I've been thinking a lot about angels lately. I've especially been thinking about guardian angels, those who are presumed to hover invisibly around us, helping us in countless ways.
When I'd finished writing the 1/23 post on "Time," and I'd reread it for typos before posting, I was almost moved to tears. I wondered if the colleague, whom I'd described as helping me learn my huge spiritual lesson of "being present," could possibly be a guardian angel, who had taken human form, precisely to infuse me with new understanding of how to be present?
Then, I wondered more. What is an angel? Could any of us be an angel if we do something that helps those around us be better people?
If those about us can be our angels, even guardian angels, then, I lost one this week. On Tuesday, my colleague Sheila surrendered to her year-long battle with cancer. If there are angels about us, Sheila certainly was one. She was so kind, caring, quiet and unassuming, but the thing that stands out in my mind's eye about Sheila was her smile. Her smile seemed to well up from her soul and literally shed light to everyone in her path. No matter what was going on, Sheila had time; there was a deep and abiding presence about her. She always made time to give back.
When my crazy-busy days consumed me, I often wished I had more time to spend with Sheila. Now I am really sorry for not making it. I have learned an important lesson on living priorities and taking...making...time for the angels on our paths, while we still have them.
I've been graced by these two amazing angels, walking with me through the hubbub of daily life. I am so honored to have taken time with my current colleague, just as I regret not having done so with Sheila.
Pondering angels this week, the thought has crossed my mind that I live in a make-believe world. In this world, I think there are people, each of whom independent with our own paths to follow. What, I've wondered, if maybe they are all angels. How would I live differently if I thought that everyone who crosses my path is an angel? How indeed.
Jane Lynch has a new television program "Angels from Hell," and in her somewhat rude, crude, bowdy, and inimitable style plays a guardian angel who irritates the heck out of the woman she is guarding. As I've pondered that everyone might actually be a guardian angel, Lynch's character brings to mind some of the irritating people in my life. Maybe they are indeed guardian angels.
There is a Talmudic lesson saying that "Every blade of grass has an angel that bends over and whispers, 'Grow! Grow!'" The lesson implies that if every blade of grass has an angel, then each of us must have many angels encouraging our ever move or decision.
The Rabbi's Gift is a parable that I have often used to close a leadership retreat. It tells of a monastery, which has fallen on hard times and is down to just a small handful of monks. One of the monks visits the nearby hermitage of a rabbi to pray and talk about the problem. As the monk is leaving to return to the monastery, the rabbi shares an insight with the monk. He says, "The savior is among you."
Of course, the monk returns and shares this mysterious wisdom. When the monks believe the savior to be one of their number, they begin treating each other with extraordinary respect and caring, and soon their new internal energy begins attracting outsiders to the monastery, which is soon flourishing.
Like the monks, I wonder what the world would look like if each of us treated those around us as if each were a guardian angel, put on our paths precisely for the purpose of helping us. I think that is the real world.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Monday, January 25, 2016
Getting lost
Two weeks ago was the Epiphany on the Christian calendar. For those who don't know the significance of that day, it marks the day in which the wise men or kings arrived to honor the baby Jesus after following the star as their guide. In some cultures Christmas Eve/Christmas Day marks the beginning of the celebration of the holiday, which for them ends on January 6, when Twelfth Night celebrations occur. The giving of gifts at that time mirrors the gifts the magi brought to the infant.
Anyone who has lived through the drum of Christmas carols on elevator and department store music or even read William Shakespeare's "The Twelfth Night" probably at least vaguely knows about those events or traditions. "We Three Kings of Orient Are" "The Twelve Days of Christmas," "O Little Town of Bethlehem," etc. My interest in these events is more than what I've learned from piped-in music. I've actually studied these events at some length.
