Category Archives: Promise & Covenant

Sep21

Autobiography … What Faith Do I Claim?

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One of the homework assignments in a few of my classes has been to write and present a Spiritual Autobiography. Hmmm. It feels self-absorbed and narcissistic, in many ways, to focus inwardly and then to talk about oneself in this context. To an audience of peers and professors.

Yet it’s an important question to pose for ourselves. We need to be familiar with this story. To know why we arrived at a Divinity School to study. And what we want as the outcome of this time in graduate school. What is our connection to the Sacred?

I think it’s a question that all people pose for themselves at one time or another. What does my faith mean to me? What do I believe? What makes meaning out of the world to me? What do I hold as Holy or Sacred or bigger than myself?

As students and facilitators, we discuss milestones. Events or people or experiences or texts that shaped our faiths. Or raised questions that we’re still trying to answer.

Many of us consider our personal views of the sacred or the divine. Identify the language and images we use around those ideas. For some of us, the language might be a Trinitarian Christian concept (God-Jesus-Holy Spirit). For others it might be monotheistic Allah or Yahweh. For others it is a Boddhisatva, or a Goddess, or a different deity.

For some folks, there isn’t a specific deity or name that defines what is sacred. Maybe there’s a “Creative Force.” Or for some of my classmates, connection with the Sacred is inseparable from being human.

Some of these ideas may sound like heresy, if you are uncomfortable with the reality that people around the world follow many different religions. If you believe, or your faith tells you to believe, that there is only “one true way.”

I don’t put the idea of “one true way” into quotations to belittle that concept … just to acknowledge that not all belief systems require that people follow their way of thinking, being and doing. Not all belief systems consign everyone else in the world to Hell if they don’t convert. I’ve never been comfortable or okay with the concept that my faith is the only faith, and that everyone else is outside the circle and isn’t going to be okay, isn’t going to heaven, isn’t going to evolve to the next phase of being … I cannot reconcile that. Never could. Still can’t. Maybe it’s not my job to work out that dichotomy. I’m just admitting that I don’t embrace it.

Interestingly, many people in this era consider themselves to be spiritual, but not religious. And it’s a fair distinction.

Religion, as such, is the human-made institution that grows up around the seeds of a faith. For example, Christ and his first followers, for instance, were Jews. They were not Christians. And initially, Muhammed and his people weren’t Muslims with a capital “M.”

These Prophets didn’t necessarily believe they came to start new religions. Simply to bring a message to the world.

What evolved afterward, the codifying, the creation of a structure of authority and governance, administration and policies and laws and practices … those aren’t the original parts of any faith. Those are Religion with a capital “R.” They are systems developed and put into place by humans around the original messages brought to us by Prophets. At least, that’s my simplistic definition of it, but I think it’s a reasonable one.

I’ve learned, in the past few weeks, that saying that there’s one version of any Religion is also naïve. Is there one acknowledge and universal experience of Christianity? Christians would chuckle if you ask that. There are so many variations on what Christianity means and how it is experienced, starting with the major division between Catholic and Protestant. And you can go on from there.

The same is true of Judaism and Islam. Do you belong, for instance, to a temple that is Orthodox or reformed? Is the Judaism of a temple in Brookline, Massachusetts similar to the Judaism on a kibbutz in Israel? Unlikely.

Some contemporary scholars say that is it more accurate to acknowledge many Islam(s) rather than one Islam. Because again, these Religions, though springing from the seed of one origin, have developed within varied social, historical, ethnic, political, economic, and geographical contexts. Islam practiced in the neighborhoods of Chicago is different than Islam experienced in London or living in a nation such as Turkey. It has markedly different interpretation and practices in Afghanistan or Iran than in parts of India or Indonesia.

Some people following a specific Religion (with a capital “R”) will say there is only one true version, and all other schools that fall under that same umbrella or label are false. Not the real thing. But which version of any Religion is real? True? The only authentic one?

Those sorts of schisms and arguments are probably another reason why so many people in the world don’t want to be called Religious. For a lot of folks, technicalities lose sight of the whole point of faith. It sounds something like this. “Who cares about the semantics? Can’t we just pay attention to the original message? Can’t we get back to the bigger reason for why we worship and pray?”

Spirituality, on the other hand, seems to be a more universal impulse in humans to seek a connection with something greater than oneself. Something that some of us would call Sacred. Maybe some others would call it Nature or the Universe.

More people consider themselves to be Spiritual than to be Religious. Many people don’t want to be categorized, labeled or aligned with a particular tradition. It’s feels like a bad word or way of imposing limitations, for a lot of people.

And in a way, although I realize I am fundamentally Trinitarian (Christian), I am also connected to other practices. Yoga traditions, which can embody Christian references as well as others. Aspects of Buddhism that I have been taught. Native American beliefs that I find in poetry, art and stories. Teachings handed down from Asian origins by mentors who instruct us about spiritual practices as well as physical ones in martial arts classes such as kickboxing or karate classes. Jewish and Islamic offerings that I share during special holidays with my community. Other influences.

I don’t discount or turn away from the beauty and truths that I find in other places, other faiths. I incorporate them. I learn from them. I listen to them. Maybe I learn their practices, when those may help to offer balance or healing in my life.

Yet I am also learning not to make the mistake that all these Religions or practices are, underneath it all, the same. That’s a dangerous mistake. These are different faiths. The people who claim them also experience and view the world through a somewhat different lens.We live in a pluralistic world; that’s okay. In fact, that’s complex and amazing.

