I received this story from Kabbalah.com this morning and just loved it. I can identify! See what you think:
Two persons love in one another the future good, which they aid one another to unfold.--Margaret Fuller
We can see the potential for growth in friends we love, a reality that often lies hidden to them. Through our encouragement and our commitment to them, we can help them tackle the barriers to success. Likewise, we'll be helped. It's within the plan, ours and theirs, that we're traveling this road together.
"Siple calls herself a Christian pluralist, open to the possibility of the validity of other religious traditions.
After her tour of Asia, she spent a week at the Taize monastery in France, a place that attracts young people from around the world. In a Taize service, there is chanting and reading from scripture. But there are also long moments where more than 1,000 young adults sit quietly together in silence — not being told what to do.
"You do what you feel is right for your religious practice," Siple says. "I think that is what our generation is screaming for right now. People want not to be told what they should do, but to figure it out for themselves."
The Kabbalists say that a person whose strength is in his words and not in his actions will always be caught in the world of extremes. That's why it is so important to walk the walk, and not just talk the talk. And we all do it, to an extent.
Focus on action today. What have you been procrastinating on? What are you "trying" to do? Don't try. Just do. You'll be much happier this way.
This weekend I was given both a kind of "dark night of the soul" experience and the light that came as a result. On Saturday night I went to hear my oldest son perform with his college jazz band. The venue was a small, dark, intimate jazz supper club. I was a bit nervous about it because, as a single person, I thought I would be highly aware of my "aloneness"--especially with Christopher's dad, his wife, and their friends eating together at a table not far away.
The music was wonderful, filling, lifting, energizing. I loved every minute of it. And yet I was acutely aware of the empty seats at my table, heightened by the fact that everyone else (as far as I had the courage to look) seemed to have others sitting with them--family members, friends, lovers, spouses.
I sat alone. At the break, Christopher and his girlfriend came and sat at the table and we talked a bit. Then they returned to the stage.
On the way home, I talked to my daughter on the phone. I told her how great the music had been. She asked, "Was it okay, going by yourself?" "It wasn't bad," I said.
But I came home to what felt like an empty house (although in reality I had my dogs, cats, and turtle to welcome me). And I looked at my beautiful Christmas tree and the lights spiraling up the stairs. And my heart ached as loneliness washed over me. I sat down and cried.
Yesterday my daughter and I scurried out in the early morning to try to get one of the late-release Wiis we'd heard a rumor about (we didn't get one, but we got close enough to see the people who got one!). Then in the afternoon I braved the mall and had a wonderful time finishing up my Christmas shopping. I cared for my grandbaby in the evening while her mama and papa went to a company Christmas party. And both boys were home--Christopher came home for Christmas break from college--and they were upstairs hooting and hollering as they played Xbox 360 games.
I put on the soundtrack to the movie Elf and made Christmas cookies. I was happy. I was singing in the kitchen as I figured out the new cookie press. Life was good again.
It occurred to me late last night that when I was feeling such a riping pain about being alone, I wasn't focused on what's real in my life. I was looking in the shadows for what I didn't have rather than opening my eyes in the light to see the very real blessings all around me. For that dark night in that dark jazz club, I allowed myself to believe in Lack. And you know what? It hurts!
It strikes me that I was reliving the moment in the Garden of Eden, when Eve believed the serpent when he told her she was missing something. Eat this, he said, and you'll have the knowledge God has. Eve thought there was something being withheld from her. She believed it was possible that there was something she lacked. And so she reached out, took a bite, and sought to fix the problem herself.
Not only did that solidify her belief in the possibility that she lacked something; she passed that belief along to Adam. And their own focus on lack caused them to hold back from God when he came for his daily happy stroll in the garden. They hid; they withdrew; they created the illusion of lack in their relationship with God.
If Eve had been completely happy with things as they were in the garden--if she's truly appreciated everything God had given her (and trusted God to reveal anything else needed at just the right time)--that story might have had a different ending.
For my part, this morning I'm very aware of the abundance around me. Life is good. I have companionship, and comfort, and peace, and joy. All along, all I needed were the eyes to see it, the ears to hear it, and the heart willing to fully, abundantly, receive.
Merry Christmas to you and yours--and may the grace and joy of God enfold everyone in the world in an embrace of peace.
