You are enough.
You are utterly magnificent.
You are the microcosm of the cosmos. Each of your cells is a microcosm of that same, boundless cosmos.
You are loved beyond measure. You are loved more than you can possibly comprehend. You are as perfect as the moment of your creation, which was the moment of the Big Bang itself. The first expression. You are still that perfect. Because you can't qualify perfect. You either are or you aren't. And you most certainly are.
Even with all the nasty thoughts and deeds. Even with the fears and obsessions and worries and no-goodness you harbor, with all the grief and pain and unresolved scenarios and the losses and cruelties you have instigated and endured, you are still absolutely, unequivocally perfect. Per. Fect.
So you try and you goof and you get hurt. So it doesn't work out the way you planned it. So your expectations weren't met. It's all part of the experiment. Let it go. It doesn't matter. You've always done the absoulte best you could with all the tools available to you. And it has been enough. You are enough.
You are worthy of love. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to love yourself, because at the bottom of it all, you're all there is to love. You're all there is. You're a Divine Being. Sure you're human. Same diff.
And it seems hard sometimes. It seems like there's a lot of work to do to get loved, to deserve, to be worthy, but that's what the human part is. It's an experiment in seeming. It's a movie. The imperfection is the illusion. You're the real deal. You're beyond worthy, baby.
You are a light in the darkness, a path in the wilderness, a guidepost for the lost. You sometimes feel lost yourself, but you're really your own North Star, and a beacon for the ship lost at sea. The lighthouse in the fog. You are strength for the masses, you are a glimmer of hope, you are part of the solution and a gift to everyone you encounter. Your effort is blinding, your compassion enfolds mountains.
You are enough.
You bring peace, love, joy, inspiration. You have brought it a thousand times over and will bring it all again. You embody the Truth. The light pours out of you as it pours into you. You are a source of blessing, a font of wisdom. You can't step out of the light for it has found you. You are IT.
You are enough.
Amen
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Making it Up
Have you ever pretended you were making the whole world up? Maybe as a thought experiment as a kid? You were in command, making stoplights change, making birds fly, designing cloud patterns and spider webs like some fantastical and omnipotent Wizard. Have you ever pretended that you intended for everything in your world to happen?
And maybe, as your mom came in and told you to pick up your room before dinner, you remembered that she was a robot you programmed to say just that, and it made you giggle. It probably didn’t make her too happy, but was the idea that she could possibly get down on your case suddenly become ridiculous? Or do you remember?
I recommend, nay I dare you, to try the experiment again now, as an adult (if that's what you are).
Start by imagining that none of this is real. Everything in the world is a totally blank slate for you to create from. You can choose when people sneeze, when they cross the street. You control the weather and the traffic. You direct the behavior of your children and pets. You planned in advance what mail would be waiting for you in your mailbox.
How does it make you feel?
I recommend trying this experiment periodically. Or whenever the mood strikes you. I’ve got no idea how it’ll make you feel. I know it can sometimes feel a little bit scary, but for me it usually makes me giggle.
Here’s the secret: It’s supposed to be fun!
Why is this a secret? Well, because it’s dangerous, I expect. Can’t have everyone running around giggling all the time when there’s tragedy everywhere we turn. Where crisis and calamity and fear create true Reality, right?
I mean, undoubtedly you will observe something that doesn’t feel very comfortable. You might not feel good about making up the homeless guy on the street or the drivers swearing at traffic or the teenaged girl fighting with her boyfriend in the coffee shop. At this point I invite you to remind yourself again this is not real. I am making this up. See what that stirs. I know, it may seem callous, but just try the What If scenario, and just stick with it. Just watch it, be the observer. Who knows? You might just learn something about yourself in the process.
Ultimately, the question I would ask you is this: are laughter and joy expressions we are only allowed to experience when the sorrows of the world are resolved?
Au contraire! I posit that this irreverent and ruthless return to fits of giggles is actually a perfectly healthy and rational launching point for the end of the suffering of the world.
And I posit that truly, none of this IS real, but maybe I’ll get into that later. Maybe.
And maybe, as your mom came in and told you to pick up your room before dinner, you remembered that she was a robot you programmed to say just that, and it made you giggle. It probably didn’t make her too happy, but was the idea that she could possibly get down on your case suddenly become ridiculous? Or do you remember?
I recommend, nay I dare you, to try the experiment again now, as an adult (if that's what you are).
Start by imagining that none of this is real. Everything in the world is a totally blank slate for you to create from. You can choose when people sneeze, when they cross the street. You control the weather and the traffic. You direct the behavior of your children and pets. You planned in advance what mail would be waiting for you in your mailbox.
How does it make you feel?
I recommend trying this experiment periodically. Or whenever the mood strikes you. I’ve got no idea how it’ll make you feel. I know it can sometimes feel a little bit scary, but for me it usually makes me giggle.
Here’s the secret: It’s supposed to be fun!
Why is this a secret? Well, because it’s dangerous, I expect. Can’t have everyone running around giggling all the time when there’s tragedy everywhere we turn. Where crisis and calamity and fear create true Reality, right?
I mean, undoubtedly you will observe something that doesn’t feel very comfortable. You might not feel good about making up the homeless guy on the street or the drivers swearing at traffic or the teenaged girl fighting with her boyfriend in the coffee shop. At this point I invite you to remind yourself again this is not real. I am making this up. See what that stirs. I know, it may seem callous, but just try the What If scenario, and just stick with it. Just watch it, be the observer. Who knows? You might just learn something about yourself in the process.
Ultimately, the question I would ask you is this: are laughter and joy expressions we are only allowed to experience when the sorrows of the world are resolved?
Au contraire! I posit that this irreverent and ruthless return to fits of giggles is actually a perfectly healthy and rational launching point for the end of the suffering of the world.