I love to learn. I particularly like to learn something that adds to or alters an understanding that was pretty well entrenched for me. (For instance, maybe this week the discovery of the likelihood of a new planet.) So it was two weeks ago on Epiphany, when our pastor shared that the kings didn't actually arrive in Bethlehem directly. They actually went to Jerusalem first, which was about 12 miles from Bethlehem. They got lost before correcting their course and making their objective.
He went on to compare the journey of the kings with any spiritual journey. Sometimes we get lost. Yesterday I wrote of getting lost on my journey to be present and grateful. I think there have been times when I was very good at that. Then I got lost. I am sure the kings didn't know the first step that took them away from their intended destination, but as some point they became aware that they were 12 miles from where they wanted to be. I don't know when I began to stray either, but I clearly had.
What I do know is that it was easier when I had my own business. I worked very hard, but I could pick and choose my work, and I could delay work when it would keep me from being really focused on something I was already working on. For many years, clients booked several months in advance to do my intensives or to schedule a speech, usually around my schedule.
I've made it up that I can't do that when someone else is my boss. I say I've made that up because I mostly haven't tried saying to my boss that I am overbooked when being given a new task. I haven't been clear about when my boundaries were being crossed. I haven't said to someone that I want to talk with them later but right now I need to be present to what I am doing. I can't say that I could be more present because I haven't tried all the things my colleague has demonstrated to me so nicely.
I also wrote yesterday about circumstances being laboratories for personal growth. Yes, it was easier to really be present when I controlled most of the variables, so that may have been "Being Present 101." My real job that I will go back to next week will probably be the graduate school version of that lesson.
In one of her books, Carol Pearson wrote about the Hero's Journey like concentric circles. She says that we learn the same lessons (or live the same archetypes) over and again, but each time what we learn is supposed to be different--a more advanced lesson. I like to think that maybe I've just been in a more challenging lesson, but when the pastor spoke of being lost, it really resonated for me. I have felt lost, but am learning.
While there is something heavy about the inevitability of learning the same lessons over and over again like "Ground Hog Day," I find it uplifting that if I am awake enough to see the lessons and learn them, I keep growing...and I will keep growing for as long as I notice the lesson. For someone who likes to learn, that is a delicious prospect.
Anyone who has lived through the drum of Christmas carols on elevator and department store music or even read William Shakespeare's "The Twelfth Night" probably at least vaguely knows about those events or traditions. "We Three Kings of Orient Are" "The Twelve Days of Christmas," "O Little Town of Bethlehem," etc. My interest in these events is more than what I've learned from piped-in music. I've actually studied these events at some length.
I love to learn. I particularly like to learn something that adds to or alters an understanding that was pretty well entrenched for me. (For instance, maybe this week the discovery of the likelihood of a new planet.) So it was two weeks ago on Epiphany, when our pastor shared that the kings didn't actually arrive in Bethlehem directly. They actually went to Jerusalem first, which was about 12 miles from Bethlehem. They got lost before correcting their course and making their objective.
He went on to compare the journey of the kings with any spiritual journey. Sometimes we get lost. Yesterday I wrote of getting lost on my journey to be present and grateful. I think there have been times when I was very good at that. Then I got lost. I am sure the kings didn't know the first step that took them away from their intended destination, but as some point they became aware that they were 12 miles from where they wanted to be. I don't know when I began to stray either, but I clearly had.
What I do know is that it was easier when I had my own business. I worked very hard, but I could pick and choose my work, and I could delay work when it would keep me from being really focused on something I was already working on. For many years, clients booked several months in advance to do my intensives or to schedule a speech, usually around my schedule.
I've made it up that I can't do that when someone else is my boss. I say I've made that up because I mostly haven't tried saying to my boss that I am overbooked when being given a new task. I haven't been clear about when my boundaries were being crossed. I haven't said to someone that I want to talk with them later but right now I need to be present to what I am doing. I can't say that I could be more present because I haven't tried all the things my colleague has demonstrated to me so nicely.
I also wrote yesterday about circumstances being laboratories for personal growth. Yes, it was easier to really be present when I controlled most of the variables, so that may have been "Being Present 101." My real job that I will go back to next week will probably be the graduate school version of that lesson.