This beautiful poem arrived in my Writers' Almanac newsletter this morning:
Poem: "Just One God" by Deborah Cummins, from Counting the Waves. © Word Press. Reprinted with permission.
Just One God
after Wesley McNair
And so many of us.
How can we expect Him
to keep track of which voice
goes with what request.
Words work their way skyward.
Oh Lord, followed by petition —
for a cure, the safe landing.
For what is lost, missing —
a spouse, a job, the final game.
Complaint cloaked as need —
the faster car, porcelain teeth.
That so many entreaties
go unanswered
may say less about our lamentable
inability to be heard
than our inherent flawed condition.
Why else, at birth, the first sound
we make, that full-throttled cry?
Of want, want, want.
Of never enough. Desire
as embedded in us as the ancestral tug
in my unconscienced dog who takes
to the woods, nose to the ground, pulled far
from domesticated hearth, bowl of kibble.
Left behind, I go about my superior business,
my daily ritual I could call prayer.
But look, this morning, in my kitchen,
I'm not asking for more of anything.
My husband slices bread,
hums a tune from our past.
Eggs spatter in a skillet.
Wands of lilac I stuck in a glass
by the open window wobble
in a radiant and — dare I say it? —
merciful light.
I've read God Calling as part of my morning routine for years and years. This morning the message really seemed to jump off the page at me. The reminder was to give of ourselves--our prayers, our time, our thoughts, our presence, our love--before we ever get out our checkbooks to buy a gift. It is so easy to rush out and find a nice sweater, candle, CD, or gadget, wrap it in pretty paper, and wait excitedly for a loved one to open it on Christmas morning. But when we begin to stress about how "little" we have to give, we can think of all the real gifts behind the material, hold-in-your-hands one. We can pray for the happiness, protection, security, and growth of the person--that's a gift. We can call them on the phone and share a little of our time with them. That's a gift. We can spend a little time thinking about them and remembering all loving things they've done and being grateful for their presence in our lives. That's a gift. And we can open our hearts and meditate on the preciousness of that person to us, which I believe adds more light to the world that everybody feels. That's a profound gift.
And when we receive in this same spirit, a new understanding emerges. Unwrapping something on Christmas morning is a joy, but maybe what we're really hoping for is some token that it matters to that person that we're on the earth; that we're loved; that we are connected and wanted and valued; that some other human being understands (or wants to understand) us. That might be a lot to expect from a scarf or a tie. But when we open our hearts and minds to receive everything that goes along with that gift--prayer, time, thought, presence, and love--we can truly know how blessed we are. And then we can continue to give from that richness.
This year may our holidays--Christmas, Chanukkah, Kwanzaa, or a celebration of our own creation--be blessed with an abundant understanding of what giving really means.
This is a wonderful story from Listening to Your inner Voice, by Douglas Bloch:
According to a Japanese legend, two monks were walking down the road when they saw a finely dressed young woman standing before a large mud puddle. She explained that she had no way of crossing the water without ruining her clothes. Without saying a word, the first monk picked her up in his arms and lifted her safely across the obstacle.
A few hours later the second monk said in an accusatory tone, "How could you have picked up that lady? Don't you know that the rules strictly forbid us to touch a member of the opposite sex?" His friend smiled and then replied, "I put the woman down back at the puddle. Are you still carrying her?"
This poem is posted this morning on the Writer's Almanac. It's amazing. I was pleased to know that I'm on the right track. I like Thai food and have a turtle (he's actually my son's, but I've been his primary caregiver for the last 8 years). I don't hear hidden meanings in a cardinal's song, but I do feel that a cardinal is a valentine from God. :)
This poem is a great reminder of the richness, variety, and open-hearted possibilities each of our lives offer:
"How to Live" by Charles Harper Webb, from Amplified Dog. © Red Hen Press.
How to Live
"I don't know how to live."
–Sharon Olds
Eat lots of steak and salmon and Thai curry and mu shu
pork and fresh green beans and baked potatoes
and fresh strawberries with vanilla ice cream.
Kick-box three days a week. Stay strong and lean.
Go fly-fishing every chance you get, with friends
who'll teach you secrets of the stream. Play guitar
in a rock band. Read Dostoyevsky, Whitman, Kafka,
Shakespeare, Twain. Collect Uncle Scrooge comics.