And I posit that truly, none of this IS real, but maybe I’ll get into that later. Maybe.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Lighten Up
Somewhere I read that these are supposed to be short and pithy. Well, I'm short and pithy, so I feel like my work is already done for me.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again, the most repeated advice I get from my guidance council is "stop taking yourself so seriously," so I've decided to take them seriously and make it my life's work. This week. I make a lot of these decisions.
I know I've brought this up before, and I'm going to keep doing it. Levity lets in the light.
Once upon a time my brother was about 18 or 19 and really going through it. It was just him and my mom living in the house. He would get all bent out of shape about something and get all up in my mom's face about It like whatever It was was her fault. I was visiting, and she was just exasperated and venting about how she had no idea how to talk to him. Nothing she said would fix anything, and his diatribes were really kind of absurd.
So I said "throw stuff at him."
I was met with a slightly horrified and very baffled stare.
I rolled my eyes. "No! Not like rocks or cutlery or anything. Like socks or kleenex!"
The stare morphed into a doubtful frown.
About 2 days after I had returned home, she called me and said she had done it. He had gotten all bunched up about something and was giving her hell about it. "So I threw a napkin at him." He apparently looked at her funny and cranky and threw it back at her, which then devolved into a mother-son napkin fight in the kitchen, all genuine hostility neutralized. This hucking of lightweight objects became a code for her to tell him to get over himself and lighten up.
I'm not saying that this solved all our family problems from then on out, but it brought peace and light to a moment that would otherwise have weighed down both parties, allowing for a different vantage point. It opened up a possibility.
I don't know why I thought throwing something would be a solution, except that it was absolutely obvious to me that the situation was ridiculous and needed to look at itself in the mirror.
Because it's funny!
You know, ladies and gents, all there is in the entire cosmos is Source. Is Love. We're each unique expressions of this ever-expanding light. That's all we are. And we always will be. We are each perfect and perfectly loved in every moment. So it's okay to laugh when things seem utterly hopeless. To laugh in the face of grief and destruction and fear. These are all just thoughts that we don't have to cling to. They're just bubbles that we can pop with an argyle knee-high flung at just the right angle.
Yes, there is suffering, but that's a choice, too. I know a lot of arguing can be done around that assertion, but suffering only happens when we hang on to the balloon string and get tangled in the power lines.
Let go and let the light in!
I've said it before, and I'll say it again, the most repeated advice I get from my guidance council is "stop taking yourself so seriously," so I've decided to take them seriously and make it my life's work. This week. I make a lot of these decisions.
I know I've brought this up before, and I'm going to keep doing it. Levity lets in the light.
Once upon a time my brother was about 18 or 19 and really going through it. It was just him and my mom living in the house. He would get all bent out of shape about something and get all up in my mom's face about It like whatever It was was her fault. I was visiting, and she was just exasperated and venting about how she had no idea how to talk to him. Nothing she said would fix anything, and his diatribes were really kind of absurd.
So I said "throw stuff at him."
I was met with a slightly horrified and very baffled stare.
I rolled my eyes. "No! Not like rocks or cutlery or anything. Like socks or kleenex!"
The stare morphed into a doubtful frown.
About 2 days after I had returned home, she called me and said she had done it. He had gotten all bunched up about something and was giving her hell about it. "So I threw a napkin at him." He apparently looked at her funny and cranky and threw it back at her, which then devolved into a mother-son napkin fight in the kitchen, all genuine hostility neutralized. This hucking of lightweight objects became a code for her to tell him to get over himself and lighten up.
I'm not saying that this solved all our family problems from then on out, but it brought peace and light to a moment that would otherwise have weighed down both parties, allowing for a different vantage point. It opened up a possibility.
I don't know why I thought throwing something would be a solution, except that it was absolutely obvious to me that the situation was ridiculous and needed to look at itself in the mirror.
Because it's funny!
You know, ladies and gents, all there is in the entire cosmos is Source. Is Love. We're each unique expressions of this ever-expanding light. That's all we are. And we always will be. We are each perfect and perfectly loved in every moment. So it's okay to laugh when things seem utterly hopeless. To laugh in the face of grief and destruction and fear. These are all just thoughts that we don't have to cling to. They're just bubbles that we can pop with an argyle knee-high flung at just the right angle.
Yes, there is suffering, but that's a choice, too. I know a lot of arguing can be done around that assertion, but suffering only happens when we hang on to the balloon string and get tangled in the power lines.
Let go and let the light in!
Monday, July 26, 2010
My Flower Pot
I have a flower pot.
It's a big pot, but I think it's too big, at first. I only have one tiny seed. I pile in a mound of dirt at the bottom, but not too much. I only have one tiny seed. I plug up the hole in the bottom so the seed won't wash away.
I water the seed, drop by drop, aiming each drop right at the seed because it must get right to this one seed. Soon there is mud at the bottom.
I huddle over my seed, over the top of my giant flower pot, day and night. Willing it to grow. intending it to grow. I'm doing everything right, giving it everything it needs.
Finally, miraculously, it sprouts, but once sprouted it ceases to grow. It begins to turn yellow. Still I water it, but the water gets higher in the pot as the drain is still plugged, and the mud grows a crust of yellow fungus. I huddle closer over my pot. I pray over the sprout "please, God, make this sprout grow! Make it flourish! Aren't I doing my part? Aren't I an attentive gardener? I water my one, tiny seed every day - many times, but the water has grown mold! I have plugged up the hole so the seed can't wash away! I've stayed close over the seed, watching it, day and night! Why oh why won't it grow? Why does it whither?"
When I hear no reply, I rack my brain for anything else I can possibly do to make it grow. In my desperation I reach down and tug at the tiny, awkward shoot. Grow. This way. Grow!