In one of her books, Carol Pearson wrote about the Hero's Journey like concentric circles. She says that we learn the same lessons (or live the same archetypes) over and again, but each time what we learn is supposed to be different--a more advanced lesson. I like to think that maybe I've just been in a more challenging lesson, but when the pastor spoke of being lost, it really resonated for me. I have felt lost, but am learning.
While there is something heavy about the inevitability of learning the same lessons over and over again like "Ground Hog Day," I find it uplifting that if I am awake enough to see the lessons and learn them, I keep growing...and I will keep growing for as long as I notice the lesson. For someone who likes to learn, that is a delicious prospect.
Saturday, January 23, 2016
Time
Assuming that the snowstorm, which has pretty much laid low the nation's capital and much of the East Coast and South doesn't prevent it, next week will be my last week at my temporary job assignment. I've enjoyed my time there enormously. I've delighted in being part of a team that really pulls together toward one whopping big, positive goal--raising $50 million for charity in three months. I've loved knowing that I am making such a difference for thousands in need, not just for the year ahead but perhaps for the rest of their lives. I fully admit to feeling good when two of my agency campaign managers told me on the same day that I'd been the best person in my role that they'd ever worked with and, because of that, their teams had exceeded their goals.
My nature is to reflect on transitions, and this one is no different. The things that I've just mentioned are the standard fare, and it is also my nature to reflect beneath the standard fare options. What has been the spiritual consequence of these four months?
Almost since the beginning of my assignment, one individual has impacted me in a deeply personal way. Almost every encounter with her has been a learning experience. Let's take, for instance, what happens when she is walking in during the morning, racing toward her desk as most of us do, and I ask the common question, "How are you?" She will almost stop in her tracks, take a deep breath, get a huge smile on her face as she exhales, and say something like, "Thank God I am fine," or "I am really blessed with health." The responses are rarely the same so as not to have become rote. She assessed where she is and answers gratefully.
When I stop by her cube to talk with her, she stops everything, looks me in the eye, and stays totally present to our conversation. We occasionally share a table over our brown-bag lunches, and she has some minusculely small containers. When I once remarked about them, she says she is usually full when she finishes. After that, I notice that she really eats very slowly and gives each bite of food the same attention that she give the "How-are-you?" question in the morning. I've noticed something similar during Lent when I give more studied attention to eating; I am almost always full half-way through my meal.
This colleague seems to get the "being present" and "being grateful" qualities of personal spirituality to which I aspire, and I've been privileged to have spent these months in her "classroom." There is another quality of "being present" that I've learned from her as well. I am not quite sure how to describe it except to say that it has to do with recognizing how important boundary control is to "being present." Maybe it could be described as being present to the consequences of not being present.
Almost all of us on the campaign are extremely busy and often simultaneously working on several deadline projects for different agencies, each one of which thinks its need should be Priority One. If a colleague walks up to me at a time like that, I am embarrassed to admit that I forget my "being present" goal. At times, I try to continue working while talking to the person, which means that I give neither the project or the person the attention each deserves. Sometimes I will say, "I'm on a deadline, and I really don't have time to talk right now." Even as the words come out of my mouth they feel rude and piercing. In my heart I hate that I felt like I cut the person off. The times when I do stop and talk, I know I am not present; I am totally distracted by what I think I "should" be working on.
My colleague, who I am certain was sent to this assignment to be my spiritual teacher, has taught me a lot about that, as well. In a similar circumstance, she stops, connects with me visually and spiritually, and looks me in my eye as she says something like, "I would really like to talk with you, but I want to give my full attention to the task I need to complete for Agency A by noon. May we talk later?" To be sent away by this woman feels like a privilege. I have never felt slighted in the least. Just the reverse, I feel like she is saying that our connection is so important that she doesn't want to give it short-shrift while she multi-tasks or is distracted.