See Peckinpah's Straw Dogs, and everything Monty Python made.
Love freely. Treat ex-partners as kindly
as you can. Wish them as well as you're able.
Snorkel with moray eels and yellow tangs. Watch
spinner dolphins earn their name as your panga slam-
bams over glittering seas. Try not to lie; it sours
the soul. But being a patsy sours it too. If you cause
a car wreck, and aren't hurt, but someone is, apologize
silently. Learn from your mistake. Walk gratefully
away. Let your insurance handle it. Never drive drunk.
Don't be a drunk, or any kind of "aholic." It's bad
English, and bad news. Don't berate yourself. If you lose
a game or prize you've earned, remember the winners
history forgets. Remember them if you do win. Enjoy
success. Have kids if you want and can afford them,
but don't make them your reason-to-be. Spare them that
misery. Take them to the beach. Mail order sea
monkeys once in your life. Give someone the full-on
ass-kicking he (or she) has earned. Keep a box turtle
in good heath for twenty years. If you get sick, don't thrive
on suffering. There's nothing noble about pain. Die
if you need to, the best way you can. (You define best.)
Go to church if it helps you. Grow tomatoes to put store-
bought in perspective. Listen to Elvis and Bach. Unless
you're tone deaf, own Perlman's "Meditation from Thais."
Don't look for hidden meanings in a cardinal's song.
Don't think TV characters talk to you; that's crazy.
Don't be too sane. Work hard. Loaf easily. Have good
friends, and be good to them. Be immoderate
in moderation. Spend little time anesthetized. Dive
the Great Barrier Reef. Don't touch the coral. Watch
for sea snakes. Smile for the camera. Don't say "Cheese."
Last night as I was climbing into bed my prayer was a request for help with worrying. Usually I am not a big worrier--I'm optimistic by nature and typically expect good things to happen. And good things almost always do. But perhaps because of the major changes in my life over the last several months--my son going to college for the first time, my daughter having a baby, my youngest son growing 8 inches in a year and suddenly discovering girls (!)--I have noticed an increase in the worry refrain in my not-so-conscious thoughts. I worry about my daughter driving with the baby to the bank by herself. I worry about my son getting overly tired when he stays up til 5:00am writing papers. I worry about my youngest wanting to go to a different high school where he will be the "new kid."
All of these are normal, natural parts of growing up (for them and for me). But the after-effects left me in a pattern of worrying. And worry is more than wasted energy--it creates fearful images of what might happen (thinking the worse) and projects them outward as though they could be a reality. And what's worse is that I might then believe that the worries are real and change my actions based on them, which can impact the messages I give to my kids about the goodness of life, my hope for the future, or my belief in the care of God.
So last night, my prayer was that somehow (God knows how) I might be released from this unnatural, unpeaceful worried state. I know God doesn't want me walking around with a low-grade worry fever, a kind of fear-based static that keeps me on my toes, watchful, anticipating something scary. That's just not God's way of doing things. From what I believe about God and God's world, there is a harmony, a loving harmony, in which all things work together for our good. We are loved and cared for and safe. This is the opposite of worry. Last night I prayed to remember what is real about God and to release the fearful thought forms I was creating by losing touch with my belief of the constancy of God's care.
This morning I awoke with energy and joy. One of the first thoughts in my head was, "If life really is a smorgasbord, what would I choose for myself today?" What an empowering thought! If I can choose anything I want for today, what would I serve myself? Joy, comfort, care, peace. Remembrance of God. A happy family and loving neighbors. Meaningful work. A sense of care and comfort for the world.
My hope for you today is that, if you find yourself in the clutches of worry, you will let God heal your worried mind and remind you how much you are loved. And then you will be free to choose the best parts from the smorgasbord your life is offering you right now!
Yesterday I awoke with a panicked sense of how-will-I-ever-get-everything-done-today? coursing through my veins. The sun wasn't even up yet, and already I was fretting about all the deadlines I had in my work and the seemingly limited number of hours I had to complete everything. Editors were (and are) waiting. Family members had needs and expectations. I of course had preferences about how I wanted to spend my time.
The first thing I did when I noticed that frightening refrain in my head was to pray about it and do my best to release the unknown day into the hands of the Source who is love and light and harmony. God didn't want me to have a fretful, frightened day. God knows from the span of infinity how pointless it is to give too much sway to momentary upsets. They come and go like leaves floating on water. They are best noticed, acknowledged, and acted on if necessary--but not to be taken too seriously.