The tiny shoot pulls out of its mound of brackish water and mud. A few root hairs reach feebly down from its withered stalk. I am defeated.
As I stand from my stooped position over the pot, the pain of my aching back unwinds itself. The sun is shining, warm on my face. The wind delivers blankets of dandelion fluff over the landscape as children release the seeds with puffed cheeks. Make a wish!
I bend over once again, tip over my pot, and remove the stopper from its bottom. A warm summer rain begins to fall as I right the pot, and all the mud and slime are freed from its bottom through the spout. I fill my lungs with fragrant, moist air. The rain continues to gently fall, the children squeal as the drops spatter flushed faces, the flower seeds still gusting and swerving between the droplets. With a gust of wind the trees, too, drop their seeds where birds can find them easily, but not all...
The yard around me has grown high with weeds and vines as I have focused all my attention on my vanquished seed, and determined to find something to show for myself I begin to prune and rake. My pot is so large it makes an excellent container for all the debris. The rain stops and dandelion fluff dances by once again. Content that I have at least done the chores I have begrudged since my seedling project was begun, I sigh and return inside, somewhat less disappointed than when I destroyed my seed.
As I mount the steps toward home I see my sprout resting finally on the sidewalk, then wash into a gutter, and on to an unknown destination.
For weeks I forget about my pot. I continue to enjoy my well-tended garden. New containers for clippings have been filled and emptied. Occasionally I grow wistful about my seedling, but recognizing my folly, I shake my head and smile.
One morning I am in the garden and notice my pot. The forgotten clippings and leaves left alone have mulched into a rich loam. The pot itself has been shattered by the roots of a magnificent tree growing from its former center - an oak, an ash, a yew, an elm, a forrest unto itself. A fruit-bearing tree, to be sure, as it is in full blossom. A tree which has never been seen on this earth in all her days. Its delicate branches sweep the earth and the bright dandelions she wears as a skirt, and she scoops me up and lifts me toward the sky, toward the light let in.
It's a big pot, but I think it's too big, at first. I only have one tiny seed. I pile in a mound of dirt at the bottom, but not too much. I only have one tiny seed. I plug up the hole in the bottom so the seed won't wash away.
I water the seed, drop by drop, aiming each drop right at the seed because it must get right to this one seed. Soon there is mud at the bottom.
I huddle over my seed, over the top of my giant flower pot, day and night. Willing it to grow. intending it to grow. I'm doing everything right, giving it everything it needs.
Finally, miraculously, it sprouts, but once sprouted it ceases to grow. It begins to turn yellow. Still I water it, but the water gets higher in the pot as the drain is still plugged, and the mud grows a crust of yellow fungus. I huddle closer over my pot. I pray over the sprout "please, God, make this sprout grow! Make it flourish! Aren't I doing my part? Aren't I an attentive gardener? I water my one, tiny seed every day - many times, but the water has grown mold! I have plugged up the hole so the seed can't wash away! I've stayed close over the seed, watching it, day and night! Why oh why won't it grow? Why does it whither?"
When I hear no reply, I rack my brain for anything else I can possibly do to make it grow. In my desperation I reach down and tug at the tiny, awkward shoot. Grow. This way. Grow!
The tiny shoot pulls out of its mound of brackish water and mud. A few root hairs reach feebly down from its withered stalk. I am defeated.
As I stand from my stooped position over the pot, the pain of my aching back unwinds itself. The sun is shining, warm on my face. The wind delivers blankets of dandelion fluff over the landscape as children release the seeds with puffed cheeks. Make a wish!
I bend over once again, tip over my pot, and remove the stopper from its bottom. A warm summer rain begins to fall as I right the pot, and all the mud and slime are freed from its bottom through the spout. I fill my lungs with fragrant, moist air. The rain continues to gently fall, the children squeal as the drops spatter flushed faces, the flower seeds still gusting and swerving between the droplets. With a gust of wind the trees, too, drop their seeds where birds can find them easily, but not all...
The yard around me has grown high with weeds and vines as I have focused all my attention on my vanquished seed, and determined to find something to show for myself I begin to prune and rake. My pot is so large it makes an excellent container for all the debris. The rain stops and dandelion fluff dances by once again. Content that I have at least done the chores I have begrudged since my seedling project was begun, I sigh and return inside, somewhat less disappointed than when I destroyed my seed.
As I mount the steps toward home I see my sprout resting finally on the sidewalk, then wash into a gutter, and on to an unknown destination.
For weeks I forget about my pot. I continue to enjoy my well-tended garden. New containers for clippings have been filled and emptied. Occasionally I grow wistful about my seedling, but recognizing my folly, I shake my head and smile.
One morning I am in the garden and notice my pot. The forgotten clippings and leaves left alone have mulched into a rich loam. The pot itself has been shattered by the roots of a magnificent tree growing from its former center - an oak, an ash, a yew, an elm, a forrest unto itself. A fruit-bearing tree, to be sure, as it is in full blossom. A tree which has never been seen on this earth in all her days. Its delicate branches sweep the earth and the bright dandelions she wears as a skirt, and she scoops me up and lifts me toward the sky, toward the light let in.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Help Yourself
Reading through the past couple of blog posts I've become discouraged by the direction this seems to be taking. So far the apparent agenda has been of a spiritual self-helping nature. The very stuff I can't stand to read myself. There is so much of this out there that I don't know how to even escape it. I've also started to notice myself strongly disagreeing with much of it - even stuff I used to believe wholeheartedly. I find I really want to withdraw and ignore the stuff of the 365-day inspirational calendar.
I really believe that we're absolutely perfect just the way we are. There is no darkness. There is no duality, just things as they are. No good or bad, just the experience of it. And part of my experience is learning to let go of the concepts that breed that duality of thought and just let the light in.
