Consciousness: In Everything, Everywhere
8/28/25
Soon after Kelsey died, I told my friend Judith that my heart would be more at peace if I really knew that consciousness continued beyond death. I thought I was speaking of a spiritual matter. I had no idea it was also a matter of inquiry for neuroscientists.
Neuroscientists understand a great deal about the mechanics of consciousness, the intricate ways in which thoughts are transmitted across neurons, but what they don’t know is what gives quality to those thoughts, the subjective aspects of consciousness: the “redness of red and the painfulness of pain”[1]. In 1995, Australian neuro-scientist David Chalmers divided the study of cognition into the “easy” and the “hard” parts [2]. The easy parts consist of phenomena such as discriminating, categorizing, and reacting to environmental stimuli, all of which can be explained using a computational model. Even though there is still much to learn about the easy parts, scientists are confident they can and will do so. What’s more problematic is understanding how subjective experience is generated. Even thirty years after Chalmers first articulated the problem, there is no consensus among neuroscientists. They know that neurons are fundamental to consciousness and that they exist in an extremely complex system of electromagnetic fields both within the brain and in the universe, but they still don’t know much about subjective experience. One theory posits that consciousness is one of the not-yet-identified constituents of the universe.
I recently listened to an interview with author Maggie Jackson who wrote, Uncertain: The Wisdom and Wonder of Being Unsure. She spoke of a study at the University of Washington demonstrating that emergency room physicians who are uncertain of a diagnosis ask more and deeper questions, leading to better outcomes–which has led medical schools to train their students to increase their tolerance of uncertainty. Being able to tolerate uncertainty is also an important characteristic of successful rocket scientists and business leaders. The key is being able to stay in a process without racing to a conclusion, to inhabit the questions, to live with the discomfort of not knowing which then allows us to push against the edges of understanding.
This brings me back to my conversation with Judith soon after Kelsey died. I wanted to know for sure that consciousness continues, that Kelsey’s personality still exists. It was painful in the extreme to think that my beloved daughter was no more except in memory. I had to learn to live with the queries that never ceased, including my questions about consciousness. The questions remain, but the possibility that consciousness is a basic component of the universe sends chills down my spine. I take comfort in thinking that what concerns my heart and mind is convergent with scientific inquiry as well as with philosophy and theology.
Antoine Lavoisier formulated the law of the conservation of mass in chemistry: “Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed”, echoing the words of the poet, Walt Whitman in his poem, “Continuities”:
“Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost.
No birth, identity, form–no object of the world.
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing:
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.”
Geologist Marcia Bjornerud in her quasi-memoir, Turning to Stone, states, “There is no bright line between the living and nonliving components of the Earth system. Everywhere on Earth, at every spatial and temporal scale, rock, water, air, and life are in intimate communion.” If consciousness is at the heart of the universe, who is to say that rocks are not conscious? Who is to say that matter of any kind is not conscious? William Wordsworth wrote of this in “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey”:
“And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.”
[1] Chalmers, David. “Facing Up to the Problem of Consciousness”, Journal of Consciousness Studies, 2 (3) 200-19. 1995.
[2] ibid
Writing from the Heart
Within twenty-four hours of learning of Kelsey’s death, I felt compelled to write. I’ve often wondered how writers find their subject. Through dreams? Through personal experiences? Through a persistent question? My subject found me. I filled journal after journal with my musings and was never without a notebook in which to jot down my reflections. I remember the exact moment— while walking along a country road, near our home—when I dared to think of turning those journals into a memoir.
I had something important to write about, but I needed to learn how to write and how to write in a form that was unfamiliar to me. After rummaging through libraries and bookstores to find compelling memoirs and guides for writing them, I spent the next months making my way through the assorted tomes. During a visit to Taos, New Mexico, I bought a clay sculpture of a storyteller to remind myself I had a story to tell, and I carried it back to my island home. At long last, I sat down to craft a memoir.
My first attempts weren’t very good which impelled me to sign up for a variety of workshops and retreats. The classes were illuminating—and surprisingly fun. My fellow students, along with our teachers, were generous and kind. Critiques were usually framed as a query rather than a condemnation: “I wonder what would happen if you stayed in that scene longer?” “What was the light like in the room?” I spent a lot of time reflecting on how my body felt as opposed to what I thought. And I practiced writing sentences. Although subordinate clauses were daunting because I was used to writing in a straight-forward style—variations on subject, verb, object and object, verb, subject—I experimented with clauses, trying to create sentences that better reflected the tangled thoughts in my head. Finally, I became part of a community of writers who encouraged me when I faltered and inspired me through their own writing.
When I was a freshman in college, I signed up for an introductory psychology class, eager to know why and how people do what they do. Because an extraordinary amount of time was spent on the scientific method and the mechanics of perception, I soon became disenchanted with the class. Instead of studying my psychology textbook, I turned to stories, reading novels like The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell, The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing, and the enthralling and somewhat risqué diaries of Anais Nin. I scraped by in the course, but the narratives I read during the hours I should have used for studying eye cones and hair cells fed my curiosity. Many years later, when I worked an educator and school psychologist, I once again found that stories, this time told by my students, gave me needed insight. Now that I’m retired, I’ve discovered that writing my own stories provides me with an awareness of my own motivations and behaviors.
I didn’t set out to write as a way of assuaging pain—but by reliving the worst moments of my life again and again, that’s what happened. As I looked closely at my pain, trying to clarify it, the traumatizing events around Kelsey’s death lost their grip. I also realized a vital truth: I will miss Kelsey for the rest of my life, sometimes agonizingly so, but my gratitude for the years I spent with her while she was alive will only deepen. Through reading Mary Oliver’s poetry, I learned something else about grief: it’s “all in the way you carry it”[1]. When I began to unlock my heart, to welcome gladness even while immersed in grief, I discovered it’s possible to hold contradictory emotions at the same exact moment. During a recent family reunion on the California coast, I delighted in exploring the tide pools with my grandchildren, and I felt an immense sadness because Kelsey wasn’t with us.
After many drafts and innumerable edits, I finally have the published book in hand and am beginning yet another trek: sharing it with others. I’m excited—and I feel vulnerable. After all, I’m sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings publicly which, of course, is what publishing a memoir is all about. But it’s scary. And while it’s necessary for me to promote the book, it feels self-promoting to do so. I recently read the words of a wise Quaker woman who compared promoting a book or piece of writing to giving a spoken message during Quaker meeting. I love that! By publicizing my book, I’m rising, as though I were in meeting, to speak from my heart. And that I can do.
A few nights ago, in a conversation with Kelsey about my misgivings surrounding the book’s publication, I heard the words, just trust. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m trusting that all will be well and that the book will find its way to those who most need it.
[1] Oliver, Mary, “Heavy” in Thirst, 2007, Beacon Press.
Dancing, Drumming, Singing to Reorder the World
7/23/25
What do I do with the rage I feel when I see our neighbors kidnapped by unidentified masked men? When I learn of abusive detention centers and flights funded by our tax dollars to countries well-known for their human rights abuses so that immigrants, many of whom are guilty of no more serious a crime than a parking ticket, can be thrown into cages? When a woman who has the ear of the President says that all the Latinos in the country are potential food for the alligators of Alligator Alcatraz? Do I resolve to stop reading newspapers? Do I try ignoring the pain by lying on a beach, drinking piña coladas? Do I turn my rage inward?
On a visit to Guatemala to learn about the 20th-century genocide of Mayan Indigenous peoples, Valarie Kaur, a Sikh activist, suggests another way. “I want us to be able to confront the fiercest and perhaps most terrifying parts of our own hearts, to feel angry about something…[to] process that vital fiery energy inside of us just like our wisest ancestors did…[with] dancing and drumming, singing, screaming, wailing, shaking.” [1]
There are many relatively recent examples of groups using dancing, drumming, and singing to harness rage. During the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa led by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, when the testimonies of the apartheid victims became too difficult to bear, the Xhosa people chanted and swayed, moving the sadness and anger through their bodies, changing their energy until they were able to listen again.
“During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all fucking night. The dance kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for,” said Dan Savage, a queer writer and activist, recalling how the LGBTQ+ community gathered in gay bars and clubs to dance as a way of releasing pain and strengthening connections.
LGBTQ+ communities have long known how to harness rage through movement. House and ballroom, a form of dance and culture that originated in Black, Latino, gay and transgender communities during the Harlem Renaissance, morphed more recently, through drag balls, into voguing. In a TED talk, Ronald Murray stated that overlooked populations develop their own culture and likens voguing to an expressive conversation using stylized movements that strengthens and nurtures its participants and builds community.[2]
During the Civil Rights Movement in the US, choreographers like Alvin Ailey and Katherine Dunham created dances to focus attention on racial inequality. In the 1970s and 80s, Hip-Hop emerged as a protest against racism and inequality. A more recent form of Hip-Hop, Krumping, began in South Central LA in the late 1990s and early 2000s[3] with roots in clown dancing. According to Miss Prissy, one of the founders of the dance form and now an instructor at Loyola Marymount in LA, krumping allows one to “dance until the pain goes away”[4], providing both an outlet for emotions and a way of further developing a sense of self.
Dancing was especially important during the George Floyd protests.[5] One of my favorite videos is of three men, who didn’t know each other before the protest, dancing together at a march in lower Manhattan[6]. During another protest in Manhattan, a large group danced the electric slide followed by nine minutes of kneeling.[7] At a gathering in Minneapolis, Ojibwe dancers performed a jingle dress dance as a prayer for Floyd family[8].
In the protests against the killing in Gaza, participants have often danced the Dabke, a circle and line dance popular in Lebanese, Jordanian, Palestinian and Syrian communities that involves a lot of foot stomping. Traditionally done only by males, it’s now performed by men, women, and children. A Palestinian dancer stated, “Each stomp [is] an expression of statehood, love, longing, anger and resistance”[9]
Flash mobs—characterized by an unexpected assemblage of participants, coordinated activity such as a choreographed dance, and rapid dispersion at the end—were used at the Occupy Wall Street protests (2011), in Belarus (2012-13), during the Arab Spring (2011), and in Hong Kong (2019. Flamenco, a dance form that originated among marginalized people in Andalusia, has been used in Spanish flash mobs targeting banks.
During the 2016 Standing Rock protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline, Native American drumming, often accompanied by chanting, was used as both a spiritual practice and a form of resistance. “Native people have survived 500 years of atrocity on this continent with the help of prayers, ceremony, and our community,” writes Joe Whittle in “We opened eyes: at Standing Rock, my fellow Native Americans make history” [10]
“I grew up singing my entire life, and I was always taught that dewe’igan is the heartbeat of our people,” said Jakob Wilson, 19, using the Ojibwe term for drum that is rooted in the words for heart and sound. “The absolute power and feeling that comes off of the drum and the singers around it is incredible.”[11]
I’ve experienced the “absolute power” of drumming, usually at a large gathering of Native and non-native people but also when a Lummi Shaman drummed for Craig and me to help us recover our guiding spirits after Kelsey died. Over the past ten or so years, I’ve drummed with a small group of friends as part of my own spiritual practice. I know how transformative it can be. I also have experienced the catharsis provided by dancing, especially during the years immediately after Kelsey died. I still want to use my body, old as it is, to dance, to join with others in using rhythm and movement for release. I don’t want to ignore the pain, distract myself, or turn the anger inward. We, as a nation, are now experiencing trauma, many of us through direct experience and the rest of us because we’re witnessing the horrific experiences of others. If our collective and individual trauma isn’t metabolized, it becomes harmful—and history will repeat itself. I want us to harness the anger and sadness we feel, changing our rage into an energy that can reorder rather than re-traumatize the world.
This is my prayer.
[1] Center for Action and Contemplation, Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditations, July 19, 2025
[2] Ballroom Culture: the Language of Vogue, TEDxColumbus
[3] “How Krump Took Over America”, PBS Voices, Feb 15, 2024, You Tube
[4] Ibid
[5] New York Times, Critic’s Notebook June 9, 2020, Siobhan Burke Dancing Bodies That Proclaim: Black Lives Matter
[6] Ibid
[7] Ibid
[8] Ibid
[9] Christina Atik August 7, 2024,Dake: Resistance through movement, shado-mag.com
[10] My Guardian, Nov 30, 2016
[11] Giovanna Dell’Orto, July 23, 2024, “Safeguarding the heartbeat: Native Americans in Upper Midwest protect their drumming tradition. www.ap.org
With as Much Clarity and Courage as God is Willing to Give
7/18/25
Last week I attended a large family reunion. Some of the attendees had very different political and religious views than mine, but for the sake of the children and to maintain an atmosphere of mutual caring, we refrained from any discussion of politics and affirmed the value of our relationships. That warmed my heart, but I wonder what would have happened if we’d put the children to bed and then sat around the campfire, respectfully listening to one another’s political and religious views. Might we have arrived at common ways of interpreting the events of our times and strengthened our appreciation of each other?
I just read an interview between the New York Times’ Ross Douthat and Allie Beth Stuckey[1], a Southern Baptist writer and influencer—her audience is primarily suburban women ages 25 to 45. Stuckey describes herself as a Christian wife and mom who is trying to navigate the chaos of our culture with “as much clarity and courage as God is willing to give me”. Recently, she’s been exploring the topic of toxic empathy which she defines as a kind of empathy—putting yourself in someone else’s shoes—that “validates lies, affirms sin, and supports destructive policies”[2]. Examples of toxic empathy, according to Stuckey, are feelings that lead people to support abortion and gender fluidity and oppose the deportation of immigrants. Although she has found Biblical clarity on gender fluidity and abortion—I, myself, can’t find any Biblical passages about abortion—she says the Bible has little to say about immigration.
It struck me that just as she is making her way through chaos of the world with “as much clarity and courage as God is willing to give [her]”, I also am seeking spiritual clarity. But the spiritual messages I receive are radically different than hers. Why is that? Does Spirit speak with a forked tongue, or do we differ in the ways in which we listen to Spirit, in the ways in which we interpret the Bible? For example, I do think the Christian Bible has something to say about immigration. In the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), Jesus is asked what one should do to inherit eternal life. He affirms the importance of following the Jewish commandments to love the Lord with all one’s heart and one’s neighbor as oneself. When asked, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus tells the story of the good Samaritan: A Jewish man is stripped, beaten by robbers, and left to die by the side of the road. Two high-level religious authorities, a priest and a Levite, pass the injured man without stopping to help. The third passerby is a Samaritan, considered a foreigner and an outcast by the Jews of Judea, who stops to help. He takes the victim to a nearby inn and even returns the next day to pay for further assistance. Jesus expands the definition of whom we are commanded to love—and asks his followers to show mercy to those who differ from us. Allie Beth Stuckey doesn’t think this parable gives clarity on the deportation of immigrants. I do. Who’s right?
Recently, I’ve been part of a small group of people who meet regularly to discern how to proceed in this time of hardship and uncertainty. We begin by centering ourselves in silence as we try to hear the inner, still, small voice. We often hear differing messages but find our way to a common message through respectful listening and worshipful discussion. This is similar to what my husband and I have discovered when we attend Quaker “meetings for worship with attention to business”. These Quaker business meetings involve group discernment, a process of listening carefully and speaking to one another with respect. My husband and I often leave the meeting with a new point of view, one that differs from the perspectives we had when we entered the meeting.
Both Jews and Christians have practices of interpreting sacred texts using similar, medieval methods. In Judaism, the practice is called Pardes, which is an acronym for the Hebrew letters that correspond to each of the four levels of interpretation: literal, allusive, allegorical, and mystical. In Christianity, the method of interpretation is called the Four Senses of Scripture: literal, allegorical, moral and anagogical.
In a class on Jewish mysticism, I read—and was deeply moved by—the rabbinical interpretations of scripture but I’m going to focus on the Christian Four Senses of Scripture, in part because I know less about them. I discovered a lovely video (https://www.godwhospeaks.uk/four-senses-of-scripture/) in which Sister Hyacinthe invites us to interpret the Bible using Four Senses of Scripture. Employing the first sense, which is a literal comprehension of the text, she asks us to try to understand the roles and positions of the characters at the time the author wrote the passage. For example, in the passage about the Good Samaritan, what was the level of authority and respect accorded to a priest and a Levite in the time of Jesus? How were the people of Samaria treated?
On the second, allegorical, level, Sr. Hyacinthe asks us to consider what kind of a person Jesus reveals himself to be. What are his human attributes: Is he loving? Caring? Does he seem to understand the human heart? What does he think of Jewish law? Is he trying to change it or deepen our insight and expand our perspective?
On the third, moral, level, one is brought into the present. What am I being called to do now? What does the passage have to do with me and my life? Sr. Hyacinthe asks us to see ourselves in each of the characters. In what ways am I similar to the priest and the Levite? Do I consider my neighbors those who have a similar world view to mine but not those who differ from me?
The fourth, anagogical, level refers to what comes after our worldly journey. What does the parable of the Good Samaritan say, if anything, about the afterlife? For me, the key is in the commandment to love, not only God but our neighbor. I’ve come to accept that I don’t know what happens after death—much as I tried after my daughter died—but I find comfort and guidance in loving God and loving my neighbor. It seems as though that love becomes ever more encompassing and powerful—and mysterious.
George Fox, the 17th century founder of Quakerism, believed that there is “that of God” within each of us. We perceive Spirit in our own unique ways, but by engaging with others, sharing the ways in which Spirit has spoken to our hearts, we arrive at a deeper truth. In Jewish tradition, scholars of Torah interpret sacred text in community with others. Like Quakers they find a deeper truth in communal discernment. I wonder what would happen if Allie Beth Stuckey were more open to sharing her interpretations of scripture with others and listening, with an open mind, to the interpretations of others. For that matter, what would happen if I were more open? As I watched the video I found myself appreciating Jesus in new ways, and my heart, which has been closed to various aspects of traditional Christianity, opened a bit more. Might I have been able to appreciate the perspectives of my MAGA relatives, if I had joined them around a campfire, determined to listen with an open heart?
[1] New York Times Opinion, Interesting Times, Is “Toxic Empathy Pulling Christians to the Left?”, July 17, 2025
[2] Ibid
The Root of the Root of Oneself
7/9/25
“You were born from a ray of God’s majesty
And have the blessings of a good star.