After distancing myself a little from the fear (by praying about it), I was able to get some perspective on it. I realized that that panic, for me, comes from a fear of not doing what I say I will, which comes from a fear of not doing the right thing, which comes from a fear of letting people down. As I traced each level of the thought process that produced that awful feeling, I realized at that the root of it was a belief that I had to do everything right--or else. Or else what? What happens if I don't do everything right? What happens if I mess up? What happens if life intervenes and I can't possibly live up to all the obligations I have created for myself?
That's where Grace comes in. Grace isn't about earning or deserving anything. It's not about coloring in the lines, showing up prepared at a meeting, doing or saying the right thing at the right moment.
When I am reacting in fear to the many obligations I have today, I am at some deep level believing that I must do the right things in the right way to be okay. That's a belief in merit, not a belief in grace.
Doing what I say I will do is important to me, and I try to live and work in such a way that I honor that principle in my life. But when I do it out of fear, I lose touch with the world of Grace, which I believe is where God really lives--in peace, harmony, light, and the everything's-okayness that is so conspicuously missing when I'm running through my day trying to escape an imaginary, invisible stress monster that seems always at my heels.
I have a feeling I've written about this before--maybe more than once. But I was on the phone with a friend this morning and I found myself talking about how much of mothering--at least in this stage of mothering--is about letting go. Letting go of Kelly and Tony and Ruby as they create their own wonderful family. Letting Christopher go to explore college and be in what sounds and looks like real love perhaps for the first time in his life. Letting Cameron go up to his room after dinner every night so he can talk on the phone to the young lady who has suddenly brought a blush to his complexion.
Letting go means I have to love my own life, simply because it is my own. I loved the time my days were filled with the needs and laughter of my children. But I also love the fact that their lives are now their own--happy, vibrant, full of possibility, with their own friends, interests, talents, and more. I am quickly moving into a time when I will be much less in demand--even Cameron will be driving before I know it--and I'd better be really in love with my own life by then. I think God gives us lives not to simply give to others (a tough lesson for women like me who love caring for our families) but to also enrich, enjoy, and expand them for ourselves.
I love to write, cook, read, listen to music, learn about God and others. I'm fascinated with Jung and dreamwork; I love to garden and watch things bloom. I adore my animals--and, of course, my kids and grandbaby. I love them all, but not because I need them to fill a hole in my life or keep me from being alone with myself. I actually love alone time. I love silence. I love watching old movies. There's a lot of me that just enjoys life--whether or not I am doing something for my children or not.
If I never let go, I wouldn't be able to see, feel, and appreciate that.
Enjoy your letting go today!
Years ago Christopher and I drove through a wintry landscape to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where we sat in the front row of a college auditorium and were absorbed in the experience of live jazz played by Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra. It was one of those high-point experiences--live music, spontaneously created and released into the air all around us. I had one of those crystal clear thoughts that stayed with me (which, when you first look at it, may seem to make no sense): "Jazz is a perfect moment."
To me, that statement meant that the improvisation that happens--that expresses itself as music--in the jazz solos performers create--is a perfect moment of creation. The solos aren't notated or memorized--the notes, the patterns, the riffs come naturally, arising in the heart, mind, fingers, and breath of the artist and released freely, never to be repeated exactly the same way again. It's a perfect moment of creation and gift--involving those who create it and those who receive it.
In something I read by Jung over the last couple of days I happened across the phrase "pure experience." Pure experience is what happens when you can arrive in the present moment clear-minded, open, and free of the burdens of the past or the fears of the future. It seems to me that so much of the thought that fills our minds is really clutter that has to do with rehashing the past or protecting ourselves against the future. We live our lives in our heads, trying to figure out the next thing to do, understand the thing that happened in the past, or check off items on our mental to-do list so we can feel like we accomplished something at the end of the day.
Being open to "pure experience" is more than an intellectual experience. It means feeling life in your whole body--letting the music reverberate in your heart, your hands, your toes. It means welcoming your whole self--mind, body, and spirit--into the presence of life happening now.
