Why Am I Doing This Anyway?

"For me, creativity is an act of slowing down. Paying attention. Taking time. 

Never doing in one day what could be spread out over seven, including a day of rest.

 It is no coincidence that this is also how I meet the divine."

--Karen Haring, 

from "Creative Slow Down"

Last week I did not have time to write a blog post. I needed to borrow the limited amount of time I usually set aside for writing to finish reading my book club book, and to begin working on writing a reflection for a church service this coming Sunday. Needless to say, life as we know it did not screech to a grinding halt without my weekly musings. Even my own life plugged along pretty much the same as usual. But the thing is, I missed writing my blog. I actually had to make myself NOT write. I think that means it has become a practice for me. I would even go so far as to call it a spiritual practice.

A couple of years back Ken, a member of the worship committee at my Unitarian Universalist church, shared a reflection during a service, a story from his life with broad truths that most people can connect with. I had always loved Ken's reflections and told him how much I enjoyed this one. He said, reflection writing was a spiritual practice for him. At that moment, one of those cartoon light bulbs flashed over my head. Of course! We all have stories. They don't have to be big and dramatic. We just have to spend time mining them for the truths they hold. Telling our stories is one way we give meaning to our lives. It is one way we touch the sacred. 

So that's what I try to do here. I tell my stories. I write about what I need to write about, things I need to pay attention to, things I'm struggling with, things that bring me joy or sorrow, frustration or acceptance. I hope that my stories hold small truths that other people can connect with. And I hope that as I turn my stories over in my hand, letting the light illuminate them at different angles, a few people just might be inspired to do the same with their own stories. I believe the sacred is in our ordinary, every day lives. But we have to slow down enough to look for it. Writing this blog helps me do that. Knowing that some people are actually reading it inspires me to continue.

I thought I would be OK with missing last week's blog since I had a reflection to start writing. But it turns out the writing of this particular reflection is giving me some grief. I'm writing about joy of all things, so you'd think it would be happy work. But for some reason I'm blocked and struggling with it, wrestling with joy. (What a funny thing to struggle with.) Anyway, It will come. It HAS to come before Sunday. But it has not been a joyful process so far. Wonder what that's all about. Maybe there's a story there...

My Dharma Teacher Plays Video Games

"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas."

--Linus Pauling

My son Miles loves math. MY son. Me, the woman who got a D- in high school geometry even after cheating on most of the tests. I can't even cheat well in math, for god's sake, and yet I bore a son who is in an after school math group ... for FUN. When he was in first grade he asked his teacher to explain square roots to him. How had he even heard of square roots in first grade? If I did not have fond memories of laboring and delivering that nine pound baby boy, I would call for a DNA test to prove maternity. 

Miles has an unquenchable curiosity about many things, not just math. He is currently reading Principles of Geology, by Charles Lyell (friend of Charles Darwin) for his independent reading book. Just today he explained to me how Lyell's work influenced Darwin. He also asked me if he could make a flame thrower out of hairspray, and told me he needed sheet metal and heat proof bricks to build a furnace so he could make glass. (It's a relief when he asks if he can make chocolate chip cookies.) Miles is always thinking. If you look closely you can almost see the gears turning inside his head. 

While he may have the mind of a scientist, Miles has the soul of an artist. He paints beautiful watercolors, rich with the textures of the natural world: Grass, stone, water. He draws intricate drawings of machines he'd like to invent, with lots of gears and other moving parts. A tactile kind of guy, Miles is unable to resist touching things in stores and other people's homes. But when he's walking through an art museum he clasps his hands firmly behind his back to help himself resist the temptation to reach out and touch the rich layers of paint on an Impressionist painting or the curve of stone on a sculpture. None the less, there always seems to be a security guard lurking nearby when we're in a museum.

Some time back I spent an afternoon cleaning Miles' room. It took a few hours. That night when I went to bed I found a seashell on my nightstand with a note inside thanking me for making his room so nice.  On more than one occasion he's told me he had "too much money" and would like to donate it. He's bought flocks of chicks from Heifer International, an acre of rain forest from The Nature Conservancy, and made a donation to support our church's warming shelters for homeless men and women, all with saved allowance and birthday money. He has also eagerly helped prepare broccoli cheese casserole for the guests of the warming shelter and graciously served them their evening meal. He said it made him "appreciate being in the middle class."