Why suffer at the hands of things that don’t exist?
Come, return to the root of the root of yourself.”
–Rumi
Throughout our lives we are given intimations of our true nature, “the root of the root” of ourselves: dreams that awaken a longing for spiritual connection, déjà vu moments, internal proddings, a sense of not quite remembering something vital. The contemporary Jesuit theologian, Ladislaus Boros[1], writes that soul—which might correspond to Rumi’s “root of the root” of oneself—isn’t static, but continually created through the alchemy of three ingredients: essence, the traits that make up our nature or temperament; spirit which is, according to Cynthia Bourgeault, “that ever-roving…invisible divine dancing partner, participating in every movement of our life”[2]; and heart, our ever-increasing awareness and inner veracity The fundamental passages of life—birth, puberty, adulthood, mid-life, and old age— involve a certain amount of centering and shaping: physically, psychologically, and spiritually.
Now that I’m in the final stages of my life, I wonder how that co-creation has been going? It’s a great question, of course, but I’m reflecting from the vantage point of my earthly existence. A good and distant star might come up with a different answer. In each stage of my life there has been an inner voice, an “invisible divine dancing partner” calling me to my best self. Although I may choose to ignore that beckoning, I’m usually aware of it. Throughout my childhood and early adolescence, spirit seemed aligned with heart, and the inner voice I followed was primarily that of my parents —fortunately Mom and Dad were kind and generous–but sometimes I heard a different whispering. In my early adolescence, Dad said many times and with varying syntax, “Martin Luther King, Jr. is a good man, but he’s moving too fast”. An inner voice told me that Dad was wrong. No, I thought , Martin Luther King isn’t moving too fast. Whether or not I expressed my thinking out loud at 12 or 13, I began reading books and watching movies that supported, it seems to me now, a nudge from my spiritual self.
Beyond the usual adjustments to each new developmental stage, I’ve been reflecting on what influenced me spiritually and burnished my spiritual being. First and foremost was my younger sister’s death from leukemia when I was nine. Her death impacted my psychological passage from childhood into adolescence and in fact, all subsequent passages, setting in motion a struggle that was also grist for the spiritual mill. Her death connected me, at least fragilely, to the world beyond. Although I’ve changed my theology since the time of Sally’s death, it has always seemed possible to converse with spirits.
Because of my parents’ strong Christian faith—we attended church every Sunday—I grew up knowing the stories of Jesus and accepted, without much analysis, that Christianity was the one, true path to God. That is, until I lived with a Moslem family in Turkey. Sharing their lives, learning of their faith, changed how I viewed religion and opened me to new and previously-unimagined possibilities.
In young adulthood I married and divorced twice before the age of twenty-five which catapulted me into much-needed therapy and caused me to find new stories to replace old myths. Because my four-year-old granddaughter loves princess stories, I’ve been listening to far too many podcasts about Disney princesses, each of whom finds some kind of Prince Charming and lives with him happily ever after. I certainly had to discard the myth of finding a one and only mate and living happily with him for the rest of my life. But, fortunately (and with the help of therapy) I replaced my Disney princess myth with a story about finding someone with whom I was compatible and co-creating an ever-changing relationship. The core of my attraction to Craig, the husband to whom I’ve been married for over 44 years, was and still is his spirituality. Our ongoing spiritual conversation fills me with joy and provides new ways of appreciating the mysteries of life and death. Our marriage and shared parenting have presented a feast of opportunities for growth.
Most spiritually transformative of all, has been the grief I’ve learned to live with after our daughter’s fatal bike accident. The (unwanted) gift of grief is its capacity to further spirituality and expand an openness to unknown realms. My long-term therapist once said that the core of most psychological struggle is some kind of grief. I would add that accepting grief and moving through it can help us shape, hone, and polish our inner being.
If we can really trust that there’s a process of spiritual co-creation happening at every moment, really understand that the root of the root of oneself is an ever-evolving soul, it might help us not be so distressed by personal and political vicissitudes and enable us to say, as did Julian of Norwich, that “all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” A slight shift of perspective, a tilting of head and heart by only a few degrees makes all the difference.
[1] Boros, Ladislaus, The Mystery of Death, New York: The Seabury Press, 1973
[2] Bourgeault, Cynthia, The Mystery of Death, Spirituality and Practice, 2022
Finding Eternity Within
6/24/25
“You must discover that place in you that already lives beyond death and begin to live out of it now.”
The words shimmered on the page when I read them in an online class on Conscious Aging[1] taught by contemporary mystic and author, Cynthia Bourgeault. The quote from Bourgeault’s monastic teacher, Brother Rafe, provided both confirmation and challenge. Thirteen years ago, when my daughter was killed in a bicycle accident, it seemed vital to discover the part of me “that already lives beyond death”. Maybe not at the time of her death—for many weeks I could barely function—but later, through a combination of meditation, prayer, Lectio Divina, conversations with other spiritual seekers, I gradually found my way to that place. But it’s more accurate to say I rested there temporarily rather than lived out of it.
It’s impossible to describe the architecture of the place, but I can tell you how I feel. I usually go there in the moments before falling asleep at night but also during meditation, while on a shamanic journey, or in the midst of prayer. A spectacular sunset can transport me there as can making love (even at my age, perhaps especially at my age). When there, I have an intimation of unlimited joy, a recognition that I’m truly myself, a realization that what happens on my earthly journey is important but not what’s most important. And I’m at peace.
I’m almost finished with Let Us Descend[2], a searing, sensual, and transcendent novel by Jesmyn Ward, in which the enslaved, American protagonist, Annis, communicates with the spirits of earth, air, and water and with the spirits of her ancestors. Some spirits are manipulative, some foresee the future, and some allow Annis to momentarily escape her dismal circumstances and perceive a greater reality. In one scene, Annis is being held captive in an earthly hell—literally a dug-out hole with a small grate for air—when she dreams of soaring high above the forced-labor plantation. She sees the pain of the bent and emaciated enslaved people who are sacrificing to the earth “flakes of skin, rivulets of sweat, blood from nicks and gashes, vomit from their mouths.” Horrified, she turns away, but the spirit of earth, “They Who Take and Give”, urges her to look again. When she does, Annis is able to perceive “a vein of green running through the center of every man, woman, and child: a vein that would push its way to blossom,”[3] and understands that her people are storing hope in the “coils of their hair” and the “sable dark of their skin”, singing in the fields and rising.
I’ve spent years praying to see what can’t be seen, to hear what can’t be heard, to know with my heart rather than my head. I’m in my seventy-eighth year, not all that far from death. I still have much I want to do on earth, but I’m getting ready. I’m learning to accept what old age brings: the wrinkles—one friend says that her body seems to be just one, big wrinkle; the loss of energy; the longer time needed for my body to heal from injury. But off-setting the losses of old age is an ability to perceive beyond my five senses, and to understand that I’m on the cusp of something wonderful. This gives me a budding sense of joy.
“Hard times are coming when we’ll be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being and even imagine real grounds for hope. We’ll need writers who can remember freedom—poets, visionaries, realists of a larger reality.”
–Ursula LeGuin, 2014 Acceptance Speech for National Book Foundation Medal
Jesmyn Ward is truly one of those writers—as is Ursula LeGuin. I think many, perhaps most of us are given at least momentary glimpses of our eternal beingness—and these foretastes of eternity enable us to “see through our fear-stricken” world, to become “poets, visionaries, and realists of a larger reality”. But how can the part of us that will live beyond death become substantial enough to live out of?
In an email to our college classmates, one of my classmates, a transgender man, wrote about what he calls Imaginative Advocacy. He described it as “a process of imagining or picturing a future condition and then acting as though it is coming”. All that’s needed, he wrote, are “some faithful helpers to tip [it] into reality.” One example might be imagining a shift away from the present-day fear of difference toward an embrace of diversity. If we act as though that reality is coming, that it’s just around the corner, we feel less stressed, more energetic, more forgiving, and more grateful—all of which makes the desired outcome much more likely.
I can imagine living out of the eternal place in me. I can act as though I’d left behind doubts about my worth and value, as though I’m fully embracing the connectedness of the Universe, as though peace fills my heart all day, every day. I can fake it ‘til I make it. But since I can imagine it, perhaps I’m not really faking it. Perhaps all that’s needed is for me to confidently sign the lease and take up residence.
[1] spiritualityandpractice.com
[2] Ward, Jesmyn. Let Us Descend. 2023. Scribner
[3] Ibid, p.166
Dancing to Feed Our Souls–and Keep Us in the Fight
2/24/2025
“Dance when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you’re perfectly free.”
–Rumi
In the years after Kelsey died, I was moved by Psalm 30, especially verse 11: “Thou has turned my mourning into dancing. Thou has put off my sackcloth and girded me in gladness.” I didn’t know how my mourning would turn into dancing, but I held onto the image. I had a strong urge to dance, not by myself, but in community. My first opportunity was at my nephew’s wedding when the music filled my soul, and I danced all night, sometimes as tears rolled down my face. Over the ensuing years, whenever there’s been an opportunity, I have joined in the dance.
“Dancing is not just getting up
Painlessly, like a leaf blown on the wind;
Dancing is when you tear your heart out
And rise out of your body
To hang suspended between the worlds.”
–Rumi
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been reading a book by Resmaa Menakem, My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies[1]. Menakem’s thesis, supported by decades of research, is that historic trauma is stored within each of us, no matter whether we’re Black, White, Brown, or part of some other racialized group. This historic trauma has come from many centuries of pain and abuse. The mechanism for storing trauma in the body is the vagus nerve, also called the “soul nerve”, which picks up fight, flight, flee messages from the reactive, non-thinking part of the brain and spreads them throughout the body—where they remain unless somehow resolved. These bodily messages are passed from generation to generation through family stories and traditions, the institutions we participate in, and even through our DNA.
I don’t have to go far back to uncover some of the unresolved trauma in my own family. My mother’s mother was killed in a robbery when my mom was only twelve. My dad’s grandfather lost a leg in Andersonville Prison during the Civil War. And these relatively-recent traumas are on top of centuries of traumatizing experiences going back at least to the Middle Ages when White on White violence was common in Europe. Tragically, since at least the beginning of the slave trade, White people have attempted to get rid their historic trauma by transferring it to Black people. I’m sure my family was no exception.
Whenever I read or listen to the news these days, my stomach clenches, my breath speeds up, and my leg muscles begin to twitch. I’m traumatized. So, what do I do? I post something on Face Book or text my Trump-supporting brother detailing the latest outrage, blowing my trauma onto others. I know many of my FB friends probably have turned off my posts—and my brother never looks at my texts. Ultimately, my attempts to locate my trauma in others does little to rid me of my painful feelings.
Menakem suggests five anchor steps for recognizing and getting rid of historic (and current) trauma without transferring it to other people:
Anchor 1: Quiet your mind, calm your heart, and settle your body. For example, I could put down my phone (or turn off the car radio or TV), refrain from texting or posting about it on FB, and instead engage in deep breathing.
Anchor 2: Notice the sensations in your body. I’ve become aware of how often my stomach clenches, shoulders knot, and head throbs whenever my trauma is triggered.
Anchor 3: Accept the discomfort and notice any changes. Staying with my discomfort isn’t easy, but it’s made endurable when I focus on what’s happening in my body.
Anchor 4: Stay in the present, in your body, despite the pain and respond from the best part of yourself. It often takes a while for me to be in touch with the best part of myself, the part that is able to extend kindness even to those with whom I radically disagree.
Anchor 5: Discharge any remaining energy through safe and respectful means. Menachem suggests exercise, playing sports, physical labor—and dancing.
Craig and I recently returned from a two-week stay in Oaxaca Mexico. Our first night there, we wandered to the city center and discovered people of all ages dancing to a live band. We joined in, and I felt a release of some of the tension I’d been feeling since the election. A week later we were again wandering through the city center when we heard music coming from a street near the main square. Turning a corner, we discovered what I would call a parade— except that it wasn’t going anywhere. Several blocks were taken up with this stationary parade: Indigenous people in traditional garb, some holding large papier-mâché puppets, dancing to the music of several bands. We watched in delight for at least a half hour and later asked a waiter what was going on. He didn’t know but said it happened all the time in Oaxaca. Another evening, while on our way to explore a lovely church, we were surprised to discover the entire square in front of the church filled with music and dancing couples. A woman with a microphone was giving dance lessons to the assorted men, women, and children. I said to the friends with whom we were traveling, “I want to store this image in my heart for when we return to the US.”
Dan Savage, author, media pundit, and LGBTQ activist, writes, “During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night. The dance kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for. It didn’t look like we were going to win then, and we did. It doesn’t feel like we’re going to win now, but we could. Keep fighting, keep dancing.”
This moment in our country strikes me as an opportune time to form community—and to dance. To let music fill our bodies, to tune our vibrations to those around us and to celebrate life. Maybe, like the AIDS activists of several decades ago, we might protest in the afternoon and dance all night (or until 7 or 8 for those who are my age). Our soul nerves can spread messages throughout our bodies of love and belonging, equity, and inclusion, feeding our souls and keeping us in the fight.
[1] Menakem, Resmaa. My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies. 2021. Penguin Books: Dublin.
Creating Community in Times of Grief
1/28/25
In An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith, Barbara Brown Taylor, former parish priest and spiritual writer, poses a question: What does your life depend on? She states that the answer is likely to change over time, shifting according to one’s internal state and external events. If I ask the question of myself now, my answer is not what I would have given twenty or even ten years ago. At this moment, my life depends on opening my eyes to the pain of humanity—and finding ways to mend the world.
When Kelsey died, I was heartbroken—and broken open. I found myself in an altogether new emotional and spiritual place. Nothing mattered more than love, not race, ethnicity, gender, or geography. Nothing. I understood that what impacts one of us, impacts us all. I can’t describe how strongly I felt this. Words seem inadequate, although poetry comes the closest.
“Come
Let’s cherish each other
Let us live
attuned to each other
Enmity takes the light
out of friendship
Let’s banish all enmity
from our hearts
Does it bring joy to your heart
to imagine me dead?
Why are we like this?
worshiping death
hating life?
If I die
You’ll want to make up
Pretend I’m dead now
Come,
let’s reconcile our hearts now
In submitting to God
our egos have already died
If I die
you’ll come to kiss my grave
We are now like this
Come
now
and kiss my face
-Rumi[1]
I am no longer in the same liminal space as in the first few years after Kelsey died, no longer quite so tender, but I’m far more open to the pain of the world than before her death. I don’t want to turn aside from the sadness, don’t want to block the grief—it feels like a spiritual calling—but I want to find ways to feel less overwhelmed, less burdened.
Worried about what’s happening in our world, neither my husband nor I slept well last night. This morning, we talked about possible spiritual practices. Craig said that in times of struggle, community has always been important for him. It’s clear that people are increasingly gravitating to community, whether in small groups to share the pain or in larger gatherings to strategize ways to protect the most vulnerable among us.
Hundreds of years ago, Quakers came up with a process to help Friends gain clarity about an issue: Shall I get married? Shall I change my work? How can I resist injustice? Three-or four-hundred years ago, because people didn’t have the option of seeing a therapist, the clearness committee provided a way to help. Even though I do have the option of seeking the support of a therapist, I value the communal aspect of a clearness committee. I can try to solve a problem by writing about it in my journal as well, but the answer that emerges through a clearness committee is much clearer—and often surprising.
Here’s how it works. The person in need of guidance—called the focus person—asks four to six people to serve on a committee. The focus person has the option of stating the problem in writing and, at some point before the meeting, distributing the statement to committee members. The process begins with silence—silence being a sacred and integral part of Quaker process. The focus person speaks out of the silence, explaining the problem as succinctly as possible. For the next hour-and-a-half, the committee members ask brief, honest, and open-ended questions, not giving advice, not relating personal experiences. The point is to help the focus person gain clarity, not to solve the problem. The process is built on the belief that each of us has an inner teacher who can provide guidance, both in the questioning and in the listening.
When Quakers gather for worship, they sometimes sense that their meeting is “gathered” with a deep connection to one another and a collective sense of spiritual presence. I’ve experienced many clearness committee meetings, and almost all of them have felt “gathered”. I believe any time people meet in community, there is the possibility of a gathered meeting, of deep connectedness and a sense of spiritual presence. Perhaps the most important—and healing—aspect of community is moving that which is deepest in each of us toward one another.
[1] “Let Us Reconcile” by Rumi. (p.237) in Radical Love: Teachings from the Islamic Mystical Tradition, translated and edited by Omid Safi. 2018. Yale University Press: New Haven
Ridding Myself of Hatred
1/15/25
Over the past week, I’ve done a deep dive into the causes of hatred, in part motivated by my own struggle. As I read or watch the news about politicians who are willing to destroy the lives of others for their own gain, I feel a rising sense of outrage—and hatred. I know hatred is harmful to my own well-being and a poison to the rest of the world. I want to prevent it from entering my heart. But how?
I just finished reading a novel by Elif Shafak, There Are Rivers in the Sky [1]. In the novel, a young Yazidi girl asks her grandmother why there is so much hatred. The grandmother answers, “Hatred is a poison served in three cups. The first is when people despise those they desire—because they want to have them in their possession. It’s all out of hubris. The second is when people loathe those they do not understand. It’s all out of fear. Then there is the third kind—when people hate those they have hurt.” (p.41)
It’s easier for me to understand the first two reasons: hubris and fear. The third is more difficult. Why do we sometimes hate the people we hurt? It’s counter-intuitive, and yet, history is filled with examples. Jews in Nazi Germany were made scapegoats, deprived of their livelihoods, their homes, and ultimately their lives—and widely hated. Blacks in the United States have been enslaved, lynched, denied the vote, prevented from attaining generational wealth and power—and often despised. This psychological phenomenon may be explained, at least in part, by what psychologists call the just-world bias—a belief that when something bad happens to someone, it’s because they deserve it.
Just-world bias may be further explained by psychological theories such as cognitive dissonance: If you see yourself as a good person, yet you harm another, this may set up a painful, internal dissonance–which can be resolved by finding fault with or hating the one you’ve harmed. Of course, this kind of hatred doesn’t occur in everyone but it’s common enough for Tacitus, a Roman historian, to have written in the 1st century CE, “It is human nature to hate the one whom you have hurt.” And for James Baldwin to write in the 20th century, “I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.”