When we can notice that we have arrived in this moment--with its cool breeze, its noisy traffic, its sunlight, its music, or its quiet--we find the simple and profound gift of pure experience, already here, waiting for us to notice.
Rabbi Irwin Khula is being interviewed on The Today Show right now about the forgiveness of the Amish community in Pennsylvania after the horrific tragedy of the schoolhouse shootings. The rabbi just said something amazing and beautiful. In answer to Matt Lauer's question, "Is forgiveness a religious issue?" He said, "No--I believe there's a fundamental, powerful yearning in all humans for connection. Forgiveness becomes, 'How big is your story?' If you start your story at the violence and proceed from there, you're going to find it difficult to forgive. But if you can expand your story to include all of this person's painful life, his woundedness, his illness, his family, you will be able to see how much led up to this moment.'" And then, with understanding, forgiveness is within reach.
There's a line in A Course in Miracles that has been one of my favorites for years: Seek to understand another and you cannot fail to love him. When we can expand our view, letting the story be bigger than the horrific act, our understanding brings compassion, we begin to grasp the struggle, and ultimately, we may find ourselves connecting--and then forgiving--in a profound way.
Last week brought one of the biggest experiences of my life. Thursday night at 8:43pm I became a grandma for the first time. Ruby arrived in the world, big, pink, and healthy. In the days leading up to her birth, I became aware of the vastness of Mystery in a way I'd never noticed it before. Birth is such an exciting and joyful event--the rebirth of hope, innocence, and newness of life. But birth isn't achieved in this world without risk--danger and pain. As a mom hoping, praying, and believing that childbirth would be a great experience for my daughter, I was keenly aware of how much was outside my control. I was aware--in a totally new way--of the huge unanswered questions about the development of life, the organization of cells, the spirit indwelling, and the relationship between being and nonbeing.
I witnessed the meeting of Ruby and mama and dada; I held her in my arms; I silent expressed my gratitude to God for knowing the way and holding us all in the midst of this Great Mystery. I'll never forget any of the moments, the faces, the sounds--or the feeling of bumping into the vast, indescribable Mystery that I can't grasp or understand but can somehow trust.
Last night I had a really interesting dream. Two friends who had been living together for a long time were breaking up. One woman followed the other out on the front lawn, yelling at her. She was completely consumed with her upset. At one point she threw something (a glass something) at the little orange VW bug that apparently belonged to the other woman. The other woman was calm and sad. She was quiet, resolute. She had packed her things and loaded them in the car and was about to drive away from the apartment they'd shared for a long time.
In my dream, I stood at the back of the car (having just helped to load it, I guess), looking on with love and compassion. These women were both apparently my good friends from college. In my dream, I understood that even though there were many hurt feelings right now, we would all remain friends. I wasn't worried. I was even a little amused, because I knew the end of the story.
As I wrote in my journal and reflected on the dream (common theory being that all characters in our dreams are really parts of us), I asked myself where I was the woman heaving the glass vase at the other woman's car. And who was that other woman, calm, sad, quiet, but not operating from emotion?
She was my rational side, my intellect.
I think it's part of the human condition to be living out many influences at the same time. We are pushed and pulled between desire and will; between hope and doubt; between feelings and thoughts. We can intellectualize our experiences, but processing them requires opening to, being honest with, and giving our feelings a voice. And then after they've thrown glass vases at our reasoning, we need to give our intellect a chance to make meaning of the experience--what just happened? What does it mean? How does it enrich and expand the story my life is creating with itself?
I think the part of me standing behind the car (by the engine, in a VW bug, btw), smiling and knowing everything was okay, was my spirit. In spirit there was no argument--there's no division--there's no struggle or shouting on the lawn. The spirit has a vision I can only glimpse fleetingly, in harmonious moments.
And, of course, in my dreams. :)
This morning I was thinking about Oneness, about how it's more than a pleasant concept or some ideal we try to live up to. The idea of Oneness is becoming more real to me the older I get. The mistake of separation--the idea that we're little, alone, and vulnerable--is seeming more obviously a mistaken belief of the ego to me.
I remember years ago trying to imagine a sense of everything being One. The picture in my head was something like sunlight spreading over an open field--how it expands and lights up everything it touches. I thought one basic thing we have in common is that all of us, sooner or later, touch the earth in some way--right now you're sitting on a chair that touches the floor that touches the foundation of your house of office, which touches the earth. We drive in cars or ride in busses with tires that touch the earth. When we walk, run, jog, or bike we touch the earth. Even when we fly, at the start and end of our flight, we are touching the earth (and some would argue that we are still in earth's atmosphere even in the air, so we're still part of the earth.)
