The Chair

This morning I mourned the loss of a very dear old friend of mine.  The memorial service wasn't held in a church, nor was it in a cemetery.  It was a semi-private affair which took place in the alley behind my house.   Attending the service were some of Denver’s finest employees, but they didn’t really know my friend, nor did they show much reverence during the service.  They probably wondered why a crazy lady with tears in her eyes stood quietly watching them unceremoniously toss a discarded armchair into the back of their dump truck.

The armchair came into my life with a rustic log cabin that I purchased back in the mid-seventies after my first divorce.  It was lumpy and threadbare, but it was the first piece of furniture that I  ever owned and I loved it beyond all reason.    To snuggle between its green upholstered arms in front of the old pot belly stove was sheer heaven.  The seat was indented just enough to fit my butt perfectly.   It was my refuge, my comfort, the symbol of my rite of passage into self-sufficiency.   When I sold the cabin, the chair went with me.  I paid a fortune to have it re-stuffed and re-upholstered, but it was worth the money to buy my friend a little more time.   Like a loyal companion, it accompanied me through all of the transitions and changes of my adult years.  Even when the bottom started sagging and the cat had ripped a huge hole in the arms, I could not bring myself to let it go.  I  just covered the arm with a doily and kept repairing the leg which fell off whenever someone sat in it. 

This summer while re-organizing my office, I assessed the mismatched file cabinets, bookshelves and desks and decided it was time to get rid of all of it.   The usable items went to Good Will and the really decrepit stuff to the dumpster.  Sadly, I had to admit that the chair was in the latter category, so my husband Frank hauled it out to the alley to await its final fate.   Every time I took garbage out to the dumpster and saw it ignominiously rotting in the sun, I felt a guilty twinge for betraying such a loyal and steadfast friend. I kept telling myself it was just an inanimate object, a thing. Yet this morning, when I saw the chair disappear into the bowels of the garbage truck, I realized that it was so much more than that.  From the pang of sadness I felt, I knew that the disposal of my chair represented yet another rite of passage. 

Life is an unrelenting yet enriching series of such passages-- of tearing down and letting go followed by renewal and rebuilding.  As I enter my early sixties, I'm feeling the need to unclutter my life and hold a clearance sale.  Everything must go so that I can more easily move forward into the fall of my life.  I’ve imposed profound changes on myself these past three years.  I’ve gone back to graduate school, changed professions, shed age old intimacy issues and found a traveling partner with whom to journey through my remaining years.  All positive, life-affirming changes, but as any grief counselor will tell you, change and grief go hand in hand.  You cannot move forward until you’ve let go of the past. I know this, yet I have a tendency to latch onto my things like a leech because it gives me the illusion of security just as my attachment to certain habits and behaviors  has given me the illusion of control. Thankfully, I've managed to ditch some of the more self-destructive habits, but it's been somewhat more of a challenge to pry my sticky little fingers from my material things.   I still have the stuffed Humpty Dumpty that 'Santa' brought me when I was twelve.    But I’ve found that the Universe usually has a charming way of whooping me upside the head with a two by four, telling me when it’s time to let go and move on.  I've learned it's a lot less painful to be pro-active, so this morning I blessed my chair and thanked it for all the comfort and support it has offered me over the years.  After I'm done grieving, I'll take a few steps forward into this next passage with a much lighter heart,  unencumbered by things of the past that have served me well, but no longer have a place in my life.    

A Holy Vocation

     Having been raised a strict Catholic, I survived sixteen years of indoctrination by dozens of clergy people who were dedicated to saving young souls from eternal damnation. Since the good nuns and priests believed that the most direct route to heaven was to be found by joining their ranks, they undertook a concerted recruitment campaign that made Marine recruiters look like a bunch of slouches. Pretty much from the first grade on, it was not so subtly implied that those of us who were virtuous enough to get called by God would be rewarded with a “get- out- of – purgatory- for- free” card. “The most sacred thing a person can have is a holy vocation”, Father would tell us when he came to visit the class. I wasn’t sure what having a vocation meant, but I thought it might have something to do with dressing like a penguin and reeking of Yardley lavender soap.


     To have raised a child with a “Vocation” was sort of equivalent to winning the coveted Heisman Trophy for good Catholic parenting. I overheard my Mother wistfully telling a friend one day that her greatest desire was to have one of her girls become a nun. With five daughters, I’m sure my parents believed that the odds were in their favor so they patiently waited for the day when one of us would suddenly announce that we had received “the call”. Although I waited each night with a mixture of anticipation and dread to get called, it never happened. I wondered if God didn’t want me because I wasn’t good enough. But as much as I liked the idea of attaining a luxury suite in heaven, I was relieved when I didn’t get drafted, because I sensed that living in a convent with a bunch of women in scary black robes was utterly out of whack with my true nature.

