Two Sides: Same Coin

A friend in the fellowship uses the phrase, "Only good can come of this," as a mantra. What a great tool to frame, and thus neutralize, all the petty annoyances and tiny disappointments that life cooks up. Practicing this principle means that I can run a client's cancellation through my spiritual filter and view that hour as an opportunity for prayer and meditation rather than loss of income. If a sale falls through, I can tell myself that God has something better in mind. When a friend bitterly disappoints, I can love him anyway. But what about the big events? What about death, sudden death, with its gut-wrenching finality, attendant grief, and unanswered questions?

On the evening of Friday, November 22, my spiritual belief system was rocked. Having just emerged from a peaceful, late-night, rejuvenating meditation at the annual Women-to-Women Conference in Vermont, my dear friend and traveling companion received word, via a heart-wrenching phone call, that her 20-year-old son had been killed in an automobile accident. Intuitively, every woman present gathered around our mournful sister and prayed. However, when I review my state-of-mind in the minutes and hours immediately following the tragedy, I don't see a spiritual warrior. While I bowed my head alongside my sisters, my mind buzzed, self-will shot into high gear, and I grew impatient with prayer. My psyche side-stepped God and began the feverous preparations to pack up, check out of our hotel, and begin the arduous, four-hour long drive back to Rhode Island. Fear had me in its hold. Our literature tells us that fear is the chief activator of our character defects. In the weeks that followed, faith took a backseat while I orchestrated ways to protect my own children from the ravages of highway driving, drinking, drugging.

How then, in the face of incomprehensible tragedy, can I possibly extract a silver lining, a spiritual lesson from the pain? How does good come from tortured sorrow? One of our Promises reminds us we will intuitively know how to handle situations that used to baffle us, and what I've come to understand is this: expecting good to come does not mean that the opposite qualities--bad, dark, grievous--don't walk side-by-side. Metaphorically speaking, there are two sides to every coin, thus there is duality. For without the darkness, how can we experience the dawn?

Full Circle

Over ten years ago, I drove up to New Hampshire for the weekend, ostensibly to decorate my family's vacation home for the holidays. In the back of my SUV, I carried an oversized cardboard box with an artificial Christmas tree (some assembly required), a Tupperware container of glass ornaments, and a case of red and white wine, hand-picked for the outing, at the Hampton state liquor store (a virtual vending machine paradise that my children came to regard, euphemistically, as the candy store.) The truth is, I did plan to trim the tree, hang the stockings, and decorate the house, but I was really going away without my young family so I could drink.

At the house, I poured a glass of Merlot, ripped open the cardboard box, and to my horror, laid eyes on dozens of individually wrapped, color-coded plastic tree branches, and pages of instructions. I distinctly recall thinking, rather gleefully, "I may run out of patience, but I won't run out of wine." I inserted a lot of twisted, metal-tipped branches into pre-drilled holes that night, and I drank the way I wanted to---alone, and into the wee hours. To my surprise in the morning, the completed tree looked pretty good. My reflection in the mirror told a different story.

The memory of that winter weekend flashed back yesterday while I was standing in the fake Christmas tree aisle at Lowe's. As a child, I only knew artificial trees; my parents would never go to the trouble of displaying a real tree in the living room, but once married, with children of my own, it became tradition to tag, chop, and drag the prize home. I honored that tradition for a good, long time, but those days are behind me now. My children are grown, and it's up to me to decide which traditions to maintain, and which ones to create anew. Standing there in the aisle, I couldn't take my eyes off a 7 1/2-foot GE, pre-lit, frasier fir, looking surprisingly like the real deal. I wrestled with my decision, but I can think things through today. By the time I dragged that box up three flights of stairs into my apartment, made a cup of lemon tea, cut open the box (to blessedly find three pieces, not dozens, and a one-sided sheet of instructions), stacked the sections, and fanned out the branches, I knew---I'd come full circle.

I'm going up north again tomorrow, this time to Vermont, and I won't be alone, by golly. I'll be with a whole pack of women, sober women, women happy to be alive, celebrating this season with zest, vigor, a whole lot of laughter, and---no wine.

Meditation: Simply Notice

A group of women gathered at my studio last week to be trial subjects in an upcoming meditation workshop one of the women is presenting this month. Volumes have been written trumpeting the practical benefits of meditation, yet all too often I hear, "I can't do it. I can't quiet my mind. It doesn't work for me." Somewhere along the spiritual continuum, a lot of folks missed the point.

