.
Dear God, I do need your help: I need your help remembering to pray. I need your help to just allow myself to collapse in the warmth of your love and to know that you will be there with me and for me.
Always!
As I reflected about this little miracle (or maybe not so little,) I "got" on a deeper level than before about prayers being answered. I tend to pray gratitude and for guidance. I rarely pray for help. Now, I know that just by simply asking in the morning, and then "letting it go," made a huge difference to me.
Why then have I rarely asked for help? It is a good question. Maybe it feels selfish to ask for something for me. Perhaps, as the author of a book on courage, I think I should be able to muster my own courage without help. The truth is that I don't think I am very good about asking for help in anything from anyone--human or divine.
I could blame my reticence on events of my childhood that made me fiercely independent, since asking for help just doesn't seem very independent. I might say that all those years of education trained me to take care of myself. Even that my generation of women thought they had to be superwomen to claim our place in the work world. However, I think more likely is that I am terrified that if I surrendered even a chink in my armor of independence that I might just not exist.
Many years ago I heard an essay which proposed that the four most powerful words in any language were, "I need your help." At all of 5'1" tall, I often find myself looking for tall shoppers in the grocery store to reach items on top shelves that are far higher than my fingers can stretch. Over the years when I've needed assistance, I find people are often genuinely happy to help. I asked a friend to pick me up after a recent surgery because the surgery center wouldn't let me leave on my own. How silly! My friend was happy to help and good enough to tuck me in before I drifted back to sleep. Asking for help out of anything except sheer necessity has mostly been absent in my life. Why? I have no idea.
Dear God, I do need your help: I need your help remembering to pray. I need your help to just allow myself to collapse in the warmth of your love and to know that you will be there with me and for me.
Always!
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Celebrating little successes
A pilot once explained to me what happens when I fly from one major city to another, say from New York to San Francisco. Although the pictures in the airline magazines draw the route as a nice arc from one city to the other, the journey is really anything but a perfect arc. Imagine a zigzag arc, like it was cut with pinking shears. While the aviator is going east to west, there are many north and south adjustments to keep the plane on course.
After yesterday's post, I headed to bed thinking about how hard I am on myself sometimes for not getting "it"--whatever it is--perfectly. Sometimes I miss my target a little in one direction. Then I adjust and miss it a little in the other. All in all, I like to think that similar to the course of the airplane, I know where I want to go but doing so on an arc that looks a bit like it was cut with the pinking shears.
What I hope is most important is that I am attempting to live a conscious life. I sincerely want to connect with others, heart to heart. I yearn to have this planet be a more loving place. Whether I go on autopilot for part of each day and miss opportunities to connect with others is less crucial than that I actually did so three times today. Today, I celebrate the little successes and know that most of the time, I am headed in the direction of love.
After yesterday's post, I headed to bed thinking about how hard I am on myself sometimes for not getting "it"--whatever it is--perfectly. Sometimes I miss my target a little in one direction. Then I adjust and miss it a little in the other. All in all, I like to think that similar to the course of the airplane, I know where I want to go but doing so on an arc that looks a bit like it was cut with the pinking shears.
What I hope is most important is that I am attempting to live a conscious life. I sincerely want to connect with others, heart to heart. I yearn to have this planet be a more loving place. Whether I go on autopilot for part of each day and miss opportunities to connect with others is less crucial than that I actually did so three times today. Today, I celebrate the little successes and know that most of the time, I am headed in the direction of love.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Birthing the Intentions of Spring
After a week typing it and completing the first proofreading of The Game Called Life manuscript yesterday, I decided I needed to do something different today. With a steady downpour outside, a long walk was not an option I chose.
My desk is stacked and sadly overflowing, so cleaning my desk seemed in order. I've been at it for about five hours now, and I can truthfully say that I cannot tell that I've done anything. Really! Much of the sorting that I've been doing has been turning handwritten notes from meditations and retreats into word documents that I could file and refer to. Other pages in the stacks have been thoughts for various books that I am working on.