     By the time I reached my early fifties, even though I had a moderately successful career in video production, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t really my calling. I began to fear that I’d missed the bus and eluded my destiny. Feeling the pressure of my years, I became obsessed with finding my “true” purpose in life for the remaining time I had left on Earth. With a dogged determination to uncover the reason for my existence, I signed up for every class and workshop I could find and regularly haunted the spirituality section of the biggest book store in Denver. Drama Queen that I am, I think I was expecting that my sacred purpose would suddenly be revealed with a brilliant flash of light and a booming voice issuing very clear marching orders. Fortunately, with the help of some wise and wonderful teachers, I made the happy discovery that “The Call” is much subtler and available every day to anyone who cares to listen. I concluded that I no longer had to wait for a disembodied voice commanding me to join the elite ranks of a few Divinely favored individuals.
      The word vocation means “voice” and I have come to believe that my vocation is more about listening to a quiet inner voice which gently invites me to grow and become the woman I am capable of being. If I listen in the stillness I can hear the silent whisper encouraging me to use my God-given abilities and talents to be a blessing to the planet.  It turns out that I haven't missed my calling and I've always had a holy vocation.   Over the years, it has compelled me to do some seemingly unwise things, like quitting a secure job and traveling to foreign lands. Each time I’ve followed it, I’ve been stretched beyond my limits but I’ve always been led into a more fulfilling and meaningful existence.

  While I have the utmost respect for those people who have dedicated their lives to God, the most sacred vocation I can think of is to continue trusting those mysterious inner urges and follow the inner road map that  is always guiding me into new territory.  Maybe it's not the most direct route, but I believe that the unique call that only I can hear is leading me towards the heaven that exists within me.

Journey of Faith

“Oh, Angela, you’ve never had any faith”, my mother would heave one of her world class sighs, usually when I rebelled against reciting the rosary or giving up television during Lent. I think it pained her that I was born without the Catholic gene that ran on both sides of the family. While I usually conformed to an exhausting regimen of prayers, Holy Communion and mass, (like I had a choice) it never resonated with me on a deep level and my mother knew it. But the idea of being incinerated for all eternity terrified me, so I obediently went through the motions of Catholicism until I left home to attend college in the Midwest. Away from my parent’s influence, I quit attending weekly mass in an attempt to distance myself from the disapproving and irascible God whom I could never seem to please. But much as I tried to dismiss the Catholic dogma as propaganda, unconsciously, I still held onto a belief that I was flawed and unworthy. I spent a great deal of my life being pulled simultaneously by the cross currents of my Catholic conditioning and an innate inner wisdom that told me I was lovable and whole. During my twenties and thirties, I fluctuated wildly between trying to still the critical voice of a harsh inner persecutor and listening to the gentle intuition which kept trying to nudge me towards the fullest and most powerful expression of my potential. Unfortunately, the draw towards self destruction was stronger and booze served as the weapon with which I punished myself for my perceived inadequacies. By the age of thirty-eight, I had already been through two failed marriages and a number of destructive relationships all of which offered proof  that there was something wrong with me. I was a train wreck waiting to happen until the day I suddenly found myself in an outpatient alcohol treatment program. But my alcoholism turned out to be a great gift because it was during my recovery that I uncovered the huge spiritual void that I had been trying to fill with relationships, wine, and praise. I began to make my way back to a kinder, more loving higher power that I have gradually learned to trust as my most powerful ally and partner. I don’t believe that faith has anything to do with following an arbitrary set of rules created to assure my entrance into heaven. These days, I attend the Church of the Commonplace where I find a sacred significance to the most ordinary circumstances of my life. Rarely a day goes by where I fail to be inspired with awe and reverence for the higher order of the universe whether it’s manifested in a chickadee at the bird feeder or the splendor of the Rocky Mountains. And while I may be lacking the Catholic gene, I was born equipped with something infinitely better-an infallible inner guidance system which is calibrated to the intelligence which created all of this magnificence. Whether I label this intelligence as God, Spirit, the Universe, or my higher power, I believe that it is always supporting me and seeking to reveal its wisdom in a multitude of ways. In this context, it would appear that all of the mysterious inner nudges, sudden impulses and irrational decisions propelling me through the years have actually been signposts placed in my path to point the way on my journey through life. I’ve explored a lot of back roads and detours, encountering a score of unlikely teachers along the way who have all contributed to the rich inner life that I enjoy today. It’s been quite the adventure and it’s not over yet.