Since the first of the year, I've sometimes been physically ill when I thought about going back into the pressure cooker that is my "real" job. I've feverishly looked for other opportunities, without success. I even bought a lottery ticket toward the $1.2 billion jackpot, something that was so foreign to me that I had to ask someone how to do it. Now that my return seems inevitable, and I am in my reflective space, I am being completely grateful for the opportunity to have worked with such a fine spiritual teacher.
I am also keenly aware that there is no finer place in the world to practice the spiritual lessons that my colleague has taught me than to go back into the pressure cooker and practice them, where I will really be tested. I have already written reminders on the white board in my usual office, which I think will keep me on track. They are at the top and marked as priority items.
I truly believe that life is a series of big spiritual lessons. We get stuck in them until we learn them, and then almost magically, we are able to move on. I don't want to get stuck in this one any longer. I've been to spiritual school for four months. I know what to do. That means to remember the job isn't about customer service or earning a paycheck, although both are important. This job is about proving I can do what I used to do and what I know to be the right thing to do. Now, all I must do is have the spiritual will to do what I know to be right for me.
My nature is to reflect on transitions, and this one is no different. The things that I've just mentioned are the standard fare, and it is also my nature to reflect beneath the standard fare options. What has been the spiritual consequence of these four months?
Almost since the beginning of my assignment, one individual has impacted me in a deeply personal way. Almost every encounter with her has been a learning experience. Let's take, for instance, what happens when she is walking in during the morning, racing toward her desk as most of us do, and I ask the common question, "How are you?" She will almost stop in her tracks, take a deep breath, get a huge smile on her face as she exhales, and say something like, "Thank God I am fine," or "I am really blessed with health." The responses are rarely the same so as not to have become rote. She assessed where she is and answers gratefully.
When I stop by her cube to talk with her, she stops everything, looks me in the eye, and stays totally present to our conversation. We occasionally share a table over our brown-bag lunches, and she has some minusculely small containers. When I once remarked about them, she says she is usually full when she finishes. After that, I notice that she really eats very slowly and gives each bite of food the same attention that she give the "How-are-you?" question in the morning. I've noticed something similar during Lent when I give more studied attention to eating; I am almost always full half-way through my meal.
This colleague seems to get the "being present" and "being grateful" qualities of personal spirituality to which I aspire, and I've been privileged to have spent these months in her "classroom." There is another quality of "being present" that I've learned from her as well. I am not quite sure how to describe it except to say that it has to do with recognizing how important boundary control is to "being present." Maybe it could be described as being present to the consequences of not being present.
Almost all of us on the campaign are extremely busy and often simultaneously working on several deadline projects for different agencies, each one of which thinks its need should be Priority One. If a colleague walks up to me at a time like that, I am embarrassed to admit that I forget my "being present" goal. At times, I try to continue working while talking to the person, which means that I give neither the project or the person the attention each deserves. Sometimes I will say, "I'm on a deadline, and I really don't have time to talk right now." Even as the words come out of my mouth they feel rude and piercing. In my heart I hate that I felt like I cut the person off. The times when I do stop and talk, I know I am not present; I am totally distracted by what I think I "should" be working on.
My colleague, who I am certain was sent to this assignment to be my spiritual teacher, has taught me a lot about that, as well. In a similar circumstance, she stops, connects with me visually and spiritually, and looks me in my eye as she says something like, "I would really like to talk with you, but I want to give my full attention to the task I need to complete for Agency A by noon. May we talk later?" To be sent away by this woman feels like a privilege. I have never felt slighted in the least. Just the reverse, I feel like she is saying that our connection is so important that she doesn't want to give it short-shrift while she multi-tasks or is distracted.
Since the first of the year, I've sometimes been physically ill when I thought about going back into the pressure cooker that is my "real" job. I've feverishly looked for other opportunities, without success. I even bought a lottery ticket toward the $1.2 billion jackpot, something that was so foreign to me that I had to ask someone how to do it. Now that my return seems inevitable, and I am in my reflective space, I am being completely grateful for the opportunity to have worked with such a fine spiritual teacher.
