Pain and the light of compassion

Pain as spiritual teacher is a concept I have been exploring for a number of years. I was introduced to the idea of pain holding a sacred message by Quaker healer John Calvi and was riveted by its truth.

More recently, I have been co-creating and leading a series of workshops on the topic with a trusted friend and healer. We both have lived with chronic pain and I had thought of her over the years. When I finally approached her about a year-and-a-half ago, she said "I was wondering when you'd ask." We have spent those 18 months plotting, planning, researching and devising such a strong mix of our skills, experience and gifts. We know this is right, but we have yet to reach the right audience. We've been seeking those in chronic pain ready to take a deeper approach. Typically that doesn't happen until you've exhausted traditional avenues.

So now, we're questioning everything. Should we omit the world spiritual? Is the idea of linking pain and anger just too much for people? Where can we go directly to those in pain? Should we find a compatible sponsor to pay for those attending and in pain.

In this mode, Renee suggested we explain what we're doing as if to a second grader. "Oh you mean an elevator speech of sorts?" I asked. "No, not to adults, but at a kids' level."

And I have been toying with that, getting at the root of what we do. It's been an interesting journey that's heading somewhere like this:

Pain as Spiritual Teacher is a series of workshops where people talk, play, create, share and think about the meaning of the pain in their life. The point is that pain always has a reason for showing up, but we’re too busy trying to cover it up to listen or recognize this.

Two people who live with pain want to help others in pain discover what they have: there is a spiritual side to living with constant pain that helps us manage our lives better. By doing exactly the opposite of what our culture tells us to do, which is run from or numb the pain, we can listen to the pain, learn its language and decipher its message. This gives us power and control and opens us from the tightness and isolation of ignoring or fighting pain.

We want to dive into the psychological side to find the silver lining. If we can find meaning, or a new direction or perspective, we can be more accepting of our condition and closer to peacefulness. When we deny our pain, we add to our suffering. When we understand it, we lessen our suffering. When we employ compassion, we make great leaps away from suffering.

That still sounded too adult, so I went deeper and simpler:

Our world teaches us to run away from pain.

If you have a headache, you take an aspirin.

If you’re bleeding, you get a band-aid.

If you have the flu, you get medicine.

We learn to take or do things to hide the pain. Some people live with constant pain that does not go away with an aspirin, band-aid or medicine. Sometimes they try riskier things to make it go away. Sometimes doctors will tell them there is nothing else to do or that the pain is imaginary. It is not. Pain is supposed to tell us something, a signal from the brain that something is wrong or not working in our body. If we cover it up and don’t listen, how are we supposed to know what it is telling us?

Two women became friends because of their pain and helped each other learn to listen. They still have pain, but they understand better.

Here's what my pain says to me:

• You’ve overdone it

• You’re not doing things for the right reason

• You are fighting yourself

• You need to be who you are, not who you think you should be

• You are beautiful as you are

• You are not your pain

• You are loved regardless

• You have life and a purpose

That may sound as if it has nothing to do with physical pain, but as webmd.com pointed out "when chronic pain sets in, your life shrinks to fit your pain." Self compassion often gets cut out.

So easily, we can fall into letting our pain define us. I find that less true if I meet it head on and really look at what it is signaling. Some of the fighting yourself stems from the comparison to who I was before the pain, what I could do then and how I am limited now. So much of that is unconscious.

What we're really striving to do is help people become aware of unconscious messages in a playful, safe manner and, most importantly, in community. Pain does isolate. An understanding community is crucial to managing chronic pain. So many of us quit talking about it to our families and friends because we feel like a broken record that no one listens because they do not share this experience. We bury it deep and try to suck it up and move on, which really causes suffering.

This work excites both of us and we are open to ideas for what to do with what we feel we have been given. Prayers, of course, are always welcome.

• What is my experience of pain?

• How do I handle it?

• Have I ever listened to it?

• What response have I received from others?

• What could it be like to find a community that listens, understand and helps me move forward?

we are bodily creatures

and want to experience

pleasure, not pain

so when it persists,

we really have

no roadmap

except numbness

and denial

pushing any

meaning as

deep as possible

in the darkness

it festers

but if we

shine the light

of compassion

we open

ourselves

to Truth and

much less suffering

Listen to this post:

Remaining, reaching, receiving

I don't have a clue: white suburban woman with a college education waltzing into a homeless dinner, then discussing white privilege with a homeless African-American man. And, yet, that is where Spirit directed me.

After an energetic round of creating sculpture with kids at Washington Park, I needed to regroup with a hot chai and a good book: by myself, no conversation and some introvert space. Recharged, I left the coffee shop in Over the Rhine (OTR) getting only a few steps when Mark Anthony jumped off his bike, Street Vibe satchel in hand, looked me in the eyes and said "God told me to give to you something."