I also find myself steering away from books/newsletters/teachers/peers that preach about how to "fix" yourself. Fix your thoughts, your behaviors, your relationships, your feelings. Ideologies that teach how to be. This bothers me, and sometimes I find myself slipping into this trap with my own writing. "Here's the right way to think. See, it's great!"
I find when I write this stuff, addressed to some external group, that I'm doing my best to create a tribe of people who think like me. Who have read what I've read, believe what I believe, so that my human side can feel safe and cozy inside a group of like-minded others. If they've read my stuff, if it resonates, they're offering their support of me, I can mold a tribe who won't expose me to the elements and leave me to starve. The more I can build these walls of comforting agreement around myself, this security blanket, the safer I'll be, and what? I'll never die?
I've noticed quite a lot lately that I'm not actually all that accepting of differing world-views. I've recently become part of an intentional community that comes from all walks, all neighborhoods, all generations, and I find myself eager to share my way of thinking with them for the same reasons. I find myself with an urge to fix everyone's point-of-view, rather than hold space for it. I want to steamroll over this discomfort with helpful platitudes. Platitudes that, among a certain faction, are commonplace. The stuff of email signatures and bumper stickers throughout free-thinking metropolitan areas. Or I want to get people alone so I can impart all this wisdom and, dare I say it? Control them into thinking like me.
Seriously. This is all the dark, gooey stuff that lurks underneath my most sage advice.
Now, do I think I'm alone in this? I doubt it. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I do know that it's human nature to want safety and comfort. That's kind of a survival thing, at least probably. I don't feel like looking at that one too closely right now.
I do know that when I gather, one-on-one with peers, especially those in the healing/psychic professions, that any stagnation, any soul-searching, inward, dark moment is met with a helpful fix. An analysis of what's really going on with me or my situation. In the past few months especially I've met with friends and noticed that if I mention I'm in a searching phase or I'm depressed or am experiencing something that's in some way uncomfortable, the instant impetus is to offer advice, readings, "fixes" for what appears to be wrong with me. However, space-holding is exactly what I'm looking for. No resolutions. I'm alright with the journey.
It's extremely difficult to hold that kind of space. It's uncomfortable. I know this discomfort. And what I find when someone is sharing this kind of squirmy information I want to offer advice and solution, rather than simply honoring that person's path and trusting that they are perfect in God's eyes, just like me. Even if they don't like me tomorrow.
I don't like the discomfort. Not one bit.
But when I am in a dark night of the soul and I'm really okay with the lights off for a while, what I seek and search for in these conversations is not so much help with feeling better, but simply holding space for the darkness. By commiserating, by sharing similar fears and concerns, with connecting with the other person in a way that says "Hey! I get where you're at because I've been there, in fact, I'm there right now!" For example. Or maybe they haven't been to the dark place, but we certainly share the uncertainty, doubt, fear or sorrow. That's what empathy is. It's where compassion finds its roots.
By meeting me where I'm at in that moment, I'm acknowledged as a part of that clan. I'm assured of my share of the food and warmth. By trying to fix someone else, it's easy for me to give the impression that the person opposite me is somehow inadequate. A sure way to close the connection between us.
So I want to be really careful about what goes up here. I don't want to preach. I've recently stepped down from the pulpit, so-to-speak, by giving up some public circles I've hosted, and now I'm exploring this new territory of what it means to not be a teacher. Not to want to fix. I want to learn to accept and connect now, and to become aware of the fears that drive me to put up words-of-wisdom like wallpaper on a window, blocking out the light. Because that's not really wisdom, is it?
I don't really know what this here blog is, actually. Sometimes I just want to vent. Sometimes I want to share an "aha" moment. Sometimes I'm working things out on virtual paper. It's just a step toward the public eye, mostly, and for the four or five of you who actually read it, maybe it's a launching-point for a different dialogue, or an argument, or an "aha" place of your own. But I like the haphazardness of it, when it gets that way.
It's not meant to be a place of self-help, though. Good Lord! Please slap me if it starts to sound like that.
I really believe that we're absolutely perfect just the way we are. There is no darkness. There is no duality, just things as they are. No good or bad, just the experience of it. And part of my experience is learning to let go of the concepts that breed that duality of thought and just let the light in.
Easier blogged than done, I suppose. But one has to start somewhere...
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Taking a Break
Knock-knock
Who's there?
It's your Creator.
What do you want?
I want to answer all your prayers and pretty much make your life smoother and awesomer than you could possibly imagine.
Not now, I'm meditating...
In a recent discussion about spiritual pursuits, I was asked the question "when do we get to take a break from all of this?" Seriously.
This culture in particular is hell-bent on getting things done, crossing them off the list, producing endlessly, consuming without satiety. One would surmise that to counterpoint this flurry of desperate activity we would naturally balance ourselves with time to integrate and reflect on all of this business.
But when is there time?
Right.
The breaks we allow ourselves are often filled with either stimulants like coffee and cigarettes, or mind-numbing exercises such as On Demand television, or snacking without hunger. I remember as a young thespian, we committed to our smoking habits as the only real way to actually stop working during our union 5-minute breaks. Otherwise we could make one more update to the prop list, or reset the stage for the next run of the scene.
There’s always something else to do, of course. I’ve always got one more thing that isn’t done, that I could be doing. And if I could be doing something more productive, then isn’t it wrong not to do that thing? Isn’t it lazy, foolish, and downright willful not to keep on when the keeping’s good, to mix some perfectly good metaphors?
And yet, I think something somewhere mentioned God resting on day 6, and clearly He wasn't actually done, was he? Still had all that behind-the-scenes business of actually running this crazy skit. Still, God kicked off his cosmic sandals and floated down the Euphrates on a crocodile's back, goblet of ambrosia in hand, and just wallowed in self-satisfaction for a whole cosmic day.