Yet we can inform and inspire each other. We can live peaceably. Build community. Share a world together.

Sep11

Be an Instrument of Peace

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I cannot pretend to have wisdom on a day like 9/11. Nor to truly understand the depth of its impact. Simply to acknowledge that it shook not just those who were hurt or lost, and their families and communities, but all of us. It changed our world view. It rippled out in layers of distrust and violence, but also in ever-growing rings of hope and resilience.

Just yesterday a friend and I remembered being together on the day that the Twin Towers came down. We’ll always remember where we were that day. Wanting to scoop up our children and hold them close. Not sure if the world was ending.

We recalled worrying for a friend who traveled internationally on American Airlines flights to London. Was she alive? As it turned out, she was okay, but she attended the funerals of several colleagues — crew members — for weeks afterward.

We remembered the arrival of a little boy from that devastated Manhattan neighborhood to our daughters’ school in New England. His home was not habitable; his school was closed.

This past weekend, our neighboring town of Rowley dedicated a memorial to 3 townspeople who were on one of the flights. They used as their monument, a piece of steel from the site of the crash. It was moving, yet can never express all that was taken away on that day.

In my father-in-law’s town in New Jersey, where the ferry leaves every morning for Manhattan, the memorial is larger. Too many folk were connected from the small seaside town to the large city center; their passengers worked in those buildings, and many never came home.

And finally, our minister Rebecca Pugh Brown uncovered and recounted for us the story of Andrew Rice, and his journey of loss and forgiveness. His brother David was in the second tower. Andrew was a journalist at the time, and much of the rhetoric after the day of 9/11 didn’t fit his view of the world. He was angry, but he sought some sort of resolution or healing step. His story is shared on the site of The Forgiveness Project.

Then, as David Rice’s summary tells us, “Later, a group called Murder Victims Families for Reconciliation were contacted by the mother of the alleged 20th hijacker, Zacharias Moussaoui, who has been held in solitary confinement in Northern Virginia since September 11. She had a unique request. She wanted to meet some of the families of the victims and ask for their forgiveness.”

We were nervous; scared of our Government finding out, and scared it would be just too upsetting. But finally a small group of us agreed to meet Madame al-Wafi in New York City in November 2002. As we waited in a private university building, a mother whose son was killed in the World Trade Centre went down the hall to meet her. We heard footsteps, then silence. Then we heard this sobbing. Finally they both came into the room, both mothers with their arms around each other. By now we were all crying. Madame al-Wafi reminded me a lot of my own mother, who had cried so much after David died. She spent three hours with us and told us how the extremist group had given her mentally ill son a purpose in life.

One day I’d like to meet Zacharias Moussaoui. I’d like to say to him, ‘you can hate me and my brother as much as you like, but I want you to know that I loved your mother and I comforted her when she was crying’.”

Today I’ll sit in a class at Harvard University called “Understanding Islam.” There is so much education, awareness and bridge-building to be done.

I want to work side by side with Muslim brothers and sisters, to create a world that has space and hope for all of us. That’s part of my work and purpose by attending Harvard. That’s why practitioners of Islam are studying alongside me, for the same reasons.

Today is a tense, emotional, difficult day. It’s easy to step awry.

Instead, breathe. Listen. Pray.

Pay attention to what you’re feeling. Honor it. Acknowledge it. Then let it wash through you. Let it arrive. Let it go. As much as that is possible for you.

Be an instrument of peace today. For yourself. For others. For our world.

Sep6

Belonging

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I just read, in an essay by Karen Montagno entitled Midwives and Holy Subversives, her description of the many circles of belonging in her life. She says, “My story is one of overlapping contexts. … I am an African American woman … instructor and practitioner of pastoral care, an Episcopal priest in a local parish, a seminary dean, and a parent. My communities are multiple, significant, and formative.”

It resonated with me. It’s really true for all of us as humans. I don’t mean that I identify with Karen Montagno’s unique and specific context, but with the more universal observation that we all belong to many overlapping circles.

Today I reflected on some of my circles.

In my life, you won’t be surprised that I put family first: my own birth family of grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. My husband, with whom I have shared a longer relationship than anyone else in my world, except my mom, sister and two brothers. My nieces and nephews. My extended family through marriage, with whom many special moments (happy and sorrowful) have been shared. And foremost, my daughters Jessie and Sarah.

Then there are so many other webs of connection. For instance, there are circles of social ties. Personal friendships developed across years of proximity and shared experiences, forming complex bonds that include raising children together, being single or inside marriages or partnerships, changing careers or relocating homes, setting and reaching for personal goals, and so many other milestones that we share with our intimate ones. Acquaintances through different organizations or shared interests … maybe we waited together in the schoolyard while picking up or dropping off children at class, met in line at Zumi’s, or sat side by side on the sidelines of a soccer game while our kids played in a game.

Then we have ties to our colleagues and peers in the workplace or the professional field; we share significant time together and many responsibilities. Plenty of us also dedicate time to service or volunteering in different organizations: mine happens to include Rotary Club and some civic organizations. And for many of us, this also includes our faith community, where we spend a rich amount of time that is deeply emotional and intellectual, but also involves engagement of much time and talent: many folks invest a lot of their lives in this sphere. And there are other connections to mentors and coaches and teachers. Plus more occasional and yet oddly intimate transactions with other people on whom we depend in some way, whether it’s a medical caregiver or a counselor, or perhaps the person working at the cash register in our neighborhood, or the train on which we commute, or the circulation desk of the library we visit. (I’ve also recently added a campus community. My professors, students and advisors. The staff and peers with whom I now spend several hours a day.)

