Retreat

“Sacred space and sacred time and something joyous to do is all we need. 
Almost anything then becomes a continuous and increasing joy.”

~Joseph Campbell

I woke up to the sound of the surf right outside my window this morning. I opened my eyes and looked out at the fog blanketing the beach, early morning surfers riding the waves, seagulls perched on the dock. I started a pot of coffee and took my dog, Zeke,  out on the deck, the fresh salty air waking up my sleepy senses. Zeke's nose worked hard to gather up all the scents of this new place as we wandered around in the damp morning. When we came back inside, the smell of fresh coffee greeted me, inviting me to pour myself a cup. I sat down and breathed in the peacefulness of this morning. 

Wow. 

As Anne Lamott says, Wow is a complete prayer.

I am spending the week in the guest apartment of a friend of mine, just me and Zeke, my laptop, my guitar, some recording equipment, and a lot of books. There are a few friends I hope to see, but mostly I'm here for some much needed solitude. I plan to write and read, hopefully record a couple of songs I've written, and maybe write a couple more. Zeke and I will take walks on the beach and watch the surfers. It will be time out of time. Sacred time.

This week long retreat is a belated 50th birthday gift to myself. And it is truly a gift. It is of course difficult for anyone with a job and a family to manage a week alone, but I think it's important to find that sacred time and space whenever we are able to, even if it's only an hour here and there. Too often our lives go by in a blur of activity. We need time to reflect like we need air to breathe. Reflection feeds our souls, inspires creativity, reminds us of all we have to be grateful for. Sacred time. I urge you to find a little today if you can.

Well, there's a guy about to power wash the deck outside. My morning shower will have to wait. The shower in this studio is pretty much open to the front window! That's OK though. Time for some breakfast and then Zeke and I will take our first beach walk of the day. Don't be surprised if you receive another "postcard" from me this week. Writing is one of my spiritual practices, after all. And sharing my thoughts with you is something that brings me "continuous and increasing joy."

Wow.

A Fresh Start? Up to You

"Some people seem to understand this - that life and change take time -
 but I am not one of those people."

~Anne Lamott

Well, it's New Year's Day 2013. While enjoying my friend Paul's delicious homemade Pozole earlier this evening, I had the opportunity to catch up with my old friend Jay. He reminded me that I attended his first birthday party. We have photographic evidence of this event, a black and white snapshot of the two of us sitting in a lawn chair. Jay is holding a football, and I am trying my best to pull it away from him, asserting my need for control even then.  I don't know if I succeeded in getting that ball, but I do know I have gotten many wonderful things as a result of knowing Jay. Some thirty years ago, he invited me into his group of friends and they became my friends too. We have shared romances, marriages, children, divorces, more marriages and, well, just life. We have been through lots of beginnings and endings with each other, most of which we could not have imagined.

Most endings and beginnings are not as predictable and tidy as the change of the clock from 11:59 PM, December 31 to 12:00 AM, January 1. Most fresh starts are not as simple as hanging a new calendar on the wall. They are usually tangled up together, the old and the new. And, while I am not very happy about this, I find that often I am not in control of when things end and when they begin. If I were, the demarcation between the two would be much clearer and there would be a lot less loss and grief. No one asked my opinion, however, so here we are. Beginnings and endings are rarely tidy.

The beginning of a new year is so arbitrary, however, that we do get a bit of a choice. We've got this calendar. It's got twelve pages. When we reach the end we go to the book store or one of those pop-up calendar stores at the mall and get a new one. Voila, a fresh start. ... or not. With a new year, we actually get a little say on just how fresh we want that start to be. Some people make a lot of fuss over resolutions. Some do not. Some people attend parties, countdown the minutes until midnight, watch the ball drop and pop the champagne. Some people go to bed at 9:00. You get to decide how much hoopla surrounds this particular beginning. And you get to decide if this is a good time to start something new or let go of something old.

At my Unitarian church we have monthly themes for our worship services. January's theme is Release. I'm working on a reflection on that theme for this Sunday. And I'm sure I'll be writing more about it here as well. Essentially, I see release as an opportunity to let something go to make room for something new. And I think there are at least two kinds of release. There's the kind that's like releasing a bird from a cage, a bird that carries away what no longer fits for you — self criticism, an impasse with your partner — lightening your load, and lifting your spirits as it flies. 

And then there's the other kind of release. In my experience release is often like tearing my heart open and watching a small wounded animal crawl out. And though I can’t save it, I keep clinging to it, pulling it back, because this animal — which may be an unhealthy relationship, a bad habit, a job that no longer fits — has become a familiar part of my life. And it's scary to let go of the familiar, even when it is too far gone to save. This kind of release does not fly. It limps. I don't know about the rest of you, but I seem to experience limping a lot more often than flying when it comes to release. But that's OK. Making room for something new and healthy is worth the struggle.

