Freedom in dying to Spirit

Strangely, I've been meeting death in a number of ways lately. During and since Lent, I have worked to surrender my false self, a death in itself. In Quaker worship a few weeks ago in London, the congregation mourned the passing of a Friend and asked the following query:

Can you accept death, make time to grieve, gain freedom and comfort others (grieving)?

In response, one member said in accepting his cancer, "you just get on with it." I took him to mean you make your peace with it, death and God. Another cited a line of poetry: light gets in through the crack. I Googled the reference and came up with a line from Leonard Cohen's Anthem:

There is a crack in everything That's how the light gets in. 

As I have been slaking off jet lag and the luxury of a jam-packed two-week vacation, I watched a movie over the weekend about a widower who can barely tolerate life without his spouse until he meets a new friend. At one point, he tells her she is the crack in his dark world.

The notion speaks strongly to me, then in Quaker worship and, now. In worship, I was moved to consider the death I have been living. I admitted I had been struggling and just "wanted to get on with it as the Friend across from me said – or, better, without it. I find the advice to grieve very helpful. To take the time, so I can live in the light, my light, and follow Christ's path (freedom), so I can get on with that."

One more Friend ventured: "Accepting death means living in the present. There's only now."

I returned to the London Friends Center to spend precious time with a slight book published in 1661 by my Quaker ancestor. She, too, called for death, the death of  a Godless society. She was overcome with the message, to the point of publishing a book, presenting it to the King (Charles II) and addressing the whole of England, whom she felt lived under great darkness. She begged, pleaded and prayed for England to turn toward the light before it was too late. Her words are just as relevant today.

I walked to the British Museum, processing my time with the book, grateful to have experienced it personally. There, I headed toward the Elgin Marbles for a quick visit. Strolling the great halls of white marble, unearthed from their true homes and on display, I felt death: the ancientness of the pocked stone, the costumes of long ago and the unlikeliness of these magnificent figures lounging in a staid room and not atop the Parthenon.

A few days later, participating in a Night of Adoration at Sacre Coeur in Paris, I encountered the resurrected Christ and the other side of death. During my midnight silent prayer shift, I focused on the image of Christ overhead, painted in white and gold on the dome, his heart shining and the rays of what I call Christ energy radiating to all. To me that is the promise of Christ: we each are completely loved. And I believe that is the freedom mentioned in the Quaker query. Love is enduring and conquers even death.

I am repeating that mantra as I mourn the very recent passing of my childhood Methodist minister, who also happened to be serving temporarily at my Quaker Meeting when I was led to return. It was such an easy and natural transition that I know God's hand was in it all.

Spirit,
Let me grieve for the life I am leaving behind.
Let me cut the strings.
I want to be free.
Free in your love and
the wisdom that Christ's
energy continues to radiate
through me and out into
the world.
Let me live in and of that loving
energy.


• How have I been acquainted with death?
• Have I allowed time for grief?
• What freedom lies at the other side?
• From what must I die psychologically?
• What is my current prayer?


full of living
on a joyful holiday

I was surprised
by the dose of
death

it has sobered me
into recognizing
its truth

there is real
freedom in
dying to Spirit

and fully knowing
I am loved
completely
truly
for eternity

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The grand dance called love

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When my Quaker minister* announced she was giving her message on darkness, I nearly fell off the pew. Hurray, I thought, FINALLY a Quaker will actually speak of the dark and not the perennial light to which everyone clings. 

She prefaced her homily saying she wasn't sure why she was compelled to speak on this theme given it was such a lovely day. I wanted to shout: because some of us live in the darkness and if we don't ever talk about it, we feel isolated, lonely and less than.

But I didn't. Instead, I listened. To her and the handful of others who shared. I am not the only one who lives in darkness, their messages affirmed.

I also had a conversation a few weeks ago with my "other" child, the 12-year-old son of my best friend. We met and bonded deeply when she was pregnant with her only and I, with my second. We are a block from each other – a quick hike down the alley – and live somewhat communally from time to time. We say we are the family we chose. As you may suspect, I have a close relationship with Caleb, the 12-year-old. He came from another place and is the purest spirit I know. I have always teased him that he is my Mountain Sprite. For some time, his mother has been urging me to discuss darkness and lightness with him. Well, that chance came in my safe and wonderful studio. He was relaxing on my front-row section of theater seats and began. I asked a few, probing questions and let him just flow with it ... which it what he does. I am not certain he is even all that conscious of what passes through him. Basically, he said, there is no difference between dark and light ... they are just aspects of the same thing.