I don't practice to relax. I don't practice to quiet my mind. I don't practice to become a better meditator. I practice to notice. I practice to let go, without attachment, without judgement. If you're waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect mood, the perfect cushion, clothing, music, incense, CD, you are cheating yourself out of one of the most useful tools in our wellness arsenal. 

Try this. Find a spot to sit undisturbed for a few minutes---start slow. Get comfortable. Set your timer. Close your eyes. Breathe. When the siren outside screams past, notice (don't curse), the sound. When the cat jumps into your lap, notice the sensation. When your mind revisits the argument you had with your partner last night, notice the thought. Don't judge sounds, sensations, thoughts. Don't get mad at your mind for dragging you into the past, racing you into the future. Notice, then let go, detach. Stay. Breathe. Repeat, and then repeat the process again tomorrow, and the day after that.

You can't do this wrong. You can only not do it, and in not meditating, you are depriving yourself of learning to coexist peacefully with the world around you. Practically speaking, this means, the next time another driver cuts you off in traffic, notice, do not attach, do not react. Instead of railing against a co-worker's procrastination to complete a needed task, notice your resistance, your frustration, and in that moment of noticing, choose, without malice, without judgement, the higher thought. 

Notice. Simply notice.

Taking Personal Inventory

Leaving a meeting this morning, a woman in a Subaru wagon flew out of a side street and cut in front of me. Neither of us was in any real danger of colliding because I was going slow enough to tap my brakes and give her a wide berth. Nevertheless, out of her driver's side window came the finger, the disrespect. Odd, I thought, since I hadn't exhibited any hostility towards her. She sped off, but I caught up to her at the red light. Just as I was pondering her furrowed brow and rapid hand movements (all evident in her side mirror), she leaned across the front seat and tossed a Dunkin Donuts bag out the window to the homeless man, panhandling, in the wheelchair on the corner. Her gesture (generous in spirit this time) got me thinking about duality, and my own struggle to keep it between the lines of grace and disgraceful behavior.

The lessons in this realm have come fast, furious, and with painful clarity to me in the last few weeks. I have been humbled by the power of one of the so-called maintenance steps on the road to recovery: "Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it." 

As of this writing, I have inventoried, and amended, three out of four blunders---blessedly to women in recovery who understand, cognitively and spiritually, how the program works. In doing so, I have had to examine my motives, and while the excavation process has not been pretty, it has served up profound and far-reaching lessons. The first amend was an overdue acknowledgment that I had failed to communicate my intentions at the group level. This sister graciously accepted my explanation. Next, I made a swift apology for carelessly blurting out information that had been shared with me in confidence. My harm, though unintentional, may have taken the surprise out of a surprise party planned for a loved one. Time will tell if my faux pas caused permanent damage to the friendship, and I must accept the outcome.

The third amend was a true demonstration of how the tenth step works. Several Saturdays ago, I used my concern for a male newcomer to spiritually clobber a woman I have known for years in my home group. I had ceremoniously dressed up a bad motive and masqueraded it as a noble one. Truth is, I stuck my nose into a matter that had nothing to do with me. This woman not only accepted my amend, she hugged me after the meeting yesterday. She told me she loved me. She forgave me, and in so doing, she encouraged me to forgive myself. Growing up in public can be messy, but like this same friend is fond of saying, "I'm not here to save face; I'm here to save my ass." 

Intention and Trust

I've gotten better at keeping the faith. I've learned to not only expect miracles, I've come to rely on them. Ask anyone who has visited my third-floor loft studio/apartment and each will say, in his or her own way, "It's so you." The place that I alternately call "home" and "office" is, quite literally, beyond anything my mortal mind could have conjured up. Let me never forget one important detail: I had nothing do with it. Last year, I was seeking a place to grow my business, and the 3,000 square feet of office space that I had my eye on, inexplicably, fell through. My response was not one of gentle acceptance and humility. Hardly. I railed against a fickle God that had toyed with me through months of planning and negotiations. I was pissed. I stopped praying. I began drinking large quantities of caffeinated coffee. (Yeah, I'd show God alright.) Ten days later, unaware of how my life was about to change, I drove into East Greenwich, RI, ostensibly to kill some time before a 4:30 meeting. I wandered into an open house downtown, and in an instant, I knew. I knew that I didn't know jack shit about faith or divinity or God's will for me. Surveying the expansive, open floor plan, and the possibilities (for one major tax write-off), I knew that the reason the other deal had fallen through was because God had something better in store. Sheepishly, I looked up, and apologized to the heavens.