So, it's a new year. We've got some choices to make. Maybe things are humming along nicely for you right now. You don't want to make any resolutions or release anything. That's great. On the other hand, if you want to make room for something new, maybe you need to think about what's getting in the way. And maybe you won't know, probably you won't know, what you're making room for. Because whatever we release, one of the things that often goes with it is the illusion of control. 

Whatever you decide, I hope 2013 has plenty of peace, and opportunities for growth, and lots of love in store for you. Happy New Year to you all.

What Kind of Light Can I Provide?

In times of deep darkness, we not only need light—we need to BE light for one another. 
That's a message we must take to heart as we find ourselves lost once again
in the all-too-familiar darkness of America's culture of violence.

~Parker Palmer

Somehow I managed to make it until Friday evening before learning about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. I had opted to listen to The Be Good Tanyas and Leonard Cohen in the car that day rather than NPR. But when I got home and opened Facebook, I was instantly overwhelmed by a flood of posts about this tragic incident, a flood that I quickly got swept up in. It seemed that none of us knew what to do other than share articles and statistics, express outrage with political memes, sadness with Rumi quotes. But soon enough all this posting and sharing began to feel like binge eating. We could stuff ourselves with information and opinions, but it would not diminish the loss and pain.

When I could finally read and post no more, I turned off the computer feeling numb. I was overwhelmed by too many words when there were really no words that could possibly express the sadness, anger, helplessness, and grief I was feeling. On Saturday I threw myself into pulling weeds, sweeping the yard, vacuuming the living room, moving Christmas boxes to the garage. The more physical and mindless the work, the better. You know that if I start cleaning with that kind of fervor, something is up.  Perhaps this was a more honest expression of my feelings, a physical release of some of that emotion. 

I did not cry until Sunday. The children's production of "The Latke That Wouldn't Stop Screaming" continued as planned at church. We needed to see children in cardboard costumes. We needed to hear a story that reminds us that everyone belongs somewhere. We needed to be reminded that there is still plenty of love and light, joy and laughter in the world. 

This is not what made me cry, however.

Aaron and Julia, the ministers at my Unitarian church knew people would need someplace to go with the stew of feelings this tragedy left them with. They provided such a place in the second service Sunday morning, beginning with 26 minutes of silent meditation or prayer, interrupted only by the sound of a bell each minute—one clear, resonant ring for each person who died in the shooting. There were a few words, but not too many. There would be plenty of time for words in the weeks and months to come. 

I had a hard time settling my mind during the silence and I simply could not process any more words. The music that morning touched me deeply, but what broke me open and made me cry was the rending of cloth. The rending of garments, or Keriah, is an ancient Jewish mourning ritual, a sanctioned and ritualized act of destruction in the face of grief. One description I read suggested that the rent garment represents the torn heart of the mourner. 

We did not rend our garments. But Julia and Aaron gave us white muslin and asked us to tear strips when the cloth was passed to us. The growing sound of fabric tearing was the sound of hearts being torn open. It was the sound of anguish and grief. The resistance of the muslin as I tore my strips released my anger and my tears. That was when I finally cried for those children and their teachers.

We tied strips of muslin around each other's arms to wear that day in honor of those who died. I am still wearing mine. Frankly, I am afraid to take it off. I know how easy it is to get caught up in the business of day to day life, to "forget" how important this is. Christmas is a week away. I need to finish shopping. I want to share holiday traditions with my family and sing with my choir on Christmas Eve. December is all about the promise of light out of darkness. Hanukkah, the winter solstice, Christmas are all about the promise of light. And I want to remember that promise. But I do NOT want to forget this tragedy. 

So I'm going to keep wearing this small piece of cloth around my arm until after the holidays so I will remember. Because we simply cannot go back to sleep until the next horrible shooting. If we do, then we are as guilty as the next shooter. What we can do is listen deeply to each other, even when we disagree (especially when we disagree). We can sign petitions, write letters, march in the streets, make some noise. And we can start building a culture of respect and kindness, one act at a time, one day at a time. We can choose to be part of the promise of light out of this darkness. As author Parker Palmer posted on Facebook this morning, everyday we can ask ourselves, "What kind of light can I provide today?" 

Grace and the Christmas Fish

"Christmas is for children. But it is for grownups too. 
Even if it is a headache, a chore, and nightmare, 

it is a period of necessary defrosting 

of chill and hide-bound hearts." 