Some of my hatred may come from hubris. I’d like to control those I disagree with. I can’t, and my frustration leads to hatred. I’m certain that much of my hatred comes from fear. I’m afraid because people I care about are being harmed, because our progress toward becoming a “more perfect union” is threatened, and because of increasing drought, fires, and floods on our beautiful and damaged planet. Perhaps some of my hatred comes from cognitive dissonance. I like to think of myself as loving and kind, and yet my anger at the political leaders and their supporters belies my self-image.
According to all major religions, the antidote to hatred is compassion. Hillel, a 1st century B.C.E. Jewish sage and leader, reportedly said, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. This is the whole entire Torah; the rest is explanation.” Jesus, who lived not many years after Hillel, similarly taught, “Do unto others as you would have them do to you.” Paul, another Jew, wrote, “The commandments . . . are summed up in this word, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’.” Likewise, the Qu’ran urges followers to “do good – to parents, kinsfolk, orphans, those in need, neighbors who are near, neighbors who are strangers, the companion by your side, the wayfarer you meet.”
But are we commanded to love those who commit great injustices? A bumper sticker, popular among Quakers, is “Love your neighbor—no exceptions”. George Fox, the 16th century founder of Quakerism, wrote, “Be patterns, be examples in all countries, places, islands, nations, wherever you come. . . then you will come to walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone.” At the moment, it’s very difficult for me to walk cheerfully over the world, and as for answering that of God in everyone—it’s a challenge.
This is where I find Buddhism extremely helpful. Buddhist wisdom suggests that I recognize my feelings of hubris, fear, and internal conflict—Oh, there you are, arrogance, fear, and dissonance. There you are, hatred—and understand I am not those feelings. They move through me—but aren’t my essence. I can learn to detach myself from those feelings by talking about them with others, by writing about them, by meditating. I can breathe in compassion for myself and others and breathe out hatred.
I can pray for those I sometimes hate: May they be happy, may they be healthy, may they be at peace. I can pray they will listen to their Inner Guide. By understanding my own hatred, I can feel compassion for those consumed by hate. I can summon what Dr. King called “soul force”: strength and unshakable steadiness in the face of injustice. I can open my heart to love, trusting that there is an alchemy at work in the world, that love indeed has the power to drive out hate.
[1] Shafak, Elif. There Are Rivers in the Sky. 2024. Alfred A Knopf: New York.
Love, Loss, and Troubling Thoughts During the Holidays
12/31/24
This holiday season old hurts rose up to stalk me. Not just the sorrow of Kelsey’s death, but past relationships that have died a natural death or suffered some kind of rupture. Like the ghosts of Christmases past and future, they haunted my nights and troubled my days. I measured, compared, and condemned those who, for one reason or another, had caused me to feel pain. I imagined writing nasty letters, making snide comments, inflicting snubs. I didn’t at all like this part of me and tried to discern where my judgmentalism was coming from. As I leaned into the feelings, the hurt took on another form and multiplied. This time, the hurts weren’t about what had been doneto me but what I’ddone to others. I remembered things I’d said to my mom, thoughtless, careless comments. Why hadn’t I been more sensitive to her needs? I remembered casually hurtful remarks I’d made to other family members and friends. Why hadn’t I paid attention to how those comments might land? I remembered all I could have done better when our kids were young. Why had I gotten angry when I should have been understanding? As I wrote Christmas cards, baked cookies, and wrapped presents, a continuous loop of the many hurtful things I’d said and done over the years played in my head. The season was becoming more The Nightmare Before Christmas than A Christmas Love Story.
A friend had asked me to send her the words of a chant by Paulette Meier, based on the wisdom of seventeenth century Quaker James Nayler. In my Christmas card to her, I included an index card with the words to the chant written on it but paused as I was sealing the envelope. Maybe I need the chant, I thought. It had been important in the early days of grieving the loss of Kelsey—and it turned out to be spot on for this less grievous but still troubling time.
“Art thou in the darkness? Mind it not, for if thou dost, it will feed thee more,
but stand still and act not, and wait in patience, till Light arises out of darkness and leads thee.”[1]
The old Quaker words seemed like Buddhist wisdom, so, I followed the wisdom of both traditions: I meditated in silence, concentrating on my breath—and I sat in silence, awaiting Spirit. Gradually, I became aware of the solid rock that lay beneath the turmoil of judgmentalism, the ocean floor beneath surging waves of self-condemnation. And I began to take myself and my thoughts less seriously.
“We can obsess for months about a past relationship,” writes Buddhist teacher Jack Kornfield in The Wise Heart[2]. Or, he suggests, we can discern what fuels those thoughts, trying to find a belief or assumption that can be relinquished. After the time spent meditating and in expectant waiting, I was able to examine my thoughts without being overwhelmed. Once again, I tried to discern their roots. Within minutes, recognition slammed into my gut and tears filled my eyes. I realized that Kelsey’s death and the death of my sister many years before had instilled fear in my heart. Underneath everything—and making an appearance during times of heightened emotion and expectation—was a fear that my loved ones were slipping through my fingers like sand, that I would lose everyone I loved. Everyone.
Will I really lose everyone I love? I asked myself. The answer came quickly. A few family members or friends may take a breather from our relationship, a few might have difficulty maintaining our relationship because of age-related health concerns, and of course, more and more of my family and friends will die over the next years. But will I lose everyone? No, absolutely not. Facing my fear—and responding to it had eased my troubled heart.
Last night I had a dream that seemed to last for hours. I dreamt that I was living in a spacious house with many rooms, but parts of it were a mess. There was even a patch of shit on the floor. My son was cleaning it up and laughing as he did so—it was really no big deal he told me. Shit happens. There was a steady flow of people throughout the various rooms—all of them people with whom I had some connection. I awoke, still aware of the dream, and smiled. Yes, shit happens—but what’s far more important is all the love and connection that surrounds it.
Jack Kornfield suggests the following mantra: May I hold myself with compassion and care. May I treasure my life. May I be filled with kindness for myself and others. I’m trying to breathe those words into each cell of my body. Christmas has the power to trigger strong emotions, and it seems like an especially important time to extend compassion, care, and kindness—to ourselves as well as to others.
[1] Meier, Paulette. “Art Thou in the Darkness” from Wellsprings of Life: Quaker Wisdom in Chant, track released April 3, 2020.
[2] Kornfield, Jack. The Wise Heart: A Guide to the Universal Teachings of Buddhist Psychology. 2008. Bantam Books: New York.
Hope is the Thing with Feathers
12/18/24
Several months after Kelsey died and a few months into my subsequent leave of absence from work as a special education consultant with Seattle Schools, I was asked if I would return part-time to help a second-grade student on the autism spectrum. Charlie had been suspended many times during his brief tenure in school because of behavior like throwing a chair over the second-floor railing. Although his outbursts were less frequent, Charlie was still struggling. When I learned during our first session that he was interested in birds, I purchased a guidebook on the birds of Puget Sound to bring to future meetings. Like many children, especially those on the autism spectrum, Charlie couldn’t just sit down and talk about his behavior. The book provided a way for us to ease into the discussion. While turning pages and conversing about plumage, habitat, and birdsong, I was able to sneak in a few questions about his past week at school. A few weeks later, I struck gold when I discovered that Cornell University live streams bird cams from countries around the world. During our subsequent session, Charlie and I looked at Black-capped Chickadees at a Canadian feeder–not high drama but nevertheless of interest to both of us–while talking about an incident a few days prior when he threw a book at a classmate. We watched squirrels raiding a feeder in Panama and discussed what he might do differently to express his frustration. Our time together was beneficial to Charlie, but it was valuable to me as well.
Viewing birds with Charlie was easing my grief. It surprised me. I’d never paid a great deal of attention to birds, but because they were an antidote to sorrow, I became more aware of the feathered creatures near our Olympic Peninsula home: Piliated Woodpeckers, Barred Owls, Red-tailed Hawks, Ravens, and Bald Eagles, among the most spectacular, but also Chickadees, Finches, Wrens, Towhees, and Sparrows. Each one provided a stitch in my broken heart. Emily Dickenson, well-versed in grief, expressed it well:
“Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all – “
A couple of days ago the weather in Seattle was extremely blustery, plenty of rain and wind, but our dog Tucker needed to be walked. When the rain eased off a bit, he and I wended our way around the block. At about the half-way point, I spied a small brown bird, flitting through a barren tree. It was mesmerizing—no brilliant feathers, no song that I could hear above the wind—but it soothed the ache I’d been feeling as Christmas approached, a time when I especially missed Kelsey. When we got home, I went directly to my computer and to Cornell University’s Lab of Ornithology website (https://www.birds.cornell.edu/home/all-about-birds/). I wanted to learn about the songs that emanate from small, brown birds. Turns out that the Song Sparrow has a breathtaking trill that’s been compared to the beginning of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: Ta-ta-ta-ta. Ta-ta-ta-ta. That such an unassuming bird has such a dramatic call is extraordinary. Because I’d been feeling somewhat hopeless about having any impact on a world that was getting crazier by the day, I saw that as a metaphor: A small, unremarkable bird with a voice like Beethoven’s Fifth meant that perhaps I, a nondescript, gray-haired grandma, might be able to use my skills, such as they are, to better the world.
Earlier this fall, I’d walked into my grandson’s elementary school classroom, filled with students from all over the world, and felt a stirring in my soul, a desire to spend time with the children of that classroom. Fortunately, the teacher was receptive to having me volunteer. Each week I spent a few hours, helping students gain skills that had been delayed because of the many issues facing refugee families.
After reflecting on the Song Sparrow metaphor, I realized volunteering in the classroom was making a difference in the world. Not stopping the current craziness, but making a small alteration that could affect the future. According to Chaos Theory, even a small, seemingly inconsequential action, like the flapping of a butterfly wing, has a ripple effect that can change a complex system. Certainly, the ripple created a decade ago when Charlie and I spent time together led to a mending of my heart. I’ve lost touch with Charlie and his family, but perhaps he’s on his way to being an ornithologist. A small bird, flitting through a barren tree in December created a smile on my face despite the sadness in my heart—and that one moment led me to write this post. I walked into my grandson’s classroom, and decided to volunteer. All of these small moments, all of these seemingly insignificant actions, have made a difference.
Balance and Resilience
12/11/24
“It’s not the weight you carry
but how you carry it –
books, bricks, grief –
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it
when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”
– “Heavy” by Mary Oliver
I read that stanza many times in the years after Kelsey died, but finally recognition dawned: It was really a matter of balance! I could hold deep sorrow and equally deep joy—at the same time. Until that moment, I’d been afraid too much happiness would dispel sorrow—and my sorrow was a connection to Kelsey. But at that moment I understood. While I would never stop grieving for Kelsey and would always miss her, I could also be happy and open my heart to joy.
At that moment, I opened my eyes to an entirely new world. There was so much all around me that provided delight—the cedars around our house, the salmon in the nearby creek, the Friends in our Meeting, the friends with whom we drummed every week, my family—so much that filled me with gladness! I realized I had experienced a kind of reserve—Don’t let in too much joy! —for much of my life. Perhaps because my younger sister had died of leukemia when I was only ten and I’d carried grief with me ever since. Perhaps because the range of emotional expression in my Swedish relatives was limited: not too much sadness, not too much gladness. But I think it was mostly spiritual. Over the years, I’d lost an awareness of my true—and joyful—spiritual nature But I was beginning to understand what I’d been missing!
Rumi, a fourteenth century Sufi mystic and poet, expresses through poetry the magic he discovered in a Divine love that lies beyond intellect and dogma. His verses[1] express the joy I found by opening more fully to the world around me.
“The rose garden is blooming
run and offer your life and the world
to the rising Sun.”
“Weep, weep for those who have turned
away from love.
What a day, what a day!
A day of resurrection!” (p.4)
“Love means to reach for the sky and
with every breath to tear a hundred veils.
Love means to step away from the ego,
To open the eyes of inner vision and
Not to take this world so seriously.” (p.18)
Over the past decade or so, I’ve grown more able to embrace contradictory emotions. Even while despairing about the state of our nation and the world, I feel happiness bubbling within me. It’s liberating. I’m brokenhearted about our ailing planet—loss of species, warming and rising oceans—and glorying in the magnificent oak trees down the street. I’m deeply saddened by the killing in Ukraine, Gaza, and Sudan —and reveling in the exuberance of my grandchildren. I’m mourning the loss of truthfulness in our leaders and their supporters—and optimistic we’ll soon right ourselves. I’m unbolting my heart, opening my arms to contradictory emotions and allowing them to mingle and even, upon occasion, dance.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines resilience as the ability to recover quickly from difficulties. The Center for Action and Contemplation, founded by Father Richard Rohr, has chosen “Radical Resilience” as its 2024 theme. As the CAC Dean of Faculty Brian McLaren explains, a spiritual practice of radical resilience—such as meditation, centering prayer, and chanting—means paying attention to the deepest roots of withstanding and recovering from hardship and welcoming resilience. CAC provides eight guided practices in its online website: meditations@cac.org. I love them all—but I especially benefit from the practice of holding in mind a particular concern and then breathing in Divine love and breathing out my love. This morning, before beginning to write, I thought about writing this post, while breathing love both in and out.
I think the moment is ripe for the contemplative practices that enable us to balance seemingly contradictory feelings—dread and confidence, fear and courage, despair and hope—and the moment for radical resilience. I fully anticipate that 2025 will be a difficult year, especially for the most vulnerable among us. I pray that we’ll able to endure hardship, find ways of just action—and also find hope and gladness along the way.
[1] Rumi: Hidden Music. Translated by Azima Melita Kolin & Maryam Mali. 2001. Thorsons: London.
Inner Peace in the Hole: A Guest Post by Noel Caldellis
12/3/24
Introduction
I first met Noel about fifteen years ago, when I was teaching psychology classes as part of the University Beyond Bars program at Monroe Reformatory Unit–a high security prison about thirty miles from Seattle. Noel was one of my students. Although I haven’t taught University Beyond Bars classes since Kelsey died, Noel reached out to me (through his mom) a few months ago: “I connected so deeply with your message,” he wrote . “I have also found a spiritual path through the adversity in front of me. I’ve been in prison now going on 18 years. It is only within the last year, however that I have found a spiritual awakening.” This guest post, written by Noel, is an expression of spiritual awakening in the midst of grief. Please be aware that the post contains graphic details about solitary confinement.
Two cops flanked me as we walked down an institutional corridor toward my cellblock and new living environment. I was being escorted from a holding cell to my new segregation cell after being transferred to a new facility to start my program—a long-term stay in solitary. I was handcuffed and attached to a leash one of the guards was holding. We entered the unit, walked up a staircase, made a few steps down the tier, and stopped outside a metal door posted with my name. I was in the hole and would be for a long time.
The whirring metal door clanged shut behind me, followed by another bang as the cuff port was opened. I pushed my handcuffed hands through the small opening to have them released by the cops. The trap door slammed shut violently. I took in my stark surroundings: a thin window high up, metal toilet-sink combo, industrial-strength desk bolted to the wall with no stool, a concrete platform where a foam pad no thicker than my pinky lay with some meager linens, and a small cardboard box. Inside the box, I found my only consumable items: a one-inch toothbrush, nameless toothpaste, skin-chapping bar soap, a small rubber cup, some papers, and three tiny books, all yellowed and heavily tattered. All were dime Westerns written back when books cost a buck and killing Indians was cool. I made my dog bed and opened one of the books, hoping to distract my mind from the hell I had just entered.
When you are stuck in the hole, there are few things you can do to survive the endless cycle of time. In many ways, time becomes your biggest obstacle, a potential enemy capable of subjecting you to more harm. At times, it feels as if its minutes morph into elongated monsters that only wane when they are forgotten. So, when I am in the hole, I do things to occupy my mind and burn as much time as possible. For me, reading is one of those activities.
It only took me about a page to realize this book wasn’t going to work. Not only was the jingoism and romanticized Western mythology beyond reproach, but the writing was also so awful I couldn’t stay focused. It was so bad I couldn’t even take it on as an exercise in literary analysis. It was shocking that writing of this caliber could have ever been published. I tried the other two books and had the same reaction. In fact, I was so negatively affected by these books that recalling them today is mildly triggering. I find myself back in that space. With the books off the table as options, I legitimately had nothing to do inside a 13 x 9 ft box.
It was in this space, locked away from everything that mattered to me, that I developed a belief that has become formative in my life: happiness comes from inside. Great peace can be felt and held when we realize that external factors disturb our emotions, but our emotions are controllable. We can’t always control our outer world, but we can control our inner.
I was essentially forced into having this realization. Either I would find peace in this space, or I would be destroyed by it. That may seem an extreme dichotomy, but that reality was a fact for me. I knew it was what I needed in that moment. I had seen the devastation segregation had wrought on others, and I wouldn’t allow myself to become its next victim. Without anything external, I had to turn within. I remembered something my aunt taught me decades ago when I entered prison: the power of my breath.
I had lost control over my external world; the only thing I had power over was my mind and my body. So, I sat cross-legged, closed my eyes, and focused on my breath. I used my breath to distract me from the crushing power time has in that place—an oppressive feeling that every second comes crushing inward from each corner. Focusing on each breath allowed me to resist that crushing force with an equally, if not more, powerful force pushing outward. I toyed with this new feeling, using my breath to push past time. When I turned inward, I found a power I never knew I had. I found stillness, and in that stillness, strength that led to happiness. It’s not like I was living in a ball of joy all of a sudden. I mean, let’s be real, I was still sitting in the hole and had already been there for about six months. Life was still a legitimate everyday struggle to maintain sanity. But in that space, in that moment, I was able to touch upon a powerful realization. I held the power. And with that power, I would determine how external factors impacted me.
Standing Against Oppression
11/27/24
“The world is the cloister of the contemplative. There is no escape. Always the quest for justice draws one deeply into the heart of God. In this sacred interiority, contemplation becomes the language of prayer and the impetus for prophetic proclamation and action.” These words by the Rev. Dr. Barbara Holmes, an African-American theologian and mystic, ring true. I’m spending a lot of time these days in contemplation, immersing myself in religious and spiritual books about justice, and discerning possible action in the face of oppression.