I realize I am bragging about my son here. But I can't help it. Not only do I love Miles, I admire him. I learn from him every day. He is a walking encyclopedia of scientific knowledge, but facts are not the most important thing he gives me. Miles shows me how amazing the world is when you approach it with curiosity and wonder. He reminds me to ask questions and explore big ideas. He shows me that science, art and religion can share a happy coexistence, like good roommates. And, most of all, he teaches me that a strong mind coupled with a big heart can change the world, everyday, with both grand and humble actions. 

... But math?

Getting Through the Clatter

"Poems would be easy if our heads weren't so full of the day's clatter. 

The task is to get through to the other side, 

where we can hear the deep rhythms that connect us with the stars and the tides."

-- Stanley Kunitz

Well, it's happened. Another school year has begun and with it the complex equation of how to fit four schedules together to equal one smooth running day. I've never been good at math, but we do our best around here to get everyone's needs met. I am the keeper of the day's mundane details. What time is Miles' soccer practice? Can I pick Frances up from high school today or does she need to take the bus home? Did Miles put his math homework in his backpack? Which one of us has time to walk the dog this evening? When can we squeeze in a trip to Staples to get Frances a scientific calculator? What the heck is a scientific calculator anyway? Like I said, I've never been good at math.

Things get neglected in the busy rush of the school year. For instance, the dog has the lingering scent of the dead seal he rolled in the other day because we are out of dog shampoo. And speaking of not bathing, I'm not sure when Miles' last took a shower. (He'll never tell.) The laundry is spilling out of the hamper, and I'm looking at a houseplant that hasn't been watered since July. Oh, and then there's dinner. I guess I should feed the children. Didn't I just do that yesterday?

And yet all I want to do is write this blog, sing a song, write a song, read a book, take the dog on a long walk, sit in the yard and watch the changing light, or hang out with my family with nothing tugging us away from each other. These things feel every bit as essential to me as eating and bathing. They are like fresh vine-ripened tomatoes for the soul. If I didn't have them I could survive on supermarket tomatoes, but I would never know how flavorful and complex a tomato could taste. 

Last week I attended a guided group meditation with my husband, Paul. He has been meditating for a couple of years now, and he thought I might enjoy this group. And he was right. There were maybe twenty people sitting on chairs or cushions, a couple of people lying on the floor. The room was homey and comfortable. And the leader, with her Austrian accent, had the most hypnotic voice on the planet. She could have been reading her bank statement and I would have sat there rapt, listening contentedly for hours. O.k., so I dozed off a little during the first part of the meditation, but it was a sweet, dreamy, floaty kind of nap. And when I finally surfaced, I just floated along on that hypnotic voice, watching the cares of the day slip away.

I don't know if I had a "successful" meditation, but I do know that when we got home I did not start barking directions at the kids. I didn't ask if they'd finished their homework or made their lunches for the next day. Just this once I put my faith in the universe that what needed to happen would happen. Paul and I joined them in the living room. And we all sat together, chatting about nothing important, just being together. And for a magical half an hour or so nothing tugged us away from each other.

Deep Water

"Way out on the deep blue sea

Let the waves just carry me, to deep, deep water

To deep, deep water"

--Sarah Hawker
"Deep Water"

I fell in love with a song last week. I discovered it by accident while searching for another song on YouTube. It's called "Deep Water" and it's written by Sarah Hawker and performed beautifully by Sarah and her singing partner Debra Clifford, The Lonesome Sisters. I fell in love with them too, because when I posted on their Facebook page how much I loved the song, they responded with genuine gratitude. How charming is that? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_j4UWcX-Hc

I love this song for its simple guitar arrangement and its beautiful harmonies. I love it because it's the type of song I love to sing most: A beautiful ballad with harmonies just crying out to be sung. Harmonizing with other singers is nothing short of a spiritual experience for me. It connects me to another person in a way that I can't put into words. I feel like our blended voices become more than the sum of their parts. Together they become a whole new voice, part of us, but outside of us too. And I have been fortunate enough to have this wonderful experience with some very special people. In just a couple of days I will have it again with my lovely friend, Ellen, who has the purest most beautiful soprano voice I have ever known. She is truly a songbird in human form. And I am grateful for the opportunity to sing with her again before she flies her songbird self off to Iowa for a fresh start in her life.

