One evening, shortly after New Year’s Eve, I arrive at my fitness club only to find that virtually every life cycle, elliptical, treadmill and StairMaster has been commandeered by sweating Lycra clad fitness buffs all sprouting ear buds. There is a long line of people impatiently waiting for the next open machine extending all the way from the locker room. A frazzled staff member with a plastic grin tattooed on his face is standing at the head of the line in an attempt to discourage a stampede. I sigh and make my way past the grumbling crowd to the weight machines upstairs, hoping that at least I can get in some stomach crunches. It’s this way every year. There seems to be a tsunami of people who might have indulged just a little too much during the holidays, then over-compensate by making well-meaning resolutions to get back into shape. By February, the numbers drop off, the gym gets back to normal and the regulars who have been working out all year get it back to themselves again.
While I applaud the good intentions of those determined souls who are brimming with new resolve, I believe that it goes against our basic instincts as mammals to be so frenetically active during a time when we should be holed up in our caves. Speaking for myself, I just don’t have it in me to introduce a new habit into my schedule when all I want to do is curl up in front of the fire and snooze with my kitties. After the holiday frenzy, I normally feel sluggish and unmotivated but justify my lethargy by making the case that I'm simply giving into a natural inclination. When I look outside, the backyard is brown and still as if nature has hit the pause button until the warm breezes start encouraging growth and productivity again. I reason that I am a human being, not a human doing and the long cold nights provide me with the perfect excuse to withdraw and just be.
This is a time to be still-- to cultivate a nurturing internal environment in which the seeds of my dreams can percolate and flourish before beginning to sprout; it is a time to regroup, to replenish, to reflect on all that has transpired during the last twelve months; the perfect time to spend a leisurely morning or two in bed watching chickadees at the bird feeder while reading journal entries from years past to track how far I’ve progressed, or to detect any old patterns of behavior that I might want to correct.
My hat is off to those individuals who ritualize the beginning of the new year with firm resolutions to become their best and sleekest selves. I bow to anyone who finds the motivation to organize a closet or clean out the basement when I can only seem to find more excuses to put off taking down the Christmas tree. Call me weird, but I prefer to make my annual resolutions in October, around my birthday, because it is so much easier to make a fresh start at a time of year when I imagine that the warm blue days and flaming autumn colors are applauding my resolve.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Life in the Eruv
One Friday night, there is a gentle knock on my front door—so gentle, that I almost don’t hear it. When I step out onto the front porch, I see Benjamin, a young Jewish neighbor who has come to ask for my help. I live in what is known as an eruv in West Denver, an enclave with defined boundaries in which members of the Orthodox community can more easily observe the complex rules of their religion. I’m not sure how or why but years ago, my Jewish neighbors unofficially designated me the Shabbats Goy, which means that I’m a non-Jew who is often called upon to perform certain small tasks that are forbidden by Jewish law during the Sabbath. From sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, the use of electricity is prohibited, so my duties usually involve the simple flick of a switch. This time, I follow Benjamin to his house anticipating the subtle clues which will circumspectly guide me to the task at hand. According to Talmudic law, to ask someone to complete a task is as egregious an offense as actually doing it.
We enter the house which is full of family members either sitting in the living room or studying scripture at the dining room table. Benjamin leads me into the kitchen and casually mentions that the slow cooker on the counter was previously set on high. I look at the dial and notice that it is set on low so I turn it back to the high setting and look at Benjamin who grins at me conspiratorially and nods in satisfaction. He thanks me and formally presents me with a bottle of Zinfandel wine which I try to refuse.
“It’s not necessary”, I protest.
“Yes” he pushes the bottle at me, “it is. We’re very appreciative.”