I am also keenly aware that there is no finer place in the world to practice the spiritual lessons that my colleague has taught me than to go back into the pressure cooker and practice them, where I will really be tested. I have already written reminders on the white board in my usual office, which I think will keep me on track. They are at the top and marked as priority items.
I truly believe that life is a series of big spiritual lessons. We get stuck in them until we learn them, and then almost magically, we are able to move on. I don't want to get stuck in this one any longer. I've been to spiritual school for four months. I know what to do. That means to remember the job isn't about customer service or earning a paycheck, although both are important. This job is about proving I can do what I used to do and what I know to be the right thing to do. Now, all I must do is have the spiritual will to do what I know to be right for me.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Choosing our Dreams...or Not
I've been considering dreams and particularly which ones that I will consciously keep and others that I will intentionally let die. I've discovered that it isn't as easy as I expected.
First there are a host of dreams that I've actually achieved. Consider joining three cousins in being the first generation in our family to graduate from college. Actually, you could even say "go" to college, but we also graduated. It was a very big deal for me, since it took me 22 years after I started college before I graduated.
Then, there was getting a graduate degree. I think I was the first in my family to do that. That allowed me to get the kind of professional work that I had dreamed about. That was followed by the dream to work globally, which I did 25 years ago and to publish a book, then two, which I did almost 20 years ago. What I discovered is that there were a lot of these dreams that once I achieved them, their completion left something of a vacuum that I never consciously either replaced or celebrated and really en-joyed.
Somewhat disturbing to me are some material dreams that were very important to me in my twenties and early thirties. The big house with a pool. Lenox china and Waterford crystal. Later the big house in the woods on a lake. There was the Jaguar XKE. It really was a lot of fun to drive and watch heads turn when I drove down the street. Having grown up in a lower middle class neighborhood, maybe just having the heads turn was a dream. As I reflect on these dreams, they hardly seem worthy of being a dream. Yet, they occupied a lot of psychic space for a number of years.
I've also recalled the dreams that fall in the category of "be careful what you wish for." Thank you, God, that many of those dreams didn't come true. The relationships that I wished wholeheartedly would materialize, and in retrospect, I know they would have been horrible mistakes. Even the relationship I was certain would resurrect itself after 20 years (its been 22) now seems like it would never have worked.
Similarly, there were jobs or even employers that I was certain would have been perfect. Later I worked with people from those companies and discovered that the work those companies did wasn't a good fit for my skills or the culture wouldn't have been nurturing for me.
I've had purpose dreams: I dreamed that I could make the world a better place and even visualized what it would look like when we all loved each other. A ribbon of love that connects the whole world from heart to heart. In times when there is a mass shooting almost daily in the US and some really big ones, like Paris and San Bernardino, not that uncommon, and when ISIS electrifies the internet with beheadings, a world in which we are connected to every single person through love seems very 1990s. That contradicts my dream of living beyond fear.
A friend helped me think through this, and I believe that some dreams "expire," sort of like milk or meat. But when mine have expired, I have not been conscious about choosing to not have them as dreams any more. I am not really sure how this happens in the Universe. If I've prayed for a dream, especially some dreams for years, how do I say, "Uh, God, could we cancel that one?" but some clearly don't feel right any more.
I believe that we communicate with God in feelings. Maybe I will just share with God what the feeling that I want will be and let God figure out how to get me to those feelings. Then, the picture of the dream can change without changing the feeling. I think it is called "Letting God be God." Novel concept, would you say? As I sit in my New Year's meditation, maybe that is the real dream, that I can surrender my dreams and allow myself to experience God's dreams for me...and for the world. Now that will be living my dreams.
First there are a host of dreams that I've actually achieved. Consider joining three cousins in being the first generation in our family to graduate from college. Actually, you could even say "go" to college, but we also graduated. It was a very big deal for me, since it took me 22 years after I started college before I graduated.
