Too Much Noise
In the stillness and the quiet
The house is still and quiet. The only sounds are the low gurgle of the fish tank filter and my fingers tapping on the computer keys. The soft light of morning is just creeping over the pine trees out my back window and the streets are blanketed in just enough darkness that the cars outside my front window drive with their lights on.
In a few minutes, the house will be a flurry of activity. The boys will stumble down the stairs with messy hair and hungry stomachs. The dogs will need to go out. Cereal will be poured. Showers will be turned on. Coffee will be brewed, the dishwasher unloaded.
But for now, for a few more moments, the house is still and quiet.
As a child, I could never understand why my mom didn’t like the television and the radio on when we were at home. “Too much noise,” she would tell me.
Too much noise?, I pondered incredulously. How is that possible?
But now, now I get it.
There is just too much noise.
Noise on the television, noise in our workplaces, noise outside our car windows. Noise in the media and magazines, noise on Facebook and Instagram. Noise coming from internal pressures to do more and be more. Noise telling us to do this or be that. Noise complaining about this issue or that problem. Too much noise filling up space in our heads and blocking out sounds in our hearts.
Too.Much.Noise.
Lately I find myself craving less noise, and more sounds. More laughter and listening to the voices that really count. More music. More meditation, prayer and reflection, more awareness and gratitude, more stillness and quiet.
Clumsy feet are thundering down the stairs now; the morning frenzy is about to begin. Maybe you are already in the midst of your own frenzy.
We can never completely block out the noise, of course, nor do I think that we should. But maybe we could all use a little less noise? And a little more sound?
So here’s my wish for the day: May we have the wisdom to recognize the difference between the noise and the sounds. May we learn to hear our own strong and true voice inside, and may we have the courage to listen to it. And may we all have a few moments of stillness and quiet.
How do you quiet the noise?
*****
Note: This post originally appeared on the author’s website.
Simple Prayer, Profound Meditation
please… please.. please…please.
I whispered the words softly, quietly.
As I stood in the bridal waiting room at the back of the church, ten years ago, ready to step out to a church filled with family and friends where my soon-to-be-husband was standing at the altar, I breathed those simple words.
Please. Please. Please.
I chanted the words silently, but strongly.
The words were half prayer, holding a sea of emotions, hopes, and fears. Not a prayer for divine intervention, but rather an appeal for serenity, strength, and mindfulness. As one of the most basic religious exercises, prayer has been shown to improve calmness, by strengthening brain regions that foster compassion and by calming brain regions linked to fear and anger.
And the words were also half mantra meditation, helping to calm my mind – my monkey mind, as Buddhists call it. Derived from the Sanskit work for “mind tool,” mantra meditation involves chanting a single word or phrase in order to focus the mind. Eventually the mind focuses more on the rhythm of the words, and less on the words themselves.
Please.
Please don’t let me trip walking down the aisle.
Please don’t let me break into uncontrollable sobbing.
Please let my husband feel as sure about this day as I am.
Please.
Please let this be more than just the wedding I dreamed of, but also the marriage that we both deserve.
Please make us family.
Please give me strength.
Please give us strength.
Please.
Please…such a simple word, but a profound word. As I chanted that simple word in sighs and whispers, the clouds of nervousness, anxiety, and worry parted. The rays of strength, confidence, hopefulness, and faith shone down.
Please…the holiest of prayers because what follows can contain the depths of our heart. The Spirit knows what follows that little word please. The Divine knows the unspoken that lies hidden in sighs and tears and deep breaths, even if we don’t.
Please...my favorite prayer, my truest prayer.
And thank you. The only response that ever seems appropriate for all that the Spirit bestows.
**********
How do you pray? What is your favorite prayer?
**********
This post originally appeared on the author’s website here.
When Plans Go Awry
An Altar Amidst the Snow
“There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”
— Rumi
If you are like me, you have The List. You know, that massive to-do list filled with family obligations, work projects, chores, and writing tasks that need to get done in the day, week, or month.
I love The List. It keeps me on task, helps me stay focused, and prevents any massive panics about deadlines or missed appointments.
On The List this week was “write Patheos post” and yet, when Monday afternoon brought an all-family case of a stomach virus, leaving each of crumpled and desperate, I knew that The List would be thrown out the window this week.
Alas, we have all recovered. And yet, here we are, on Friday afternoon, and I am still digging out and catching up, with no Patheos post written.
Sometimes plans go awry, I suppose, and we just need to roll with it. Instead of scrambling to put together a subpar post, I will simply include the photo above, which I snapped while out walking the dogs yesterday afternoon. The photo is part of the Lenten Spiritual Practice, which consists of daily photo prompts throughout Lent. More photos can be viewed here…http://practicinglent.tumblr.com/. Special thanks to Mr. Barb Greve for this Lenten practice idea, to Kristina Hensley for the design, and to Karen Bellavance-Grace for the Tumblrization.