And of course, we can identify with larger contexts. By ethnicity. By gender. By faith tradition. By sexual preference. By political affiliation. By nationality. By so many “markers.” I thought a lot, this past week, about the labels that are placed on us. The categories used to define us. The ways we are perceived by the world, and the ways in which we describe ourselves. Some of these labels and tags may be welcome. Many are probably weighed heavily with assumptions and preconceived ideas that we would prefer not to accept or have applied to us. It is wise to be thoughtful about these labels and categories. And to challenge how you many be applying them to others as well.

Today I’m glad to be the following things:

  • Mother
  • Wife and partner
  • Woman
  • Sister, daughter, cousin, niece, aunt
  • Friend
  • Christian with an open mind about other faiths
  • Member of First Church, Ipswich, UCC
  • Rotarian
  • Professional website developer and writer
  • Director of non-profit foundation working with cancer families
  • Graduate student at Harvard University’s Divinity School
  • Commuter by foot and train
  • Resident of Ipswich, Massachusetts in New England, USA
  • Independent (political party)
  • Writer
  • Artist

There are lots more circles of belonging, I’m sure. I belong to so many communties, large and small. And I have responsibilities to all of them. I feel a little overwhelmed when I consider all that I’m trying to balance right now. I bet we all do, at one point or another. So I consider my communities. I make checklists and put dates and commitments on the calendar. Prioritize. Do one thing at a time. Breathe. And try to do what’s possible and relinquish what I cannot do right now.

Meanwhile, here’s something that all adults who are legal citizens can do for their community. Vote! In Massachusetts, the primaries are today.

Voting is not just a privilege. It is a responsibility. It’s your chance to act. To speak with your vote. To care and be engaged in issues that affect you and your community. To the places where you live, work and play. The people with whom you belong.

Aug22

Listen for the Music

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This past weekend I finished 25 hours of training in order to teach or facilitate OWL (Our Whole Lives) curriculum for either middle school or high school students. It’s an intense, honest and complex program to present information with the core values of self worth, sexual health, responsibility, justice & inclusivity. It was created as an non-religious approach to this subject by UUA / Unitarian and UCC / Congregational denominations so that it can be used in secular settings; companion books available from UUA or UCC denominations discuss the role of faith in this context.

I attended the training for several reasons. It’s a balanced curriculum that has been taught by many organizations, including my church, and is used nationally by thousands of churches, health programs, schools and military facilities. I wish it had been available to my own children in our town; we had to provide this information through other resources. (Our children need factual and comprehensive information on this topic, but that’s a different conversation, and may be uncomfortable for many families from different faith backgrounds or traditions, yet I cannot apologize for my beliefs, many based on personal experience, around this topic.) At some point I’ll probably be a facilitator for this program in my own faith community. Additionally, the information seems invaluable in the context of graduate classes about hands-on care for different constituents such as teens or trauma victims.

Yet one of the best messages I brought home from the training wasn’t about the content of the curriculum itself. It was about working in teams, respecting different backgrounds and viewpoints, and finding ways to honor each other’s talents, strengths and approaches to facilitation. Especially within this message and value-laden context, we worked to accept variations in “body part” terminology, for instance, in order to appreciate the intention of what we were discussing together.

At the beginning of this long weekend of training, we all wrote up a covenant about how we’d work together. And one of the debates we held was about the use of language … could people use “street words” or “common discourse” for body parts in a class that deals with human sexuality, or should we stick to medical terms? For example, should we avoid “boobs” and only use “breasts?” (There were more colorful examples, but my point here isn’t about shock-value, it’s about getting past shock-value.)  We wondered aloud.

Some people find the more casual or common terms to be vulgar or offensive in origin. Others habitually use them, and it’s hard to talk about those topics or body parts without slipping into vernacular language.

Of course, part of what we discussed was the necessity to be aware of our language. The words we use convey values and messages. On the other hand, we wanted people to speak freely.

In the end, though, we decided that if the words were used to refer respectfully to a body part, and weren’t used in a name-calling connotation, that people should use the words they most comfortably choose. Within this context, for the purposes of our classroom discussions, “boobs” are as okay as “breasts.”

(Note: Please understand that there is a whole educational unit about language, the categories it falls into, and when and where to use it, what’s negative, what’s neutral, what’s positive. We do want facilitators and students to consider their language for its own role conveying cultural and personal messages.)

The final agreement, when we discussed this use of language, was to “listen for the music” of the experience. This idea comes from curriculum around peace-making for younger children. (I want to give full attribution but don’t know the author of this curriculum … it’s used in some UUA / Unitarian and UCC / Congregational churches.)

The metaphor is that many notes, chords, stanzas and instruments comprise music. We don’t all have experience with specific types of music: classical, for instance. Or we’re not experts in it. If we attend such a concert, we don’t always remember all the intricacies within a song, just the sense of the music. We can’t analyze every run of chords, every interplay of wind and string, every nuance and bridge. We have to let it all stir together and form an overall impression. We have to “listen for the music” and what it means to us, what it says to us.

When we remember a classical song later, if we’re lacking an expert’s lexicon to discuss it, we recall the music’s overall impression. We discuss or consider the emotion that comes with the experience. We’re appreciating its intentions.