Now that God has my attention, he's managed to keep it. Seven months into my residency here, a morning doesn't go by that I don't open my eyes and give thanks for my good fortune. All that being said, yesterday's email from the vendor coordinator for the 38th New England Equitation Championships being held in West Springfield, MA, beginning October 16th, should not have surprised me, yet surprise me it did. The email began, "I was given your card as a possible contact" for massage therapy "for our finals." I could not have fathomed that opportunity any more than I could have imagined living a creative life overlooking Main Street. Each time I put my faith and reliance in a power greater than myself, I am shown that God's big picture for me, is infinitely more nuanced, colorful, and textured than my limited, monochromatic version. Every day is an opportunity to suit up, show up, have faith, do the next right thing, turn my will over to the care of God, and believe that if I set my intention and trust, the universe will take care of the details.

Live and Let Live

There have been a lot of pictures on facebook lately of oversized, leggy, furry spiders. Some brave friends have actually gotten close enough to photograph these creatures, and I've marveled, not sure what fluke of nature is underway.

Once upon a time, I ran from bees, hornets, wasps, spiders, and insects in general. If it had the capacity to sting, bite, or crawl over me, it didn't matter where I was, or who I was with, I ran. I have barreled head-first, down stairs, into bushes, over chairs, and bolted out of cars (several times into traffic). To say I was afraid of insects is a gross understatement. My fear of bees, in particular, was pathological, yet at the same time, I had an insatiable urge to watch them, to understand what made them tick. Fascinated, I would watch from afar (providing I had an escape route) as hornets crawled and burrowed their way into our stone walls, wood trim, and other hiding spots.

Ten years have gone by since the summer morning that I emptied an entire can of Raid in my kitchen to kill one hornet that had mistakenly taken up space in a skylight. (Certainly, the toxins from that spray had the potential to do way more harm than any bee sting.) I am no longer that same fearful, hysterical woman. What changed? Well, certainly I have aged. Life itself, indeed all life, has become more precious to me. But it's more than that. Fear has given way to a knowing, a belief, that all creatures have benevolent intent, and that a bee doesn't wake up in the morning (do they sleep?) plotting ways to sting me. I've become more inclusive of other people, their viewpoints, their idiosyncrasies, our differences, our similarities. It was only a matter of time before I could extend that same magnanimous worldview to all living things.

Today, I marvel at the powerful role insects play in nature. I've sat stock-still and noticed the translucent, shimmering green wings of a sand flea. I've admired the tight waists on wasps as they crawl over a brick on a hot day. Today, when I find myself in the company of a spider, a bee, a slug, I reach for my pocket guide, Animal Speak, by Ted Andrews, and I open my mind and heart to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, that insect has come into my life at that moment to deliver a valuable lesson.  Why not?

Letting the Light In

A friend read this recent post of mine here and inquired, "Does that mean the bigger the wound, the more light?" I had to ponder that one. My friend continued, "In theory, it should let in more light, but we humans curl ourselves around our wounds in the mistaken belief that we can protect ourselves from even more pain. In truth, it makes it harder to heal, and perhaps harder for light and peace to enter."

I gave her words some time to sink in, and I realized that she was right. In the past, I have been too afraid to probe the depth of the pain, unwilling to let the sadness turn me inside out, certain that the tears would never stop once they began. In retrospect, I suffered mightily, not so much from the loss, the heartbreak, the missed opportunity, but rather from not being willing to explore, accept, and ultimately release those emotions and turn them over. Buddhist author, Pema Chodron, has a line I love: "Never underestimate the inclination to bolt when hurt. Stay. Unhappiness lies with exiting, with pointing away from the discomfort."

Over the years, my practice has matured. Today, rather than curling myself up, I am able to allow the pain, almost invite it, if you will, to have its way with me. Funny thing is, when I simply allow the pain, or the anticipated feeling of pain, to wash over me, it dissipates rather quickly, on its own, without a great deal of fanfare and/or damage. Fearing and holding on to it is what causes my suffering. My friend commented further, "It takes courage to deal with pain that way, especially if the wound is deep, there is often a fear that if you allow it free rein, it will consume you or shatter you into a million pieces." I have learned that the pain is more toxic, more debilitating, the longer I allow it to live, unchecked, in my psyche. Face-to-face with my fear of the pain, it often leaves with a faint trace of its "much ado about nothing" former self, supplanting light where darkness used to be.