So when is it okay for US to rest? The house isn’t clean, we haven’t labeled all of our vacation photos, we aren’t out of debt yet, and we’re certainly not enlightened. Why should we get to stop? Who do we think we are to stop before perfection? I mean, we've got nothing as good as a whole, thriving planet to show for ourselves. Compared to that we got a handful of sticks and some potato chip dust, right?
Try this experiment, if you like. Watch your brain as you go through your daily to-do list. The mind will promise “happiness” as a result of any activity, like your mom telling you to finish your peas so you can have ice cream. An even exchange. Do your homework and you can go to the mall. But the mind likes absolutes like: "Work harder and you’ll get out of debt so you won’t ever have to experience guilt again." "Meditate harder to attain spiritual perfection and then you can have peace and contentment."
Only thing is, it has no ability to deliver on its promises.
In fact, it will go to great lengths to contradict itself, just to keep you tied up in knots. “You know, if you stop now, you’ll never get it done, and if you don’t get it done someone will know you’re a fraud, and they’ll probably ostracize you from the tribe, and then you’ll starve to death in the wilderness. Is that what you want?” Sound like an exaggeration? Track it back to the very origin of the stress. It's absolutely there.
So you keep pounding on, but you’ve read part of this post, so it’s wise to you. “So you’re not gonna take a break, huh? So you can’t take time for yourself, huh? Well that’s about what I’d expect. You don’t really give a crap about yourself anyway. All tied up in fear, eh? And you call yourself spiritual, huh? Right! You can’t even follow the most basic of rules…” And so on, ad infinitum. You can’t win. Letting the mind steer pretty much anchors us to the belief that we suck. No matter what.
As Perfect Children of God, how does that work, then? It doesn’t, actually. Taking a break can help us climb above the chatter of the mind and take a look at Mt. Hood, or notice that the cat would really like some attention. It gets us in touch with our authentic selves, where we see what really feeds us. What things are written on the back of the list that we didn’t feel confident enough to write as an actual to-do item. Things like Take a Walk. Pick some flowers to arrange on the dining room table. Call a roommate from college. Take up unicycling. See, when we take the time to notice what our hearts are really calling for we return to our true Selves, and suddenly everything that really needs to get done takes very little effort, really. At least compared to all the freaking out about doing it.
The mind has us convinced that constant effort is what the Universe respects the most. And sometimes end does justify less-than-exciting means, but sometimes the means itself is simply taking the time to put the mind on hold. When the mind goes on lunch we get to reset, reboot, clear out the cache. We can kick back and just enjoy the moment. We get to set aside the bag of shredding and enjoy a few deep breaths (away from the paper dust, of course). We can set down the pruning shears and smell the rose. We can even sneak a look at the mind behind its back and notice that maybe it needs a little compassion. Notice all the fear and desperation it’s carrying around. All the thoughts and limiting beliefs that it consists of, and how nervous it is worrying about you not doing anything, thinking it’s literally going to die if you stop listening to it. Poor thing.
When we notice these qualities about the mind, and we can get enough distance to recognize that we’re not dying from taking a break, which is literally what the mind has us convinced of, if you track it back to its root. When we see that nothing bad is happening whatsoever, we might want to call the mind back over to the couch, offer it a cup of chamomile, and tell it that it’s gonna be okay. Tell it that it’s not going to run the show any more, but that it’s appreciated just the way it is, for all it teaches us. Promise to hear and acknowledge its opinions, but to always check its assertions against our inner truth. With our feet up on the coffee table, we can suggest a partnership of sorts. A partnership wherein the mind will react to things and show us our triggers and challenges, and the Self will say “hey! That’s neat! You’ve made an even bigger to-do list than before! I’m still gonna stare out the window for a few more minutes…”
This is called staying-in-balance. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
Of course, this is all terribly sage advice, but what happens when we’re just done? When we couldn't care less about being in balance. We don’t want to watch the mind any more. We don’t want to follow any rules about observing the mind or showing compassion or taking breaks. We just want to work too hard and feel terrible about it, and heaven forefend, make snap judgments and wax surly and unpleasant?
Well, take a break from that, too, for Pete’s sake! Let the “spiritual” effort cease.
If it isn’t natural and authentic it isn’t going to work anyway, so give it up!
I enjoy stepping away from my spiritual protocol every so often and just reveling in the mire that is the state of being human. Sometimes I just want to let go. To swear at traffic. To take offense. To even do a little blaming. This, believe it or not, can be a form of a break. If labor law (in this country) requires two fifteen-minute breaks and an hour for lunch, then I think Spiritual law ought to require the same.
Often what I discover from this sort of break is how miserable I become when I let the mind run the show. It feels good, momentarily, to be reactive, but after a day or two, I find myself totally wound up in my own tangle of false beliefs and fears, that it's a relief to come home to my heart and take the reins from the mind once again. Like going on vacation, it might be great to stay out late and consume things you would never give yourself permission to eat and drink during your day-to-day life, but by the end of the week you're not feeling so hot, and it feels good to get back into the routine again.
And that's cool. And, I mean, at some point the scales tip. At some point along the road it doesn't even feel right to deviate from the path I've laid out for myself. I don't even want the ice cream sundae, even though I've given myself permission to eat it. I don't want to stay up til 2, just because I can. At some point along the road it feels like wasted effort to blame it on my parents, the economy, the grocery store clerk. But in the meantime, the vacation helps us to identify patterns that no longer serve. To sift and sort and come back to ourselves to trim the fat once again. The break helps us to see the forest so we can get back to pruning individual trees.
And as you come back you might notice the little guilt-trip the mind is trying to lay on you. Oh, mind, you dear little thing...
It's all good.
Once I've taken the break I actually want to do the work again. I find I don't like the mind in charge, so I work back into the heart again. When the spiritual effort comes from the place of the mind "shoulding" you, it isn't helping you "get" anywhere, anyway.