~ Lenora Weber, writer

'Tis the season for sentimentality and cynicism. Christmas comes rolling in like a giant out-of-control snowball before we've even finished washing the Thanksgiving dishes and keeps picking up speed as it crashes through December. I can be grumpy, frantic, joyful, tearful, pissed off, or peaceful, sometimes all in the same day during the Christmas season. With luck, I usually recover sometime mid January.

I married Ebeneezer Scrooge. It may say Paul Kretschmer on our marriage license, but that's just an alias. Paul would probably choose dental surgery over most Christmas activities, so the bulk of the Christmas chores land on my To Do list. Today he surprised me though. He told me he likes our Christmas mornings. He likes watching the kids open presents, he thinks Santa makes good choices for them, he appreciates that they are grateful for what they receive. Part of me thought, isn't that nice. A much larger part wanted to say, you DO know Santa isn't real, don't you? Somebody has to actually shop for and wrap those presents, the same somebody who considers putting coal in your stocking every year.

I like Christmas. Really I do. But I'm feeling a little blue this December. I'm missing my children. I've sort of gotten used to Scrooge. But what happened to the two people who have given me the most holiday joy over the years?  At twelve and (almost) fifteen, Miles and Frances are suddenly jaded and apathetic about the whole thing, well everything but the gifts. They showed about as much enthusiasm for decorating the tree last weekend as they do for clearing the dinner table. Yet, it wasn't that long ago that their excitement over holiday traditions and their giddy anticipation of Santa's arrival were what kept me going this time of year. And it wasn't that long ago that there was a little magic in our Christmas.

When Frances was nine years old, she and Miles sat down to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but that year Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. I thought a letter might help keep Mr. Claus around awhile longer. I wasn't ready to let Santa out of the bag yet, so I kept silent as Frances pondered questions like, how does Santa manage to cover all that territory in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from stores if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for outright lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do you think?  And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

So letters to Santa were written. Among other things, Frances asked for a fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put it in the mailbox and went about our decorating, baking, and nightly reading of our many Christmas books. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. Besides, I didn't want her to ruin the magic for Miles. I'm a firm believer in childhood magic. There's plenty of time for reality when you grow up.  As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "The realm of enchantment is open to us all, if we are willing to step over the threshold." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids and for me too.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could this be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us. It made no sense. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances into the room. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. She opened the package. There was a copy of her letter and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair and sensible shoes choosing Frances' letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I've named her Grace. I can picture her shopping for the chocolates and coming up with a clever way to give Frances a fish. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a Beta fish named Harry Water. Harry was part of the family for several years.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like in The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace gave us one more year with Santa Claus.

May you find a little magic and grace in your holidays this year.

A Broken Hallelujah

"It’s not a cry you can hear at night

It’s not somebody who has seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah"

~Leonard Cohen

I arrived at church at 5:30 Sunday evening, potluck dish in hand, to meet some friends. We were planning to car pool to our choir holiday party at the beautiful home of one of our members. It had been raining steadily all day and we hurried to climb into the car, carefully trying to keep our food and our party clothes dry. There was a bit of good-humored grousing about the weather as we sat waiting for a couple of others to arrive.

There were other people at church that evening too. Lined up around one of our community halls were maybe forty homeless men and women waiting for a hot meal and a place to sleep. Our church, along with a handful of other churches in town, takes turns hosting the Freedom Warming Center on nights when it is raining or dangerously cold. The warming center staff provides bedding and and runs a well-organized and compassionate operation, Doctors Without Walls offer medical care, and church volunteers make and serve a hot meal. 

Last winter I prepared and served a few casseroles at the warming center with some friends and my kids. And we will do it again this winter. It is hard to put into words the impact this experience had on me. I have both nothing and everything in common with these hungry, cold people seeking a meal and a bed. My life seems embarrassingly rich, my problems so trivial compared to what fate has dealt these brothers and sisters of mine. I can give them a meal, but I am not equipped to solved the myriad problems that accompany them to that shelter on a rainy night: Homelessness, unemployment, addiction, mental illness, a safety net of family and friends that is damaged or missing entirely. 

But there is something I can give them that is at least as important as a meal. I can ask their names and listen to their stories if they want to tell them. In this way I can give them a small measure of dignity. Last winter I met a man who had ridden his bike from Oregon pulling his dog in a baby trailer. He was not a young man and he clearly grappled with some mental health issues. He was making his way the best he could. He showed me some of the repairs he had managed on his bike, outdoing  MacGyver with his resourcefulness. And he told me he thanked God everyday for what he had. He thanked me for the simple meal I had prepared as if it were at feast. His gratitude for life was genuine and immense. And though his was surely a a broken hallelujah, it was beautiful. 