Hmmmmm. Early Quakers talked about the "light" convicting us and shining God's love on those dark places. But I had always thought of that as discovered and undiscovered, pure and impure, exposed and unexposed: opposites. I also buy into Carl Jung's conception of shadow as the unexplored parts of ourselves that need attention in order for healing wholeness to happen. But they always seemed like distinct entities to me, then, again, I was brought up in a world of duality. Yet I have always preferred odd numbers, perhaps, a philosophy of oneness and a variety of possibilities, not either or.

Wednesday, my shaman echoed Caleb; that light and dark are the same.

I tend to get locked into this or that and locked is the key here. It can be immobilizing. My shaman constantly reminds me there is  a "rainbow of choice."

In her message, the minister said she seeks the light because she may not be strong enough for the darkness and quoted Quaker founder George Fox's vision that over the sea of darkness rolls the ocean of light.

My quest is to not be overtaken by the darkness. In worship, after the darkness message, I wondered if, perhaps I have invited the darkness in and it's too much for me. How do I uninvite it? Or, if it's the same as the light, how do I see the light aspect?

When I shared with my shaman how I had struggled for a number of weeks, almost resorting to a quick fix that I knew would have long-term, devastating effects for me, he said; "You've already been in the dark and pulled yourself out." He also reminded me to seek help: humans and divine. Sometimes I forget that. As if I am so deeply mired and it's my job to extricate myself. Is that the key here? Asking for help?

At the end of the powerful worship centered on the topic of darkness, someone requested the song "Lord of the Dance" set to my favorite Shaker tune, Simple Gifts. The chorus is:

Dance, dance, wherever you may be I am the lord of the dance, said he And I lead you all, wherever you may be And I lead you all in the dance, said he 

I am teary even now reading those lyrics because the answer to the dark/light question for me is so clearly in following God/Jesus, whose voices narrates the song. It reminds me of a phrase that came to me years ago in a dark moment when I asked a question: 

THE DANCE CALLED LOVE 

What’s this time of loss been? 

Healing, recovering, preparing  ...We’ll create together.Just let me in more fully.You’ve knocked and I’ve opened the door.The dance has begun in full.You’re my partner and we’ll attract others to this grand dance called love.

• What are my theories of darkness and lightness?

• What has my experience been with both?

• How often do I talk about the darkness? In what context? With whom?

• What pulls me from the darkness?

• When/how have I been called the the grand dance called love?

* that sounds so weird as Quakers consider all are ministers, but I am a member of a hybrid meeting where there is a wonderful balance of a prepared message, silence and vocal ministry of others led to do so

Blindly collecting, unknowingly following

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Today, as I was wiping the dust and cobwebs off five 1938 theater seats, I realized that how everything I have been collecting – items as well as lessons and experiences, even  people – is playing a part in my current endeavor of opening a nurture studio and offering under-served kids an eclectic art exploration.

I bought this first row of seats from the Miami-Western Theater in Oxford, OH, in a thrift store shortly after the theater closed, probably 20 years ago. They took up residence in our cavernous Loveland apartment with French doors and hardwood floors and no occupants for 30 years. They’ve since been stored in our garage attic, taken out once or twice for parties.

They will be perfect in this new studio. I can imagine adults settling in to journal or be still; children snapping the seats up and down, awaiting the premiere of one of their films. The possibilities are limitless. Of course, I had no idea 20 years ago how they would, eventually, find a home. I instinctively knew I needed them. I could say the same for so many other things in my new space: the $10 harvest table, discounted art supplies here and there, golden-tree lamp lined with furry animal-print ornaments, the wonderful computer table my brother-in-law made for my first office in Loveland, the yards and bolts of colorful fabric I picked up for $1 a yard …

More importantly are the people: my best friend, a neighborhood friend with a background and ministry in non-profits, my favorite art teacher, my beloved sister-in-law who just happened to recently retire (I have wanted to partner with her in something for so long), my longtime spiritual and Quaker buddy and two gifted teachers who heard what I was doing and quickly and thoroughly threw in. I am overwhelmed at the support. It means I don’t have to go this alone; there are actually people who desire to help in this. My Quaker meeting is just waiting to know what I need supply- and people-wise.