See, we're not getting anywhere any faster by skipping our rejuvenation. We can skip sleep for a few hours to get a bit more done, but we certainly can't keep it up for long, before we break down. We need that time to eliminate toxins that do not serve us, and to rebuild the tissues that need rebuilding. The same goes for our daily lives. We need to take waking rest so we can allow that which no longer serves to fall away, and to fill up with the inspiration we need to create the rest of our day.
Just as the body cannot rebuild itself without sleep, it also needs to ingest. Without the building blocks it's made of, so we cannot bring our dreams to fruition without fuel for the fire. We need to go outside, go to a museum, go hear some music, play at the beach, and so on in order to be fed. We must play in order to work. It's a cycle that is required for our well-being. If we don't do these things we burn out, we dry up and are no longer serving our divine purpose here on planet Earth. We become shadows, rustling around in fear that we'll be caught-out without everything done.
I assure you, it will NEVER be done.
Our lives are a process, a fractal. If we follow our hearts we will always be veering off the road we thought would take us to the finish line. Well guess what, sweethearts. There is no finish line. In the words of Mr. Baggins, "the Road goes ever on and on..." So we may as well enjoy a look-see as often as possible. Daily is good, but whenever you think about it is a place to begin.
In case you’ve lost the thread, my point is, there is absolutely nothing in this world that has to Get Done, effort is just effort, and Grace can only come in when we stop and let it flow.
And Grace, my friends, is All There Is.
Let it in!
Who's there?
It's your Creator.
What do you want?
I want to answer all your prayers and pretty much make your life smoother and awesomer than you could possibly imagine.
Not now, I'm meditating...
In a recent discussion about spiritual pursuits, I was asked the question "when do we get to take a break from all of this?" Seriously.
This culture in particular is hell-bent on getting things done, crossing them off the list, producing endlessly, consuming without satiety. One would surmise that to counterpoint this flurry of desperate activity we would naturally balance ourselves with time to integrate and reflect on all of this business.
But when is there time?
Right.
The breaks we allow ourselves are often filled with either stimulants like coffee and cigarettes, or mind-numbing exercises such as On Demand television, or snacking without hunger. I remember as a young thespian, we committed to our smoking habits as the only real way to actually stop working during our union 5-minute breaks. Otherwise we could make one more update to the prop list, or reset the stage for the next run of the scene.
There’s always something else to do, of course. I’ve always got one more thing that isn’t done, that I could be doing. And if I could be doing something more productive, then isn’t it wrong not to do that thing? Isn’t it lazy, foolish, and downright willful not to keep on when the keeping’s good, to mix some perfectly good metaphors?
And yet, I think something somewhere mentioned God resting on day 6, and clearly He wasn't actually done, was he? Still had all that behind-the-scenes business of actually running this crazy skit. Still, God kicked off his cosmic sandals and floated down the Euphrates on a crocodile's back, goblet of ambrosia in hand, and just wallowed in self-satisfaction for a whole cosmic day.
So when is it okay for US to rest? The house isn’t clean, we haven’t labeled all of our vacation photos, we aren’t out of debt yet, and we’re certainly not enlightened. Why should we get to stop? Who do we think we are to stop before perfection? I mean, we've got nothing as good as a whole, thriving planet to show for ourselves. Compared to that we got a handful of sticks and some potato chip dust, right?
Try this experiment, if you like. Watch your brain as you go through your daily to-do list. The mind will promise “happiness” as a result of any activity, like your mom telling you to finish your peas so you can have ice cream. An even exchange. Do your homework and you can go to the mall. But the mind likes absolutes like: "Work harder and you’ll get out of debt so you won’t ever have to experience guilt again." "Meditate harder to attain spiritual perfection and then you can have peace and contentment."
Only thing is, it has no ability to deliver on its promises.
In fact, it will go to great lengths to contradict itself, just to keep you tied up in knots. “You know, if you stop now, you’ll never get it done, and if you don’t get it done someone will know you’re a fraud, and they’ll probably ostracize you from the tribe, and then you’ll starve to death in the wilderness. Is that what you want?” Sound like an exaggeration? Track it back to the very origin of the stress. It's absolutely there.
So you keep pounding on, but you’ve read part of this post, so it’s wise to you. “So you’re not gonna take a break, huh? So you can’t take time for yourself, huh? Well that’s about what I’d expect. You don’t really give a crap about yourself anyway. All tied up in fear, eh? And you call yourself spiritual, huh? Right! You can’t even follow the most basic of rules…” And so on, ad infinitum. You can’t win. Letting the mind steer pretty much anchors us to the belief that we suck. No matter what.
As Perfect Children of God, how does that work, then? It doesn’t, actually. Taking a break can help us climb above the chatter of the mind and take a look at Mt. Hood, or notice that the cat would really like some attention. It gets us in touch with our authentic selves, where we see what really feeds us. What things are written on the back of the list that we didn’t feel confident enough to write as an actual to-do item. Things like Take a Walk. Pick some flowers to arrange on the dining room table. Call a roommate from college. Take up unicycling. See, when we take the time to notice what our hearts are really calling for we return to our true Selves, and suddenly everything that really needs to get done takes very little effort, really. At least compared to all the freaking out about doing it.
The mind has us convinced that constant effort is what the Universe respects the most. And sometimes end does justify less-than-exciting means, but sometimes the means itself is simply taking the time to put the mind on hold. When the mind goes on lunch we get to reset, reboot, clear out the cache. We can kick back and just enjoy the moment. We get to set aside the bag of shredding and enjoy a few deep breaths (away from the paper dust, of course). We can set down the pruning shears and smell the rose. We can even sneak a look at the mind behind its back and notice that maybe it needs a little compassion. Notice all the fear and desperation it’s carrying around. All the thoughts and limiting beliefs that it consists of, and how nervous it is worrying about you not doing anything, thinking it’s literally going to die if you stop listening to it. Poor thing.