In A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics, and Salvation,” Gustavo Gutierrez writes, “This is a theology which does not stop with reflecting on the world but rather tries to be part of the process through which the world is transformed.” (p.102) In 1971, when the book was written, populist governments in Central and South America—Peron in Argentina, Vargas in Brazil and Cardenas in Mexico—had created industrial development that benefitted the upper and business classes while continuing or increasing the poverty of the majority of the people. When the people began to express their discontent through public outcry, the governments became more and more repressive. But even as they cracked down on their own people, they depended on the United States to overlook their human rights abuses and provide aid (and sometimes armaments). Today, the vast majority of humankind is still struggling because of oppression and marginalization—and the United States is still providing aid and armaments to nations with human rights abuses.
I’ve been reading about Black theology in The Divided Mind of the Black Church by Raphael G. Warnock. Black theology came to fruition in the 1970s as Black theologians in the United States reflected on the how the cry for liberation had impacted their religious understanding, rendering it different from European theology. Black theology roots in the folk religion of enslaved people, informed by the continuous struggle for freedom.
There are other forms of liberation theology, such as feminist theology, queer theology, and Dalit Christianity—all of them reflecting the movement of the Spirit against oppression. I gain inspiration in the midst of my anguish about the state of the nation and the world by remembering that—and by reading and reflecting on the Hebrew and Christian scriptures central to liberation theology:
“But let justice flow like water, and integrity like an unfailing stream.” (Amos 5:24)
“And what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8)
“For I was hungry, and you gave me food, I was thirsty, and you gave me drink, I was a stranger, and you welcomed me, I was naked, and you clothed me, I was sick, and you visited me, I was in prison, and you came to me.”
“Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you as a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?”
“Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.” (Matthew 25: 35-40)
Liberation theology resonated with our daughter Kelsey. As part of her work in a non-profit agency in the South Bronx, Youth Ministries for Peace and Justice, she participated in a weekly discussion of liberation theology, attempting to find ways to share the good news of the Gospels in one of poorest neighborhoods in New York City.
At the time of her death, Kelsey was preparing to travel to Zacualpa, Guatemala as part of the Migration and Human Rights Project of Boston College. She had chosen to attend graduate school at Boston College because of its commitment to social justice. After she died, the college’s Center for Human Rights and International Justice established a scholarship in her name, and over the past decade, the Kelsey Rennebohm Memorial Fellowship has supported students working on topics such as: the immigration crises within Germany; the experiences of Asian American immigrant home care workers in New England; stories of Central American mothers who crossed the US-Mexico border with their children seeking asylum. It warms my heart to know that Kelsey’s commitment to social justice and liberation theology is reflected in the scholarship recipients.
All three Abrahamic religions –Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—have sacred stories about liberation from oppression. Exodus tells the story of the Israelites escape from slavery in Egypt. Jesus ministered especially to the poor and oppressed. The story of Bilal ibn Rabah is an Islamic story of liberation. Rabah was born into slavery in Mecca during the 6th century. When he heard Mohammad’s teachings, he converted to Islam. When Rabah’s enslavers learned of his conversion, they took him into the desert and tortured him. Mohammad sent a close friend to investigate, and the friend was able to buy Rabah’s freedom. Eventually, Rabah became the first muezzin, one who calls Muslims to prayer.
Liberation from oppression is particularly important to one strand of Buddhism. Nearly eighty years ago, during the struggle for independence in India, Dr. Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar, a prominent Dalit (untouchable), wrote a speech entitled, “The Annihilation of Caste”. Although the speech was cancelled because of being too controversial, Ambedkar had it published—to acclaim from much of the public, especially the Dalit community, and harsh criticism from upper-caste Hindus. Almost ten years later, Ambedkar converted from Hinduism to Buddhism. His conversion was followed by that of 600,000 other Dalits. Ambedkar reinterpreted the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism to address class struggle and social equality, and this new branch of Buddhism became known as Navayana or Ambedkarite Buddhism. Navayana adherents make vows renouncing Hinduism (which upholds the caste system), embracing the eightfold path of Buddha, supporting the equality of all men, pledging to not steal, tell lies, or drink intoxicating drinks, and promising to practice compassion and loving kindness for all living beings.
Wisdom from the Mussar, a Jewish ethical and educational movement that began in the 19th century, states that Tikkun Middot—healing oneself—should precede Tikkun Olam—healing the world. Taking that piece of wisdom to heart, I think that before trying to repair the world, I need to work on myself. I have a tendency to speak before I think, and my anger, at times, overwhelms my better instincts. To that end, I’m adding a loving-kindness meditation to my morning practice: May I be happy, may I be heathy, may I be safe. May my friends and family be happy, may they be healthy, may they be safe. May all beings be happy, may they be healthy, may they be safe. Someday soon I’ll extend loving-kindness to my enemies: May they be happy, may they be healthy, may they be safe. (No one who is truly happy oppresses others.)
Over the years, Quaker wisdom put into plain chants by Paulette Meier have inspired and guided me. This one fills my heart as I heal myself and discern how best to join with others in standing up against oppression: “Stillness, deep, deep within us. In small beginnings it flows into the living waters. The ocean of God, through our stillness, God moves.”
The Thames Path: A Guest Post by Richard Bevan
11/19/24
Barb’s blog of September 23 struck several chords. I love to walk but have always tended to see walks as challenges rather than experiences, to set goals rather than to reflect on hopes and expectations, to focus more on the destination than the journey. But a walking project last summer changed that approach, and the post put it beautifully into perspective for me.
The Thames Path follows the River Thames (the English one) from its source near Kemble in Gloucestershire to the sea. Depending where one considers the Thames Estuary to end and the sea to begin, it’s about 200 meandering miles. Most of the distance is on riverside trails and towpaths, and the last sections follow embankment walkways in London. Of course, most of the route is gently descending. To a lover of multi-day walks in the British Isles, this was a very appealing profile. I planned the walk for the late summer of 2024, in part as a celebration of my 80th birthday. I recruited friends and relatives in the south of England to join me on some sections but planned (as I generally do) to walk by myself for about half the time.
During the spring of that year, I encountered some cardiac problems. These were not going to prevent me from walking but were certainly going to limit my pace and distance. The planning for this project had been on my usual basis: take on challenging distances, push the pace, get it done about as fast I was able. I had been aiming for 12 days walking, with a day off at the halfway stage and finishing with a couple of very long days. Evidently, this now wasn’t going to work. And as I look back it brings me great satisfaction to realize that the compulsion to back off and take it easily has opened me to a kind of walking experience that of course is familiar to many if not most walkers, but that I have often ignored or missed.
It’s not that all my walking until now has been devoid of appreciation of place, of my companions, or of the focus, calm, and clarity that walking can enable. I’ve shared some wonderful walking adventures with many people. But I was often tending to push forward towards an arbitrary goal, and (equally often, perhaps) failing to savor the moment. The Thames Path showed me that from now on the journey will take priority over the schedule.
I didn’t abandon my plans altogether; but I certainly changed them greatly. I would not just moderate my pace but would also take whatever form of transport might be available when I needed to walk a shorter distance – or no distance. It was time to learn a new way (to me) of walking: a comfortable pace; eyes, ears, and heart open; being a pilgrim, perhaps. I recalled reading (very many years ago) Hilaire Belloc’s The Path to Rome. He planned his route by drawing a straight line on the map of Europe from his starting point in France, to Rome. He intended to walk the whole way but found good reasons on occasion to take a train or get a ride on a passing cart. If he could do it . . .
When I needed to abbreviate the planned walk (this happened pretty much daily) I would use taxis, buses, a train (once) and a boat (once). And on a couple of days, I didn’t walk at all but explored the area, including a lovely day wandering around Oxford and another at Shiplake College, the Thames-side school of which my brother was headmaster for many years. No thought of distance: this was relaxing, seeing, and reflecting. And, of course, instead of a brief greeting to walkers I met or passed, or was passed by (mostly) there was the opportunity for conversation and sharing of ideas and experiences.
I was by myself about half the time and had a variety of companions (friends, nieces, and nephews) for the other days: a lovely mix of contemplative solo walking, and shared days of conversation and observation. These companions were happy to join in my new way of traveling. It’s 40 years since I last lived in the UK, so when I visit, I’m something of a tourist, needing to be guided and educated. And the relaxed pace certainly enabled this.
An example of my new readiness to engage with more than the task was on a day when I decided to walk just in the morning, and then pick up a bus to cover the final distance to my next B&B. Shortly before noon the riverside path took me to a charming pub, The Trout at Godstow, that I remembered well as an occasional destination when I was studying at Oxford. I wasn’t carrying a packed lunch, and in any case found the thought of a pint of shandy (or even beer – never an option in the old days of pushing on to the goal) very appealing. The pub was due to open at noon, and another traveler was sitting relaxing on a bench by the door. As I approached, he said, “not open yet but it won’t be long” and moved up to make room for me.
By the time we had chatted outside, then entered at opening time, and enjoyed a sandwich and a beer, we had learned a little bit about each other, with immediate plans always of most interest. “Which way are you going? How has it been? What to look out for?” He was in a boat, on his way up-river to the furthest navigable point. He made the trip every year. At his upstream turning point he would meet his parents and return with them to his home further down-river. We quickly established that he would be passing me three days from now, exchanged numbers, and agreed that I would join him that day and get a ride for most of that day’s distance. And that’s what happened, and how I was able to add ‘boat’ to my list of conveyances. A delightful man, he lives by the river in Marlow (a few days downstream). He travels extensively (that’s his business) but still loves the annual week on his little boat on his own River Thames.
A special aspect of my walk was remembering that while I’m not a religious person (though raised in a solid C of E household) I find enormous peace and calm sitting quietly in a little Norman church or, for that matter, any place of worship. There are almost as many of these along the way as pubs. And the process of walking, with the schedule and the statistics removed, becomes newly contemplative. During all my walks I gradually develop a sense of calm; but this was doubly so on this walk. I think I understand Barb’s question in her lovely blog post, “What in this journey is worthy of my complete devotion and trust?” I found several answers in different places and different ways; and I’ll continue to ask the question on future expeditions. Did the walk become a pilgrimage? If a pilgrimage is an exploration seeking meaning and personal growth, then yes, it did, and more will follow.
Next year I’ll start what will be a multi-year project to walk the perimeter of Wales in three or four-week segments. I won’t be hurrying.
Transformation in Difficult Times
11/12/24
Over the days since the election, I’ve been listening to “The Lost Voices of Hagia Sophia: Medieval Byzantine Chant”. For six centuries, the vast interior space of Hagia Sophia—built in Constantinople in 537—was filled with the chanting of Eastern Orthodox monks, their voices reverberating far longer than they would in modern concert halls because of the church’s reflective surfaces and the concave domes. The monks’ voices were stilled in 1453 when the Ottomans conquered Constantinople, and converted Hagia Sophia into a mosque—which it has remained except for a brief time during the Crusades and between 1935 and 2020 when the building was open to the public as a museum. Through the efforts of art historian, Bissera Pentcheva, and her Stanford University team, sophisticated technology has allowed us to hear how the monks’ voices, raised in chant, resonated in the space. Pentcheva translates a description of Hagia Sophia by the sixth-century poet, Paul the Silentiary: “Human action…brings into presence the divine reaction, the divine voice…in a sense that is the reverberation of the space: After the human voice stops singing, the building continues.”[1]
The Greek word, kairos, means an event that holds the seeds of change, an opportunity for reflection and transformation. The sacred meaning of Kairos is God’s time, a Divine opportunity for transformation. The recent election can be seen as a human action bringing about a Divine reaction, setting off a reverberation, providing an opportunity for reflection and change. But what kind of reflection, what kind of change? Pundits are busy analyzing the actions and attitudes of the losing party. Many of us are shell-shocked and asking ourselves what went wrong? Did we not do enough? Did we not listen hard enough to our neighbors?
Eighteenth century American Quaker, John Woolman, wrote, “Let us look upon our treasure, the furniture of our houses, and our garments, and try to discover whether the seeds of war have nourishment in these our possessions.” I would modify that to ask whether the seeds not only of war but also of oppression are nourished by my possessions and by my actions. For the past week, I’ve lain in bed, unable to sleep, filled with fear and despair, images of mass deportation and hate crimes flashing in my brain. I find myself wondering why my efforts throughout the past eight years—marching, writing letters to the editor, sending postcards, making phone calls, talking to voters—haven’t been enough to create a multi-racial democracy? But I’m not asking the right question. Something has to come alongside the multi-racial democracy. Institutions need to change—and I need to work on effecting that change. But even writing the previous sentence brings a swirling fog into my head, making it difficult to focus. Where do I begin? It’s much easier to write postcards—and continue ordering from Amazon.
Nevertheless, I’m surprised by the hopefulness that has leapt into my heart, taking up residence alongside the fear and despair. Where does it come from? Perhaps from past experience: Even in the midst of my grief after Kelsey’s death, I could sense that something was happening. A seed was sprouting within me, a transformation was beginning. Spiritual practices nourished my soul and furthered metamorphosis. Maybe something similar is going on now.
God’s time is always available to us, but during some events, Chronos—time measured in hours, minutes, and seconds—is more porous, enabling us to more readily participate in Kairos. A kind of exclamation point—God’s Time! —has caused me to double down on my spiritual practices: Before falling asleep at night, I list all I’m grateful for. I meditate for at least a half hour each morning. I’m trying to be kind with everyone I meet and attempting to walk in my integrity, telling people how I truly feel when asked, not shying away from difficult conversations.
But I can do more. I really can. I can wait for my brain fog to settle and look more closely at our economic and power structures. I can look at how I participate in those structures. I can attend to the wisdom of those who have reflected on these concerns for centuries—and to the wisdom of those who are actively involved in the struggle today. I can trust there is Divine guidance through the many and often-conflicting opinions, through the exhortation for revolution versus the pleas for more gradual change. Spirit is within and all around me. A time such as this is weighty with possibility. The voices of the electorate are stilled, but the building continues to reverberate.
[1] New York Times, August 6, 2020, “How a Historian Stuffed Hagia Sophia’s Sound Into a Studio”
Expectant Waiting
11/4/24
When Kelsey died, one of the hardest things was waiting. If there really is a Heaven, I thought, I have to wait until my life is over to be reunited with her—an impossibly long time. I was also waiting for an inner certainty that our relationship hadn’t ended, that it just had taken new shape and weight. I waited for a surprisingly long time.
But while I was waiting—reading books, meditating and praying in the Silence, filling notebook after notebook with my thoughts, drumming with friends—new life was germinating within me. I was beginning to see what had been hidden, to hear what had been dulled, to discover that the world isn’t at all as I had supposed: There really are fairies in the forest, rocks that talk, heavens that open, and a Love that never ceases. On the seventh anniversary of Kelsey’s death, Craig and I scattered the last of her ashes in Chimacum Creek, not far from our home. It felt like an important marker of time. Kelsey was with me then, as she always had been, as she always would be.
And now, as I await the results of our election, I am again sensing new growth within me –and within the hundreds of thousands of people who have been working on this election. Something’s happening. Many of us finally have become aware that the efforts won’t cease after the votes have been counted, that we have a long, long way to go. There is “good work” to be done, a world to be mended, a planet to be saved. That gives me hope. And my hope deepens as I reflect on the striving for justice by so many people in my life: My husband, who has stood for hours on street corners in downtown Seattle and climbed into dirt caves above the freeway to provide companionship to marginalized people, is still advocating for radical inclusion; my sons and daughters-in-law are raising our grandchildren with a sensitivity to the planet and an inclusiveness that leaves me in awe; Judith is working night and day to provide shelter and medical care for the most fragile of migrants on the Mexican side of our southern border; Maryamu continues to teach that poverty is violence; Steve, who has spent most of his career building affordable housing in Seattle, hasn’t stopped, even in retirement; Kelle is preaching about the curtain shaking and the new kin-dom coming; Mary, a retired Sister of Charity from the South Side of Chicago, finds her greatest joy working in an Iowa foodbank; Jeff, who has been feeding homeless people for decades, is not about to stop. Amanda writes, calls, paints rocks, and ceaselessly advocates for the rights of LGBTQIA+ people; David and Charles are following in the footsteps of Fannie Lou Hamer and John Lewis; Kimonti, Steven, Waldo and other members of the Black Prisoners Caucus are working around the clock for prison reform. Amy uses her strong voice to urge all of us to fight for a more equitable, peaceable, and just world. Pam teaches her college students about the importance of voting. Friends and neighbors are calling for the bombing in Gaza to stop, the wars in Ukraine and Sudan to end. I really could go on and on. The results of the election will not end the countless efforts to mend the world. It may be harder, the climb steeper, but the work will go on. We can trust that within our expectant waiting, difficult as it is today, there is much already happening. I’m holding the world I love in the Light. We’re in this together, all of us. In the words of Ram Dass, we’re just walking each other home.
Finding New Myths
10/30/24
At this moment, in the midst of a crucial election in the United States with less than a week until votes are counted, I’m wondering how I might engage in a spiritual practice of mythmaking to help me heal and become more whole, both as an individual and as a member of a wider community.
Myths are an attempt to answer the spiritual questions: Who are we? Where did we come from? Where are we going? They express our deepest truths, our most profound understandings, our hopes and our dreams. They let us know who belongs–and who doesn’t.
“Myths are like the beams in a house: not exposed to outside view, they are the structure which holds the house together so people can live in it.” writes Rollo May, twentieth-century American existential psychologist , in The Cry for Myth. [1] He further states, “to be a member of one’s community is to share its myths, to feel the same pride that glows within us when we recall the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock or Washington crossing the Delaware, or Daniel Boone and Kit Carson riding into the West.”[2]
When I first read the above passage, it startled me. How could an esteemed psychologist like Rollo May have chosen those particular myths to indicate national pride? But he wrote the book almost thirty-five years ago. Did the myths about Pilgrims, Washington, and Kit Carson fill me with pride three decades ago? Perhaps not, but they didn’t offend me like they do now. I’ve learned a lot about the history of our country over the past quarter century, enough to know that many of our national myths distort the truth. And when that happens, to borrow May’s analogy, they are like termite-infested beams that threaten the structural integrity of the house.
