Absence and Presence

The opposite of Presence is Absence.  I think of the anonymous Holocaust writer- I believe in love though it is absent... I think of the Psalmist, his cry in the desert- My God, Why have you forgotten me?- and his yearning for union, as deep calls to deep.

I used to call it deep prayer... I didn't understand it at the time, during that dark night of my soul- eight years ago now, after my father died.  I would just sit without words and let the images pass through the desert of my mind- a kind of mental collage in place of a daily examen.  After coming home from the morning class I taught, while the baby slept, I would just sit and wait for something in my heart to break open. Sometimes it was beauty-- something sweet my child had done or a happy moment with a student (I was teaching adult ESOL at the time); sometimes it was pain-- a story someone had shared in class, or grief- a memory of my father, a knowing of my mother's pain.   But I knew when the moment struck and the tears began to flow, that I could lean into the sweet spot of joy and sorrow and be held.  

I did not call it God;  though I had some sense that this was soul work, the work of healing. God was absent, I said then, as my old images of divinity had been shredded to a raw pulp, and I did not know what, if anything, would emerge in its place.

Tonight sitting in meditation, this old prayer rose up from the deep heart.  I have been without words, and falling back these past few months into old patterns of busyness and distraction. I have felt that old dryness of soul, that longing for water, even as I remind myself to return again and again to practice. There is a feeling  of absence, a feeling perhaps that can only mean there is more healing soul work to do. 

But tonight, by candlelight, much was rising-- like the recent memory of my daughters after they climbed a mountain, the magical movement from seeming distress to serene connection; like the faces of the women I gathered with Sunday night in the church sanctuary-- their sacred stories and dreams heard and held in our safe space; like the calls to action rising in me-- the woman I know I must reach out to, the service I know I must offer. The movements rise in a wellspring of tears, and all other distraction and worry just fade. This is sacred knowing; this is the still small voice poignant and present; this is God.

I think back then and know that in the dark night of loss and absence I was not alone. In the yearning and the tears and the moments of remembrance, I was held.  God was present, though I did not name it then. Holy, holy, holy...magnificent truth, beauty, love.  These are the many names for this spirit of life which sings in all.

Perhaps I might liken my movement of stepping into the work of spiritual direction in this light, as this past month I have begun to move more fully into the call.   (Though in many ways,  I have always been a spiritual companion, what else is a call but stepping more fully into oneself?)  My training and connection with other spiritual directors has helped me to hone skills, strengthen practical knowledge, affirm gifts-- and I move more deeply into that practice which makes me come alive: that of witnessing, celebrating, and gently midwifing the Spirit's movement in the lives of others. If there is any direction involved, it is, as I read recently, only to point and say-- "Look, the light is coming from over there!"

I believe in Light though it is Absent.

In darkness, there are glimmers...

and Presence,

the emergence of the deep heart,

finally arrived. 

Airport Prayer

Oh Spirit of Life and Love-
teach me patience.

In these hours and hours of waiting,
in the terminal of life,
break my heart open
to those who wait-
for the diagnosis, the sentence,
the answer that never comes.

Move me beyond self- doubt,
beyond my self into the open sea
of life that holds us all.

I am this weed, I am this ripple,
I am a part of this great sea.

Break open this heart
to joy and trembling,

Break open this spirit
to compassion,

Break open this yearning
to life.

Before Flight

I will be rising at 4AM to catch an early flight to Minneapolis.  I am a day- and ten years- overdue.  Maybe.  Or maybe I am right on time, right where I need to be, right where and when I am: listening to my daughter read the stories she wrote about ice cream and rocks at her school open house tonight;  sending love to my husband as he vents his frustrations on the phone with a friend;  contemplating the card- and the forgiveness- I am to send to the one in prison who has lost his mother; helping a friend with a prayer, and praying it with her as her husband undergoes surgery today.

As I enter the deep compassion, the heart beneath the noise, I hold these dear ones close.  They are there at the center where the stone strikes these brackish waters, and the ripples extend outward.  The ripples of compassion extend to other ones beyond; there are many suffering, and there is a need for healing.  We are not the saviors of the world, but by holding a loving presence, our love ripples outward into all these communities.  I will carry these communities of people with me on this trip, as I am also carried.

It was an unexpected discovery in preparing for this conference, that I would also face my own resistance and fear. I had received a scholarship to attend Spiritual Directors International- "Cultivating Compassion on the River" Conference as a 'New Contemplative' back in January, and I have been very excited.  But just a day ago I sat down to meditate and noticed feelings of resistance.  It was a surprise in unpacking that resistance that there was also this rich deep love... and belonging...and appreciation for home.  I discovered with gratitude that I am exactly where I need to be, and if I need to "go anywhere", it is only into the deeper present-- the experience of becoming more awake in each moment.  I have come to experience compassion as a brilliant joyful interbeing in the highlands around this river; my call is only to deepen relationship, to know each moment even more fully. This also means facing my shortcomings, the times I turn my face away from that which I fear.  True growth can come only when we face our shadows and know ourselves more fully.  How can we be present with the poverty and suffering of others, if we cannot face our own?  What matters most isn't how many people hear my voice or heed my words, but rather the quality of the presence I might share in one sacred encounter with one other person in one single moment.