Then, there was getting a graduate degree. I think I was the first in my family to do that. That allowed me to get the kind of professional work that I had dreamed about. That was followed by the dream to work globally, which I did 25 years ago and to publish a book, then two, which I did almost 20 years ago. What I discovered is that there were a lot of these dreams that once I achieved them, their completion left something of a vacuum that I never consciously either replaced or celebrated and really en-joyed.
Somewhat disturbing to me are some material dreams that were very important to me in my twenties and early thirties. The big house with a pool. Lenox china and Waterford crystal. Later the big house in the woods on a lake. There was the Jaguar XKE. It really was a lot of fun to drive and watch heads turn when I drove down the street. Having grown up in a lower middle class neighborhood, maybe just having the heads turn was a dream. As I reflect on these dreams, they hardly seem worthy of being a dream. Yet, they occupied a lot of psychic space for a number of years.
I've also recalled the dreams that fall in the category of "be careful what you wish for." Thank you, God, that many of those dreams didn't come true. The relationships that I wished wholeheartedly would materialize, and in retrospect, I know they would have been horrible mistakes. Even the relationship I was certain would resurrect itself after 20 years (its been 22) now seems like it would never have worked.
Similarly, there were jobs or even employers that I was certain would have been perfect. Later I worked with people from those companies and discovered that the work those companies did wasn't a good fit for my skills or the culture wouldn't have been nurturing for me.
I've had purpose dreams: I dreamed that I could make the world a better place and even visualized what it would look like when we all loved each other. A ribbon of love that connects the whole world from heart to heart. In times when there is a mass shooting almost daily in the US and some really big ones, like Paris and San Bernardino, not that uncommon, and when ISIS electrifies the internet with beheadings, a world in which we are connected to every single person through love seems very 1990s. That contradicts my dream of living beyond fear.
A friend helped me think through this, and I believe that some dreams "expire," sort of like milk or meat. But when mine have expired, I have not been conscious about choosing to not have them as dreams any more. I am not really sure how this happens in the Universe. If I've prayed for a dream, especially some dreams for years, how do I say, "Uh, God, could we cancel that one?" but some clearly don't feel right any more.
I believe that we communicate with God in feelings. Maybe I will just share with God what the feeling that I want will be and let God figure out how to get me to those feelings. Then, the picture of the dream can change without changing the feeling. I think it is called "Letting God be God." Novel concept, would you say? As I sit in my New Year's meditation, maybe that is the real dream, that I can surrender my dreams and allow myself to experience God's dreams for me...and for the world. Now that will be living my dreams.
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, December 6, 2015
Islands in Ourselves
This Sunday marked the beginning of the Advent Season in the Christian tradition, and in scripture it reveals John the Baptist announcing the forthcoming birth of Jesus. While that is a distinctively Christian commemoration, as we often find across religions, there is a theme that demands all of us to rethink our lives.
John asks us to "repent," a word that in the original Latin means to "rethink" or to "think again." Today our pastor invited all of us to to rethink the "islands in ourselves." By that he meant places in us which we consider unchangeable, where we are not open to influence from others. He used by way of example our eating habits when we know our cholesterol levels are too high, but we refuse to consider other ways of eating. Clearly, there is something for us to learn...and change, but often we are intransigent to change.
In a world which is characterized by intransigence, perhaps we should look to find common ground with others who are equally intransigent...but on the other side(s). How easy is it to think that our perspective is the only one or the only virtuous one, when in most cases, no side is without fault or virtue.
Yet, I struggle. Integrity is critical to me. Being "at one" with what is right and true is core to who I am. How do I make sense of "rethinking" and still stay in integrity. Does integrity mean that I am not vulnerable to other versions of the Truth? Does it mean that I should pick up what I believe to be true and examine it to determine if there are other sides of the Truth?