The myth about the Pilgrims, for example, hides the fact that European explorers had been in the area around Plymouth Rock, killing and enslaving Natives for a hundred years before the Mayflower landed. It conceals the truth that the first Thanksgiving celebration ushered in a time of increasing conflict between colonizers and the Wampanoag people, culminating in a war between the two groups that so weakened the Wampanoag that they submitted to being removed from their ancestral land.
While touring Independence Hall in Philadelphia several years ago, I learned a disturbing story. When the national capitol was moved from New York to Philadelphia, Washington rotated his enslaved workers between Philadelphia and his plantation in Virginia every six months. And he did that rather unusual bit of housekeeping because Pennsylvania allowed enslaved people to claim their freedom after they’d lived in the state for six months. Washington wasn’t just a bystander to slavery, helpless to free the enslaved people owned by his wife–as the myths and much of history claim–he was an active and manipulative participant.
And finally, while it’s true that Kit Carson was courageous in many ways as he explored and helped settle the American West, the myths about him tacitly celebrate Manifest Destiny—the nineteenth-century belief that White Americans were destined to kill and displace Natives in their westward expansion—and the fifteenth-century Doctrine of Discovery—the papal decree that gave European nations the right to claim all land and resources belonging to non-Christians.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Words that launched a revolution, birthed a nation, and stirred countless Americans over the years, including me. But there is a troubling postscript. When Thomas Jefferson wrote the preamble to the Declaration of Independence, he was staunchly against the slave trade. Twenty-five years later, he refused to support a petition submitted to congress that would have ended it. Over time, he had grown quite comfortable on his Monticello plantation—maintained by a hundred enslaved people. In 1790, the year the petition was submitted to congress, Jefferson wrote an observation on his financial ledger, noting the percentage of his income that came from selling Black children.[3]
The above story of Jefferson could be a national myth: the story of a visionary leader, sadly compromised by self-indulgence and moral laxity. It would say something about where we came from and who we are—but it wouldn’t tell us where we want to go, nor would it reflect who we truly are in our spiritual core. I yearn for a myth that can help us deal with the weight of our past, our worry about the future–and support us in being our best selves. To create such a myth, I think, we need a guiding spirituality that includes scientific knowledge, mystical wisdom from the major religions–and spiritual teachings from the African people whose labors built so much of the nation and the Native people who have lived on this land for thousands of years.
The Zulu concept of ubuntu has been inspirational to me since I first learned of it during the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings in South Africa. It’s translated as “I am a person through other people.” According to Archbishop Desmond Tutu, ubuntu is a call to community and the essence of being human. It’s a message of hope and unity in a troubled world.
“The African universe is conceived as a unified spiritual totality. We speak of the universe as ‘cosmos’ and we mean that all being within it is organically interrelated and interdependent. The essence of the African cosmos is spiritual reality,” writes African-American philosopher, Dona Richards.[6]
Black Elk described Native spirituality this way: “Peace comes within the souls of men when they realize their relationship, their oneness with the universe and all its powers, and when they realize that at the center of the Universe dwells Wakan-Tanka [the Great Spirit], and that this center is really everywhere, it is within each of us.”[7]
In Project 562, Native author, Matika Wilbur, writes, “The extraordinary land we walk on is Native land, whether it be city streets, suburban cul-de-sacs, deserts, plains, mountains, or shorelines. Indigenous existence is all around us. It is up to us to listen.”[8] Her book includes these excerpts about Native spirituality:
“The Indigenous mind is rising, all over the world. We do have a history of an ecological ethic that has profound possibilities for re-framing the way that mainstream society looks at the national world and all its relationships to the natural world.” Greg Cajete of the Santa Clara Pueblo (p.361)
“I see the strength of prayer, of movements, of what people once had where they could talk to everything and everything would listen. And so, if we’re asking for spiritual guidance it’s not just to God, the Creator. It’s to everything that he’s created in this world, they’re all a part of it and all can be part of the healing.” Wendsler Nosie Sr., San Carlos Apache (p.46)
Mythmaking is a process of discovering what is true—and uplifting—about a people.[9] Given all that we know about the troubled founding and unfolding of our country, is it possible to discern a spiritual throughline of generosity, kindness, and compassion? Is it possible to tell a story about all of us, not just White folks, not just men, not just able-bodied, straight people, but all of us? Is it possible to tell a story about caring for the planet, seeing holiness in every rock, plant and animal? I think so. I hope so.
[1] May, Rollo. The Cry for Myth. 1991. W.W. Norton & Company: New York. p.15
[2] Ibid. p.45
[3] Wiencek, Henry. “The Dark Side of Thomas Jefferson” in Smithsonian Magazine, October 2012.
[4] Fox, Matthew. Meditations with Meister Eckhart. 1983. Bear & Co: Santa Fe. p.24
[6] Richards, Dona Marimba. Let the Circle Be Unbroken: The Implications of African Spirituality in the Diaspora. 1992. Red Sea Press: Lawrenceville, NJ. p.5
[7] Brown, Joseph Epes. The Spiritual Legacy of the American Indian. 1986. Crossroad: New York
[8] Wilbur, Matika. Project 562: Changing the Way We See Native America. 2023. Ten Speed Press: California/New York
[9] Fox, Matthew. One River, Many Wells: Wisdom Springing From Global Faiths. 2000. Penguin Putnam: New York
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Imagination as a Spiritual Practice
10/22/24
Remember what it was like to be a kid absorbed in imaginary play? In my neighborhood we played wagon train, based on a popular television series, pretending our little red wagons—loaded with toys and picnic lunches—were Conestoga wagons, heading across the plains. We also played house, a rather chaotic version, in which we battled floods, fires, and other catastrophes. We created endless scenarios with small dolls and paper cut-outs. When my daughter and her friends were around eight or nine, they began their pretend play with “Let’s say”: “Let’s say we’re acting in a movie, and I’m the star.” “Let’s say we’re going to college and have to carry around a lot of books.” Our three-year-old granddaughter pretends that a dog named Rolf lives under her dining room table, making noise, demanding food, and occasionally trying to escape.
“You’ve let your imagination run away with you,” my parents said when I was eight and talked about the martyrdom of St. Cecilia, the saint my Catholic best friend loved and prayed to. For my parents, and for many Protestants, praying to and seeking the protection of a saint was a form of idolatry. Spiritual imagination and idolatry seemed to go hand in hand. When I was ten, after my sister’s death, I imagined walking and talking with her, telling her stories before falling asleep. But I knew I shouldn’t be talking with my dead sister. Instead, I should be talking with Jesus. Somewhere around adolescence, I stopped having these conversations, curbed my spiritual imagination, and focused on what was real.
When Kelsey died, I again turned to spiritual imagination, trying to imagine where she was, what she might be doing, how she was feeling. I could almost see her with a group of women, laughing and singing, I could almost feel her rubbing my back, trying to comfort me. But I knew I was just imagining all this. None of it was real.
My brother told me that soon after Kelsey died, three deer wandered into his suburban yard, which was very unusual. It seemed to him that one of the deer was imbued withKelsey’s spirit. Although it soothed me to hear this, I knew it was only my brother’s imagination, fueled by grief. When Craig told me about seeing visions of Kelsey in the months after her death, I was comforted. But I knew his visions weren’t real, just phantoms born of a father’s aching heart.
Then I began having visions, not really visions but what psychologists call experiences of felt presence. The first incident was a couple of months after Kelsey died when I was driving to the ferry landing to pick up Craig and sobbing the whole time. Suddenly, my deceased grandmother was in the car with me. I could sense her arms around me and feel her intense concern and love. It shook me up. I pulled the car off the road and tried to collect myself. Was that real? I wondered. Of course not. I knew that what had taken place was not materially factual, not real, but it certainly seemed real.
The next occurrence was a couple of months later. We were in a small city on the northwestern coast of France. I was in the hotel sitting room, looking out at the harbor and feeling immensely sad, when, all at once I sensed the presence of all the mothers who had once lived in that city and lost their children to the sea. I was enveloped by an empathy that radiated from I knew not where—yet I knew these mothers completely understood what I was feeling. I was imagining them, yes, but their compassion was as tangible as the croissants I’d eaten for breakfast that morning.
I was opening myself to the communion of saints—from all faiths. The more open I became, the more frequently they popped into my life. I used my imagination in other ways as well, imagining friends and family members as strong trees, protecting me from gales, imagining trees as people, sharing their secrets. Sometimes, I doubted the truths that came through my imagination—but I was bolstered by the words of Joan of Arc, “How else would God speak to me, if not through my imagination?”
A couple of years after Kelsey died, I met with a few other women to learn about shamanic drumming. During our first session, the teacher drummed while the rest of us closed our eyes and journeyed, that is, we let our minds go to wherever our hearts and imaginations were leading us. When people listen to the monotonous beat of a drum, their brain waves change from the beta waves of ordinary consciousness to the alpha and theta waves of altered consciousness, thus enabling them to see and experience vivid images and sensations. We’d been instructed to look out for a spirit guide, usually in the form of an animal. In my journey, I saw a magnificent lion very much like Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia—strong, gentle, and comforting—who walked along side me until the slowing beat of the drum indicated it was time to return to the ordinary world. A few weeks later, ready to expand my imaginative capacities, I got my own drum and joined a drumming circle that met every week.
Sandra Ingerman, an author and experienced shamanic practitioner, suggests doing an experiment.[1] First, she says, sit down, close your eyes, and imagine something you love: a color, a place, an object in nature. Note how your body feels when you think about this thing. Then do something else for a while. Wander around your house, do a task or two, and then return to your sitting position and think about hating the very thing you love. Note how your body feels when you are telling yourself a lie. Where does the lie resonate? How does it feel?
I did the experiment by imagining a cedar tree. I felt a pleasant tingling in my chest and arms as I imagined the fresh scent of cedar and the woosh of wind blowing through the tree’s needles. When I said to myself, “I hate this tree”, my forehead pounded, and I had an overwhelming desire to shake my head, as if shaking off the lie. Ingerman suggests we use bodily sensations to help us determine what is trueand what is false in our imagining.
“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” I think of these words by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin almost daily. Imagination can help us shed layers that cloud our awareness of spiritual beingness. Almost every religion offers the opportunity to engage our imagination through guided meditation. I’m hoping to join a course of Ignatian meditations someday in the not-too-distant future. These meditations are a form of prayer written by St. Ignatius, the 16th century founder of the Jesuits, designed to help people experience biblical scripture—the annunciation, Jesus’ birth, ministry, death, and resurrection—by imagining themselves in each scene: seeing colors, hearing sounds, feeling textures, tasting foods, and smelling scents. The purpose of the meditations is to bring those who engage in them into a closer relationship with God.
A few days ago, I participated in a Sound Medicine Meditation. We sat in chairs or rested on cushions that had been arranged in a semi-circle around the facilitator. During the first part of the meditation, the facilitator gently instructed us to breathe deeply and relax each part of our body. She used a Mayan ocean drum and quartz crystal singing bowls, accompanied by vocal toning, to lead us into deeper realms of relaxation and healing. My experience was similar to what happens when I drum: I journeyed to a place beyond the ordinary world and felt myself in the presence of the saints. I could have stayed there forever—except of course, I had a life to lead in the ordinary world.
There are many other ways to strengthen spiritual imagination. Here are some that occur to me: Read a myth and imagine yourself as one of the characters. Read a story from a sacred text—Moses and the burning bush, the Buddha under the fig tree, one of the prophets in the Qur’an—and imagine all the colors, scents, and sounds in the scene. Record or draw a dream. Look through old magazines, create a collage from the pictures that resonate with you, and reflect on your creation. Paint or draw a picture of whatever comes to mind. Compose music. Write a song. Write a poem. Write a novel. Use a shamanic drum or rattle to journey beyond the ordinary world. Talk to trees and listen for their response. Hold a rock, one that feels right in your hand, and observe how you feel. Above all, become as trusting as Joan of Arc and open to the power of spiritual imagination.
[1] Ingerman, Sandra. 1991. Soul Retrieval: Mending the Fragmented Self. HarperCollins Publishers: San Francisco.
Walking in My Integrity
10/15/24
“For I have walked in my integrity,
And I have trusted in the Lord
Without wavering.”
-from Psalm 26
I chose Walking in My Integrity as the topic for this post, because I’m angry– angry and distressed. Angry about the lying, bullying, and demonizing in our political discourse and aggrieved by the slaying of 1,200 men, women, and children in Israel, the killing of more than 50,000 people in Gaza and Lebanon, and the continuing bloodshed in Sudan and Ukraine. I can imagine all too well the horrific pain of losing a child—and so many parents have lost children, so many children have lost parents. The arc of the moral universe seems to be bending anywhere but toward justice. I sometimes fantasize about inflicting bodily harm on those responsible—in spite of my avowed support for non-violence—but in my heart of hearts, I want to emulate the Psalmist and “walk in my integrity”. I love the phrase. It moves me deeply, but I’m not really sure what it means.
According to Merriam-Webster, integrity has to do, first and foremost, with following a moral code. Although I have a moral code, I rarely articulate it, even to myself. As a Quaker, I’m committed to non-violence, and certainly that’s important, but probably even more essential is telling the truth to myself and others. Which brings up the question: What is truth? It’s a puzzle that merits a lifetime of pondering—but I can’t wait that long. So once again, I turned to Merriam-Webster and found this definition: “1) actuality; fact; a transcendent or spiritual reality (often capitalized); a judgment or idea that is accepted as true. 2) the property of being in accord with fact or reality. 3) sincerity in action, character, and utterance. 4) God.”
Well, that muddied the water, provoking even more questions. How do we separate fact from fiction, for example? That’s an important—and timely question. Some things, like sacred texts, are true in the spiritual sense but not factual. And it’s reasonable to doubt some of what’s reported to be “fact” in newspapers and court rooms. Time can alter the memory of what has transpired, and eyewitnesses to the same event interpret it differently. But disseminating “alternative” facts goes way beyond inaccurate recall. It’s a conscious effort to spread lies, which is sometimes justified by saying that an untruth serves to illuminate a greater truth. That leads to yet another question: How do we distinguish Truth (or God) from the promptings of ego or the voices of neighbors, preachers, or political leaders? Even sacred texts are interpreted and re-interpreted. Nevertheless, with that caveat in mind, I turned to some of those texts to find answers or at least re-frame the questions.
In the Hebrew Bible, truth is one of the most commonly used attributes to describe God. A well-known rabbinic saying is “God’s seal is Truth”[1]. That is, God’s name is Truth. An admonition to speak truth is often found in biblical scriptures:
“O YHWH, who may abide in Your tent? Who may dwell on Your holy hill? He who walks with integrity, and works righteousness, and speaks truth in his heart.”[2]
And this one is especially beautiful: “Do not let kindness and truth leave you; Bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart”[3].
The Zohar[4]is a collection of writings from 13th century Judaism that combines mysticism, myth, and obscure teachings. According to the texts, the universe is sustained by ten, interconnecting forces. Two of these forces, Love (synonymous with the God of Love) and Power (synonymous with the God of fear and trembling) must be balanced: Love with too little Power leads to injustice, and Power without Love gives rise to evil. Righteousness (Truth) is critical to that equilibrium. The forces enter the human world through Shekinah (Presence) and are mirrored in the human soul. The great task for us, as human beings, is to echo the cosmic struggle in order to prevent evil and bring justice into the world.
The Buddha instructed his followers to adhere to the Five Precepts: not killing, not stealing, not misusing sex, not lying, and not using intoxicants that cloud and confuse the mind. He also taught that being honest with oneself is the most important of all virtues. It can be attained by engaging in an ancient form of meditation called Vipassana, which involves observing what is happening in the present moment—thoughts, emotions, and sensations—without judgment.
The Qur’an states, “O you who believe! Be ever God-fearing! And be with those who are ever truthful.” (9:119) The Prophet Mohammad’s clansmen referred to him as “al-Amin” or “the Trustworthy” because his honesty was well-known. He is reported to have said, “Honesty certainly leads to goodness, and goodness leads to paradise.”
According to Kabir Helminski[5], a modern, American Sufi, Sufis believe we become what the heart holds dear. “If your thought is a rose, you are the rose garden. If your thought is a thorn, you are kindling for the bath” (Rumi II, 278). In other words, if your thought is God, you become one with God. If your thought is truth, you become truth.
And what does my own spiritual tradition, Christianity, have to say about truth? One of the most well-known scriptures from the Christian Testament is John 14:6: “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” The words are attributed to Jesus but written 40-60 years after his death. Evangelical friends and family members have quoted this passage to convince me that the only way to God is by accepting Jesus as my lord and savior. But I understand the words more mystically, somewhat like a Rumi poem: Jesus is what he holds dear, and one of those things is truth.
Quakers believe one can find truth by listening for the still, small voice of God[6] rather than relying on intermediaries such as clergy. But how do we know if that voice is God? George Fox, the 17th century founder of Quakerism, preached that the still, small voice will be in concert with the fruits of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.”[7]
Quakers also believe that we can find spiritual guidance by paying close attention to our own lives. When (to use an old Quaker phrase) way opens, we find ourselves invited to new opportunities. Sometimes, however, way closes. As 21st century Quaker author, Parker Palmer, writes, “Each time a door closes, the rest of the world opens up. All we need to do is stop pounding on the door that just closed, turn around—which puts the door behind us—and welcome the largeness of life that now lies open to our souls” [8]
A week ago, I sprained my ankle and now rely on crutches to get around. Healing is slow, requiring me to be patient (not my strong suit) and to revise my former plans. A door has temporarily closed, but if I stop pounding and turn around, what might be opening? Well, for one thing, spending time on the couch with my leg up has given me an opportunity to reflect on the sacred texts, allowed for some of my anger to dissipate, and given me more perspective.
Since truth and kindness are inscribed on my heart, I realize that I already know how to walk in my integrity. I just need to be reminded of the best ways to do it through practices such as waiting in the silence for my Inner Guide, reading sacred texts, and conversing with like-minded souls. Over the past week, I’ve come to understand that my walk involves struggling to bend the arc of the moral universe toward justice. It will continue long past the current obstacles, but I need to trust Quaker wisdom. When some doors close, others will open.