Never had I dared to dream this dream. It’s not one college or society prepares you for or even, really, explains is an option. Serving God in whatever way she calls is, I believe, my most important work.

It had felt as if I’d been fighting it until a breakthrough the last few weeks helped me see and accept –– this is BIG for me – that I am exactly where I am meant to be. Certainly I have heard that repeatedly over the years and thought I understood.

Just wasn’t ready yet. I am not fully there, but it is washing over me and sinking in as if to permanently stick. I had been moving in this direction when, at a recent Quaker retreat, a Friend lingered to deliver a message that moved something out of my path and projected me into another frame. I wrote about it last post [http://salonforthesoul.blogspot.com/2012/07/remembering-i-am-loved.html]. He talked about the yes-and-no-language of God, of doors opening and closing and how often, for him, the closing was much more pivotal, though devastating to his ego and perception of what his work would be.

I was riveted when another Friend spoke in worship about seeing dark spirits leave people, then witnessing the healing and transformation. I was so intrigued that we had an extended conversation because I had never been able to speak to another Quaker so candidly about the darkness. Most prefer to dwell on and in the light. He gave me some practical advice and some scripture to read – only because I was hungry and asked.

Fortunately, I had my monthly pastoral/shamanic-counseling session scheduled several days after I returned and, again, could talk to someone I completely trust. Gary couched this idea of dark spirits differently, as twisted love. He helped me expel some of that: a process we have worked on for years, but not entirely in this new frame. He told me the negativity that has attached to me can be sent to another realm, where it will get what it needs to become love again and cannot return to feed on me. So, we propelled it. We touched foreheads, he patted my hair and gently sang to me. I was transported somewhere other-worldly and remembered who I am without those old, dark attachments.

Remembered not to compare myself to others, not to hold myself to what society esteems as successful or even where my ego had me trapped.

I continue to remember and am beginning to understand why I have been collecting what I have been collecting. I am collecting what God calls me to collect and doing with it what she directs.

• How have I experienced doing something for no apparent reason, but doing it nonetheless?

• What’s it been like when I have realized there is a purpose?

• How can I see God’s hand in my life and work?

• How easily can I let go of other notions that fill me about who I am and what I should be doing?

• How do I let go?

Just a row of

five discarded

theater seats

nothing special

except to me

historical marker

of the many other

fannies that had

perched here

stray wads

of chewed gum

glued underneath

patina of

what came

before

stowed out

of sight

until

the moment

ripe for a

new use

now only

apparent

to me

Unshrouding my light

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Last week, I had a blog half written in my journal about my fixation with the darkness. And I am still inclined to share that, although this morning's meditation landed me in my grandmother's pocket Bible from 1956 on this passage from John [12:35-36] in Jesus' words:

"... Yet a little while is the light with you. Walk while ye have the light, lest darkness come upon you: for he that walketh in darkness knoweth not wither he goeth. While ye have the light, believe in the light, that ye may be the children of the light."

On reflection, the wisdom that came to me was this:

I must let my light shine, not shroud myself in darkness, that which is not of Spirit.

My thoughts on darkness were sparked by an Eckhard Tolle passage in "Stillness Speaks" that the most sacred thing in life is death. I don't fear death, rather, I believe, I fear living .. the pain, the struggle, the separateness.


As for darkness, I could always walk up to the casketed body, feel what had been there and know what to say to comfort the bereaved. As a child, I touched the yellow waxiness of my grandmother [whose Bible I was directed to], unconsciously knowing this cold, lifeless, dull form had represented her, but was not her – now or ever.


It was harder as a young adult when the reclining figure was my best friend. Still, I approached and my heart sent a prayer elsewhere.


Vampires have always transfixed me, long before Edward and Twilight: Nosferatu, Dracula, Barnabas. All, creatures of the night, banished from sunlight, burned by Holy water, sucking the life from others, sleeping in coffins and condemned to eternity. And yet, I recognized their humanity, pain and desire not to be so ... alone.


My mother said I found the perfect job when I went to work for the casket company. I felt honored to give elegant names to gleaming, velvet-lined metal caskets, contemplating the comfort it would give those left behind, but do little for the departed spirit. Watching bones burn was less romantic, yet a reminder of dust-to-dust and ashes-to-ashes. I enjoyed the company of funeral directors, who cut loose at conventions and felt their care of the living and non-living a calling. I learned a lot about grief from the national expert who consulted for the company and the miscarriage I experienced while working there.