So I graciously accept the wine thinking it best not to mention that I’m a recovering alcoholic. Clutching my gift, I wish the family a blessed Passover as I leave and walk home smiling because I am so grateful to live in a neighborhood where this unique religious tradition survives. But what makes my neighborhood so distinctive is that it not only accommodates the Orthodox Jewish community, but boasts a much broader cultural and economic diversity as well. In 1986, after separating from my second husband, I bought a lovely old brick house from an elderly Jewish widow. I was drawn to the inner city neighborhood because it was centrally located, but was also refreshingly different from the homogenous middle-class suburb in the foothills outside of Denver where I had lived during my marriage. I found the melding of Hispanic, Jewish, blue-collar and yuppie cultures exciting and the wide tree lined streets and brick homes charming.
My soon to be ex–husband caustically asked, “How can you live down there with all the thieves and drug addicts?”
I dismissed his opinion as narrow minded, but once I got settled into my new community, the charm wore off and I soon discovered that living in West Denver is not for the faint of heart. The police helicopter regularly patrolled the neighborhood at night, shining a bright shaft of light intrusively into my windows. I spewed when I heard loud music or worse, gun shots late at night. Prostitution was a thriving business on nearby West Colfax Avenue and I often found used condoms in the alley behind my house. Every time my next door neighbor parked a dilapidated truck on his front lawn, I cringed in embarrassment. Between tattooed bikers, incessantly barking dogs and a crack house two doors down, I felt like I was trapped in a darkly humorous Fellini film. I stood it for six years before putting my house up for rent and fleeing, vowing that I would never live in West Denver again. But after seven years of exile, during which I wandered the world, I decided to move back to my house so that I could fix it up and unload it for a profit. I did fix it up but twelve years later, I’m still here, passionately in love with my urban niche. I could claim that there are different people living here who have improved the neighborhood, but that is only true to a point. I attribute the shift in my attitude not only to my world travels but also to the inner changes that I’ve experienced as I advance through the lessons of my Earthly class room.
While I’m still not fond of loud music and barking dogs, I appreciate the authentic and vital energy created by the diversity that has organically evolved in my community over time. I have learned that it’s better to focus on the common thread of shared values that binds us together as neighbors, such as family loyalty, fierce individuality, and a respect for age old traditions. It’s still a quirky and eccentric little neighborhood, but then I’m a quirky and eccentric person and the more compassion I have for my own human foibles, the slower I am to judge others. If it’s true that my outer world is merely a reflection of what’s going on in my inner world, then I’m more at home here now because I’m more at peace with myself.
We enter the house which is full of family members either sitting in the living room or studying scripture at the dining room table. Benjamin leads me into the kitchen and casually mentions that the slow cooker on the counter was previously set on high. I look at the dial and notice that it is set on low so I turn it back to the high setting and look at Benjamin who grins at me conspiratorially and nods in satisfaction. He thanks me and formally presents me with a bottle of Zinfandel wine which I try to refuse.
“It’s not necessary”, I protest.
“Yes” he pushes the bottle at me, “it is. We’re very appreciative.”
So I graciously accept the wine thinking it best not to mention that I’m a recovering alcoholic. Clutching my gift, I wish the family a blessed Passover as I leave and walk home smiling because I am so grateful to live in a neighborhood where this unique religious tradition survives. But what makes my neighborhood so distinctive is that it not only accommodates the Orthodox Jewish community, but boasts a much broader cultural and economic diversity as well. In 1986, after separating from my second husband, I bought a lovely old brick house from an elderly Jewish widow. I was drawn to the inner city neighborhood because it was centrally located, but was also refreshingly different from the homogenous middle-class suburb in the foothills outside of Denver where I had lived during my marriage. I found the melding of Hispanic, Jewish, blue-collar and yuppie cultures exciting and the wide tree lined streets and brick homes charming.
My soon to be ex–husband caustically asked, “How can you live down there with all the thieves and drug addicts?”