But there are other reasons the song "Deep Water" spoke to me. So often I am afraid to tread deep water, to spend time there letting the waves just carry me. Give me an oar and let me shout directions. Don't just leave me there to float on the waves. And yet sometimes that's where I need to be. I try so hard to be in control, to be the captain of my little vessel on the wide blue sea. But, while I can chart a course, stockpile supplies, gather together a crew, so often it is the waves that show me where I need to go. I love the first verse of the song.

All my intentions and all of my plans
and all of my maps to far distant lands
Float lifeless across the oceans darkened floor
The broken compass of my lonely dreams
Lays buried beneath a shipwreck of schemes
The sound of the wind on the water is all that remains

The sound of the wind on the water is all that remains, not maps or GPS or compasses. The sound of the wind on the water. What happens when we listen to the wind on the waves of our longings, our dreams?  When we are faced with big questions that do not have easy answers, what would happen if we let go of the tiller for awhile and let the waves carry us?  

There is a beautiful poem by poet John O'Donohue called "For Longing." One of my favorite lines in the poem is:

May you have the wisdom to enter generously into
   your own unease
To discover the new direction your longing wants
   you to take.

Deep water. Thank you Sarah Hawker and Debra Clifford for the beautiful song, and for the gentle reminder that it is ok to let go of the helm sometimes, to let the waves carry us. In fact, it's more than ok. It's what we need.

The Lonesome Sisters singing the hymn, "Bright Morning Stars" on the front porch. Good stuff.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tW00jOvwg3M&feature=related

Clarity $1.99

"Imagination gets a test 
at the place I love the best.
How could I get dressed 
without a thrift shop?"

-- Dan Zanes

I found Clarity for $1.99. Who knew it would be so cheap? Here I'd been walking around in a muddle of confusion and indecision and there was clarity, right in front of me. It was on the sale rack even, blue letters on a black T-shirt: Clarity.

It's a sickness for me, really, thrift store shopping. It's an addiction and I'm a big time junkie. The fact that I own at least five black skirts is just a hint of the depth of this addiction. Don't even get me started on shirts and shoes. My bulging closet and dresser cannot contain the dirty little secrets of my habit.

I don't like shopping retail. The merchandise is designed to taunt shoppers. And it makes me feel inadequate, shabby. I'm reminded of my Glamour magazine days when I believed that if I just had the right clothes and hair, everything else in my life would magically fall into place. Retail stores try to tell me how I "should"  look, not necessarily how I want to look. Besides, I can never afford the clothes I really like so it just ends up being an exercise in unrequited longing. Who needs it!

Thrift store shopping, however, is always brimming with possibility. I rarely go in looking for a specific item, but I usually shop with a specific mood. There's the sensible-work-clothes mood. The creative-singing-gig mood. The outdoorsy-camping mood. The walk-on-the-beach mood. The let's-try-something-completely-different mood. Of course the let's-try-something-completely-different mood can sometimes lead to the what-the-hell-was-I-thinking-mood, but there's no serious harm done.

The day I found clarity on the sale rack for $1.99 was a delight. After all, rarely do we find clarity when we set out looking for it. Don't get me wrong. You have to look. You always have to be looking. But we tend to find clarity when we patiently sift through a lot of possibilities. We have to wrestle with desire, longing for the silky blouse that's not your size instead of the soft, comfy shirt that is. We have to be adventurous, willing to  take risks to open up new possibilities. We have to learn to tell the difference between cheap thrills and quality merchandise. And know that every now and then we should go with a cheap thrill, just for the fun of it. 

Finding clarity (or love, or hope, or wisdom, or inspiration...) is a lot like thrift store shopping. Go in with an open mind, a sense of adventure, and a willingness to be disappointed from time to time. And keep going back! Never stop looking. You will find what you need.

Certain About Uncertainty

"When we venture into the Mystery, 

we are entering the ground of the infinite with the powers of a finite mind. 

An awe-filled agnosticism is perhaps the better part of wisdom."

-- Rev. Marilyn Sewell

I do not spend a lot of time wondering about the existence of God. But I do spend time thinking about the Mystery. And by Mystery (with a capital M) I mean all of the big questions about our place in the universe rolled up together. I think about the Mystery, not because I need to figure it all out, but because it fills me with a deep sense of awe. And in that awe I find humility and peace. 