A Softer Focus
Photo Credit: Angie McMonigal Photography
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.”
– Kurt Vonnegut
In college, we had this mantra among our swim team: hard core. As the phrase might imply, to be hard core meant maintaining physical and emotional strength in spite of pain and setbacks – whether it was enduring the grueling three-hour long training sessions, withstanding the mental challenges involved with competing at the collegiate level, or surviving the social dramas and angst of college life. Hard core was a compliment in the highest regard, synonymous with strength, resilience, competence, confidence, and independence. To be hard core was to be respected and admired.
And so, for many reasons, I was hard back then (though probably not as hard core as I would have liked to be). I saw things in black and white. Questions had one “right” answer. Success (and, consequently, happiness) had a path that must be followed without deviation. There was little room for doubts, mistakes or uncertainty, and almost no room for acceptance, tolerance, and patience.
And, although being hard core as an athlete may have been helpful, I have found that it isn’t all that valuable to me as a person.
Being hard just doesn’t make much sense to me anymore.
I am learning that life isn’t a series of Either/Or conclusions, but a multitude of Both/And possibilities. It is possible to be soft and strong, to be vulnerable and confident, to be patient and resilient. It is possible to swim around in the doubts without drowning; to say “I don’t know” without being unintelligent; to say “I’m sorry” without being weak; to change my mind without being erratic and unreliable; to be generous without being abused; and to be merciful without being manipulated.
So these days I’m taking a softer focus. I’m looking for beauty in the complexities and differences, appreciating our multi-hued world instead of straining to create a monochromatic one. I’m enjoying the mysteries and unknowns, becoming more comfortable with the questions that have no easy answers. I’m saying “I don’t know” and “I’m sorry” more often and more sincerely. And, impatient as I am, I’m even trying to find joy in the waiting.
The thing is, in many ways, it is easier to be hard. It is easier to see things in black and white, to look for absolutes, and to live in an either/or world. It is challenging and confusing living in the softer world, where few things are fixed and certain and there are infinite shades of gray, along with reds and oranges and purples and pinks. It can be terrifying to live with an overflowing heart without a hard protective shell.
And, in many ways, it is hard work to stay soft. Idealist thoughts of perfection must fly out the window, along with regrets and should-have-been’s. The soft focus is more permeable, letting in the bad with the good and heightening emotional sensitivities. It can be clumsy and awkward walking on shaky soft ground. There are missteps, stumbles, and falls. There are wrong turns and false starts.
Fortunately, with this softer way, the falls are cushioned and it is easier to get back up, to turn around, to try again.
So I’m using a softer focus these days, resolving to keep a softer focus despite any personal or societal pressures to be harder, sharper, tougher.
There is no doubt that I am softer now – softer, in fact, than I ever thought I could be.
And, you know what?
I think that I just might be stronger than ever because of it.
Both. And.
This post originally appeared on the author’s website.
Brave Love
Our Thirty Days of Love journal
I have fallen a bit behind. I had high hopes this year of completing the Thirty Days of Love activity calendar with my kids, filling our journal with words, our minds with thoughts, and our hearts with love.
But, alas, we have fallen behind. Our ambitious expectations have been thwarted by dinner preparations and laundry and homework and basketball practice.
Our journal is filled with many blank pages of good intentions.
We have fallen behind, but we are still trying. So this morning, we pulled out the activity calendar and set out to making up for some lost time. We talked. We wrote. And we talked some more.
One of the things that we talked about was Brave Love (an activity from February 2 – I told you were are a little behind).
I asked my boys what Brave Love is and how we see it in action. My seven-year-old son Jackson said that Brave Love means standing up for others. We talked about how Brave Love is tough and scary sometimes and how sometimes Brave Love isn’t so much about love for a person as it is love for humanity as a whole. We talked about how Brave Love is forgiveness and second chances.
We talked about how love isn’t just flowers and hearts and fuzzy feelings, about how Brave Love is doing the right thing even when it’s really, really hard. Jackson told me about how he showed Brave Love when he stood up for a friend who was being picked on a few weeks ago. He talked about how a classmate showed Brave Love when she agreed to go last in the game they were playing at recess. He talked about how another classmate showed Brave Love when he told some kids to stop kicking down their snow fort.
Yes, love is patient and love is kind. But there is a tough and clumsy and scary side of love, too; there is Brave Love.
And, really, I think that Brave Love is the one that trips us up over and over again. Because Brave Love is confusing and messy and hard.
Brave Love is an action, not a feeling. It means listening more than we talk. It means pausing for a moment before reacting. It means meeting another person where they are at, taking one step closer to bridging the gap. Brave Love means standing up for the underdog even when it means that we might suddenly become the underdog ourselves.
Brave Love is a deep breath and a gentle touch when what we really want to do is walk out of the room and shout obscenities. Brave Love is being the first one to say “I’m sorry,” even if we are convinced that we are 100% right. Brave Love is speaking up when we need to and shutting up when we need to, and knowing when one route is better than the other. Brave Love is the courage to love ourselves just as we are. And sometimes Brave Love is simply showing up, with an open mind and a welcome heart.