Among the pages of notes, I found intentions for the rest of the year from my spring retreat. While I am still without a life partner again for almost 20 years, I am amazed at how much on the list is gradually becoming reality. The summer must have been a germination period, because since my mid-September retreat and thanks to both this blog and the government shutdown and my furlough, my intentions have been in fast-forward. Making a contribution to the healing of the world, using my voice, and writing daily have become a reality. I hope this blog is making a difference, and I am confident that when The Game Called Life is an e-book, it will dramatically contribute to the healing of our world.
At the end of the page of intentions, I had printed in larger letters "WHAT IS MY INTENTION?" I believe that referred to what my single underlying intention was from all the others. I had a drawing and the words "living at the choice point." Choice Point is a book that I wrote in the late 90s but has never been published. It is about living in conscious communion, moment-by-moment, with All That Is. For me that means, following what I know to be true in my heart. I call the process "living a prayer." As I looked over the list, it was true: the only way I could do anything on the list is by living a prayer.
I definitely am not there, but I am markedly farther along than I was six months ago when I wrote this. I truly believe that I have planted seeds over the summer and in this furlough that predict I will be still farther along the path when I cross the one-year anniversary of my last spring retreat. And, that's what it is all about--consciously attempting to do better and better at living a spiritually rich life. In my heart I know that is where I am intended to be.
My desk is stacked and sadly overflowing, so cleaning my desk seemed in order. I've been at it for about five hours now, and I can truthfully say that I cannot tell that I've done anything. Really! Much of the sorting that I've been doing has been turning handwritten notes from meditations and retreats into word documents that I could file and refer to. Other pages in the stacks have been thoughts for various books that I am working on.
Among the pages of notes, I found intentions for the rest of the year from my spring retreat. While I am still without a life partner again for almost 20 years, I am amazed at how much on the list is gradually becoming reality. The summer must have been a germination period, because since my mid-September retreat and thanks to both this blog and the government shutdown and my furlough, my intentions have been in fast-forward. Making a contribution to the healing of the world, using my voice, and writing daily have become a reality. I hope this blog is making a difference, and I am confident that when The Game Called Life is an e-book, it will dramatically contribute to the healing of our world.
At the end of the page of intentions, I had printed in larger letters "WHAT IS MY INTENTION?" I believe that referred to what my single underlying intention was from all the others. I had a drawing and the words "living at the choice point." Choice Point is a book that I wrote in the late 90s but has never been published. It is about living in conscious communion, moment-by-moment, with All That Is. For me that means, following what I know to be true in my heart. I call the process "living a prayer." As I looked over the list, it was true: the only way I could do anything on the list is by living a prayer.
I definitely am not there, but I am markedly farther along than I was six months ago when I wrote this. I truly believe that I have planted seeds over the summer and in this furlough that predict I will be still farther along the path when I cross the one-year anniversary of my last spring retreat. And, that's what it is all about--consciously attempting to do better and better at living a spiritually rich life. In my heart I know that is where I am intended to be.
Monday, October 7, 2013
The Game Called Life Clears First Hurdle
Just a few minutes after 5 p.m. today I finished retyping The Game Called Life. I am delighted to have spent a week up close and person with that book. Every time I read it I learn something, or probably more appropriately I remember something that I knew and had slipped from consciousness. I am also reenergized about my decision to release it as an e-book.
Not long before finishing my typing project this afternoon, a reader called. She's had the book for several years and says it has a special place on her book shelf. I took that as affirmation that this book has special value in the hearts and minds of those who have read it and will with electronic readers as well. (I am not sure what the Kindle version of a special place on the book shelf is, but I am listening.)
There is a deep sense of relief at having gotten The Game Called Life this far on the journey to e-bookdom, and I know that tomorrow the proof-reading begins. For now, I celebrate having made it over the first hurdle.
Not long before finishing my typing project this afternoon, a reader called. She's had the book for several years and says it has a special place on her book shelf. I took that as affirmation that this book has special value in the hearts and minds of those who have read it and will with electronic readers as well. (I am not sure what the Kindle version of a special place on the book shelf is, but I am listening.)
There is a deep sense of relief at having gotten The Game Called Life this far on the journey to e-bookdom, and I know that tomorrow the proof-reading begins. For now, I celebrate having made it over the first hurdle.
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