But then, don't we all sing a broken hallelujah? Life is tragic and beautiful, sometimes in the same moment. Troubles are not distributed evenly among us by a long shot, but we all feel pain. And even the most desperate among us see at least glimpses of grace. It is that beautiful, broken humanity that I share with the guests of the warming center. In our brief connection on those evenings, it does not matter what I do for work, where I live, what clothes I wear, what books I've read. All that matters is that we are fellow travelers on this big blue ship. I only hope I showed that man from Oregon half as much dignity as he showed me.

Grace. It is woven throughout our connections with other people, nearly any time we are truly present with another. The other day I was walking with a young woman I work with. She has autism. She is not very verbal, though she does burst into song frequently. She likes it when I sing too. She was agitated on this day as she sometimes is. I cannot imagine how overwhelming the world must seem to her at times. As we were walking, she sang the word hallelujah a couple of times. I did not recognize her melody so I started singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to her, just the chorus, just the hallelujah. She looked at me and her whole body quieted down. Mine did too! I touched her arm and sang it again. And we walked that way back to the car. 

At the choir holiday party we held hands and sang "Silent Night." I felt grateful for this evening with these people I love. I thought of the people at the warming center, grateful they were being fed and given a warm place to sleep, wishing we could somehow take away all of their pain and suffering. When I got back to the church to pick up my car it was quiet. People were sleeping, some outside. The warming center staff watched over them. They would welcome people in and offer them food and a dry place to sleep all night. I am beginning to think that, paradoxically, it is our brokenness that can make us whole, make us fully human, allow us to reach out to another and find dignity and grace in our connections. And for this, we should sing hallelujah.

Jeff Buckley singing "Hallelujah," by Leonard Cohen. Be prepared to weep.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WIF4_Sm-rgQ

My Dad and I Could Teach Congress a Thing or Two

“I have wondered at times what the Ten Commandments would have looked like
if Moses had run them through the US Congress.” 

~Ronald Reagan

"We need not think alike to love alike."

~Francis David

My father was a Santa Barbara County Sheriff's officer on the night of February 25, 1970 when war protesters burned down the Isla Vista branch of the Bank of America. He was in the thick of it, trying to maintain some semblance of order in the chaos of that night.

I was seven years old. The Vietnam War was the soundtrack to my childhood, something that hummed along in the background but did not capture my attention much. I did not connect the protests and riots going on in Isla Vista with Vietnam. The war was something that happened on TV. The riots, however, were in my backyard. And my dad was there. When he put on his Sheriff's uniform or went under cover and headed into Isla Vista for work at night, I was afraid. My dad was not popular there. A flyer had been made and posted around IV with his picture and a caption that read "Not Wanted." We had to change our phone number when we started receiving threatening phone calls. And my mom slept with a loaded gun while my dad was at work. My parents protected my little sister and me from most of these details, but I was old enough to know my dad was in danger, old enough to be afraid.

My dad may have been a tough cop, but he was putty in my hands. I learned early on that if my mom said no to dessert or an extra half hour of TV, my dad would say yes. At a time when lots of fathers left most of the parenting to mothers, my dad was hands on. He was playful and affectionate and I worshiped him. He built me a beautiful playhouse in the backyard. He took me for rides on his motorcycle (no helmet, of course). He made sure we got hot fudge sundaes at Foster's Freeze on Friday nights, even if I hadn't eaten my vegetables. He was the parent I ran to when I was upset. When my parents divorced when I was nine, I was devastated. With undying loyalty and devotion to my dad, I blamed the entire thing on my mother (who took my wrath with selfless grace). In my adoring eyes, my dad could do no wrong. 

In my freshman year of high school, I had a student teacher for Social Studies who had been a UCSB student during those Vietnam protests in Isla Vista. For the first time, as he told stories of sit-ins and other peaceful protests he'd been involved in, I had a face to attach to those war protesters. I liked this teacher and the more he taught us about Vietnam, the more I found myself sympathizing with the protesters. My world began to shift off its axis as I found myself questioning my father's role during those turbulent times. For the first time in my life, I wasn't sure I agreed with my dad.  Of course, I was young and was looking at this issue through a very black and white lens. Years later I would realize that my dad's job was to defend order regardless of his feelings about the war. But when I was 14, the possibility that I might not agree with my dad rocked my world.