This also applies to conversations fraught with language and discussions about human sexuality, relationships, etc. We wanted the same level of listening within our classroom conversations.

We sought a similar tolerance and appreciation. We might not remember every word. Or be able to agree with every statement.

We wanted to get past the use of the specific terminology to the larger conversation we’re all trying to hold together, and the information we’re sharing.  We got there, but only after much discussion and agreement to use the standard of “listen for the music.” We spent a whole weekend, preparing presentations on many different units of information, organized and presented by lay teachers from all over the country, with many different professional and personal backgrounds. We all learned from each other. And it stopped being about colloquial uses of specific words, and became all about how to present and share this information so that everyone could safely talk about it and explore it and learn from it. We “listened for the music.” And we heard it.

Aug16

Belated Ode to London Olympics

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The Olympics are over, and I barely had a chance to see any coverage. Nor did I refer to them, in daily journals.

On the other hand, I had to call and make appointments, or negotiate social outings with friends, so that our visits didn’t interfere with the second half of final Olympic games. That’s how I navigated the past few weeks, in order to see people who watch the Olympics, when I was otherwise working, completing projects, or handling family logistics regarding college stuff for Sarah and myself.

So I haven’t even mentioned or acknowledged that the past few weeks were the Summer Olympics 2012 in London. And that we have friends in England who are covering these events for the BBC in their county. And that we’re cheering for US athletes, but also for every other big-hearted athlete in any competition, regardless of nationality. And that I sneak online to catch up on the highlights, but I have friends who rivet themselves to a large screen every night, watching-watching-watching. And that I cry when I watch.

Now Chris and I don’t follow any sports in particular. Not even baseball or football. We’re fans of New England teams, because they’re our “local” teams. Red Sox. Celtics. Bruins. Tigers (our home town team).

And yet, when I see out-takes of the great feats and competitions of these events, I weep while I watch. Yes, I’m a Kleenex-carrier, because I cry and sniffle at almost any emotionally-demanding experience, like weddings,  sappy commercials … or moving Olympic “final moments.”

Now if you ever DARE to compare your life experiences to those of an Olympic athlete … if you say, for instance, “Don’t you feel like you just ran a marathon? Or got a gold medal?” Well, anyone on those global teams might roll their eyes. It’s sort of like comparing your life experiences to being under fire with other soldiers, without ever having had that combat or military experience.

Sure, we can make comparisons. But if we haven’t lived through it, we can’t imagine it. Can we?!

And yet, the whole point of these games is, in part, to involve all of us in these adventures. To encourage us to identify with young, visionary athletes who dare to dream and strive and reach and fail and win. In a sense, we believe they’re like us, and we could be like them.

Well … let me say … there’s a certain level of justice to the comparison between every-day heroes and Olympic athletes. We all, I think, live through personal times that demand extreme efforts from us. We take on Herculean responsibilities, sometimes because we volunteer for them, and sometimes because we are required to undertake them due to circumstances beyond our control. Most of us, I think, are eventually called, one way or another, to rise up and respond  to an extreme situation.

Homework answer written by Jessie Doktor: Red Sox.

That’s why pediatric cancer patients, for instance, identify with their favorite athletes. We used to hold parties in the resource room during events like the Superbowl, and bald patients would paint team logos on their scalps. Why do they root for their team during baseball’s World Series or football’s Superbowl? Go, Pats! Go, Sox!

Does it matter who wins? Yes, and no. Symbolically, a child may be identifying with a superstar or an underdog team, and if they’re winning, then the child feels inspired by that win … maybe it metaphorically promises the possibility that a child will recover and survive, too. And if they lose … well, the child and other fans realize that a feisty team has put up a great fight, and shown the spirit that inspires us all to keep cheering and believing, against all odds.

In such circumstances, we can imagine ourselves as Olympic-level athletes or fierce warriors. Fighters. Competitors. Winners.

And in that circumstance, who will argue with the comparison? And in that time, don’t the Olympics inspire you all over again?

Maybe we won’t all break speed records or earn medals or stand on the risers while the world sings our anthem. And yet … yes, I do believe, we are all required to perform Olympic-sized feats in our own lives. And so these young athletes inspire us. Remind us. Challenge us.

Like them, we reach for more. Like us, they keep going.

Aug2

Cravings

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How do you know when what you want is also what you need? When they’re opposites? Want can compromise you, as much as it might entertain or satisfy you. While need is essential to survival and greater quality of life.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

Sometimes you mistake one for the other. A craving can become a force so powerful that it feels like a requirement, something you must fulfill, or else you might not make it through the day. This link will lead you to the work of artist Erin Hanson, who makes some very witty observations about this issue.

How do we tell the difference between want and need? Oh, I think we know. Sometimes we deny or ignore it. That can be part of the danger to ourselves (and others). But often enough, we know what can be most satisfying and also most damaging at the same time.

We all have soft spots. Me? I have plenty, I admit it. I know it.

Food is an old friend, and a particular weakness. I sometimes find myself by the pantry or fridge, craving a bite. Not as tempting as it once was, because I have recognized and worked hard to gain balance when I lost it, but oh, there are times when I want something … Sweet. Salty. Mmmmm. And it’s not because I’m particularly hungry. Could be stress. Boredom. Bad habits. Social routines.