The Peach Pie

My husband Frank and I have a pretty good partnership going. I love to bake and he loves to eat. Another plus in our marriage is that he likes to go backpacking in the high country of Colorado with his buddies, leaving me to wallow in solitude like a contented sow for a few delicious days. His latest ‘boy adventure’ happens to fall around the third anniversary of the first time we met—a momentous occasion that changed my life. So while he's up in the hills doing guy stuff,  I get introspective and begin to review my life before Frank waltzed into it via the Internet.  I pore over old journal entries describing my angst-filled single days and watch countless romantic comedies where equally angst filled women desperately search for Mr. Right.   Feeling very grateful to have found a loving partner at the ripe old age of sixty, I am suddenly inspired to surprise my adventuring backpacker with a homemade peach pie—his absolute favorite. It seems the perfect welcome home, happy third anniversary, and’ boy- do- I- ever- appreciate-you’ gesture. I decide that it must be made with fresh fruit and a pie crust made from scratch, even though I haven't made one since I discovered Mrs. Smith's pie crust in the freezer section.

Early Sunday morning before the coffee is even finished brewing, I get to work peeling peaches. Juice  is dripping all over the counter and running in sticky rivulets down my arm. Frank always kids me that he can tell what we’re going to have for dinner by looking at the kitchen floor. "Okay" I weakly defend myself, "so I’m a messy cook, but I always clean up afterwards". Once the succulent fruit is peeled and cut up into bite-sized chunks, I pull out my Great-Aunt Anna’s antique rolling pin and proceed to make an even bigger mess. After an epic struggle to roll the pie crust flat, I manage to peel it from the counter in a ragged piece, carefully coaxing most of it into a pie tin while the remaining greasy crumbs splatter to the floor. Covered with flour and shortening, I am humming happily, anticipating how tickled my sweetie will be when he gets home. When it's all done, I triumphantly step back to view my masterpiece. Quite simply, it is a thing of beauty, complete with a delicate lattice work of dough artfully topping the glistening fruit. “Look out, Martha” I mutter to myself smugly, as I carefully place the pie in the warm oven. While it's baking, I hover like an anxious stage mother at her darling child's piano recital, hoping she'll make it through without any mistakes. Finally, when the filling is bubbly and the crust a light golden brown, I fetch a towel, open the door, and grab the sides of the pie tin, gloating at the spectacular success of my efforts. I am still admiring my tour de force, when suddenly, the pie tin collapses and slips from my hands. In a nano-second, my perfect creation turns into an unappetizing mess oozing all over the oven and kitchen floor. Rather than the delectable treat I've been envisioning, it looks like the aftermath of a surprise visit from the Unabomber. I stand for a minute trying to decide whether I should laugh or cry. Then I think of all the ingenious ways the Universe continues to remind me that despite our best efforts, we are never guaranteed the results we desire. I remember all of the times my life felt like it had collapsed when a relationship or a job I desperately wanted slipped through my fingers. But each time, I recovered and ended up with something far better than I ever could have imagined.  Life has taught me that while I don't have  control over a particular outcome, I always have a choice how to respond when it doesn't turn out as well as I anticipated. So in this moment, I laugh because despite the unfortunate outcome of Project Pie, I realize it hasn't in any way, shape, or form diminished the loving intention with which I made it.  In a way, the gooey mess that I manage to salvage seems a more genuine loving gesture than had it turned out perfectly, sort of like a crude crayon picture lovingly drawn by a four year old.

When Frank gets home, the doughy goop sitting on the counter does not at all deter him from attacking it like a hungry bear fresh out of hibernation. He is so touched by all the trouble I've gone to just to please him, that he probably wouldn’t care if it were a cow pie. With a tender kiss, he assures me that the pie is utterly delicious as he helps himself to another giant piece.

Imagination-or a lack thereof

Recently, I caught a news feature on T.V. about a male flight attendant who flew into a rage when an irate passenger verbally abused him. The flight attendant cursed at the passenger over the loudspeaker before  grabbing a beer and making a theatrical exit from the plane via the escape chute (luckily the plane had already landed). The news clip included interviews asking people what they thought of the flight attendant’s unusual behavior. To my surprise, the flight attendant’s ‘take this job and shove it’ antics were generally regarded not only as justifiable, but heroic. One lady defended the guy remarking, “People are lost and looking for answers.” After a fair amount of head-scratching over why such an immature and irresponsible action would elicit so much nationwide attention, I finally concluded that the flight attendant ‘s dramatic actions resounded so strongly with people because he was only doing what a lot of us would love to do from time to time i.e. escape the burdens of an unfulfilling life that has lost all meaning.