New, fun friends @ Washington Park

I believed him and walked to the closest alcove as he unzipped his backpack. Meanwhile, I shuffled through my exterior purse compartment for the few singles I would donate for the copy of the paper. Accidentally, a $20 spilled out. "That would buy a lot of Chipotle," Mark Anthony said. "That's my kids' lunch money," I lied, handing him a bundle of singles instead, holding two back. "Could I have all of them," he said and instantly I complied.

Then he pulled out a necklace with a small bird pendant. I thought it looked like a dove. "This is for you," he said. I was flabbergasted with the way in which Spirit works and humbled by this gift from someone homeless. "I gave him the twenty saying "you need this more than I do" feeling ashamed that I had even hesitated.

A couple of younger, hip African-American men confirmed that, indeed, this was Mark Anthony and he was okay. "Mayor of OTR," he had told me. After exchanging gifts, I asked about an earlier passing remark. "So what about this cancer?" "Got colon cancer," Mark Anthony said patting his left side. If I don't get the colostomy bag, I got six weeks." Apparently he'd beaten this once before when a local artist friend turned him on to green juicing. "Put me in remission; now it's back."

For some odd reason, we just kept hugging. I gave him one last last long embrace, saying I was wrapping him in healing. He cited scripture so fast, all I got was Timothy. Before we parted, he said with the same earnestness as when I heard God speaking through him, "You've got to go two doors down and go inside." 'OK," I responded.

I had no idea what he meant, but I was just as certain of following this command as his earlier prognostication that God told him to give me something. I pushed open the door, reminded of years go when I entered a predominately African-American church on my street. Both times I was very aware that I was doing as Spirit directed and that this could be life altering.

There was a square of tables with modern, Ikea chairs and a haphazard mix of trimmed younger caucasian men, hard-looking older white men, older and younger African-American men, a youthful male with beautiful tattoos, two women of each color, one well dressed and social, the other wearing the uniform of the homeless and a glazed expression, a woman in a t-shirt looking like she ran the place and, well, me.

One of the white men finally chimed in and welcomed me. In the informal chaos, I did not feel out of place or unwelcome. I simply took it all in. I learned this is a relaxed gathering place focused on the work of Jesus in helping all kinds of people live together, providing "home" and accouterments such as meals and companionship. I was mesmerized. This was the pre-dinner gathering and I was invited to stay for it and the preceding Bible study. I lingered about an hour, through dinner and meeting Brandon 1 and 2. They both have the same name and good naturally disagree over who is #1 and who is #2. Mostly I milled around and conversed with Dan. I'm guessing he is about my age. That's about where any similarity might end.

He is homeless, a gunshot survivor, loves art and works construction. His current job ended with a failed inspection. He has an inviting smile and we conversed easily. He's a native Cincinnatian, but would like to get out. His shooter, a teen 15 years ago who pulled the trigger at close range because Dan stood up on a park bench, will probably be on parole soon. Dan's family lives out of state and, right now, he doesn't possess the means to leave. When he has money, he stays in a motel, otherwise it's on the streets. He's angry that city hall has closed its restrooms. "For centuries the homeless have slept at city hall," he told me. He says the homeless have no way to compete with local politicians.

We talk about Over The Rhine and gentrification. He points to a caucasian male absentmindedly walking a big dog and steering a little too closely to Dan's unlocked bicycle. "Some rich white folks have stolen bikes," he says incredulously. "Why?" he asks the air. We both know I have no answer.

And yet, Dan doesn't sound bitter. He knows lots of folks being displaced after spending generations in the same apartment. "They don't mind a new owner and understand they rent will go up, but then they're forced out in 30 days." "Where do they go?" I ask. He shrugs. I tell him about the elderly but spry nuns I met the day the renovated Washington Park was dedicated. They were protesting because of displacement, I relay. They showed me the pointed iron pickets around the park discouraging anyone from sitting on them. And, I have created art with native OTRers as well as children of gentrifiers and suburban visitors, so I have some sense of the shift.

We both solemnly remember the homeless woman a Cincinnati Police Officer drove over and killed in Washington Park before its facelift. Dan reminds me that the park had been a cemetery. I know that will haunt me next week when I leave my car in the park's bowels. In the name of progress and commerce, we seem to lose any reverence for life and death.

But somebody, hasn't. Higher Branches, where Mark Anthony sent me, has a vision to "enrich individual lives and mobilize change within whole communities. We are compelled by God's Word to remain in Him and sacrificially love one another." (John 15) The nonprofit founded by John and Emily Baumann has nurtured relationships and tended residents via meals, Bible study, yoga, art, music and youth mentorship for three year.