[1] Talmud, Sabbat 55a
[2] Psalm 15:1-2
[3] Proverbs 3:3
[4] The Zohar, Pritzker Edition, Volume One, translation and commentary by Daniel C. Matt (2004). Stanford University Press: Stanford, California.
[5] Helminski, Kabir. (2012). The Knowing Heart: A Sufi Path of Transformation. Shambhala: Boston & London
[6] “But the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind, an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.” (1 Kings 19:11-13 KJV)
[7] Galatians 5:22-23
[8] Palmer, Parker J. (2024) Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation. Jossey-Bass: Hoboken, NJ. p42.
Opening to Mystery as a Spiritual Practice
Guest Post by Craig Rennebohm
10/9/24
Our daughter Kelsey died suddenly on June 1st 2012, in a bike-bus accident in Boston. She fell getting on her bike, just as a bus passed by on a busy street. No one’s fault. I was paralyzed by the suddenness of her death and yearned for a moment in which I might have a glimpse or a glimmer beyond the absolute finality and ending of her life. My usual tools and backpack of ideas and beliefs were far from adequate.
But, a month after her death, mystery took me by surprise. We were in Portland, at Barb’s brothers house. Early in the morning I awoke, could not get back to sleep, and went down to the family room to read. Sitting quietly, I closed my eyes for a moment and began to hear music, as if seven great symphony orchestras were performing, choirs singing, and an organ playing with depths more sonorous than I could ever imagine. I saw Kelsey, seated next to a figure who brought me immense comfort and solace. This experience brought me a momentary sense of peace, calm, and understanding.
We had been stunned by an abrupt phone call from a Boston detective, telling us of Kelsey’s death– and by the succeeding rituals required of us: going to Kelsey’s apartment and to the funeral home, gathering with friends and faculty from her graduate program at Boston College, packing and sending her remaining belongings back to Seattle, picking up her ashes and sobbing in the sanctuary of a nearby UCC church.
As a pastor, I had been at many bedsides as life gently left. I grieved with family and friends, created memorial services, and shared in burials and the scattering of ashes. But Kelsey’s memorial service was a totally different kind of experience for me. I remember two moments especially from that service: Jessie, describing how Kels would sniffle a bit, cough a little, and suggest that perhaps she should not continue the sleepover with the group of neighborhood girls, that she should return home to take care of her “cold.”
I wanted her back. I wanted her home.
The second moment was when Katie, Kelsey’s roommate from Barnard and with whom she had explored neighborhood after neighborhood in New York City, said to the gathered mourners, “The day after graduation we walked from Barnard to the tip of Manhattan and back and then laughed and talked all that night. We said good-bye to each other the next day, promising we would be together again. Six months later, we were back in New York and sharing an apartment.”
Oh, how I hoped, somewhere deep in my being, that would be true for us, that six months from now we, too, would be together again with Kelsey.
Bereft is a tenderness word for devastating loss. It suggests, as in weaving, threads that create a continuing fabric. Me, I could see no way ahead. Kelsey’s death led nowhere. All I could do was reweave the past from my own memories and the stories shared by others and build an inner remembrance to treasure and turn to for solace.
Two months after Kelsey died, we traveled to the Swinomish tribal center to meet with Dobie Tom, a Lummi, tribal shaman. I had been adamantly and angrily opposed to going—”I don’t need a damned shaman”—but finally agreed. We entered an oval gathering space with tiered benches surrounding an open floor. Sitting in the center, with Dobie chanting as his son drummed, I found myself lifted into the heavens, to a small, old wooden gate and a path that led to a great open hall, a space without walls or ceiling. And from all directions flowed humanity, immensely diverse and from throughout history. And there, again, I saw Kelsey. She was engaged in lively conversation, fully absorbed, her spirited and loving self. As the drumming and chanting slowly came to a stop, I returned to this world, and Dobie shared his sense of our experience.
Our life involves two spiritual realities, I understood him to say. One is an abiding spirit that never ceases to be present and to hold us. The other is a personal guiding spirit. From this soul guide, we may become separated, especially in times of trauma, loss and death. Our grief is such that we lose touch with that immediate spiritual resource that energizes our deepest core and identity. We are bereft not only of those whom we have loved and lost, but also an elemental part of ourselves. He said softly, “I have returned your guiding spirit to you.”
Years ago in seminary, as a final assignment, I had constructed a personal theology. In 1970, I was able to tell you who God is, what it means to be a Christian, how the Spirit moves in our lives, and how we come to know all this. Over the next forty-two years, as I continued to explore, understand and give voice to the sacredness of our journey as human beings, my spiritual understanding began to include more and more mystery. This earthly experience is a phase, a time of shaping a spiritual identity from the many moments of present relationships and occasions, and one way or another, this spiritual identity, who we are in our deepest relationships with each other, is imperishable.
Our relationships are part of a larger universe of infinite and eternal creating. We live by glimpses and glimmerings. We follow our own unique grievous ways. We find and are found, kindred in our unknowing and in the slow restoration of our souls. There is no single path forward.
Kelsey’s death ripped me open and accelerated my process of opening to mystery. She had always asked for honesty and integrity, no bullshit, real connection. She dove again and again into the depths of life, interviewing woman refugees about genital mutilation for a freshman high school history paper, living and learning with a squatter community on a Quito hillside in Ecuador, agreeing to be the physical education teacher at her East Harlem school, not because she had the expertise but on the basis a profound belief in her students’ capacity to learn from one another. She was, said a young Nigerian, Jesuit priest in her graduate psychology program, “the most spiritual of companions” on their walks around campus together.
In our last conversation, Kels said on the phone, “Dad, you can always connect.”
Humor as a Spiritual Practice
10/1/24
A month or so after Kelsey died, my book club gathered on a back yard deck with everyone present, a rarity for a group of women who travel a lot. After filling our plates with food and pouring drinks, we pushed our chairs to the table and settled in for a discussion. They wanted to know how I was doing—and because we’d been meeting for twenty-five years and trusted one another, I explained exactly how I was feeling. As the sun sank toward the horizon, our conversation began to shift. Someone talked about her husband’s death the year before. Another talked about the wounds from her recent divorce. Someone else revealed the difficulties of raising a child with multiple disabilities, and another woman talked about her sorrow in never being able to have a child. As the conversation wove in and out of a variety of losses, we began to laugh—maybe because we recognized that just being alive means experiencing loss, maybe because life contains so many absurdities. We didn’t try to put it into words, we just laughed. And that laughter was pure gold. It didn’t end the nausea or take away the heaviness from my limbs, but oh my god, it felt good!
There are, of course, physiological and emotional reasons why laughing feels good: It causes the inner lining of blood vessels to dilate, increasing blood flow. It releases endorphins that relieve pain and trigger pleasure. It forges a common bond with others. I appreciate the healing aspects of humor, but can it be considered a spiritual practice? Many spiritual leaders think so.
In the days after Kelsey died, a friend gave us a little book by the Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, about the healing power of a smile. As I lay on the couch, attempting to stem my tears, I tried to coax the corners of my mouth upward—but my muscles refused to cooperate. Although I couldn’t find that same small book, I read another one by Thich Nhat Hanh, How to Smile (Mindfulness Essentials)[1]. Clearly, because the entire book is about smiling, he thinks it’s important and recommends it as a spiritual practice, often alongside other practices.
“During walking meditation, sitting meditation, kitchen and garden work, all day long, we can practice smiling. At first you may find it difficult to smile, and we have to think about why. Events carry us away and we lose ourselves. A smile can help us regain our sovereignty, our liberty as a human being. Smiling means that we are ourselves, that we are not drowned in forgetfulness.” (p.7)
“You may ask why you should smile when you have no joy. You don’t need joy in order to smile; you can practice mouth yoga, and you’ll feel relief right away. Sometimes joy is the cause of your smile; sometimes your smile is the cause of your joy.” (p.10)
During a week spent together in Dharamsala, India, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and the Dalai Lama talked about joy, their conversations recorded, edited, and published as The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World[2]. On the first day, they talked about the nature of true joy, on days two and three, they discussed obstacles to joy, and on days four and five, the topic was the eight pillars of joy, one of which is humor. According to the two spiritual leaders, a close relationship exists between humor, humility, and humanity with the three words even sharing common root: humus. “We have to have a sense of humility to be able to laugh at ourselves, and to laugh at ourselves reminds us of our common humanity,” says Archbishop Tutu (p.216). Whenever he was conducting a funeral for someone killed by the police during the years of apartheid in South Africa, he used humor to defuse the anger of the hundreds of people in attendance, thus preventing even more bloodshed.
At the end of the book, there’s an actual how-to for developing a practice of humor. The first step is to think about one of your lesser faults. (Archbishop Tutu gave the example of his large nose.) The second step is to laugh at yourself. I asked my husband to help me enumerate some of my lesser shortcomings. After a moment’s hesitation he agreed to help, and the list of my faults came together with alarming alacrity. Among them is my uneasiness about arriving anywhere late: I insist on leaving our house long before it’s necessary, ensuring that we almost always arrive at our destination early. If we’re going to a social gathering, I make us wait in the car until the appointed time—because I don’t want to show up too early. My husband did a comedy routine on this idiosyncrasy (i.e., fault)—and both of us laughed, proving that the practice works.
The third and final step of the practice is to laugh at life. During the summer after Kelsey died, I met with another bereaved mom to share stories. Eventually we began talking about how grief had taken charge of our lives. Soon we were laughing, not just chuckling but honest to goodness laughing. Even grief has its absurdities.
The Jewish Talmud tells the story of the first century Babylonian sage, Rabba bar Nahmeini , who began each session of teaching Torah with a joke. He was convinced that humor is conducive to learning. There is much in the Hebrew bible about joy. For example, Psalms 126:5-6 (RSV):
May those who sow in tears
Reap with shouts of joy!
He that goes forth weeping,
Bearing the seed for sowing,
Shall come home with shouts of joy,
Bringing his sheaves with him.
The Kotzker Rebbe, a nineteenth-century Hasidic rabbi in Poland, taught that joy has the ability to release us from our troubles, take us beyond ourselves, and expand our consciousness.
Purim is a Jewish holiday, based on a story in the Book of Esther and devoted to merrymaking. It’s about expected disaster (the annihilation of all the Jews in ancient Persia) followed by a complete reversal of fortune (the Jews are saved, a courageous queen is lauded, and the villain is hung). The surprising turn of events has been observed throughout the ensuing centuries by reading the account of Queen Esther’s bravery, sharing food with the needy, eating and drinking—and a great deal of laughter.
According to various texts, the Prophet Mohammed often told jokes, believing that humor strengthened the bonds between his followers. His jokes were always kind, never meant to embarrass or belittle, and he discouraged lying to make people laugh, “O ye who believe! Let not some men among you laugh at others. . . Nor defame nor be sarcastic to each other, nor call each other by offensive nicknames.” (Qur’an, chapter 49, verse 11)
Humor is an important part of Sufism as exemplified by Hafiz’s poem, “Tripping Over Joy”[3]:
“What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?
The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God
And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move
That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying ‘I surrender’
Whereas my dear
I am afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.”
According to Wendy Doniger[4], a scholar of Hinduism, humor is celebrated in the rural villages of India through religious festivals, folktales, and oral traditions. “Tenali Rama and the Goddess Kali” is one such folktale: A sage gives Tenali Rama a mantra that he must chant 36,000 times in order for the goddess Kali to appear and bless him. He does as he’s told but when the goddess finally appears (with 1,000 heads and multiple arms) Rama begins to laugh. Kali asks why he is laughing, and he tells her that he was imagining her with a cold, sneezing with a thousand noses. Kali joins in his laughter.
In addition to an appreciation of humor and laughter, Hinduism emphasizes the development of inner joy. The Bhagavad Gita (2.65) states, “When one is joyous from within, sorrow reduces drastically, almost disappearing. And such a contented and blissful yogin is able to take his mind off everything, firmly establishing himself in the supreme soul.”
The Swiss theologian, Karl Barth, wrote, “Laughter is the closest thing to the grace of God that we possess.” The grace of God, at least as I understand it, is the unconditional love of God that takes us from the ordinary to the extraordinary—just as laughter puts us in touch with something beyond ourselves. While it may seem strange to juxtapose comic books and the grace of God, that’s what comes to mind—probably because I just saw “Cat Kid Comic Club, the Musical” with our six-year-old grandson. The superhero, “Spider Butt” prompted our grandson (and probably all the six and seven-year-olds in the audience) to double up with laughter—and their laughter transported me beyond ordinary existence. I mean really, what is more uplifting than a grandchild’s delighted laughter? I’m seriously thinking of reading comic books as part of my spiritual practice.
One final observation. My husband is a funny guy and often makes me laugh. Over the years, he has helped me gain a greater ability to see the humor in life. It comes naturally to him. He also uses humor to overcome his bouts of trauma-induced depression. I know he is emerging from an episode when he can joke about it. At those moments, our shared laughter feels like a slice of heaven—and the grace of God.
[1] Hanh, Thich Nhat (2023). How to Smile (Mindfulness Essentials). Parallax Press: Berkeley, CA
[2] Dalai Lama (Tenzin Gyatso) and Desmond Tutu (2016). The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World. With Douglas Abrams. Avery: New York.
[3] Ladinsky, Daniel (2006). I Heard God Laughing, Poems of Hope and Joy: Renderings of Hafiz. Penguin Books: New York.
[4] Doniger, Wendy (2009). The Hindus: An Alternative History. Penguin: New York.
Pilgrimage: Eyes Wide Open, Searching for the Holy
9/23/24
“I sleep with my eyes open,” our three-year-old granddaughter announced at 10pm during a sleepover at our house. She wasn’t the least bit tired, even though I’d been rubbing her back, trying to coax her into sleep, for what seemed like hours. “I’ve decided what I want for breakfast,” she said, looking up with a bright smile. She bounced a couple of times then hopped off the bed to find her grandpa so she could share with him the now-finalized breakfast menu.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking about pilgrimages. What turns a mundane trip into a pilgrimage, I wondered? What transforms an everyday traveler into a pilgrim? As I thought about it, I suddenly remembered my granddaughter’s words: “I sleep with my eyes open”. Perhaps that’s what transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary: eyes and heart wide open.
The practice of making a pilgrimage for spiritual renewal and transformation is part of every major religion, culminating in sacred destinations around the world: Mecca and Medina in Saudia Arabia for Muslims; the Wailing Wall and the Church of the Sepulchre in Jerusalem for Jews and Christians; the Ganges River along with eighteen hundred other sites for Hindus; and Lumbini in Nepal where Buddha was born and Bodh Gaya in India where he gained enlightenment. Several years ago, my husband and I visited Edsleskog, a small town in western Sweden where my great-grandmother grew up. We learned about a well next to the old Edsleskog church which had been a sacred site for centuries of Medieval pilgrims. In the Middle Ages, a vast network of routes throughout western Europe formed the Way of St. James, leading pilgrims to the shrine of St. James in Santiago de Compostela, Spain. Most of this network remains today.
On a family visit to France several years ago, we saw several pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela. In addition to their broad-brimmed hats, backpacks, and walking sticks, they wore the identifying marker of a peregrino: a scallop shell strung around the neck. Before seeing these modern-day pilgrims, I assumed pilgrimages were a fascinating artifact of the Middle Ages. I’d read The Canterbury Tales in high school and La Quête du Graal in college– stories of medieval knights on a quest for the Holy Grail. And I spent many hours in The Cloisters, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum devoted to Medieval art and architecture. One of the treasures there is an illustrated prayer book, belonging to the fifteenth-century Duc de Berry with a scene that depicts the duke setting out on his own pilgrimage, inspired by the Israelites crossing the Red Sea and the wise men traveling to the birthplace of Christ.
In The Art of Pilgrimage[1], Phil Cousineau writes that the first step of a pilgrimage is a longing for transformation. The notion of traveling on a spiritual quest appealed to me even when I was a child, daydreaming about following in the footsteps of Jesus around the Sea of Galilee, the sea on one side and ancient olive trees on the other. (Because it wasn’t solely a spiritual daydream, I also envisioned wearing stylish sandals and getting a good tan.) As an adolescent growing up amid fields of corn, I yearned to visit the Gothic cathedrals of Europe and walk on cobblestone streets—and travel to California to see the Pacific Ocean.
After my daughter died, my longing took on a different shape: I wanted to peer into the next world and discover whether Kelsey was okay. I yearned to be in a place where, to paraphrase the chronicler of myths, Joseph Campbell, the temporal laws and walls would dissolve[2]. Late in the summer after her death, my husband Craig suggested, “You’ve taken a leave of absence from the school district, now might be the time to travel.” But the thought of traveling, once irresistible, no longer appealed. I changed my mind, however, when I remembered the many monasteries and cathedrals that dotted France. In those holy places it might be possible, just possible, for the temporal walls to dissolve. “I’ll go,” I replied, “but only if we can stay in a monastery.” Craig looked into various options, but in the end we decided to stay near not in the holy places.
The ancient paving stones in the Chartres Cathedral, two hours by train from Paris, had been worn down by centuries of seekers, many of them, like I, in need of solace. That I was tracing their footsteps made me feel so much less alone, and that so many had believed in the Unseen gave me goosebumps. I lit a candle for Kelsey and wiped away tears as I watched the flame spiral toward the vaulted ceiling.
Even though the number of Benedictine monks in the Abbaye Notre-Dame du Bec in Normandy had greatly dwindled from its peak in the sixteenth century, the abbey was one of the thin places, located within the boundary between this world and the next. The abbey seemed even more sacred as we listened to the monks’ Gregorian chants. The nearby stream, ancient trees, and rolling hills, sprinkled with cows and sheep felt charged with Divine energy.
Perhaps most moving of all was when we walked among the megaliths in Brittany: large upright stones, some supporting a horizontal stone slab, that had been placed there, for reasons we can only surmise, by ancient Druids. When I sat under a large dolmen, sheltered from the rain, I could sense the presence of something beyond this world.