Sometimes we have instants of epiphany. When we actually look at ourselves, and what’s happening, and see just how out-of-balance we’ve gotten. I’ve had my share of wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee (okay, tea for me) moments. Really, these I’m-not-in-control-and-this-has-gone-too-far insights can be as powerful as being converted to a new religion. Transformative.

Then again, sometimes someone else has to express their concerns: a loved one, friend, colleague or medical practitioner. Maybe you have to hear it from someone else to realize that there’s an issue.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

Mainly, I think, you have to be ready to listen. Then to admit that there’s an imbalance you need to pay attention to. Maybe it’s not an addiction, maybe it’s just too much of a good thing, but there’s still a message that it’s time to pause, focus, and regain equilibrium. Or perhaps it is that dangerous; you must realize that something vital is at risk. Your health. Your safety. Others’ safety. Your relationships. Your work. Your home.

That’s the start. But what comes next? The long, slow and imperfect journey of changing bad habits, and realizing the context that leads us toward the not-so-good-for-us decisions. For many behaviors and obsessions, there’s a state of mind and series of events that lets us negotiate with our own conscience, and make deals, and excuses, and half-hearted promises that we won’t keep for ourselves or anyone else. There’s a rush and a reward, short-lived as it might be, that causes us to desire this activity in the first place. Maybe there’s also a social context, among a specific group of friends or acquaintances, that reinforces this choice. Or a true payoff, some measurable value that makes it hard to offset.

Regarding behavior around food, I’ve learned to debate with myself. Have a little discussion. Test the signal from my mind that says I’m hungry. Sip some water and wait 10 minutes. Do I still have the same craving? Or did it fade away? Would a small portion be sufficient to feed the craving, or should I substitute something else, or just ignore the craving entirely? I consider these options, and try to choose the most effective one.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

There are other tools. Maybe you have to keep a journal, to make yourself accountable to yourself, and actually acknowledge, list and monitor (by quantity of time, distance, volume, servings, whatever measurement) your own patterns. Weigh the decision against its cost, such as the exercise involved to work off what you’re about to ingest. Ask yourself … really picture this … how do you feel after you nibble on that snack (or sip another drink or take extra time in front of a screen or buy another scratch ticker or spend free time sitting or lying down)? Can you stop? If the picture in your head isn’t nice (your stomach or your head is upset, you’re disappointed in yourself and diving into a loop of negative self-talk, because you indulged and then over-indulged) that’s a deterrent. Who wants to do something temporarily pleasurable, if the result is that nasty and self-loathing experience on the other side? Visualize who you want to be (maybe an image of yourself fit, happy, connected to other people, active, balanced and in control). And yes, you can pray. Ask for help from a power outside yourself.

What else can give us the same … or maybe a better … fulfillment? Depends on your longings, and what will sate them instead. Also depends on how hard the work is to overcome those cravings and desires, and find an alternative that slowly becomes your new passion. When you want a cigarette, getting on a bike might not sound tempting at first. But over time, the feel of the bike ride, the beat of your heart and lungs, the place your mind can go, will be it’s own sort of rush … it’s own form of high.

Maybe you can’t do it alone. Maybe you need support. Share your goals with your family, so they can also help you (if they’re willing to help versus sabotaging or enabling). Tell your friends, too. Work with a counselor or caregiver. Join a group. Take a class. Find a trainer or a coach, a mentor or a sponsor.

I grew up in a family filled with “isms.” Substance abuse. Mental health issues. Depression. Bipolar. Weight. Money. Physical abuse. Lots of tough stuff (though plenty of goodness, too), and most of it quietly tucked away, until it couldn’t be hidden anymore.

Based on that experience, I would say, “don’t hide it.” Don’t make it a secret that you or others must keep. When it’s possible, and there are circumstances that might make that inadvisable, but more often it’s safest to be open, you can claim it. Make it something that is part of who you are, and something you can live with, and find balance around. You are stronger for it.

Work of artist Erin Hanson

And you know what? You may slip. We’re humans. We backslide. And we have to let that be part of the process, and be kind to ourselves, but also disciplined. And expect the best. Want the most. Try to honor our bodies, our minds, our spirits, our relationships, and that spark of the sacred that is burning inside each of us.

I have named one of my own habits and temptations. But we all have them, and they can take many forms.

Challenge yourself, in the face of the old habit that might be slowly stealing away other aspects of your life. Do I need to invest more time in front of this screen, as riveting as these posts and search results seem and as tempting as that next clickable link would be, instead of doing something else like reading a book, spending time in conversation with a loved one, or going outside to do something more active? Do I need another bite of comfort food, as much as it might sound very consoling right now, rather than a glass of water or a walk? Do I need another hour of work, as simple as it would be to stay here and keep going on this project in which I’m involved, instead of putting down this labor and allowing myself to be more available? Do I need to sleep in for 27 more minutes, as cozy as it is under these covers in this bed, instead of waking up and moving? Do I need to use the car to run that errand, as quick as it would be to complete the task, when a walk downtown will take more time and use more energy and slow me down … maybe in a positive way?

When possible, our lives can be about letting go of want, and discovering how to fulfill need. Yoga. Fitness programs. Self-help education. Motivational classes. Many forms of physical-spiritual practice or faith lead us in this direction. Letting go. Desiring less. And conversely, having more.

The poet Linda Pastan wrote about this issue.

What We Want

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names–
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don’t remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.