That's a place to find Spirit in the midst of a community moving up without looking back.

• Where do I find diversity in my life?
• When have I trusted God to lead me somewhere intimidating?
• What was the result?
• In whom have I heard Spirit speak?
• As a result, what have I learned about listening?


As my white self
shuffled out of
the hip coffeeshop,
refreshed after
building recycled
sculpture at the
local park

a small, thin
black man wearing
a big grin flew
off his bicycle,
spewing that
God wanted to
give me something
and began searching
his backpack

I, obediently, stood
there certain God,
had, indeed, told
him that

and not so obediently
offering the clearly
needy person
my cash

at least not at first
until after the most
needy gave me a gift

a gift from the heart
and one of his
few possessions

as we embraced several
times on the street,
I finally offered a
prayer of healing 

still under Spirit's
influence, I did as 
the man instructed

remaining
reaching and
receiving

Listen to this post:

Burning the empty props

On paper, she's looked terminal and yet she risked it for a tenuous surgery and is on her way back – big time.

On paper, I look ultra healthy, and yet the 15 years of fibro have taken its toll physically, mentally and emotionally. I hadn't understood how I appeared medically until two rounds of routine visits in the last couple of weeks. There are no short-cut answers for the pain, although I see promise in a new med that has helped me sleep. Deep sleep that I had forgotten how it felt. A week in and it hasn't performed every night, but when it has, wow, I feel like a different person. I almost want to say how I used to feel, but I am not that person.

Neither is my mom. She's tougher, more resilient, faithful and good-humored than I ever remember. Her path was clear cut for her. Last minute, she found she was a candidate for surgery and, by golly, she was going for it with the best surgeon for her condition in the world. There were bumps, bruises and a lot of answered prayers along the way but, in some respects, she's better than pre-surgery. In others, she's still struggling and engaged in the healing process. Anyone she ever consulted with told her it would be a good year to know how the surgery took. At one month, she moved out of the Cleveland Clinic. At three, she came home from rehab. At four, she and my dad traveled to Florida for a month. At five, she's bent on solving the riddle of her vision disturbances.

Her risk seems to be paying off, which leads me to ask, what have I risked? My typing stops dead at that question. Not sure I have an answer, but growing more certain that risk is where Spirit is leading.

I understand my life path has been irrevocably altered, steering me away from mainstream culture and into a more contemplative mode. In learning to deal with the pain, I have had to deal with myself, shadow and all – and not always so gracefully. Alone in God's presence, mostly. The work is far from complete. The more I do, I see the more there is to do. Stopping, again. I am re-calibrating with that last phrase "the more there is to do." Yes, there is more, but it is out of my control. So much in 15 years has seemed out of my control: my health, my life, my career, my relationships. I keep reading that it's the props Spirit wants us to drop as we enter into deeper communion. Can't say I have always dropped them willingly, but I have dropped many of them.

Last summer, during an unusually vivid time of spiritual formation, Spirit specifically told me I didn't need any props, such as a book, blog or studio. I had not ever heard that term used in a spiritual sense until some Lenten meditations and now I can't seem to avoid it.

Is Spirit asking me to risk the props? Just as my mom was willing to lay her physical life on the line, am I being asked to lay my ego on the line? To let go of projections for name and fame. I've let go of a lot of it, but not all of it. Fear and doubt have also been my props. What would it look like if I surrendered the fear? I sure know what it looks like not to and it's not a pretty picture. I feel so divided, longing to follow God, but feeling caught by daily life, expectations and responsibilities.

Both my shaman and new spiritual director have suggested I burn off those props, the things that no longer serve me or never did. So, I light a candle each time I enter my studio as a virtual reminder. I cut sheets of paper in the shape of logs and have begun to fill the pages with the things I wish to surrender. Next time I meet with my spiritual director, we'll burn them. So far I have: fear, doubt, anger, worthlessness, judgment, disease and lack of trust. I can't even conceive of how much lighter life would without those.

Do I dare?

• How do my paper and real personas fit?
• How is Spirit shaping my persona?
• Who models surrender for me?
• What am I being asked to surrender?
• What can I burn off?


since meeting
her really big goal,
well, shall we say
her second

surviving surgery
was number one

my mom's been
a bit down about
some of the
minor complications

while everyone else
trumpets her remarkable
success

she mirrors my own
tendency to downplay
the gifts and path
I have been given,
comparing them to
what the world
promises

when I can burn
the empty props,
I see how rich
I truly am

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