So as I experiment with ideas of Oneness, it occurred to me that maybe God is gravity--unseen like that natural force, but giving us such a powerful and constant hug that he holds us on the planet, each and every one of us, every minute. :)
In the Today's Gift email I get from Hazelden, I found the following quote:
"Every great mistake has a halfway moment, a split second when it can be recalled and perhaps remedied." --Pearl S. Buck
This is one of those ideas that stunned me for a moment because (1) I'd never had this thought in my head before, and (2) because it is so true. I can think back to choices I made in my life that caused me pain (or at least gave me a mess to dig out of later), and I can remember clearly the moment when I was struggling with whether to go forward or choose a different route. Even when I prayed about some of those decisions, I still often made choices that turned out not to be for my good. Turns out that I didn't know it at the time, but I was unclear at my hurting places, and I could easily be swayed into choosing the wrong thing for me. As a friend told me over coffee one morning, "The next time you face something like that, call me--I think even though you were praying about it, you ultimately told yourself what you wanted to hear."
A lot of healing and radical commitment to self-love gradually led me into a place where I could discern whether something was good for me or not. But I love the idea that this moment of grace is built into every choice. God puts it there for us. And we will eventually have the eyes and heart to see it. When you're pivoting on the edge of a decision, look for it. If you can't see it, ask a friend. If it still isn't clear, wait for it. Grace is always present. Sometimes our eyes just need time to adjust to the light.
Indiana is poised and waiting. In the last two days, the temperature dropped from 89 degrees in the blazing afternoon to a cool 73. The sky is thick with big gray clouds. The leaves shimmer on the branches, just ready to begin turning.
The river birch tree in our garden has already begun shedding her leaves. Maybe she's more interested in being one of the first of the season than she is in displaying any colorful magnificence. :)
It's one of those moments of heightened awareness when the fullness of summer is all around you. You take a deep breath and look all around. In just a moment--any moment now--everything will begin to change very quickly. The leaves will turn colors and become a carpet on the ground; the sky will clear and become frosty blue. Soon the snow will fly.
But for this moment, the air is big with the abundant life and growth of summer. We have something to celebrate. We are ready. Let the winds of change bring the next awesome vista in this journey.
I found this wonderful blessing in this month's edition of Yoga Journal:
Lokah Samasta
Sukinoh Bhavantu
May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute to the happiness and freedom for all."
Doesn't that just cover what you would wish for every living being everywhere? If everyone everywhere were happy and free, there would be no war, no hate, no sickness, no hardship, no poverty, no isolation, no rejection of anything God created, ever. It's the ideal of the kingdom of heaven realized within us.
May you be happy and free today, moving in harmony with the limitless Love that created, sustains, and cares for you. :)
This morning as I was driving through the misty countryside (the sun was just coming up and lighting the fog hovering over the cornfields--gorgeous!), I thought about the fresh intensity of beauty, perfection, life. This moment is unlike any other. It has its own gift, its own peace, its own perfection. I don't need to compare it with any other moment--when, I muse absently, I was either happier or sadder, more preoccupied or more present, more in tune or more out of sync. This moment is perfect now. I feel joy and appreciation in it. End of story.
The crime of comparison, I think, is that when we line a moment up with another--or compare our accomplishments with another person's, someone's house against another person's house, this car against that one, this talent and that, we overlook the sacredness of both people, places, moments, or events we're comparing. Each has a gift, if we have the open eyes and heart to receive it.
May each of us be open to the holy gift in each and every moment, person, and experience today. :)
My son Cameron is 13 and loves golf. He loves it so much that he played on average three times a week throughout the summer. By the end of the season, he was ready for some better clubs. His score for 18 holes had dropped from 100 to 88. He started watching every golf match he could find on television. He observed the pros. He spent lots of time on the course. It seemed to be the one thing he couldn't get enough of.
