What Blocks Me

Sometimes inspiration comes from unexpected sources. Recently I came across these thoughts by producer Chuck Lorre:

The things I have spent my life depending on are undependable. Because they are things. And things are, by their very nature, subject to change. This applies to people as well.  People change. People leave. Inevitably we all leave. The world, therefore, is essentially an unstable, uncertain environment. 
That's why I choose to believe in, and depend on, an unchanging , eternal, omnipresent non-thing. . . I try to experience it.
Easy to do do looking out at the ocean. Hard to do looking up at the ocean. Easy to do when you look  at a baby. Hard to do if the baby is next to you on a long plane flight. Easy to do when yo look at a pretty girl. Hard to do if were were once married to her. 
Clearly what blocks me from transcendence is judgment. If I were able to suspend having an opinion on drowning, other peoples' baby's vomit, and alimony, if I could simply see these things as they are  - actions devoid of meaning until I give them meaning - I could experience some semblance of union with the infinite sublime. . .  

Chuck Lorre Productions, #482 (vanity card)

"Judge not. . . lest ye be judged" is a warning common to literature and religious teaching throughout the ages. Perhaps I am particularly afflicted by it; it's a regular and big battle in my quest to become a kinder, gentler version of myself.  In fact, as Lorre so gracefully said, judgment is what blocks me from "union with the infinite sublime." 

What helps, when I can remember to do it, is to notice the judgmental thoughts and autopsy them as they come across. It helps to make a conscious effort to look more deeply at the person or situation I'm judging. It helps to refuse to gossip. It helps to remember it's not all up to me. It helps to remember to "worry about myself; judgment is God's realm. It helps, often, to simply take a deep breath.

In judgement, compassion, humor, and rational thought all go by the wayside. I am not able to be my best self. I am not able to provide clear and unbiased support, to laugh at my own weakness, or to make a perspicacious plan in an emergency.

I endeavor to live my life faithfully and with gratitude. I hunger for that treasured "union with the infinite sublime." Being present with what is delivers it.

Straight Talk about Marriage

Someone recently commented on my blog bio that states, "I have a successful marriage of 16 years."  Why not, they wondered, write something like "I've been happily married for 16 years."  Let me state for the record that it was intentional.

Anyone who has been married long enough to get sick, lose a job, have a child, or buy a house knows this:  Marriage is not a constant state of bliss.  Instead, it is a way of life, a choice, an opportunity to be the best person I can be in both blissful moments and extremely challenging ones.  Moreover, it shows me - from time to time -- at my best, most noble self and frankly, occasionally at my worst.  I believe it was Judith Viorst who brilliantly said, "The advantage of marriage is that, when you fall out of love with him or he falls out of love with you, it keeps you together until you maybe you fall in again."  Aint that the truth?

Sometimes the challenges come from the little things. I let the laundry pile up -- or worse left it strewn across the floor -- or he didn't pay the bills.  These everyday challenges are opportunities to step it up, to be the bigger person, or -- conversely -- to learn to speak our minds.  We all have our things we can overlook:  I can overlook unpaid bills but phone calls not returned activate my mind.  He can overlook any kind of mess in the house, but he needs my full attention for at least a few minutes every day. That's how he knows I care.

I think the real test is when the challenges are bigger.  I was really ill the first year of our marriage; it tested our relationship.  When my dear sister in law became suddenly ill and then passed away two weeks later, it challenged us in ways I had not thought possible.  We did not weather that storm so well;  I have always heard that death either unites or separates;  in fact I believe that loss untied us in some ways. 

As we unraveled as a couple, we bound ourselves to other things; we both threw ourselves into our work, we sought solace in other places.  In the end, it led to acts of infidelity.  This, I understand, is not entirely uncommon.  In the end, though, the thread that unravels can also be the tie that binds.  We remembered, miraculously, our love for each other; we reminded ourselves of the commitment we'd made to our family and friends when we married.  Perhaps most importantly, we each made a choice to keep our word, which at the end of the day, is the most valuable thing we have.

Marriage is not all work, but it's not all play either.  I am saying this as much to remind myself as for you, dear reader.  It is a commitment and an act of faith; it takes "faithing into." In my next post I will talk more about what that "faithing into" looks like for us.

The Water Wheel

This weekend I "stirred" the contents of the house again.  Dear hubby hauled a crib to the attic and a bed down; I hauled a crib and other stuff to the fire victims.  I built the bed and rearranged the little kids' room.  Now I am sorting through a Mount Vesuvius of toys. I'm actually afraid if I don't tame this growing beast, it's gonna blow.  A week ago I did this whole routine with clothes;  it seems like all the little kids suddenly shot up and outgrew everything.

I don't mind this routine of shuffling, sorting and purging.  It's quite satisfying, really.  What hangs me up, however, is that every time, I think, "This time, I finally have it all in order."  Then a week later, I'm doing the same thing with some other set of someone's somethings.  I thought last weekend, "It never ends."

Bingo.  The reality of life in a household of seven is that a constant cycle of stuff coming and going is essential.  I'm now seeing it as a wheel, like a water wheel.  With every revolution, some water comes off and goes back into the pool and some new water is scooped up.  Maybe if I'm not always hoping I'm finished, I'll be able to fully commit to the process of evolution.