I dismissed his opinion as narrow minded, but once I got settled into my new community, the charm wore off and I soon discovered that living in West Denver is not for the faint of heart. The police helicopter regularly patrolled the neighborhood at night, shining a bright shaft of light intrusively into my windows. I spewed when I heard loud music or worse, gun shots late at night. Prostitution was a thriving business on nearby West Colfax Avenue and I often found used condoms in the alley behind my house. Every time my next door neighbor parked a dilapidated truck on his front lawn, I cringed in embarrassment. Between tattooed bikers, incessantly barking dogs and a crack house two doors down, I felt like I was trapped in a darkly humorous Fellini film. I stood it for six years before putting my house up for rent and fleeing, vowing that I would never live in West Denver again. But after seven years of exile, during which I wandered the world, I decided to move back to my house so that I could fix it up and unload it for a profit. I did fix it up but twelve years later, I’m still here, passionately in love with my urban niche. I could claim that there are different people living here who have improved the neighborhood, but that is only true to a point. I attribute the shift in my attitude not only to my world travels but also to the inner changes that I’ve experienced as I advance through the lessons of my Earthly class room.
While I’m still not fond of loud music and barking dogs, I appreciate the authentic and vital energy created by the diversity that has organically evolved in my community over time. I have learned that it’s better to focus on the common thread of shared values that binds us together as neighbors, such as family loyalty, fierce individuality, and a respect for age old traditions. It’s still a quirky and eccentric little neighborhood, but then I’m a quirky and eccentric person and the more compassion I have for my own human foibles, the slower I am to judge others. If it’s true that my outer world is merely a reflection of what’s going on in my inner world, then I’m more at home here now because I’m more at peace with myself.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Change is Normal
This morning as I go to check my e-mails, I discover, to my annoyance, that my Internet service has been ‘improved’. It is my opinion that the old system was perfectly fine, but then, no one asked me. I curse and swear as I try to figure out how to access my e-mail, but after fifteen minutes of acute aggravation, I am forced to call tech support. I navigate through the automated menu with gritted teeth and get put on hold forever before finally hearing a cheerful human voice which identifies itself as "Hello, I'm Ivan-how-may-I-help-you-today"? As the voice named Ivan patiently attempts to guide me through the new steps of the system, I maintain a running commentary on how inconvenient and confusing it is.
“But, we added all of these extra steps to protect you”, says Ivan earnestly, “We did it because we love our customers.”
By now, I’m so firmly entrenched in my victim swamp that I need to put a face on my tormentors.
“Who thought this whole thing up anyway?” I demand irately.
“Why, the developers did.” Ivan promptly replies.
Immediately I envision a group of twenty somethings all hopped up on 5 Hour Energy drink, plotting how they can have a little fun with us technologically challenged civilians.
“Well, the only thing they’ve helped me to develop is a giant headache” I snap back.
Ivan apologizes profusely again. I manage to mutter insincerely that I know it’s not his fault.
In a soothing voice he probably acquired in “Dealing with Hostile Customers 101”, he calmly assures me, “I promise you’ll get used to it. Change is normal.”
Tell me about it. I’m sure I could teach my buddy Ivan a thing or two about change. I’ve been in transition for at least four years during which time I commuted to California to earn a master’s degree, changed careers, and got married. The only aspects of my life that have stayed the same are my cats and my 12 year old Subaru. I’m not complaining because all of these changes were self-imposed at the prompting of a strong intuition which insists on nudging me into the unknown. Even when an unexpected change has come from left field, there has not been a single lost contract, failed relationship, or disappointing outcome that hasn’t contributed to my wisdom and growth. On some level, I have always understood that change is an evolutionary force which keeps me moving forward into ever greater levels of expression. What I sometimes don’t handle so well is the discomfort and grief of letting go of the old as I’m making the transition into new territory. When my husband Frank and I made the decision to live together in my house a couple of years ago, I was a catatonic mess for the first few weeks after he moved in. I had cherished living alone in my female sanctuary and my ego kept harping that I was too selfish and inflexible to accommodate another person in my space. I would have been happy to maintain separate households indefinitely, but I would have skunked myself out of the full experience of intimacy--football games on Sunday, smelly gym socks, upended toilet seats, and all. I’m happy to report that marrying my guy has proven to be one of those elegant choices which has greatly enhanced my life and supported my growth.