We humans are meaning-making machines. By that, I mean that we have a basic need to make sense of our existence, with all of its challenges and adversities. Some of us are lucky enough to have a higher purpose such as family, country, God, or service to others which gives our life a framework in which to hold it all together. Without that purpose, the daily stresses of life can sometimes become so overwhelming that we search for a temporary escape from what we perceive as the daily grind. Whether it’s in alcohol, drugs, relationships, or acquiring more stuff, we need that chute to escape the pain of our dissatisfaction with a life that doesn’t make sense anymore. As a lay chaplain, I encounter many individuals who are facing life-threatening illnesses and are struggling to come to terms with why such a horrible thing is happening to them. Without a doubt, confronting one’s mortality is one of the most challenging situations a person will ever have to face. But what appears as a calamity can also be viewed as a great gift, because in facing death, a person is given a precious opportunity to reflect on the sacred mystery of life and what really matters to him.

While I haven’t had to face a serious illness, I’m no stranger to adversity and I’ve had my struggles with addiction. Every time I took a glass of wine, I was trying to escape an existence in which I was constantly victimized by circumstances or people. It didn’t make for a very peaceful way of being and I was always yearning for something to fill a giant hole in my heart. At the time, I had fallen away from the Catholic faith of my childhood and had little use for any sort of organized religion. But my addiction was the best thing that ever happened to me, because it awakened me to an innate spiritual nature that had nothing to do with traditional religion. My recovery set me on a path which gradually led me to a conviction that we are first and foremost spiritual beings having a human experience and as such, we possess an innate higher wisdom which is always calling to us and impelling us towards the fulfillment of our purpose in life. Part of my learning curve has been to fully trust this wisdom and use a little imagination to develop what I call ‘spiritual eyesight’. Using my spiritual eyesight enables me to look beyond the surface appearances of my life to catch a glimpse of an orderly spiritual system in which I am an integral and essential part of a greater whole. It provides me with the understanding that I’m here for a reason. In this framework, I know that I matter, regardless of other people’s opinions; regardless of what I do or fail to do. Adversity becomes opportunity; failure becomes an avenue for greater success; and the burdensome challenges of daily life transcend from grind to grist for increased self-knowledge and growth. My life starts to feel less like a prison and more like a classroom where I can fearlessly explore my potential and develop my unique gifts and abilities to benefit others.

My imagination gives me the wings to fly above the material world into the heart of the sacred. While it sometimes takes me on white-knuckle carnival ride,  it also can fuel my soul and deepen my faith in a friendly and loving Universe that is always supporting my best interests. It’s still somewhat beyond my limited human imagination to always know what’s good for me, but I believe that an Intelligent Being cares for me and makes His, Hers or Its Presence known in a variety of ingenious ways: Words of wisdom from a stranger, a song on the radio with inspiring lyrics, or a so-called co-incidence that sets off a chain of miraculous events. With a vivid imagination that inspires me to have a profound reverence and gratitude for the commonplace things I used to dismiss as insignificant, I tend to become more engaged in the present moment and alive with curiosity.

I give the flight attendant an “A” for the ingenious use of his imagination to escape a job he hated. I know nothing about this man’s life or the pressures which caused him to act as he did. I can only wonder how differently things would have turned out if he’d used his imagination to view his job as a precious opportunity to spread light and joy to hundreds of weary travelers. I can guarantee he wouldn’t have received any media attention for being kind, but neither would he have had to resort to deploying a $20,000 escape chute.

Simple Faith-A Recovering Catholic's convoluted spiritual journey

As an ex-Cathlic-turned-spiritual-seeker-wise woman, I have taken a lot of detours and back roads in search of a practical spirituality that I could apply in my daily life.  Ultimately, I found it not in a church, but in places where you wouldn't ever think to look.  I'm not talking about seeing a vision of Jesus in a flour tortilla, but I do tend to find evidence of a Divine Intelligence in such unlikely things as a dead seahorse washed up on a remote beach in New Zealand or a stargazer lily.  Some of my wisest spiritual teachers have been the alleycats who live in my backyard, a diminutive Nepalese guide, and a homeless man living on the streets of Denver.   
I plan to post a series of essays describing in rich detail some of the people, places, and events which have shaped my belief in a friendly and supportive Universe governed by love.  There is evidence everywhere of this spiritual system if we are willing to open our hearts and minds to look beyond the surface appearance of our circumstances.    Although these essays tell the story of my journey of faith, my goal is to inspire you,  my readers to find the possibility of meaning in your own lives by developing a sort of 'spiritual eyesight' to interpret seemingly ordinary events.    
As a lay chaplain, I have the utmost respect for all faith traditions and believe that my essays will have a universe appeal, regardless of whatever religion or spiritual path you choose to follow.