It's just like my spiritual work, isn't it?  Sometimes I get so wrapped up in getting the job done, I actually start to  think I'm "finished."  But seriously, can I ever be "finished" noticing what trips me up?  Can I be "done" refining my goals, deepening my faith or feeding my relationships?  Of course not, it's a ridiculous thought even if it does float around -- unnoticed -- from time to time in my subconscious.

I am bringing that image of the water wheel into my spiritual life.  My spiritual "work" is constantly changing and yet it bears some striking similarities to work I have done in the past.  With every revolution of the big wheel I am scooping up a fresh outlook, a new opportunity while letting go of that which is not essential.  It is truly a constant and ongoing process of purging and refining and-- in recognizing its ongoing-ness -- I am able to release the demand that every step be the perfect one. 

All spiritual work is "good" work.  It is all contributing to the process of me becoming more and more the woman I was created to be. Sometimes I can afford to take my eyes off the prize and focus them on enjoying the journey. 

Changing Form

I am somewhat surprised, at 51 years of age, to find myself in a forming stage of life.  Growing up, I thought you became an adult and you "were something" -- a teacher, a missionary, a parent, whatever -- and that was it.  I have been many "somethings" and also had a few jobs that were more about my bills than about my path.

When I was a child, I frequently heard myself characterized as a "late bloomer."  That was a source of shame for me then, but now I embrace it.  I hope I never stop "blooming."  I met my soul mate, Paul, at age 36.  I was 37 when I became a mom for the first time.  And at 51, we started a whole new branch of the family.  This suits, me somehow.  I am comfortable in my skin and at this stage of life; I know what fits.

It reminds me of working with clay.  There is something so wholesome and earthy about it. It's sensuous -- and not in a corny, Ghost, sort of way.  The clay at first is in a slab, cold and unyielding.  The initial task is to warm it up with your hands; to soften it and make it pliable.  This takes some time and patience; some kneading, some faith.

Only after the clay is worked and warm can a new creation emerge. What is created is not always what I expected.  And it rarely, if ever, looks like I thought it would.  Yet it is always true to its nature.  Somehow it is exactly what it is "supposed" to be and exactly right.

The stress in my life comes in when I forget that I am in a forming phase.  In clearer moments, I understand that  "the forming phase" is every phase.  When I am willing to allow my life's circumstances and yes -- grace -- to do the shaping, then I am wholly me.  And something completely new can take shape.

Bring in the Clowns

Years ago I collected clowns.  Back then, I thought they appealed to me to because they were wacky, light and friendly. It seems patently obvious to me now that there was something else.

I once blithely told a friend that you could bring 20 of my closest friends and family members together in a room and they still would not have the complete and true story of my life.  Heartbreaking.

Clowns are the ultimate artifice.  No matter what she is feeling, it is disguised by her -- literally -- painted-on-smile and entertaining antics.  That pretty much summed up my life prior to 1992.  I painted on a smile and acted happy.  I thought doing so would in fact make me happy.  "Fake it 'til you make it."  But it didn't work. 

In June of 1992, I found myself standing in front of 90 strangers and telling them that what I hoped to gain from my More to Life weekend was joy.  I was shocked to hear the words come out of my mouth.  Wasn't I happy?  I was not.  I was looking for the magic lens -- the little thing that would somehow bring my apparently wonderful life into focus so that I could see it as others did.

There was no magic lens.  Instead it was like a long awakening -- a slowly dawning sunrise -- that bit by bit revealed the truth about me, my mind, and my ability to choose.  Choice.  That was an entirely new word in my vocabulary.  In fact, much like St. Therese of Lisieux, I found my salvation not in the big choices but in the small ones.  I found my way forward by choosing not to get self-righteously angry at my noisy neighbors but instead to look at how loud shouting was a trigger to a cascading avalanche of emotions from my childhood.  I discovered I could choose to love others by reading between the lines of the alternate reality being written by my brain.  Perhaps just as importantly I learned that I could choose to love myself and to trust others with the whole truth of me.

A person of faith, I finally found a way to live out that faith that did not consist only of "trying harder" or "toughing it out."  For most of my life, I had been nodding my head in church saying, "Yes.  I agree. Amen.  But how?  How do I trust?  How do I love?  How do I forgive? "

As St. Therese said so eloquently, I began to see that  "Each small task of everyday is part of the total harmony of the universe."  I started living my life in the here and now.  I chose to forgive even when people around me could not agree that I "should."  I started literally slowing down to "smell the roses."  I learned that a day spent crying is as valuable as a day of fun.  And folding sheets can be as noble a purpose as any other.  A few years back I heard, "Holy as a Day is Spent."  a song that sums it up eloquently.  Carrie Newcomer sings, "Holy is the place I stand; to do whatever small good I can.  The empty page, the open book -- redemption everywhere I look. . . "

Today I dusted off one the two clowns I have left of  that collection. I held him briefly in my hand and considered putting him in the "give away" box.  He is a remnant of a collection and -- I daresay -- a remnant of a way of life. But I did not do it.  I chose again keep him close at hand to help me remember who I really am.