The process of changing careers, after almost forty years in the broadcast industry has gone somewhat smoother because I’ve been intent on entering a life of service as a lay chaplain and am willing to pay the price of admission. I gave up my old career with only a tiny bit of whining; managed to survive the culture shock of being thrust into the alien environment of a hospital; and have labored through yet another year of agonizing self-scrutiny without having a nervous breakdown. The only snag is that employment in this field continues to elude me, but I know there are no short-cuts, so I’m trying to regard this time in the neutral zone as a gift of rich creativity and introspection.
Lest I should be lulled into thinking I have it all figured out, along comes the e-mail drama to remind me that my funny little habits are like a minefield riddled with active mines that have the potential to explode in my face and destroy my peace if I let them. From the level of upset I am feeling over the disruption of my internet service, it is painfully apparent that my daily routines are a stronghold for my ego-my ever faithful colluder in upholding the illusion that I have control of my life.
I guess I should be grateful for this opportunity to defuse one more landmine in my consciousness. Next time I sit down at my computer, I’ll say the Serenity Prayer and forgive myself for behaving like a rabid dog.
“But, we added all of these extra steps to protect you”, says Ivan earnestly, “We did it because we love our customers.”
By now, I’m so firmly entrenched in my victim swamp that I need to put a face on my tormentors.
“Who thought this whole thing up anyway?” I demand irately.
“Why, the developers did.” Ivan promptly replies.
Immediately I envision a group of twenty somethings all hopped up on 5 Hour Energy drink, plotting how they can have a little fun with us technologically challenged civilians.
“Well, the only thing they’ve helped me to develop is a giant headache” I snap back.
Ivan apologizes profusely again. I manage to mutter insincerely that I know it’s not his fault.
In a soothing voice he probably acquired in “Dealing with Hostile Customers 101”, he calmly assures me, “I promise you’ll get used to it. Change is normal.”
Tell me about it. I’m sure I could teach my buddy Ivan a thing or two about change. I’ve been in transition for at least four years during which time I commuted to California to earn a master’s degree, changed careers, and got married. The only aspects of my life that have stayed the same are my cats and my 12 year old Subaru. I’m not complaining because all of these changes were self-imposed at the prompting of a strong intuition which insists on nudging me into the unknown. Even when an unexpected change has come from left field, there has not been a single lost contract, failed relationship, or disappointing outcome that hasn’t contributed to my wisdom and growth. On some level, I have always understood that change is an evolutionary force which keeps me moving forward into ever greater levels of expression. What I sometimes don’t handle so well is the discomfort and grief of letting go of the old as I’m making the transition into new territory. When my husband Frank and I made the decision to live together in my house a couple of years ago, I was a catatonic mess for the first few weeks after he moved in. I had cherished living alone in my female sanctuary and my ego kept harping that I was too selfish and inflexible to accommodate another person in my space. I would have been happy to maintain separate households indefinitely, but I would have skunked myself out of the full experience of intimacy--football games on Sunday, smelly gym socks, upended toilet seats, and all. I’m happy to report that marrying my guy has proven to be one of those elegant choices which has greatly enhanced my life and supported my growth.
The process of changing careers, after almost forty years in the broadcast industry has gone somewhat smoother because I’ve been intent on entering a life of service as a lay chaplain and am willing to pay the price of admission. I gave up my old career with only a tiny bit of whining; managed to survive the culture shock of being thrust into the alien environment of a hospital; and have labored through yet another year of agonizing self-scrutiny without having a nervous breakdown. The only snag is that employment in this field continues to elude me, but I know there are no short-cuts, so I’m trying to regard this time in the neutral zone as a gift of rich creativity and introspection.
Lest I should be lulled into thinking I have it all figured out, along comes the e-mail drama to remind me that my funny little habits are like a minefield riddled with active mines that have the potential to explode in my face and destroy my peace if I let them. From the level of upset I am feeling over the disruption of my internet service, it is painfully apparent that my daily routines are a stronghold for my ego-my ever faithful colluder in upholding the illusion that I have control of my life.