Little did I know this was only the beginning. As the years went by I migrated farther to the political left as my dad became more conservative. My dad loved Ronald Reagan, something I just could not comprehend. While still with the Sheriff's Department, he headed a security detail when Reagan was at his Santa Barbara ranch. He has a glowing letter from Reagan himself commending him for his fine work. I, on the other hand, supported Jerry Brown in one of his bids for the presidency. My dad and I have never once voted for the same presidential candidate. Yet, earlier this month, when Barack Obama won his second term on my birthday, my dad posted on my Facebook page, "I'm glad your candidate won just for your birthday."

And you know what? He meant it. Because here's the thing: My dad and I have always looked past our differences and straight at the love that binds us together. On one level, we have very different values. He's is a Christian and a conservative Republican. I am an Agnostic Unitarian and a liberal Democrat. But we have never let these differences knock us off the common ground we stand on. My dad is still one of my heroes. He's a good man who fiercely looks out for the people he loves and cares about the world. He has accepted and loved me without question, no matter how nuts he may think my politics or religion are. 

We do not try to change each other, my dad and I. We know in our bones that we can disagree with each other AND love each other. We will always have each other's backs and pull together for the important things. Because we know that what binds us together is much greater than what divides us. My dad and I could teach congress a thing or two, don't you think?

Happy Birthday, Dad

I love you

Oh Yeah, Gratitude

"Let us be grateful when we are able to give,

for many do not have that privilege.

Let us be grateful for those who share their gifts with us,

for we are enriched by their giving.

Let us be grateful even for our needs,

So that we may learn from the generosity of others."

~Unitarian affirmation of gratitude and giving

I have written about gratitude as a spiritual practice before. Allow me to demystify my "practice" a bit. I am not climbing to any mountain tops, I assure you. All I do is write down at least three things I am grateful for (most) everyday. And in order to have something to write down, I keep my eye out for the good stuff as I go through the day, the big juicy sunsets, a long walk, or the fact that my friend Alison picked up my kids from school and saved my butt once again. The really cool thing is the unexpected gift this simple practice has given me. I was a glass half empty kind of person for most of my life. Now I hoist a glass that is at least half full most of the time. It's like spiritual jogging. If I do it regularly, I can really feel those gratitude muscles getting stronger. If I get lazy, well then it's a slippery slope straight down to whiny complaining and self pity. Spiritual flab begins to replace good muscle tone.

Well, I've gotten lazy the past couple of months. And I am having trouble mustering up genuine feelings of gratitude. Thanksgiving, the Superbowl of Gratitude, is upon us and I find myself out of shape and unprepared for the game. I may be benched. How embarrassing is that?  Lately, when I do remember to write down three things I am grateful for, it feels sort of forced. The words are there, but not the feelings. Instead of focusing on what is good and plentiful in my life, the things that sustain me and give me strength to do the heavy lifting, I'm mucking around in longing, resentment, blame, focusing on scarcity, complaining about what I don't have. 

My husband, the Buddhist, reminds me that attachment is what causes suffering. When I cling to desire, I suffer. He's right of course. True gratitude is about opening myself up to all that I have right now and feeling that it's enough. But that's not where I've been hanging out these days. I've been wanting what I don't have. It's like I'm bypassing Thanksgiving and going straight to Black Friday, getting sucked into the false promise that if I just get what I think I want, I'll be content. 

What DO I want? I want my children to get off the computer and go for a walk with me. I want more laughter with my husband, less arguing over petty things. I want more time for singing and being with my friends, less time spent racing around. And these are the more noble desires. I want actual things too. I want an iPad, a flat screen TV, a smart phone (if you ask my kids they will tell you that we are practically Luddites). I want to earn more money. I want someone to come and clean my house, blah, blah, blah.

So what is the antidote for this poisoning of gratitude with desire? Well, I think it's giving. Last week I bought a homeless man a sandwich and chatted with him for a minute. I hope he liked the sandwich. Giving it to him and taking the time to connect with him sure warmed me. I volunteered to be a food team leader for the warming shelters that are beginning to open up at local churches too. You might think, oh isn't that generous. Well, actually, it's a little selfish. Last winter when I prepared food for the guests of the warming centers, I was so moved by their gratitude, that it set a fire under my own. And maybe if I want my children to go for a walk with me and my husband to laugh with me, I should look at what I can give them to show them that I love and appreciate them. Giving, like prayer, like practicing gratitude, makes me pay attention, frees me from my head and opens my heart to something much bigger than just me, me, me.

And then there's my daily practice, the spiritual exercise program that keeps me strong. It's time to get off the couch and get back to it. So what are three things I feel gratitude for RIGHT NOW? I am grateful for the sweet text message I received from my minister this morning. I am grateful that my husband is planning a belated birthday "surprise" for me right now. I am grateful for five days to slow down, be with family and friends, eat good food, hike and walk, and look for the good stuff.

Happy Thanksgiving.