When we notice these qualities about the mind, and we can get enough distance to recognize that we’re not dying from taking a break, which is literally what the mind has us convinced of, if you track it back to its root. When we see that nothing bad is happening whatsoever, we might want to call the mind back over to the couch, offer it a cup of chamomile, and tell it that it’s gonna be okay. Tell it that it’s not going to run the show any more, but that it’s appreciated just the way it is, for all it teaches us. Promise to hear and acknowledge its opinions, but to always check its assertions against our inner truth. With our feet up on the coffee table, we can suggest a partnership of sorts. A partnership wherein the mind will react to things and show us our triggers and challenges, and the Self will say “hey! That’s neat! You’ve made an even bigger to-do list than before! I’m still gonna stare out the window for a few more minutes…”
This is called staying-in-balance. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
Of course, this is all terribly sage advice, but what happens when we’re just done? When we couldn't care less about being in balance. We don’t want to watch the mind any more. We don’t want to follow any rules about observing the mind or showing compassion or taking breaks. We just want to work too hard and feel terrible about it, and heaven forefend, make snap judgments and wax surly and unpleasant?
Well, take a break from that, too, for Pete’s sake! Let the “spiritual” effort cease.
If it isn’t natural and authentic it isn’t going to work anyway, so give it up!
I enjoy stepping away from my spiritual protocol every so often and just reveling in the mire that is the state of being human. Sometimes I just want to let go. To swear at traffic. To take offense. To even do a little blaming. This, believe it or not, can be a form of a break. If labor law (in this country) requires two fifteen-minute breaks and an hour for lunch, then I think Spiritual law ought to require the same.
Often what I discover from this sort of break is how miserable I become when I let the mind run the show. It feels good, momentarily, to be reactive, but after a day or two, I find myself totally wound up in my own tangle of false beliefs and fears, that it's a relief to come home to my heart and take the reins from the mind once again. Like going on vacation, it might be great to stay out late and consume things you would never give yourself permission to eat and drink during your day-to-day life, but by the end of the week you're not feeling so hot, and it feels good to get back into the routine again.
And that's cool. And, I mean, at some point the scales tip. At some point along the road it doesn't even feel right to deviate from the path I've laid out for myself. I don't even want the ice cream sundae, even though I've given myself permission to eat it. I don't want to stay up til 2, just because I can. At some point along the road it feels like wasted effort to blame it on my parents, the economy, the grocery store clerk. But in the meantime, the vacation helps us to identify patterns that no longer serve. To sift and sort and come back to ourselves to trim the fat once again. The break helps us to see the forest so we can get back to pruning individual trees.
And as you come back you might notice the little guilt-trip the mind is trying to lay on you. Oh, mind, you dear little thing...
It's all good.
Once I've taken the break I actually want to do the work again. I find I don't like the mind in charge, so I work back into the heart again. When the spiritual effort comes from the place of the mind "shoulding" you, it isn't helping you "get" anywhere, anyway.
See, we're not getting anywhere any faster by skipping our rejuvenation. We can skip sleep for a few hours to get a bit more done, but we certainly can't keep it up for long, before we break down. We need that time to eliminate toxins that do not serve us, and to rebuild the tissues that need rebuilding. The same goes for our daily lives. We need to take waking rest so we can allow that which no longer serves to fall away, and to fill up with the inspiration we need to create the rest of our day.
Just as the body cannot rebuild itself without sleep, it also needs to ingest. Without the building blocks it's made of, so we cannot bring our dreams to fruition without fuel for the fire. We need to go outside, go to a museum, go hear some music, play at the beach, and so on in order to be fed. We must play in order to work. It's a cycle that is required for our well-being. If we don't do these things we burn out, we dry up and are no longer serving our divine purpose here on planet Earth. We become shadows, rustling around in fear that we'll be caught-out without everything done.
I assure you, it will NEVER be done.
Our lives are a process, a fractal. If we follow our hearts we will always be veering off the road we thought would take us to the finish line. Well guess what, sweethearts. There is no finish line. In the words of Mr. Baggins, "the Road goes ever on and on..." So we may as well enjoy a look-see as often as possible. Daily is good, but whenever you think about it is a place to begin.
In case you’ve lost the thread, my point is, there is absolutely nothing in this world that has to Get Done, effort is just effort, and Grace can only come in when we stop and let it flow.
And Grace, my friends, is All There Is.
Let it in!
Friday, May 14, 2010
A Healing Artist Explains
I chose the title "Healing Artist" for myself primarily because it makes me giggle. Every time.
In my initial defense, I offer that I am an English Lit major, a grammar snob, and something of a punster.
I am the daughter of a Master of Bad Jokes with a flair for poor taste. After I went away to college, homecomings would inevitably involve dinner around the table with all present-and-accounted-for. My Dad would pull out the stops, attempting to wittily gross-out the remainder of the family or incapacitate them through laughter-induced hyperventilation.
I was immune.
My father had unwittingly thrown down the gauntlet. He quickly learned, much to his chagrin, that I could best him in inappropriate commentary so thoroughly he would leave the table in defeat, my mother gripping her sides and whistling like a teakettle, tears running down her cheeks. Linguistically speaking, I'm trouble with a capital Trubb.
See, I find that in a language rich with nonsensical idiom, the literal is often fodder for comedy, (which enervates my recovering scientist husband no end). I mean, if my business is named Namaha Healing Arts (which can be abbreviated Namaha-HA, which also makes me giggle) then it would literally follow that I am a Healing Artist.
Does this make an acupuncturist a pointillist?
But I digress...