We are all full of goodness. And we all have passions and pastimes. Often we also have cravings or yearnings, some of which are good for us, and some of which can hurt us. There’s always a chance to shift the balance. It may not be easy. It may not be 100% consistent. But it’s possible. And it makes a difference, for ourselves and those with whom we seek connection.

Jul20

Molting

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I started this journal by admitting that I’d woven feathers into my hair. At the time, it was a celebration of taking chances and investing in the next step toward personal and professional development.

The day I got feathers, I’d just returned from taking the GRE (graduate school exam), a necessary precursor to my application for admission to Harvard. It was a big risk. I’d studied. Crammed.

Ultimately, I performed reasonably well on the language portion, but although I tried to catch up on math concepts that I hadn’t used for about 30 years, only 14% of all Americans who took the GRE did worse than me. (Did you follow that sentence, and its bit of math … tricky, huh?) Luckily, I’m not pursuing a degree that relies heavily on numbers, phew!

Anyway, the GRE wasn’t the most important part of my application. Essays and recommendations were probably more important. But taking a standardized test for the first time was a big deal (to me). Sweat. Performance anxiety. Sleepless nights. Hours of study. It meant I was serious about this whole process. And I was being measured against a lot of other people who also have graduate school dreams and vocational aspirations … you get the idea.

So I’ve had these feathers since December. And for those who are curious, but haven’t had the chance to ask, you can shampoo feathers. You can brush and style them, if you want. When you get your hair cut, the feathers come out, and after the cut, they’re knotted back into place. They’re attached by a knot, but they basically stay in for a lo-o-o-o-o-o-nnnngggg time.

See, I had about 12 or so feathers when I started out. All kinds of colors. Over the course of several months (seven, but who’s counting?), they fell out a little at a time.

The last one drifted to the ground, and I didn’t even see it happen. I washed my hair this morning, and didn’t find any more plumes. Sigh. The feathers are gone. This phase is over, it seems.

The feathers were … what, a symbolic act? An external recognition of an exciting accomplishment (surviving hours in a cubicle answering questions on a computer, knowing I was bombing on the math, because my 16-digit answers didn’t fit into the 2-digit blank answer box)? A sheer giddy indulgence?

All of the above.

Their slow shedding has been, in a way, a metaphorical measurement of the many steps that have passed since I sat down to take the GRE. 43 drafts of an essay later, I completed the entire application process. Filed it online. Waited until mid-March for acceptance. Waited longer, through rounds of debate about how we’d pay for graduate school and Sarah’s college at the same time, to decide if I’d accept a spot in the 3-year, full-time MDIV program at Harvard’s Divinity School. Stayed below the radar screen a lot of the time, because this summer and this autumn are so focused on Sarah’s transition to Northeastern to study nursing, that I often forget that I have my own forms to complete, loans to secure, classes to choose and many other administrative steps to finish, also.

The final feather disappeared on the same day that I opened my new student email account, submitted my bio and picture, and looked at the list of classes available for registration. I’m still bad at math, by the way. But I can count to zero (no feathers).

Now my head is a blank canvas again; it awaits a new cut, and perhaps more decoration. Maybe I’ll re-plume. Maybe not.

Meanwhile, the first burst of feathers fulfilled its role … it served as a talisman, while I dared to dive into the unknown depths of a new adventure.

How do we outwardly mark milestones? With jewelry like class rings or engagement diamonds, perhaps. With a tattoo, permanent or temporary. A piercing. A badge or pin. A uniform or new type of clothing. Head gear. A name tag. Some grooming of hair, nails or skin, such as a haircut, mani/pedi, facial or other makeover.  A change in external style.

Other landmarks are never visible. We often don’t wear insignia to show where we have been, what we have endured and overcome, where we are going next.

Ultimately, you can’t look at a person and read their entire story based only on an outward appearance. But sometimes, it’s fun to provide a clue about what’s going on inside.

Feathers, for instance.

 

 

 

Jun27

Vision Board

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Among the many treasures that awaited discovery as I emptied three rooms over the past two days? Images drawn by both of the girls. Their words. Photos and awards. Discarded homework. Storybooks.

As for Chris and I? Our wedding album. More photos of us as a young couple. Mementos from birthdays in a different house in a different decade. Textbooks and roadmaps. ID cards from our roles as guardians in the hospital, paperwork from different jobs (for me anyway), plastic membership cards for shops and services that are defunct, certifications from Rotary over the past few years, and so many other odds and ends.

Quite revealing was the personal Vision Board that I found. I made it. It was created during a workshop led by Lauren DiBiase a few years ago.

You know what a Vision Board is, yes? It’s a poster board or sheet of paper on which you paste images of what you hope and desire for yourself. It can be created with pictures of objects that represent the lifestyle you hope to live (houses, boats, cars, stacks of money), or it could be self-images (activities like cycling or kayaking, silhouettes, healthy food, closeups of body parts, fitness gear) or spiritual symbols (ocean, forest, stones, desert, sky, fire), or educational representations (language, books, tools) or image of destinations (maps, special landmarks, transportation like ships or planes) and whatever else  you wish to set as goals for yourself.

Then, presumably, you hang it up somewhere useful, as a reminder of your target – your vision – for your own life. It’s an incentive. An in-your-face prompt to aim for what you desire.

As my husband Chris says to our daughter Sarah, “Every decision brings you further or closer to where you want to be.”

The funny thing about my Vision Board? It’s full of words, not pictures.

Not surprising, in many ways. Yes, I’m a visual person. I paint and sketch. Essentially, I’m also a word person. I read and write insatiably.