And yet there are new adventures- from estuary to ocean- that beckon on.  And with each new arising, I am called forward to grow more fully into myself, into a more alive human being.  This is the real work of a contemplative-- to become a tributary of true compassion and healing in the world-- the gifts of my being opened to the world.  As I prepare for the conference, I recall this song of the Inuit people:

The great sea has set me in motion.
Set me adrift,
And I move as a weed in the river.

The arch of sky
And mightiness of storms
Encompass me,  
And I am left
Trembling with joy.

I am a tiny weed floating.... a ripple not only of this river, but of the spiritual seekers and contemplatives and peacemakers and lovers of life who seek a new earth everywhere.  This is what was revealed to me on the phone call with the other New Contemplatives tonight, who I will join in Minneapolis tomorrow.  It is a gift and a blessing and a joy to share this journey. Even as I arrive a little late, I am arriving with a soul more fully prepared for the encounter. The love I experience here on this river will only be deepened by leaving for a short time to feed my soul in this new community; and each moment lived in full awareness and presence holds a gift of compassion still waiting to be unfolded.  

The Greatest Gift

Today is my 37th birthday.  Most likely I will not have time to write anything within the next week: leading a ceremony and a worship service, working a gala, and attending (and speaking at) a conference in St. Paul are activities of my week ahead! I am not overwhelmed, I swear!...there is still time to breathe, though maybe not to celebrate my birthday, at least in the usual of ways.

So I simply enjoyed an amazing day of gorgeous weather yesterday.  I ate lunch by the river and walked the grounds at work, while the spring peepers and wood frogs performed a mid-day serenade.  Last night I had a beer and pizza with my husband, and then we jumped on the trampoline in our yard with our two daughters- laughing and flying high in the warm night air.  Above us, these black birds with wide wing spans glided; at first I thought they might be vultures, but they seemed to soar differently- closer and more graceful- and seeing the yellow beaks and beginning of white head, we saw that they were young bald eagles, probably just beginning their flights from the nearby nesting grounds.

It really has been one of those weeks where my confidence has soared and I have felt open to Spirit.  As for my birthday, I have also learned this week the joy that can be found in giving-- as I plan a celebration, not for myself, but for someone else.  So my only hope now is the same prayer I had before I led my sister's wedding ceremony back in September-- that I can let go of my fears, truly listen, and offer a gift that is from the heart. Of course, when I am with my community, the words of this prayer are not necessary- there are only the people- the children and families- the presence- the love. And I remember that in the moment, all will be well. And what more could I ask for on my birthday than this- to be present in the moment, honoring life- its joys and its sorrows- with people who I love. It is all such a wonderful gift.

Only peace

In spite of everything, there is peace.  The laundry finally folded, we put out yoga mats and meditated.  My daughters rang the singing bowl and closed their eyes as I rubbed their shoulders. My six year old imagined unicorns and rainbows with pots of gold;  my eight year old took herself to a beach where she was playing with her friends.  The love of thousands filled them, they radiated innocence.  I was present, my mind in the moment-- not filled with the million 'to do's'.  If I can only capture these moments in a bottle!  The downstairs looks like a hurricane has struck, but there is space here in this sanctuary. Here, there is only peace.

Folding the Laundry

Family relationships and laundry.  That's what I've really got here, to be honest in the day to day.  And both are heaped high, endlessly wrinkled, sometimes stained and torn, in need of sorting, folding, tending, care.  Perhaps it is no coincidence that the laundry sits here, in a room with an altar, incense, sacred stones.  It is inescapable mess, though I might certainly desire an escape. Romanticism is both my gift and my curse, while the simple Zen of folding my salvation- that which brings me back to the present moment..

I don't know if it will ever go away. Tonight I lost my temper and yelled at the kids who were speaking disrespectfully. I felt awful afterwards.  Generations of disrespect and bitterness don't dissipate overnight, and I know it is up to me to stop passing along what has been passed on.  Guilt is getting me nowhere.

Love your future self, a friend of mine has said, and I imagine mine confident and loving.  I imagine mine radiant and whole; she is not some other, but the very self at my core. Her love runs deep.

I don't know if this struggle to fully love and embrace the deep self will ever go away; if it did I suppose I would be enlightened!  It strikes me that in one day I can go from an all-pervasive sense of serene well-being and confidence to feelings of brokenness. But perhaps I can get that deep peace back without turning a blind eye to my faults.  We are all broken and whole at the same time, and our wholeness can only exist if we embrace the broken pieces.

I know this, and still resist.  I am sorry, I say it out loud.  But I am also fantastically wonderful and alive.  These piles of laundry will take time to sort through, and layer after layer the work seems just endless.  But I don't have to do the work all at once.  Little by little, I clear the space, and find here in this room a deep, forgiving and radiant peace.

This is no far out dream;  this is my reality.