I've always read in the dark, much to my mother's chagrin, showered without flicking the light switch on and spent much of the past 12 years exploring my inner darkness.


Yet the light in which Quakers worship draws me like a moth. As does the flaming inner core that yoga and meditation reveal.


Occasionally, my mother sends me a Henri Nouwen passage from a daily meditation to which  she subscribes. I think the one she passed along today aptly describes some of my perceived darkness:

"If indeed the spiritual life is essentially a hidden life, how do we protect this hiddenness in the midst of a very public life?   The two most important ways to protect our hiddenness are solitude and poverty.  Solitude allows us to be alone with God.  There we experience that we belong not to people, not even to those who love us and care for us, but to God and God alone.  Poverty is where we experience our own and other people's weakness, limitations, and need for support.  To be poor is to be without success, without fame, and without power.  But there God chooses to show us God's love.

Both solitude and poverty protect the hiddenness of our lives."

http://www.henrinouwen.org/Resources/Meditations_and_Reflection_Emails/Meditations_and_Reflection_Emails.aspx 


All of these messages seem to confirm my need for shadows and hiddenness, but I can't neglect the yang to the yin: the light to which I am also utterly attracted. I believe it's time for me to unshroud my light as I feel I knoweth not wither I currently goeth.


• How do I live in the light?
• In the darkness?
• What begs to remain hidden?
• What cries to be revealed into the light?
• If this light is with me now, how am I called to show and share it?




the flame from my meditation candle
is not stagnant


its singularity is flowing, a
graceful dance


guided by another force


seeking the heart,
my heart and its darkness,
joining it to
God's

Murdering the martyred-mother mantra

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Two epiphanies entered me on the massage table yesterday. Two biggies and all I really expected was for my body to relax, deeply.


The first came as my therapist/counselor was suggesting I think about the "the light" illuminating the darkness. OMG, I internalized, that's all I seem to have wrestled with lately and it's so much work. I'm tired of feeling heavy and then it hit. Conceive of the lightness as transforming the heaviness, not as working on the darkness. BINGO. Uncoincidentally, or maybe not, I began a cleansing diet this week and there's, hopefully, literal lightness there as well. I want summer to be weightless and playful, so this suits me just fine.


When in Bloomington, IN, recently on a writing retreat, I visited the local Quaker meeting for the second time and was compelled to speak, once again. As I uttered the words, responding to another worshipper's ministry about the evil darkness the parents of a missing coed must be facing, I realized that I don't necessarily view darkness as evil. I said something along the lines of:

I live in the darkness

and have realized the

difference of evil darkness and

the darkness of unknowing.

The place I surrender, recognize

I am not in control. There's

only one thing to do: trust.

As those words rolled off my tongue, I recalled that I had spoken about darkness in some context last time. And a kindly Friend approached me afterward, thanking me for my words and also remembering. "I guess I have the space [luxury] to enter the darkness when I am on retreat," I responded.


But now, summer is in swing and I want to enjoy it by putting the hard work aside and basking in the lazier, sunnier days.


And then, in the throes of deep body work and relaxation, a voice called out: "Put yourself first PERIOD." I haven't been in trying to be all things to all people and I burned out big time. I taunt myself into self care under the guise of having the energy to do something for the next person to ask. How out of whack is that?  What is my ego keeping me from? 


Several years ago during a School-of-the-Spirit [a Quaker nurture ministry program] session, I read Jesus' version of the golden rule and understood my version had been: "Do better unto others than yourself." Ego tells me that's selfish and my helper enneagram feeds right into that.


Time to reverse some flawed thinking, which, I believe, flows right into the message of lightness. I'm murdering the martyred-mother mantra, replacing it with the new, improved and lighter to-thine-own-self-be-true slogan.


• What effect can I let this summer have on me?
• What's my conception of "the light?"
• How can I push, refine or redefine that in a manner that's more nurturing?
• What's a negative personal mantra I carry?
• What more beneficial one I can replace it with?




the voicemail
e-mails and
personal encounters
weigh me down


when I feel
the heaviness of
duty dictates that
they come first


when, however,
I come first,
the needs of others
are a joy to hear
and answer