As we go into a season which is characterized with singing, eating, drinking and socializing, I will step back this year and wonder, "Are there places in my life in which I might find other versions of the Truth?" I believe that the message of the Christmas holiday is to find peace, joy and love and to come together as a single humankind. How can I do so with the Truth that we are all connected, and each of us contributes to the real Truth of coming together? How can I do so without owning that there are islands in myself that are and should be vulnerable to other versions of the Truth?
John asks us to "repent," a word that in the original Latin means to "rethink" or to "think again." Today our pastor invited all of us to to rethink the "islands in ourselves." By that he meant places in us which we consider unchangeable, where we are not open to influence from others. He used by way of example our eating habits when we know our cholesterol levels are too high, but we refuse to consider other ways of eating. Clearly, there is something for us to learn...and change, but often we are intransigent to change.
In a world which is characterized by intransigence, perhaps we should look to find common ground with others who are equally intransigent...but on the other side(s). How easy is it to think that our perspective is the only one or the only virtuous one, when in most cases, no side is without fault or virtue.
Yet, I struggle. Integrity is critical to me. Being "at one" with what is right and true is core to who I am. How do I make sense of "rethinking" and still stay in integrity. Does integrity mean that I am not vulnerable to other versions of the Truth? Does it mean that I should pick up what I believe to be true and examine it to determine if there are other sides of the Truth?
As we go into a season which is characterized with singing, eating, drinking and socializing, I will step back this year and wonder, "Are there places in my life in which I might find other versions of the Truth?" I believe that the message of the Christmas holiday is to find peace, joy and love and to come together as a single humankind. How can I do so with the Truth that we are all connected, and each of us contributes to the real Truth of coming together? How can I do so without owning that there are islands in myself that are and should be vulnerable to other versions of the Truth?
Sunday, November 29, 2015
Dark Nights, Extraordinary Grace, and Humility
I have just completed one of my silent meditation retreats. I used to take four days, two times a year, for these retreats. I am not sure how it happened but in recent years they've been more sporadic and often shorter. This time I took three days.
For many years I would choose a book around a theme I intended to explore in my meditations and read it in the few days before I began my retreat. Occasionally, I would finish it on the first day of the retreat. About 10 days before I started this withdrawal for reflection, I got a message about Choice Point, a book that I first drafted in 1997 and which I continued to revise until about 2000. I hadn't read it since about 2009, so revisiting it seemed in order. While I didn't have time to read the book prior to my retreat, I did bring it with me and I read about half of it in bits and pieces over the three days.
When I last read the book in 2009, I recognized that it was badly dated, and that was even more apparent this time. However, the thing that I noticed most was what I can only describe as my arrogance in tone. I can assure you that was not my intention. In the mid- to late-1990s, my life worked extraordinarily well spiritually, and I just assumed that was "normal." The years in between have demonstrated to me that my experience was not in any way "normal," but instead was extraordinary grace. My failure to recognize that was arrogant.
Choice Point is a guide to listening for our inner voice or divine voice or whatever it is that guides us on a spiritual path. For 8-9 years in the 1990s, my inner guidance system worked extremely well. All I had to do was ask a question, and the answer was there. I moved across the country, worked globally, designed a new home, and wrote several books on that guidance. So, it should not be surprising that the book I wrote about that intention process carried a "just do it!" attitude, implying that if we express the intention, the communication will just flow.
Sometime, and I can't really say precisely when it was, I stopped being able to get that guidance. I struggled to get anything. I would like to say that as the regularity of my meditation time waned that my guidance did as well because, if that were the case, fixing the problem would be easy. I'd just have to start meditating regularly again. I actually think just the opposite was the case. I think my failure to get guidance precipitated my willingness to meditate less frequently.