Once my new handle had been committed to writing though, once it was all official-looking, I realized that there was something far deeper within the epithet. I giggled again, but noticed that, if I traced this now nervous laughter, that there was something in me that feared the audacity of it. That I would dare to call myself an Artist. Confident, mysterious...dangerous. What was that all about? Why can't I be an artist? Why can't creative expression be part of my sacred service? Something inside still feels like I don't deserve the title. So we delve a little deeper.
The question I have often struggled with as an energy worker - especially with channeled energies like Reiki and Deeksha - is what makes me any different from any healer out there? If all the energies I work with are essentially Divine Intelligence, and I'm simply praying for Spirit to come in and do it's divine thing while step out of the way, then what makes me different from anyone else who does it?
Time and feedback has told me that something does. And I've learned to be okay with that. I was taught from the get-go the basic Law of Attraction, like attracts like, and all of that. You will always get the clients that vibrate to your frequency, for example. I've believed it and acted upon it, seen it in action with my practice and my students, but my human brain keeps coming back to this need to pinpoint just what the thing is that's different. And marketing folk will tell you you'd better figure that out or you're doomed.
We usually think of an artist as someone who paints or sings or dances or produces something created by the imagination, through inspiration of one kind or another. The word inspire literally means to take in spirit. Spirit goes in, art comes out, and imagination is the template for the result. Inasmuch as my job as a healer is simply to hold space for Spirit to come in and do its thing, the space I create is entirely a product of my own craft. The vessel is of my own imagining. I breathe, I imagine, I create. The container is my own Play Dough pottery, my crocheted pot-holder. The work done while I glue macaroni to construction paper is between the divine and the divine recipient (i.e. the client, student, space, etc.). The initials on the bottom of the portrait are never my own.
I believe our work here on the planet, the true call from our center, is to manifest a Divine intent by interacting and experiencing our world. As co-creators with God, we are all Divine Artists, and why should I be afraid to announce it, to claim it as my birthright in service?
That's rhetorical, thank you.
So now I'm wearing "Darcy Molloy, Healing Artist" like a merit badge in order to get used to the feel of it, to get used to saying it. And I'll probably keep giggling, at least for a while. At least until I merge with the truth behind the moniker. There's some exploring to do there, I imagine, but I know that there is some real depth to it as well as levity, and I'm just going to roll it around on the tongue for awhile to see what the palate does with it.
Tee-hee.
I am a Healing Artist.
In my initial defense, I offer that I am an English Lit major, a grammar snob, and something of a punster.
I am the daughter of a Master of Bad Jokes with a flair for poor taste. After I went away to college, homecomings would inevitably involve dinner around the table with all present-and-accounted-for. My Dad would pull out the stops, attempting to wittily gross-out the remainder of the family or incapacitate them through laughter-induced hyperventilation.
I was immune.
My father had unwittingly thrown down the gauntlet. He quickly learned, much to his chagrin, that I could best him in inappropriate commentary so thoroughly he would leave the table in defeat, my mother gripping her sides and whistling like a teakettle, tears running down her cheeks. Linguistically speaking, I'm trouble with a capital Trubb.
See, I find that in a language rich with nonsensical idiom, the literal is often fodder for comedy, (which enervates my recovering scientist husband no end). I mean, if my business is named Namaha Healing Arts (which can be abbreviated Namaha-HA, which also makes me giggle) then it would literally follow that I am a Healing Artist.
Does this make an acupuncturist a pointillist?
But I digress...
Once my new handle had been committed to writing though, once it was all official-looking, I realized that there was something far deeper within the epithet. I giggled again, but noticed that, if I traced this now nervous laughter, that there was something in me that feared the audacity of it. That I would dare to call myself an Artist. Confident, mysterious...dangerous. What was that all about? Why can't I be an artist? Why can't creative expression be part of my sacred service? Something inside still feels like I don't deserve the title. So we delve a little deeper.
The question I have often struggled with as an energy worker - especially with channeled energies like Reiki and Deeksha - is what makes me any different from any healer out there? If all the energies I work with are essentially Divine Intelligence, and I'm simply praying for Spirit to come in and do it's divine thing while step out of the way, then what makes me different from anyone else who does it?
Time and feedback has told me that something does. And I've learned to be okay with that. I was taught from the get-go the basic Law of Attraction, like attracts like, and all of that. You will always get the clients that vibrate to your frequency, for example. I've believed it and acted upon it, seen it in action with my practice and my students, but my human brain keeps coming back to this need to pinpoint just what the thing is that's different. And marketing folk will tell you you'd better figure that out or you're doomed.
We usually think of an artist as someone who paints or sings or dances or produces something created by the imagination, through inspiration of one kind or another. The word inspire literally means to take in spirit. Spirit goes in, art comes out, and imagination is the template for the result. Inasmuch as my job as a healer is simply to hold space for Spirit to come in and do its thing, the space I create is entirely a product of my own craft. The vessel is of my own imagining. I breathe, I imagine, I create. The container is my own Play Dough pottery, my crocheted pot-holder. The work done while I glue macaroni to construction paper is between the divine and the divine recipient (i.e. the client, student, space, etc.). The initials on the bottom of the portrait are never my own.
I believe our work here on the planet, the true call from our center, is to manifest a Divine intent by interacting and experiencing our world. As co-creators with God, we are all Divine Artists, and why should I be afraid to announce it, to claim it as my birthright in service?
That's rhetorical, thank you.
So now I'm wearing "Darcy Molloy, Healing Artist" like a merit badge in order to get used to the feel of it, to get used to saying it. And I'll probably keep giggling, at least for a while. At least until I merge with the truth behind the moniker. There's some exploring to do there, I imagine, but I know that there is some real depth to it as well as levity, and I'm just going to roll it around on the tongue for awhile to see what the palate does with it.
Tee-hee.
I am a Healing Artist.
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