I guess I should be grateful for this opportunity to defuse one more landmine in my consciousness. Next time I sit down at my computer, I’ll say the Serenity Prayer and forgive myself for behaving like a rabid dog.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Finding the divine in The Mooch
My next door neighbor Rich and I have been running a soup kitchen for our local community of alley cats for years. Like all well meaning charities, it began with a spontaneous gesture of kindness when we started feeding three adorable little kittens that were born wild on Rich’s garage roof-top. Once word got out amongst the colony of feral cats that two cat loving suckers were putting out free grub, we soon found ourselves feeding every bewhiskered drifter passing through the hood. I didn’t mind the occasional visitor, but when a chubby black and white opportunist with malevolent green eyes and an attitude began to show up regularly, I dubbed him “The Mooch” because he so obviously felt entitled to a daily handout. Like a character from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, he would suddenly appear attired in his shabby tuxedo and dirty white paws, exuding an aura of privilege and disdain, even though he was nothing more than a presumptuous free-loader dependant on the largesse of others. It was a joy to feed the kittens- who we named Uno, Dos, and Tres- because they were so cute, but The Mooch was another matter. Cranky and hostile—his menacing demeanor threatened calamitous consequences if there was so much as a thought of withholding his Meow Mix. Each day, I would yell at him and try to shoo him away, but he would merely wait until my back was turned before muscling his way past the kittens to guzzle what he apparently considered his fair share of cat chow. It became a power struggle that I had no hope of winning. After about a year, Dos and Tres left to make their own way in the world, but Uno-a tawny Siamese with menthol blue eyes and a gentle disposition- decided to stay within the safe confines of my backyard. The Mooch cunningly seized the opportunity to latch onto a lonely Uno as his steady meal ticket and the two formed an unlikely friendship. While I grew fond of Uno, I never could warm up to his wily sidekick, but grudgingly tolerated him because Uno was so obviously attached to him—which, of course, the clever Mooch was counting on. Every morning, I would be greeted by the sight of the mismatched pair patiently waiting on the back porch for their breakfast—my beautiful Uno and a defiant Mooch daring me to make his day.
It was easy to see the divine essence in Uno’s lovely blue eyes, but frankly, the Mooch’s churlish behavior made him seem anything but divine. After sitting with my judgments for a while, it occurred to me that maybe The Mooch was just one more lesson in my spiritual curriculum. Some soul searching revealed that perhaps I’m more inclined to be kind and loving towards those individuals who I deem as worthy and deserving. I was forced to admit that I had attached a price tag to my generosity according to an arbitrary yardstick by which I measured the value of another being. I obviously prized Uno because he was so gorgeous and affectionate. But I couldn’t stand The Mooch because he was just plain nasty and repaid my kindness by hissing and spitting at me every day. I realized that my judgments prevented me from seeing The Mooch as he is-one of God's beloved and valued creatures. Eventually, I managed to overlook his character flaws and tried to greet him every day with as much affection as I did Uno.
Just as I was beginning to appreciate The Mooch as a Divine Being having a feline experience, he stopped coming around. I guess I learned what he came to teach me or he'd still be showing up on my doorstep --expecting his daily handout of unconditional love. To my utter amazement, I’m sad that he’s gone and really hope that he’s in a better place, wherever he is. I miss the way he greeted me with that special 'hisssss' warning me off every morning. I grew to admire his resourcefulness and came to recognize his surly ways as instinctive defenses that helped him to survive the danger of the alleyways. I can’t say I ever really liked him, but I trust that God thought him up for a reason and that he is made from the same divine stuff as all the rest of us.
It was easy to see the divine essence in Uno’s lovely blue eyes, but frankly, the Mooch’s churlish behavior made him seem anything but divine. After sitting with my judgments for a while, it occurred to me that maybe The Mooch was just one more lesson in my spiritual curriculum. Some soul searching revealed that perhaps I’m more inclined to be kind and loving towards those individuals who I deem as worthy and deserving. I was forced to admit that I had attached a price tag to my generosity according to an arbitrary yardstick by which I measured the value of another being. I obviously prized Uno because he was so gorgeous and affectionate. But I couldn’t stand The Mooch because he was just plain nasty and repaid my kindness by hissing and spitting at me every day. I realized that my judgments prevented me from seeing The Mooch as he is-one of God's beloved and valued creatures. Eventually, I managed to overlook his character flaws and tried to greet him every day with as much affection as I did Uno.