During Lauren’s workshop a few years ago, once I starting finding phrases and words that spoke to me, clipped from magazines, I glued together a very large composition: a wish list and extensive imagined biography on the board. It took shape as language, instead of a pictorial snapshot. Yet it embodied what I aimed to achieve in my future.

Happily, her workshop isn’t about judging or editing. There aren’t any rules, except to fill the page if possible. To learn about yourself, through the process of seeing what images (or words, as in my case) call to you, and wind up on your Vision Board. No one advised me to limit myself to pictures and leave off the words. Or to re-do my composition.

Ironically, until this week, I had that Vision Board safely tucked away in an envelope. For years. It wasn’t hanging up where it would be visible all the time. Huh.

When I put it aside, hidden from view, was I ignoring my own wishes? Or was the exercise of naming and acknowledging my own wishes sufficient? Can I believe that I have acted on them ever since, regardless of whether I had the Vision Board to inspire me? Perhaps.

Well, the answer probably depends on what I see now on the board, and compare it to where I am in my life. How much of what I pasted on that board is now present in my life?

Lots. Some of those expectations for myself come and go. For instance, I’ve resumed the daily morning yoga routine with my teacher Ingrid, so I’m feeling good about self-care (two days after starting the sessions, I’m virtuous, don’t you think?). Attending graduate school wasn’t on this board, and yet it fulfills many parts of what I pasted there. Relationships? I am deeply connected to my family and friends, and we are always a work in progress, don’t you think?

Maybe I’ve let go of other desires. Or come to a more balanced place in connection with them.

The Vision Board is a touchstone. It’s a snapshot, a way to measure where I was, and the distance I have traveled.

It’s okay if some of the things on that board aren’t what I’d wish for now. And it’s great that there are things I’d paste onto a Vision Board now, that I didn’t imagine for myself a few years ago.

The other items I found as I cleared the rooms … an unfinished story by Jessie, a game board invented by Sarah, a textbook from Chris’s college days, a thesaurus I received for my own high school graduation,  a rubbing of our family’s handprints and our dog’s footprints cast into concrete in our former driveway … are also touchstones. We all have them.

Our lives are mostly moments lived in transition, between stepping stone and stepping stone, as we respond to one experience, shift balance and then move toward the next. The Vision Board, and all of those other artifacts I discovered in the past few days? Each one is like a stepping stone where we once paused. Either I, or some other member of my family left a footprint behind – an impression with toes pointed in the direction where each of us expected to go – heel already lifted and the ball of the foot dug deep as we each leapt toward the next point.

Now I’m landing on the next stone, and the next, leaving more tracks along the way.

Jun22

YOLO

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YOLO. It means, “You Only Live Once.”

Okay, Rev. Rebecca Pugh has preached a sermon about this acronym, when the youth group introduced it to her. I have also seen it “tagged” (aka, spray-painted as graffiti art) on the sidewalk in front of the high school (I think by mischievous members of the graduating 2012 senior class). And it’s common terminology in texting or messaging or emails (emails are an old-fashioned way to communicate with the younger generation, by the way).

Image Source: Brittany Robertson via Pinterest

It’s another way of saying that life is brief, life is now, and you should seize the moment.

In some ways, it’s a belief that I already embrace. Don’t put off everything until tomorrow, or assume you can catch up later … if you have wishes and dreams and passions, follow them sooner. In the present.

None of us can be certain about how long our lives will span. Much of what we do is accumulated within the small daily interactions we share right now … we’re making a difference as we go.

Making a difference should be extended to others, but ideally includes keeping some promises to ourselves, too. Filling our own present with quality of life … with meaningful and moving experiences.

Of course, I don’t actually believe we only live once. Maybe it depends on your definition of life, but I’m pretty open-minded about this whole concept.

As I’ve mentioned before, Jessie seems to visit from time to time. And of course, my faith holds out the promise of a life beyond this one.

Plus, there are other belief systems held by my friends that include the idea of past lives and future lives, reincarnation, karma, the presence of ancestors, the potential of future generations, and so many other aspects of our spiritual journeys … embodied within centuries of philosophy, religious practice and even anecdotal accounts.

I don’t discount other traditions. Some are much older than my own, and have much to say to me. Others are younger, and also offer insights that I find valuable.

I don’t claim to know a whole lot about how the world works, or even how much we can perceive and understand. I also love the philosophy of Christian physicists, for instance, some of whom postulate that our Creator occupies dimensions we cannot perceive, so we only have a partial interaction or explanation of the idea of God.

Well, that makes sense. Yahweh is Yahweh. We are humans. How can we comprehend, or even put into words, all that means?

To some extent, I think all belief systems have information to impart, lessons to teach, and a meaningful context that explains at least some aspects of our young and fleeting mortal experience of an ancient and changing world. None of these systems, Christianity included, can ever answer all our questions.

I think we’ll find out a whole lot more, and be connected to a greater Being and perhaps a greater community of spirits or souls, when we pass beyond our human bounds.

Meanwhile, YOLO. It has its place in the way we live our lives.

Chris reports from Staten Island, where he and Sarah and other adult chaperones and teen members of First Church’s youth group are racking up good karma (there’s a concept borrowed from another faith): “Hard work. Exhausting. Good work. Good people. Great kids. Many lessons. Many stories.”