I decided that this was enough of a passion that I wanted to invite an expert to give him some feedback, so I contacted the golf pro at the course where Cameron plays. The lesson was interesting and packed with really amazing but subtle information that applied not just to golf but to life. Chuck talked about the importance of taking time, looking clearly, noticing your energy, balancing on your feet. He explained (and demonstrated through some actions Cameron could immediately feel and understand) how the muscles work together to support you in a natural, efficient swing.
He demonstrated how when all these forces are in tune--sight, balance, and motion--the contact with the the ball is natural and fluid, sending it 240 yards straight toward the pin at the end of the farway.
This morning I've been thinking about efficiency. When our forces--mind, emotions, body--are in tune, I think efficiency is dramatically increased in all areas of our life. We move with grace; we respond emotionally to the present moment and then move on through it; we have the energy we need to complete the tasks of our day with joy and appreciation. Efficiency makes things look easy, because everything is in alignment leading up to that point. When the contact--with the ball, the event, the obstacle, or the person--is made, all the harmony of the universe is lined up to support it. :)
I found this amazing quote by Franz Kafka in a powerful book I'm reading right now called Essential Aurveda: What it is & what it can do for you:
"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be quite still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstacy at your feet."
How wonderful is that?!
I picked up this book because although something I found in an article on Auryvedic eating cured 25 years of chronic headaches for me (no kidding!), I had never really understood Auryvedic principles enough to know how to put balanced meals together. I thought it was complicated. But this book makes it simple, and elegant, and clear. And what's more, the author, Shubhra Krishan, writes about health and beauty in all elements of life--not simply diet (although what we put into our bodies--physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually is very important in terms of encouraging or creating obstacles for health).
I am continually surprised to discover that I tend to write about things that I will need later that day. It's curious--the post I wrote yesterday had occurred to me as a flash of an idea when I was writing to my friend. After I posted it, I thought I'd wrapped up the idea and put it out there, and that was that. But at 2:00am this morning it really came in handy. Something startled me awake and then I was suddenly beset by a huge cloud of anxiety--about everything, from my work to my relationships to my house. I was so churned up inside I couldn't get comfortable and tossed and turned. It was so unlike me (I usually sleep soundly and well--especially when the nights are cool enough to have the windows open!) and the fact that it was unusual gave me something else to worry about!
But then I remembered my post from yesterday morning. I noticed instantly that my stomach was tightened into a knot. Even my jaw was tight. I realized that I was fighting imaginary problems in the dark, when I was only partially conscious and not clear-headed enough to refute the worries as I might in the light of day. What I really needed to do was identify the sources of the upset--real or not--and then, one by one, give them to God and leave them for Him to deal with. So I mentally grabbed hold of the first worry, and put it in God's hands with a prayer. There, that felt better. I did it with the next worry, and the next one, and the next one. My jaw relaxed. My breathing slowed and lightened. Soon my stomach had unknotted. Soft and open, remember? By the time I'd handed off all my mostly imaginary worries to God, I was well on my way back to sleep.
Thanks, God, for giving us what we need before we even know we need it. You think of Everything. :)
Corresponding with a dear friend the other day, I realized that I use a kind of built-in discernment tool when I'm trying to determine whether a leading is coming from God or from me.
When there's something going on--maybe something that I'm praying for that I really want to happen--and I get that sense of peace about it, I feel that I've "turned the battle" over to God and it's out of my hands. But to really be sure, I check in with how I feel.
If I feel soft and open inside, knowing that I'll trust God no matter what happens, I feel like I'm in tune with God.
If I feel hard and rigid inside, thinking, "this just HAS TO happen!," then I usually think I haven't really turned the situation over to God and I'm still clutching to it and hoping I'll get my way, whether that is God's way or not.
For me, God's thoughts bring a strong sense of peace and everything's okay-ness. They always join, share, include, love. The thoughts I have that do not spring from my connection with God are often about worry, control, or my own protection. That seems really significant to me.
Luckily God will bring those hurting thoughts back to the whole, sooner or later, when I realize what's happening and really turn the issue over once and for all.
Vocatus atque non vocatus deus aderit
I've been doing a lot of healing over the last eight or nine months, working through old beliefs and messages that shape my thinking and my experience in the world. I feel that's part of God's work, helping us dissolve whatever holds us back from radiating more and more light. And I've come to believe that none of the blocks are really outside me--any obstacles I experience have to do with something in my thought system that is ready to be recognized and brought to truth.