Just as I was beginning to appreciate The Mooch as a Divine Being having a feline experience, he stopped coming around. I guess I learned what he came to teach me or he'd still be showing up on my doorstep --expecting his daily handout of unconditional love. To my utter amazement, I’m sad that he’s gone and really hope that he’s in a better place, wherever he is. I miss the way he greeted me with that special 'hisssss' warning me off every morning. I grew to admire his resourcefulness and came to recognize his surly ways as instinctive defenses that helped him to survive the danger of the alleyways. I can’t say I ever really liked him, but I trust that God thought him up for a reason and that he is made from the same divine stuff as all the rest of us.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Divine Insanity
Divine Insanity
When I was traveling through Thailand back in 1992, I discovered the beauty and peace of Buddhist temples or Wats and never missed an opportunity to visit the many Wats that were spread throughout that lovely country. My favorite was Wat Phrathat Doi Tung, an ancient temple built a thousand years ago on top of a mountain in Northern Thailand near the Burmese Border. As I observed the Buddhist pilgrims reverently bowing in front of the Buddha statue and practicing ancient rituals passed down through the ages, I pondered on the Universal need we humans have had to connect with something outside of ourselves since the beginning of time. The belief in a Sacred and Mystical Presence, whether we call it God, Allah, Krishna, or Yahweh seems to be as innate to our human experience as eating or sleeping. Without it, we would probably all still be living in caves, shivering in front of meager fires in our flea-bitten fur togas, afraid of our own shadows.
Yet there is nothing at all rational about faith. The Buddhist religion that I found so profoundly moving is based on the teachings of a Prince who gave up his privileged life in favor of becoming a beggar and sitting under a tree to wait for enlightenment. How about Jesus-- a blue collar carpenter’s son who purported to be the son of God with the power to perform miracles. And let’s not even talk about the saints. St. Joan of Arc was a cross-dressing teenager who heard voices and claimed that God had directed her to lead the French army into battle against a formidable enemy. St. Teresa of Avila was an ex-Jewish nun with a checkered past who had visions and regularly levitated during choir practice. One could argue that, at best, these individuals were pretty out of touch with reality and at worst they were…well, insane.
Faith does seem to be a form of insanity which requires us to take leave of our senses because it asks us to believe in what we can’t see, smell, hear, touch, or taste. It expects us to trust in the improvable, the impossible and the unknowable; it assures us that God is supporting us, sustaining us and protecting us even when the exact opposite appears to be true. Faith invites us to dream our foolish dreams and to sometimes act imprudently to make them come true. It asks us to stay true to ourselves in the face of negativity and skepticism. Faith often involves delusional thinking and an overactive imagination. Just think how idiotic it is to believe that man can fly; or that the power of a lightening bolt can be used to light and heat our homes.
At the same time, faith is the Divine Rocket Fuel that propels us out of the orbit of apparent foolishness into the realm of Divine Inspiration. Faith is saying, “I can” rather than, “I cannot”. When I think of how faith has worked in my life, I think of the inner promptings that have compelled me to do seemingly weird and stupid things. But each time I’ve abandoned reason and taken a leap of faith into the void of holy uncertainty, I’ve landed in a better place and my life has been immeasurably enriched. Okay, so maybe I’m not leading armies into battle or walking on water, but I do hear voices and have visions which are always telling me what to do and when to do it. So go ahead and call me crazy. The dictionary defines insanity as lack of reason or extreme foolishness which aptly describes some of the things I’ve been guided to do, but there’s an entire parade of holy and enlightened fools who have gone before me. I would say I’m in pretty good company.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
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.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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.
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.
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