I say this not to convince my theist or my atheist friends to question their certainty, but rather to explain that being agnostic does not mean being confused. I find it a tremendous relief to let go of the need for answers to what I believe are unanswerable questions: Does God exist? If so, what is God? What happens when we die? Why are we here in the first place? To my thinking, it is hubris to claim that we have The Truth when we cannot possibly support that claim with evidence.

But what about faith? Faith is not about proof after all. It's about trust.

Faith is beautiful when it is open and accepting. When I can say, I have my faith and you have yours and they are both possible, that is beautiful. Faith that says, this is how I understand the big questions and this is how my neighbor understands them, and there is much to be learned from both is wise. But blind faith (or faith with blinders on), faith that is afraid to question or doubt, makes me very nervous. Faith that claims to have The Truth and refuses to acknowledge the truths (small t) of another faith is divisive and too often dangerous. Faith that says I am right and you are wrong has lead to far too much human suffering and senseless violence in human history.

I did a little on-line research into agnosticism and I like this definition by Austin Cline:

"Philosophically, agnosticism can be described as being based upon two separate principles. The first principle is epistemological in that it relies upon empirical and logical means for acquiring knowledge about the world. The second principle is moral in that it insists that we have an ethical duty not to assert claims for ideas which we cannot adequately support either through evidence or logic."

It sounds a little dry I know, but that's not how it feels to me. Because not knowing the answers opens the door for wonder. And wonder can be awe-inspiring. 

What I find really awe-inspiring are moments when I feel a deep sense of connection to something larger than myself. And if I am open, these moments happen a lot: When I am walking the dog on the beach, when I am with my Unitarian Universalist community, when I am hiking in the Sierras, when I am with family and friends, when I am singing, when a baby is born or someone I love dies, in times of sadness and joy. Any time I am truly present for my life I experience that connection. Is that God? I don't know. I don't have all the answers, but I love all the questions.

Let The Mystery Be
 by Iris Dement
The perfect agnostic hymn
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlaoR5m4L80

Two Paintings

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.
...live in the question.” 

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Earlier this summer I spent a lovely afternoon at the Norton Simon Museum with my friends Terri and Janis. After we'd looked at Japanese wood block prints, renaissance paintings, 18th and 19th century European art, and contemporary art for a couple of hours, Janis gave us an assignment. She said, if you could take just one painting home and hang it in your living room, which one would you choose? What a fun way to wander through a museum. I took the game to heart and revisited some of the galleries. 

I was pretty sure I wouldn't want a painting from the renaissance hanging in my living room, beautiful though they are. On the whole, they're too high church for a room that is home to a variety of books on Buddhism, Japanese manga, and Calvin and Hobbes collections. And I don't really want to be looked down upon by a portrait of the Madonna and Child or a martyred saint whenever my language gets a bit too colorful or my thoughts a bit too sinful.

Much of the 17th and 18th century art was a tad too dramatic for my taste. We don't go on a lot of fox hunts in my family. Nor do we lounge on our sofa in the nude. David With the Head of Goliath or Suicide of Cleopatra seemed a bit over the top for a room where some family members sit around in their pajamas eating cereal and reading Garfield comic books in the morning. The Impressionists are lovely, of course, but Monet and Degas remind me of my college dorm room where my roommate Laura and I also had a beer bottle display and a tacky postcard collection. 

In the end I chose two paintings. I explained to Janis that I really needed them both, because they spoke to me as a pair. She said that was OK. She's generous that way. Painted nearly 200 years apart, they both depict women lost in thought. The woman in Young Girl Writing A Love Letter, by Pietro Antonio Rotari c. 1755, wears a dreamy smile as she writes to the object of her affection. She is hopeful, full of passion and dreams. Whereas the subject in Woman With A Book, by Pablo Picasso, 1932 strikes me as more serious, perhaps wondering about the direction her life is taking, questioning her heart. I get the feeling that she isn't thinking about the book in her lap.

I bought note cards with each of these paintings at the gift shop so I could hang them together, side by side, in my house. (I thought the security guards might not approve of me moving paintings around the museum.) When I look at them, I feel a connection to these two women as they contemplate their lives, the choices they've made, the dreams they've had, the people they've loved, the direction their lives are taking. They remind me how important it is to pause, to wonder, to reflect, to ask the deepest questions of my heart, and wait patiently for the answers to unfold.

Two of my favorite women deep in thought at the Norton Simon Museum