Several saints from the Roman Catholic tradition have written about their inability to receive guidance after rich periods of regular communication with the divine.* A book released after her death revealed that Mother Teresa had struggled for decades with the inability to communicate directly, as she had done quite regularly in her younger years. The most common term for that absence of communication is "the dark night of the soul," and the period of non-communication--often for the rest of life--usually follows a rich period of dialogue with the divine. While I haven't experienced the depression that many described, I have keenly felt the lack of communication which characterizes the "dark night of the soul."
My just-completed three days of sitting continued the lack of communication. Even exercises that I've used to jump-start the flow failed me repeatedly. So, I mostly sat. Occasionally, I picked up Choice Point to read a chapter. Taking time from the fast-paced life I find myself living for personal reflection is reward in and of itself, but I am definitely not stepping out with the feeling of personal enlightenment that I used to experience.
I have learned that the 8-9 years of constant dialogue with the divine that I used to experience as "normal" was instead extraordinary grace. The communication vacuum, which has dominated my life for 15 years, has taught me what a gift I received for the preceding years. If I revisit Choice Point again for rewrite, it will be from true humility as I will bring the understanding of what a gift it was.
*I believe this is true of other traditions as well, but I am less well read on them.
For many years I would choose a book around a theme I intended to explore in my meditations and read it in the few days before I began my retreat. Occasionally, I would finish it on the first day of the retreat. About 10 days before I started this withdrawal for reflection, I got a message about Choice Point, a book that I first drafted in 1997 and which I continued to revise until about 2000. I hadn't read it since about 2009, so revisiting it seemed in order. While I didn't have time to read the book prior to my retreat, I did bring it with me and I read about half of it in bits and pieces over the three days.
When I last read the book in 2009, I recognized that it was badly dated, and that was even more apparent this time. However, the thing that I noticed most was what I can only describe as my arrogance in tone. I can assure you that was not my intention. In the mid- to late-1990s, my life worked extraordinarily well spiritually, and I just assumed that was "normal." The years in between have demonstrated to me that my experience was not in any way "normal," but instead was extraordinary grace. My failure to recognize that was arrogant.
Choice Point is a guide to listening for our inner voice or divine voice or whatever it is that guides us on a spiritual path. For 8-9 years in the 1990s, my inner guidance system worked extremely well. All I had to do was ask a question, and the answer was there. I moved across the country, worked globally, designed a new home, and wrote several books on that guidance. So, it should not be surprising that the book I wrote about that intention process carried a "just do it!" attitude, implying that if we express the intention, the communication will just flow.
Sometime, and I can't really say precisely when it was, I stopped being able to get that guidance. I struggled to get anything. I would like to say that as the regularity of my meditation time waned that my guidance did as well because, if that were the case, fixing the problem would be easy. I'd just have to start meditating regularly again. I actually think just the opposite was the case. I think my failure to get guidance precipitated my willingness to meditate less frequently.
Several saints from the Roman Catholic tradition have written about their inability to receive guidance after rich periods of regular communication with the divine.* A book released after her death revealed that Mother Teresa had struggled for decades with the inability to communicate directly, as she had done quite regularly in her younger years. The most common term for that absence of communication is "the dark night of the soul," and the period of non-communication--often for the rest of life--usually follows a rich period of dialogue with the divine. While I haven't experienced the depression that many described, I have keenly felt the lack of communication which characterizes the "dark night of the soul."
My just-completed three days of sitting continued the lack of communication. Even exercises that I've used to jump-start the flow failed me repeatedly. So, I mostly sat. Occasionally, I picked up Choice Point to read a chapter. Taking time from the fast-paced life I find myself living for personal reflection is reward in and of itself, but I am definitely not stepping out with the feeling of personal enlightenment that I used to experience.
I have learned that the 8-9 years of constant dialogue with the divine that I used to experience as "normal" was instead extraordinary grace. The communication vacuum, which has dominated my life for 15 years, has taught me what a gift I received for the preceding years. If I revisit Choice Point again for rewrite, it will be from true humility as I will bring the understanding of what a gift it was.
*I believe this is true of other traditions as well, but I am less well read on them.
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