Our trip to France changed my mind and shifted my soul—the criteria for determining whether a journey has become a pilgrimage, according to Irish poet and priest, John Donahue. Walking the path of a labyrinth is like making a pilgrimage. According to myth, the first labyrinth, with high walls and twisting paths, was built in Knossos, Crete to contain King Minos’s son: half-man, half-bull. The myth might have been based, in part, on the circuitous structure of the king’s palace. A few years ago, a group of friends and I visited the palace ruins. As we threaded our way amid the dusty remnants, we fell into silence, awed by the juxtaposition of myth and reality, the past intertwining with the present.
In the middle ages, labyrinthian paths were constructed on the floors of cathedrals around Europe to encourage the faithful to contemplate God while making a mini-pilgrimage within the confines of the church. The center of the Chartres labyrinth calls to mind the cathedral’s rose window, and the convoluted path leading to it gives one the sense of almost arriving before veering in another direction. According to Cousineau, the labyrinth is “an ancient symbol for the meandering of the soul that goes from light into darkness and emerges once again into light.” When I walk a labyrinth I have that very sensation: light into darkness and then, finally, a burst of light upon arriving at the center.
Craig and I are leaving soon for a long weekend to visit our son, daughter-in-law, and three-year-old granddaughter in LA. (We’re lucky enough to have two three-year-old granddaughters!) I bought a small, wooden box for her to decorate and then use to collect small treasures around her neighborhood: perhaps a stone, a bird feather, or even a discarded candy wrapper. I’m hoping we can create a small ritual to convey our appreciation and gratitude for each treasure. If my eyes and heart are open, the weekend with our granddaughter and her parents might well shift my soul and change my mind and become a pilgrimage.
I read somewhere that one searches for the holy during a pilgrimage. That made sense, but then I wondered, what makes something or someone holy? Merriam Webster’s first definition of holy is “worthy of complete devotion and trust”. There are many potential pilgrimages in my life: caring for and supporting our grandchildren; my continuing journey through grief; writing and sharing my writing with others; exploring the small towns, mountains, and beaches around our home. The possibilities are endless, but as I engage in each one, I’ll try to see it with wide open eyes—and ask myself, What in this journey is worthy of my complete devotion and trust? That will be a good kind of challenge—and a spiritual practice.
[1] Coustineau, Phil (2021). The Art of Pilgrimage. Canari Press: Coral Gables, FL.
[2] Campbell, Joseph (1975). The Mythic Image. Princeton University Press: Princeton, NJ.
Prayer is Part of Me
9/17/2024
The first time I remember praying, other than “God is great, and God is good, now we thank him for our food” and “Now I lay me down to sleep.” was when I was around nine. My younger sister Sally became acutely ill with pneumonia, and it scared me. I prayed almost constantly, “Please God, make Sally well.” Although my sister did recover from pneumonia, she wasn’t really well and died a year later from the leukemia that had been present even before her bout with pneumonia. Her death broke my heart. According to Mom and Dad, Sally was with Jesus. I didn’t know the exact nature of Sally’s relationship with God, but it didn’t really matter. I prayed to both of them. Whenever I felt troubled or confused or lonely, I prayed, and over the years the three of us developed quite a close relationship. By the time I got to adolescence, I prayed more to God than to Sally—but she was still vaguely part of the mix. Over the next years, as I worked, married, and became a mom, I never stopped praying.
At some point, in middle age, the content of my prayers began to change, and words felt superfluous. I wanted to listen for God, not fill the time with talk. I begrudged the spoken prayers during the Sunday services of our UCC church, and the sermon seemed unnecessary—which was ironic since my husband was a preacher and my son was in seminary, learning to become a preacher. I attended a Quaker meeting of worship and found the silence just right: a time to listen for the still, small voice. Intrigued by Quakerism, I signed up for a workshop on simplicity at a Quaker retreat center near Philadelphia and learned about a small book written by an early twentieth-century Quaker theologian, Thomas R. Kelly. His book, A Testament of Devotion[1], had a profound effect on me. Kelly writes of living life on two levels: on the surface we go about our daily lives—talking with friends, performing our work, caring for family—while on a deeper level we continually listen for God. I began listening for my Inner Guide, my Shekinah, even while going about the rest of my life.
And then my daughter died—and all my beliefs died with her. There were no words to express the enormity of my loss. God was no longer speaking to me or maybe I wasn’t listening. My only desire was to somehow find Kelsey, to know that she was okay. What had been simple when I was a child, praying to both Sally and God, now seemed impossible. How could I talk with God when I was mostly concerned about Kelsey? How could I talk with Kelsey when I had no idea where she was? At the suggestion of a friend, I began to meditate, paying attention to the in and out of my breath but no longer expecting to meet God in the silence. An hour of concentrating on my breath each morning helped me get through the rest of the day.
Gradually, I realized that my meditation was a form of prayer, and ever so slowly, I found myself turning again to words to express what I had learned through meditation, walks in the woods, and other kinds of spiritual practice: a burgeoning sense of awe. As I walked along the beach, I spontaneously chanted in a language I didn’t know: “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam.” I looked up the words when I got home and discovered that the words—in Hebrew—open most Jewish blessings: Blessed are you Adonai, our God, Source of all life. No doubt, I’d run across them in movies and books and probably had heard them many times over the years without really paying attention. No matter how they had arrived in my head, I was grateful they tumbled out at the right moment. Then a new prayer filled my heart, and I whispered it whenever I saw a sunrise or an eagle soaring over the tall cedars: “Let me see what can’t be seen. Let me hear what can’t be heard.” A few months later, I began chanting the words of Quaker texts put into plainsong by Paulette Meir[2]. One chant, based on the writing of seventeenth-century English Quaker, James Naylor, were especially helpful: “Art Thou in the darkness? Mind it not, for if thou dost it will feed thee more, but stand still and act not, and wait in patience, till Light arises out of darkness and leads thee.” The words reassured me that someday Light would lead me out of darkness, someday my life would be better. As I opened to seeing with more than my eyes and hearing with more than my ears, I began to sense the presence of my ancestors and created a chant of my matrilineal line, beginning with Kelsey: “Kelsey, daughter of Barbara, Barbara daughter of Eleanor, Eleanor daughter of Emma, Emma daughter of Gustafva, Gustafva daughter of Anna Katarina, Anna Katarina daughter of Maria. The names felt holy, and each time I chanted them, I felt connected to my grandmothers—and to Kelsey.
Mahatma Gandhi is quoted as saying, “Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul”. This longing leads Muslims to chant the names of God: “Ar Rahman, The Beneficent, Ya’ Adi The Just, Ya Ahad, The One…”. Jews pray the Shema: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. . .” Hindus chant the Gayatri mantra: “Om, Bhur, Bhuvah, Suvaha. We meditate on the most adored supreme Lord. . .” Tibetan Buddhists fly prayer flags with sacred images and phrases, each gust of wind a prayer for the peace and happiness of all beings. Catholics pray: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. . .”
“Prayer is taking place, and I am part of it,” writes Thomas Kelly. That feels right. I walk on the beach, watching the waves rise and fall, and am part of prayer. When the wind rustles outside my window, I am part of prayer. When my granddaughter wraps her arms around my neck, I am part of prayer. When my husband reaches out to hold my hand, I am part of prayer.
Rafael Warnock, the pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta and a U.S. Senator says, “A vote is a kind of prayer for the world we desire for ourselves and for our children.” That also feels right. I think of the “good work” of people like John Lewis who not only prayed but also marched, were beaten, and lost their lives for the right to vote. A letter to the editor, a love letter, a poem, a novel—and even a blog post are prayers. A heart filled with gratitude is prayer. A heart filled with joy is prayer. A heart filled with awe is prayer. Overwhelming grief is prayer. Silently waiting for the still, small voice, is prayer. Prayer is all around me. It’s in me, and I’m in it.
[1] Kelly, Thomas R. (1992). A Testament of Devotion. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.
[2] “Timeless Quaker Wisdom in Plainsong” (2010). Selected, set to music, and recorded by Paulette Meier.
A Spiritual Practice of Forgiveness and Atonement
9/10/24
Forgiveness is the practice I want to write about, but it’s been difficult to know what aspect of forgiveness to address. Forgiving others? Forgiving myself? Asking for forgiveness? I did a deep dive this week into the concepts and practices of forgiveness in the three Abrahamic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. They have much in common with one another (although there is an important difference): All three religions lift up the value of extending and receiving forgiveness for personal and communal wrongdoings. All three extol the forgiving nature of God. The difference lies in what God can and cannot forgive.
Every chapter in the Quran, save one, begins with the words, “In the name of Allah, the most Compassionate, the most Merciful”, indicating the magnitude of mercy and forgiveness in Islam. And forgiveness is given considerable attention in both the Hebrew Bible and the Christian New Testament. For example:
Who is a God like thee, pardoning iniquity and passing over transgression for the remnant of his inheritance? He does not retain his anger forever, because he delights in steadfast love.
– Micah 7:18 (RSV)
Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.”
– Matthew 18:21-22 (RSV)
All religious traditions encourage forgiveness. Psychologists and physicians detail the many benefits: A forgiving heart allows one to begin afresh, puts less stress on the mind and body, eases the process of grieving. The Forgiveness Project (https://www.theforgivenessproject.com) emboldens victims/survivors of violence and abuse and encourages them to share their stories of forgiveness with others. The stories on their website are truly inspiring, each narrative illustrating the significance of forgiveness in the healing process, the positive impact of taking power from the perpetrator and giving it back to the survivor. While the harms the survivors experienced have not been forgotten–or pardoned–they are no longer dominant.
There’s another remarkable story about forgiveness, this one in a Pennsylvania Amish community. On October 2, 2006, a milk truck driver who, although not Amish, was well-known in the community, backed his truck into the yard of the local school. He entered the one-room schoolhouse, tied a rope around the legs of ten young Amish girls, and then shot and killed five of them and seriously injured the other five before killing himself. The amazing thing was that, instead of seeking retribution, the community expressed compassion for the killer and his family along with intense grief for the lost and injured children. Members of the community, including parents of the slain girls, attended his funeral. When questioned about how they could forgive so quickly, the Amish replied that forgiveness was a given in their faith. It wasn’t easy but the directive from Jesus was clear: forgive seventy times seven times. The words and actions of forgiveness were the first steps of a longer, more internal process of reconciliation.
In 1995, following the end of Apartheid in South Africa, Nelson Mandela instituted the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It had two purposes: to uncover the many violations against human rights that occurred between 1960 and 1994 and to provide support and reparations for the victims. Mandela’s hope was that the process of revealing the truth and working toward reconciliation would establish a new sense of interconnectedness in South Africa. The commission, headed by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, began a series of hearings to allow both victims and perpetrators to share their stories. The accounts were harrowing. At times, Archbishop Tutu was so overwhelmed that he put his head on the table and wept. He was, however, continuously sustained by his Christian faith and by Ubuntu, the indigenous African spiritual awareness that we all are fundamentally interconnected. In the Xhosa tribe of which Tutu was a member, Ubuntu goes one step further: we make one another human. “If you can find it in yourself to forgive,” said Archbishop Tutu, “then you are no longer chained to the perpetrator.” And, by forgiving the perpetrator, you are able to remake him.
Several years ago, I taught psychology in a high-security prison near Seattle. One of my students told me that he had been remade because of forgiveness. As a member of a violent gang, he had committed a murder and was apprehended by the police. During the trial, the victim’s mother stood up and publicly forgave him. Even though he was sentenced to life in prison, that mother’s forgiveness gave my student a sense of being able to begin his life anew. I got goosebumps when he told me the story.
In Judaism, if someone comes to you with a sincere apology, you must forgive him or her. It’s a mitzvah, a duty. It’s also a way to lift a burden and free one’s soul. As Rabbi Yehuda Berg states, “Hurt people hurt people. That’s how pain patterns get passed on, generation after generation. Break the chain today. Meet anger with sympathy, contempt with compassion, cruelty with kindness. Greet grimaces with smiles. Forgive and forget about finding fault. Love is the weapon of the future.” (https://themindsjournal.com/quotes/hurt-people-hurt-people/)
Muslims are asked to forgive for the sake of Allah. Mohammad forgave his transgressors and thought only of Allah. His followers are asked to do the same. Even when they’ve lost everything, Muslims are asked to forgive. Even if the crime is overwhelming, they are asked to forgive. Even if their heart wants revenge, they are asked to forgive. If one has sinned against another Muslim, he or she is required to ask for forgiveness and seek reconciliation. According to the Quran, Allah will delay entrance to Paradise until that reconciliation has taken place, but ultimatelyAllah is forgiving. I have experienced that spirit of forgiveness in the Turkish Muslim family who “adopted” me when I first visited them in Istanbul almost sixty years ago. While my transgressions haven’t been huge, there have been some–and they have always been forgiven me. That forgiveness has felt as sweet as one of the ripe Turkish figs they introduced me to so many years ago.
In Judaism, one is required to seek forgiveness for harming another. However—and this is an important distinction—only the victim can grant forgiveness. No one else, not even God, has that power. In his book, The Sunflower, Simon Wiesenthal tells the story of being called to the bedside of a dying SS soldier. The soldier confessed that he killed over two hundred Jews and asked for forgiveness. Wiesenthal replied he couldn’t grant the desired forgiveness. For years afterward he was troubled by his response and asked religious thinkers and leaders to reflect on this question: Had he been right to deny forgiveness? The Christians (mostly Protestant) overwhelmingly responded that Wiesenthal should have forgiven the soldier. Jewish responders were bewildered even by the question. It was clear to them that Wiesenthal had no right to forgive in such a situation. Not even God could do that. Only the victims could—and they were dead.
This Jewish notion of limited Divine forgiveness upends what I’ve always considered to be true: God forgives whenever we are truly repentant, no matter the circumstances. I’ve spent a big chunk of my life attending Protestant worship services, and they, almost always, include a prayer that goes something like this: “Lord, forgive us for the sins we have committed. Forgive us for not living up to the life you envision for us. Forgive us for not being the people you want us to be.” We confess our sins, ask for forgiveness, and forgiveness is granted. Catholics seek forgiveness from God through an intermediary, but the result is the same. But what if the burden can’t be lifted? What if God can’t forgive? What then?
A Jewish friend reminded me that even though it’s not always possible to receive Divine forgiveness, it’s always possible to atone, to make amends. It was a helpful reminder. I’d like to be forgiven for a lifetime of benefitting from the transgressions of my ancestors: I live on land stolen from the Duwamish. I’ve inherited wealth that one way or another traces back to slavery. I live in a nation enriched by the resources of other countries. But forgiveness might be too easy. Maybe it’s right that I live the rest of my life with the burden of knowing I’ve gained from the pain of others, maybe it’s right for me to spend the rest of my life atoning. That doesn’t mean living a diminished life. Quite the contrary. I learned after our daughter died that it’s possible for a heart to contain both sorrow and joy.
As part of a study group that formed soon after the murder of George Floyd, I have read and discussed with the other members of my group close to fifty books that detail the past and present sins of my country and illuminate how I’ve knowingly or in willful ignorance benefitted from them. When my study group first started meeting, I thought I knew a lot, that there wasn’t much more for me to learn. I was so wrong. In Judaism, Teshuva means turning from a wrong. I envision it as a wave, pushing me into a new spiritual practice of atonement. The first step has been learning more about the transgressions of my beloved country and my role in them. Another step has been joining a radically inclusive faith community and seeing where that leads. It’s a spiritual practice that brings me continuing sorrow—and at the same time fills my heart with hope.
Spiritual Retreat
(9/3/24)
An email, advertising a Quaker spiritual retreat, flashed into my inbox and grabbed my attention. It had been six months since Kelsey died, and while I’d found relief from the dull ache of grief through meditation and spiritual reading, I wanted to go further and deeper. I wasn’t Quaker, but I’d been interested in Quakerism for a long while, drawn to the silent waiting for Divine guidance that is at the center of Quaker worship, Quaker business, and Quaker relationships. During the five days of the retreat, even though there was a heaviness in my heart, I participated in everything on offer: silent worship, small group sharing, discussions of Quaker texts, and informal conversation over meals and in-between sessions. I attended five more Quaker retreats with Way of the Spirit[1], loving every one and drawing increasingly close to my fellow retreatants. After the two-year program concluded, my cohort of retreatants continued to meet for retreats which we organized ourselves.
The serenity and inner peace that comes from spiritual retreat is something Buddhists, Christians, Jews, and Muslims have known from their beginnings. For thousands of years, Buddhist monks lived in isolated monasteries, practicing silence and mindful meditation. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, prompted by colonial rule and the arrival of Christian missionaries, monks in Burma and Thailand began opening their monasteries to Westerners, teaching them about meditation and mindfulness. The practice of Buddhist retreats gradually spread throughout the world.
Moses withdrew from his followers and retreated to Mount Sinai for forty days on three different occasions. On the first of those retreats, he received the ten commandments. “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy”, is the fourth of those commandments, a directive that requires the faithful to set apart one day of each week, to withdraw from worldly activities in order to become closer to the Holy One. Abraham Joshua Heschel writes about this commandment in his book, simply titled, The Sabbath. “Six days a week we wrestle with the world, wringing profit from the earth; on the sabbath we especially care for the seed of eternity planted in the soul. The world has our hands, but our soul belongs to Someone Else.”
Mohammad regularly retreated to the cave of Hira near Mecca, gaining insights that are foundational to Islam. Throughout the centuries, Muslims have practiced a form of retreat called I’tikaf. Men practice the retreat in a mosque, women at home. I’tikaf can be performed at any time but is often done during the last ten days of Ramadan. In medieval times, Sufi masters practiced a form of self-isolation—for forty days and forty nights—called Khalwa. In modern Sufism, the term refers to a much shorter time of silent prayer, often an all-night vigil, conducted on annual holidays and as part of a longer retreat.
For millennia, Christians have followed Jesus’ practice of retreating from the world to pray and draw closer to God. As the Jesus movement spread in the 2nd and 3rd centuries, his followers built an assortment of religious communities in both urban and rural areas. When Christianity became the official religion of Rome in the 4th century, many adherents felt that a vital part of their faith had been lost. Hermits, ascetics, monks, and nuns retreated to the desert, especially the Scetes Desert of Egypt, while other monks and nuns began living in isolated monastic communities elsewhere. Eventually, monasteries adopted many of the desert practices, such as voluntary poverty, silence, and solitude. The tradition of lay people going on retreat didn’t begin until the sixteenth century when St. Ignatius of Loyola, a Spanish mystic and founder of the Jesuits, invited his disciples to follow The Spiritual Exercises while on retreat. St. Ignatius wrote his small book of meditations and prayers, based on insights gained while living in a cave in eastern Spain, later refined through years of theological study in Paris. Another mystic, St. Teresa of Avila, lived in Spain at roughly the same time and also urged her followers to spend time in solitude, to pay attention to what lay beyond their five senses and open themselves to an awareness of God’s presence. The Christian practice of going on retreat soon spread among clergy and lay people.