YOLO. Make every day count. Be passionate now, here, in this moment. You can’t be sure how many hours, days or years await you. Don’t assume there are chances for do-overs; just do whatever it is you’re going to do as messily and boldly and tenderly, as often as possible, the first time around.

YOLO. From my perspective, this can also mean having the courage to believe that there’s a future for you. Choosing a path that can lead toward your long-term goals, and building toward your dreams for this life.

It’s okay to hope for all of it: frisson now, fulfillment later.

May25

Princesses

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Okay. I’m going to make an argument for princesses. And yes, it will be emotional.

Recently, we remembered a story about our daughter wanting to marry her daddy when she was very little, then crying when he explained that wasn’t possible. For a brief period of time, if a male role model is present, a father — biological or adoptive or foster or simply stand-in — is the only measure that daughters may have about the men in their lives. How dad sees her, how he treats her and communicates with her, as well as how he interacts with the other members of the family… these experiences become, to some extent, the standards by which other male relationships are assessed.

And when daddy treats his daughter like a princess? An intelligent, capable princess for whom he imagines all the most amazing accomplishments, such as travel, college, achievements and so many other treasures?

Can you really argue that’s wrong? No, I don’t think you can say that it’s wrong for a father to want great things for his daughter, as long as he’s also realistic about who she is, what she wants. As long as he listens to her, and adjusts his expectations to support her own inner sense of self, her own dreams and aspirations, and enables her reach toward those goals.

Lest you still think it’s wrong to want to be a princess?

We had one daughter who had a crush on a boy in her grade. For two years, she was very interested in him. Meanwhile she dressed up for dinner dates and dances with her daddy, and he was the measure of her esteem for men in the world. They danced through Disney together, she in her flowing dresses, arms flung wide, twirling at the edge of human circumference, certain he would anchor the pivot point, balanced to hold her steady and let her reach as far as she could go, yet remain safe.

Jessie believed she was loved. Valued. The most important person in his universe, when they had their dates.

Yes, she was in love with a little boy, though she never knew more than her Valentine’s affection for him, writing his name on a card and hovering over it. A second grader. A little girl’s puppy love.

Her only real experience with being the object of another’s great masculine love was feeling like a princess on her father’s arm. And I am grateful, every day of my life, that she had that gift from him.

Chris has always aimed this focus on his daughters. Tonight it was directed at Sarah on prom night.

His lens followed her. He watched her with her date. With her friends. Her classmates. Her family. Her mentor. He reveled in Sarah’s confidence and joy.

At the end of the night, the camera was put away. We returned home, and Sarah went off to her night of dinner, dancing, celebrating, socializing. Finals and classes are over. Commencement is one week away. High school is almost a memory, and tonight was the culmination of 12 years of hard work. And the start of new dreams …

Tonight, Sarah was a princess. One of dozens, but the only one from inside our family and our frame of reference.

There are so few opportunities in our lives, except when we don costumes and roles, to be the focus of all eyes, the royalty at the center of the event.

Sure, there’s plenty of truth to social arguments about body image, and cultural value statements, and so many other perceptions about gender and power and other issues. Reasons why proms are not always a positive experience.

But I’m here to remind you, that I’m grateful for every day that my younger child felt like a princess. She had so few years to bask in that love. And she will never promenade or walk down a wedding aisle or across the graduation  stage for a diploma.

And my 18-year-old has grappled for these moments of equilibrium and self-confidence and celebration and feeling inwardly beautiful, as well as externally stunning. She has had her own set of challenges, and she has earned tonight’s liberty. And the status of princess.

Yes, there are plenty of reasons to intellectually protest promenades and ball gowns and tuxedos. I respect those reasons and arguments.

But I will say again, you haven’t lived my family’s life, or walked in my shoes. And gained my perspective about the value of being a princess.

My reasons for wanting to give a daughter the feeling of being a princess? Largely emotional, though rooted in plenty of anecdotes and years of working therapeutically with two vastly different daughters, with different issues and realities and problems and strengths.

Today, I am grateful for chances to give our children this dream.

As I mentioned, I have walked the streets of Disney fantasy, and seen my youngest child dance through them with her father. She needed to escape, and believe in ideas and fantasies bigger than herself. Routinely, she also had to consider her imminent mortality, and have conversations with counselors and pastors about life after death. As it turned out, I sat on the other side of double doors while the my youngest daughter’s lungs bled out and they surgically opened her chest to try to restore her heartbeat and oxygen exchange.She died without our companionship, while I begged to be with her as she passed away, but was kept one room, several feet and a whole lifetime apart from her, forever.

My comfort? That she danced. That she believed she was a princess. That she dared to love. And was sure she was already loved.

I have seen my eldest child on the rolling lawns of Castle Hill among her peers, in a long glittering gown on the arm of her affectionate date.We snapped photos overlooking Plum Island Sound, before she claimed a fleeting night of poise and pure exultation in the midst of ending high school and starting college and a nursing program.

Getting to that moment, to that height? It has cost Sarah dearly. She has earned it. Striven for it. Wrestled with her own challenges and demons; defied great odds to be here, among us, intact and accomplished.

I have seen what a day of feeling like a princess can give to a child who is dying. Or to a young woman just starting to live.

Just fleeting moments. Fragile bubbles. Dreams. Fantasies.

But also assurances. Standards of measure. Sources of confidence and self-eseteem. Fulfilment of a wish. Assuredness that she is worth being loved. And certainty that she is loved already. And that she can take her own risks, and love others, too. For however long she is given on earth to do so.