In pre-revolutionary Russia, small, rustically-furnished cabins called Poustinias—Poustinia means desert—could be found in isolated, wooded areas of the country. A poustinia was available to anyone in need of a place for fasting and praying. Sometimes, a poustinia was inhabited by a person–of any rank or class– who’d received a Divine call to live apart from the world, specifically in a poustinia. Such a person, called a poustinik, was required to live devoutly in isolation and provide a warm welcome to others, offering counsel when needed, sharing whatever the food and drink was on hand, and responding to all requests for help. A poustinik might, for example, be asked to assist with a harvest, tend to the sick, or care for a neighbor’s livestock.
One of my fellow Way of the Spirit retreatants sometimes thinks of herself as a modern-day poustinik. She lives by herself in a cabin on an island without ferry service, stores, or restaurants, spends a chunk of her day in meditation and reflection, and regularly hosts small worship gatherings. She is ready to provide counsel to her neighbors and helps them whenever needed.
I’d like to be a poustinik, but I live smack dab in the middle of a city with a husband and a dog. Our grandkids often race through the house or propel a pint-sized Mercedes Benz back and forth across the front porch. Perhaps, though, I could be a poustinik of the heart. I’m devout in my own way, even if I don’t know who or what God is and ascribe to the beliefs and practices of several religions. There have been moments when I’ve fallen to my knees in awe, so strong has been my awareness of a Divine presence.
I have a problem with the welcoming-others part of the poustinik’s job description however. I should slow down, stop filling my life with busyness. As I envision it, a poustinik of the heart has the time and space to listen with the heart as well as the ear, the time and space to respond to the needs of others. When I’m not busy, I can hear pretty well what others are saying, understand what they need. But frequently, because I’m in a hurry, I miss those messages–within my circle of family and friends and more broadly in the world. It’s ironic. I started out writing about the history of spiritual withdrawal –and I’m concluding with the paradox inherent in the role of a poustinik: welcoming others even while retreating from the world.
[1] Goodnewsassociates.org
A Practice of Kindness
(8/27/24)
My favorite line from “Kindness”, the beautiful poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, is this:
“Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.”
But what exactly is kindness? What makes it so remarkable? I know it when I see it, or rather when I experience it, but describing it in words is more difficult. Maybe only a poem can do that. Since I’m not a poet, I’ve been doing what I often do when trying to answer a perplexing question: look up synonyms, glance through my books, and write. Many of the synonyms I’ve found—niceness, politeness, gentleness, thoughtfulness, compassion—describe aspects of kindness, but there’s a missing ingredient, the special something that makes kindness both ordinary and extraordinary. After writing—and deleting—page after page, I remembered what might be that missing ingredient: side by side.
For many years, my husband Craig worked on the streets of Seattle as a mental health chaplain, offering a ministry of presence to people who were homeless and mentally ill. He also developed what he called the Companionship Model to teach others how to be companions to those of us facing emotional and mental health challenges. The Companionship Model includes practices of welcoming, neighboring, listening, and accompaniment, and also side by side, a practice of walking alongside another—not confronting, not coming from behind to pick up the pieces, but sharing the journey, trying to see life through another’s eyes. It’s a powerful practice—and kind.
In the weeks after Kelsey died, people often said to me, “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” They were trying to offer support without making assumptions, but in reality their words make me feel set apart and even more alone. I wanted to respond, “Why don’t you try?” But I realized that imagining the loss of their child was more than they could do. I felt the same before Kelsey died. When my worst nightmare actually came true, I was so grateful for those who were able to walk alongside me–and I will never, ever forget their kindness.
During World War II, Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira led a congregation in the Warsaw Ghetto, a small area in the center of the occupied city, surrounded by an eight-foot concrete wall that was topped with barbed wire and guarded night and day by Nazi soldiers. Because no one was allowed to leave the ghetto to obtain food and supplies, the members of his congregation were both terrorized and starving. Shortly before his own death, Rabbi Shapira wrote a letter to his congregants, telling them that some situations are so horrific that even God is overwhelmed. In those situations, God needs us to help him—and we can do that by being kind to one another.
I tried to imagine being in that ghetto, tried to imagine the fear, the hunger, the loss of hope. My imagination led me to a very dark place where it was difficult even to breathe. But then I envisioned someone sharing a piece of bread with me, giving me a gentle embrace and a loving look. Once again, my lungs filled with air, and my heart swelled with thankfulness. Kindness overcoming darkness.
There’s another story associated with Rabbi Shapira, this one about a boy who’d been one of the rabbi’s students in Piaseczno, a town near Warsaw. After his entire family was killed by the Nazis, the seventeen-year-old boy was transported to Auschwitz. In anguish and determined to take his own life, he suddenly remembered the teaching Rabbi Shapira had imparted again and again to his students in the Piaseczno yeshiva: the greatest thing in the world is to do an act of kindness for another. There were innumerable opportunities in Auschwitz, especially at night, to perform acts of kindness. The boy found those opportunities, and he survived the war.
Kindness is an act that connects us one to the other—and, interestingly, our brains are literally wired to facilitate that connection. Brain researchers have discovered mirror neurons, the same brain cells that fire when we feel emotions and when we simply witness the emotions of others. That’s why we can become so involved while watching a movie. Our brains react as though the events in the movie were actually happening to us. Likewise, when we see the ragged, emaciated man stretched out on a downtown street, his sleeping bag soggy from the falling rain, our brain cells fire in the same way they would if we were that man. No wonder we often avert our heads.
Sadly, I sometimes fail to extend kindness, even to members of my own family. The presidential election is less than three months from now, but my brother and I can’t talk about it. When I ask him why he supports the candidate I oppose, he won’t respond. I find it infuriating, but then I realize I’m not asking out of kindness. I’m preparing to pounce on his words, ready to tell him exactly how wrong he is. No wonder he won’t answer my question. What would happen if I tried kindness? What if, instead of posing a question that is a dagger in disguise, I ask him to tell me what’s important to him as a husband, a father, a grandfather? What if I ask how life for his family and community might be improved? That would be a kinder approach. It might even lead to a dialogue.
Politics is, at best, an attempt to find ways to optimally share our earthly journey, but too often it devolves into a battle. During the 2020 election, I joined a phone banking effort sponsored by a non-profit organization in Western Pennsylvania. The goal was to promote communication between people on opposite sides of the political spectrum, to find what unites rather than divides us. Those of us doing the phoning (from all over the country) were urged to start the conversation by finding something we had in common with the person on the other end of the line. Even though it was clear I supported a different presidential candidate, most of the conversations were surprisingly friendly. We talked about our grandchildren, our jobs, our concerns for the future. Although we disagreed about politics and were separated by thousands of miles, we were able to be kind to one another.
I’m trying to make kindness an intentional spiritual practice, trying to come alongside those with whom I disagree politically, to see the world from the perspective of the man sleeping on the street and the strung out teenagers near the Pike Place Market, to share the journey with the woman in my faith community who struggles with dementia. It might not be easy going, especially during this political season, but my heart tells me it’s the right direction.
Practicing Gratitude
(8/20/24)
When our daughter died, I decided to put together a photo album for her memorial service. As I started to place the assembled photographs—the round-faced baby, the sweet first-grader, the confident young woman—into the book, I was overcome by wave after wave of nausea. I didn’t know if I had the capacity to continue, much as I wanted to. As I lifted each photo from the table and inserted it into a sleeve, I said aloud, “I’m so grateful I was Kelsey’s mom. I’m so grateful for our twenty-eight years together.” Even though I was truly thankful for my life with Kelsey, I could barely get out the words. Nevertheless, a surprising thing happened: With each utterance, I was lifted above the heartache and pain.
“What is it about gratitude that’s so powerful?” I later asked a clergy friend. She mumbled something I promptly forgot, because it didn’t answer my question. Throughout the ensuing years, I’ve continued to wonder about the strength of gratitude. Although I give a silent blessing before eating, make lists of what I’m grateful for, and express my thanks for gifts and kindnesses, the resulting feeling isn’t anywhere near what I experienced while putting together Kelsey’s photo album.
Over the past few years, I’ve read and reread Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teaching of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer, hoping its wisdom will, like osmosis, seep into me. Kimmerer lives near the Onondaga reserve in New York State and learned about the Onondaga Thanksgiving Address—referred to in the Native language as the Words That Come Before All Else. The address asserts the preeminence of gratitude in the culture of the tribe and is recited whenever Onondaga people gather, including at the beginning and end of each week at the local school. It begins:
Today we have gathered, and when we look upon the faces around us we see that the cycles of life continue. We have been given the duty to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. So now let us bring our minds together as one as we give greetings and thanks to each other as People. Now our minds are one.
The address continues by conveying gratitude for Mother Earth, plant life, animal life, the four winds, Grandfather Thunder Beings, Grandmother Moon, the sun, the stars, and finally the Creator Spirit. Rereading the address for at least the third time, I finally got it: Living a life of gratitude requires practice. It doesn’t come just from reading a book, making occasional lists, or sending thank you notes.
My friend, a rabbi, sent me chapter from Everyday Holiness: The Jewish Spiritual Path of Mussar by Alan Morinis. Mussar is a spiritual practice that focuses on how to live an ethical and virtuous life. Observant Jews live a life of gratitude by uttering blessings throughout the day, such as for waking up in the morning, breaking bread, cleaning the house—or even using the toilet. The toilet blessing is surprisingly beautiful: “Blessed are You our God, Source of the Universe who formed humans with wisdom and created within our body many openings and many hollows.”
Morinis writes, “Practicing gratitude means being fully aware of the good that is already yours.” He elaborates, “If your house burns down but you still have your memories, you have something to be grateful for.” While gratitude doesn’t come easily to those who are suffering, it is especially helpful in hard times. When gratitude flows, there is no room in the heart for arrogance, resentment, selfishness, boredom, or despair.
Gratitude is also at the center of Islamic beliefs and practices. The Quran has many admonitions and encouragements to be grateful. (“Be grateful to Allah for whosoever is grateful is grateful for the good of his own soul.” Surah 31, Ayah 12). Five times a day, devout Muslims prostrate themselves before God, expressing gratitude through their entire body. In the article “Gratitude Through the Lens of Islam: From Everyday Praise to the Greatness of Muhammad Ali” Alene Dawson quotes the American Muslim scholar and leader, Imam Zaid Shakir, “Through constantly expressing appreciation, constantly reflecting on appreciation, constantly looking for those things to be thankful for, this transforms our beings until we become a walking, talking vessel of gratitude. And that’s not an easy state to attain.”[1] According to Shakir, traditional Muslims look for the good in whatever they face, saying alhamdulillah (praise be to God), no matter how grim the situation, even in the midst of horrendous destruction such as flood, fire, or war. Misfortune can build resilience, enabling one to heal and find new meaning and purpose in life.
Having learned about ways of practicing gratitude in the Onondaga people, Judaism, and Islam, I wanted to explore the concept of gratitude in Christianity. The gospels recount multiple times when Jesus gave thanks to God, notably in Luke 22:19 when, at the last supper with his disciples and aware of the suffering he would soon endure, he took a loaf of bread, gave thanks, and shared it with his companions. In traditional Christianity, the last supper is celebrated because the bread and wine are physical manifestations of Jesus’ enduring love—but his gratitude while facing agony and pain is remarkable.
The contemporary Benedictine monk, Brother David Steindl-Rast, has been spreading the word about grateful living for at least two decades. According to Brother David, “Everything is a gift. The degree to which we are awake to this truth is a measure of our gratefulness, and that gratefulness is a measure of our aliveness.” His website, grateful.org, offers an emailed word for the day. The message for today is: this “Showing gratitude is one of the simplest yet most powerful things humans can do for each other”.
I’m trying to express my gratitude for events big and small throughout each day: “I’m grateful for these blueberry pancakes.” “I’m grateful to be on this beach with our grandchildren.” “I’m grateful for this cool breeze.” But I need a more disciplined practice. I’ll have to experiment for a while before finding one that works, but whatever I do I want my heart to be so bursting with gratitude there’ll be little room for resentment or despair. As I move into the last half of my seventies, this seems particularly important. The inevitable diminishment of old age all too often brings discouragement and despair. So at my age—really at any age—there is little time to waste.
Embracing Life and Loss
(8/11/24)
How do we even begin to embrace the pain, the despair, the anguish of loss? On the face of it, embrace and loss seem like oxymorons. How do you hold in your arms that which threatens to tear you apart, whether it be the loss of a loved one, the loss of a marriage, a job, a friendship, a childhood, a dream?
When our twenty-eight-year-old daughter Kelsey died in a bicycle accident twelve years ago, the agony was unbearable. I thought of her death all the time. I couldn’t smile or laugh. I couldn’t put together more than a few words, let alone engage in conversations. I couldn’t seem to get my feet firmly planted on the ground. But a couple of things happened that enabled me to find my way through debilitating sorrow.
A month or so after Kelsey’s death, my husband Craig and I traveled a few hours from our Pacific Northwest home to meet a Native shaman on the Swinomish reservation. Wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans, his white hair in a long ponytail, Dobie Tom placed his folding chair a few feet from ours on the floor of the Catholic church’s Native sanctuary. He looked at us for several moments and then, in a gentle and reassuring voice, explained the soul retrieval he was about to attempt. “Each of us has two spirits. The spirit that will live in Heaven after we die and the spirit that guides us in this world. You have lost your guiding spirits.” His eyes were soft with concern. From the top of the bleachers that encircled the sanctuary, his son began to drum. My breath caught and I was transported to a place without form or thought, where the only thing present was the beating of the drum matching the pounding of my heart. Dobie closed his eyes, and began to chant, in a voice that started out low and raspy but gradually gained enough power to fill the room. His Native Lushootseed words rolled through my chest like endless waves while I wept silent tears. After the drumming and chanting had ceased, Dobie said quietly, “I found your guiding spirits and returned them to you. Losing a child is hard, but now you’ll have guidance through the pain.”
A few days later, I was walking with a friend around our Seattle neighborhood of tall trees, flowering shrubs, and pre-World War II apartment buildings. We arrived at a small park with a view of Lake Washington and the Cascade Mountains and eased onto a bench overlooking the lake. After listening to me talk about my grief for a few minutes, my friend– a member of a Buddhist sangha and a regular meditator–gingerly suggested that grieving might be a spiritual path. An ember of hope kindled in my heart. Perhaps, by engaging in spiritual practices, I could find a purpose for the sorrow and anguish that filled my every moment.
The next morning, I got out of bed, settled on the couch in our living room, closed my eyes, and concentrated on breathing in and out. During the next two hours of focusing on my breath, images of the events surrounding Kelsey’s death flashed through my head, and–again–I wept. Over the next weeks and months I meditated each morning for forty-five minutes to an hour, trying to get to a place beyond thought. Meditation enabled me to transcend my pain for a period of time and get through the rest of the day. I added other spiritual practices, such “Lectio Divina”, a monastic form of prayer which consists of reading and reflecting on spiritual texts. For monastic communities, this means reading biblical scripture, but I broadened the practice to include Jewish commentary, Sufi poetry, and contemporary prose. I took walks with my camera, sometimes snapping twenty or thirty photos of the same log, shell, or flower, trying to pay close attention to what was in front of my eyes. While I went about my life, I prayed to be able to “see” what was beyond my senses. One day, on a walk along a nearby beach, I reached out to touch a rock embedded in the cliff and felt a jolt of electricity. The rock, if not actually alive, was pulsing with spirit. I was elated. I walked along the beach, over the broken shells and scattered stones, and felt the presence of those who had walked on that beach for thousands of years before me. As the wind rustled through the cedar branches near our home, I breathed in fresh, woody air that seemed like the breath of God. It was easier to open to spirit in the forest or on a beach, but still possible in the clutter of our bedroom. I was drawn to a particular book among the stacks of books that lined our bedroom walls and opened it to find words that uplifted me. The call of resident barred owls through the windows soothed my aching heart. I was more fully alive than ever before in my life–an unexpected gift in the midst of my grief.
A close friend of mine suffered the impact of trauma from an abusive childhood. For years she had withdrawn physically and often mentally whenever feelings associated with the abuse threatened. After years of therapy–which undoubtedly saved her life–she began to work with a therapist skilled in somatic healing. She learned to recognize the physical signs that heralded an imminent withdrawal and developed a repertoire of strategies to enable her to remain in the present moment. When she realized what she had missed over the years because of fear and dissociation, her grief was overwhelming. “I wonder if you could think of your therapy and grief as a spiritual path?” I asked her one day. “Perhaps you could work through difficult feelings by engaging in various spiritual practices.”
She looked at me skeptically. “It’s not like I have a choice about my feelings. They’re just there.”
“But you might have a choice about how you respond to them,” I answered. “You might channel your feelings into spiritual practices that would at least make them more than just something to endure.”I don’t know if my suggestion was at all helpful. I hope so, but the choice is hers.
Grief can kidnap us, take us away from the life we had been leading and hurl us onto a new and often-terrifying path. It can strip us of all we thought we were and pare us to our core. In that sense, grief is a spiritual path whether we label it as such or not. But unlike the spiritual path of, say a Benedictine monk or a Sufi, it isn’t one we choose. We can, however, acknowledge the path and choose practices that will help us along the way.
It’s been twelve years since our daughter died, and I’ve learned that grief will probably be with me for the rest of my life. But I also experience joy — and have found spiritual awareness and newfound meaning in life, especially in kindness, compassion, gratitude, and love. I’m hoping to explore in writing what a life of gratitude looks like. What a life of kindness looks like. Perhaps no one will read my blogs–but I’m looking forward to what I’ll discover through my writing. And who knows? Maybe they’ll be helpful to someone.