Brave Love is tough and clumsy; it is unattractive and scary. Brave Love makes us vulnerable to hurt and embarrassment.
But Brave Love also builds bridges and opens doors and changes lives.
In a way, I suppose, Brave Love is like our attempt at the Thirty Days of Love activity calendar: a little disjointed and stumbling, with its fair shares of missed opportunities; but filled with good intentions and compassion and big-heartedness, with try-again’s and new beginnings.
What do you think Brave Love is?
What Bowling Taught Me About Patience
Photo Credit: Angie McMonigal Photography
A couple of week’s ago, on a cold Chicago afternoon, after being cooped up for most of the week, my husband and I looked at each other and said, “Let’s go bowling.”
Now, nothing says wholesome family fun quite like putting on some smelly communal shoes and listening to drunk men swear at the football game, but after being cooped up in the house for more of the week, we were just a little bit desperate.
Matt and Jack have gone bowling together a few times, but this was the first time that Teddy had been bowling. After trying on three (three!) different pairs of shoes, convincing him that the bowling ball that looked like Darth Maul was too heavy for him (he’s just a tiny bit obsessed with Star Wars), and showing him how to put his almost-four-year-old fingers in the ball and roll it down the lane, he was ready to go.
“Self! Self!” he stubbornly said in true Teddy fashion.
He walked to the line holding the ball with both hands and I have never been more certain that a trip to the ER for a broken toe would be in our near future. (By the grace of God, he made it out of the bowling alley with all ten toes intact.)
For ten frames, Teddy grabbed his ball, stepped up to the line, and heaved the ball as hard as he could down the lane. Most of the time, he rolled the ball right into one of the bumpers and it would sloooooowwwly bounce its way down the lane. On each of his rolls, the ball moved so slowly, in fact, that I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t make it to the pins. And, more than a few times, Matt and I exchanged a look that said, “Which one of us is going to ask the surly desk attendant for help when the ball stops in the middle of the lane?” (Fortunately, we never had to answer that question, but for the record, it would have been him.)
On every one of Teddy’s turns the ball moved at a snail’s pace, barely moving down the lane until, finally, it would make it to the pins and maybe even hit down a few. As one of THE most impatient people on the planet, I found the delay to be a bit unsettling at first. Waiting for the ball to plod down the lane, I felt nervous, jittery, and antsy.
But, after a few frames, I realized that what I was feeling wasn’t actually impatience; it was fear. Fear that the ball would never make it, fear that we’d have to ask for help from the surly man at the front desk, fear that Teddy would end up in a tantrumy heap of tears.
But, after a few frames, I realized that the ball would eventually make it to the pins even though it looked like it might stop moving at any moment. And with the fear of not making it subsiding, the waiting actually became the best part of it all. Because in the waiting, I had time to soak it all in. I could watch Teddy’s eyes light up as the ball moved down the lane, I could steal a few glances at my husband, and I watch my older son add up the scores on the screen.
Once the fear of never became the confidence of eventually, I was able to look at the waiting and the slowness in a whole new light.
And I wondered: How many other times have I mistaken fear for impatience? Fear of the never or the always. Fear of the falling and failing. Fear of dead ends and asking for help. Fear that without the end, the means just don’t matter.
And in this fast-paced, frenzy to get something or do something or hit the target, how much has gone unnoticed and how much enjoyment have I missed in the slow-moving journey?
I’ve been struggling a lot with impatience lately, wanting things to happen now, now, now. But I am realizing that this need for things to happen on my timetable is less about fulfillment and satisfaction, and far more about fear. Fear of losing control, fear that I will never make it, fear that I am somehow lacking just as I am and right where I am, fear that I won’t be satisfied until the pins are knocked down so to speak.
We tell ourselves that when the pins are knocked down, then we’ll be happy. When we get married, when we have a baby, when the kids are in school, when the kids are out of the house, when we get the job, when we get the promotion, when we are out of debt, when we buy a house, when we get an agent, when we get published, when we receive this award, when we land that sales account, when…, when…, when…then we’ll be happy. And all the while, the ball is moving slooooowwwwly down the lane and there is so much going on while it rolls if only we’d just notice.
The ball moves slowly, more slowly than we’d like, many times. And we wait and we wait and we wait, growing increasingly tired of all the waiting and more fearful that the ball might actually stop. And in all of that fear, we miss it. We miss the twinkly eyes and the emotions, the bouncing back and forth and the graceful movement to it all, the sights and sounds and people and various goings-on that are actually a really big deal if we’d just stop focusing so much on those damn pins at the end of our lane and trust that the ball will eventually get there.
After bowling for a few hours last Sunday afternoon, and watching the ball move slowly down the lane, I realized a few things. I realized that the ball will slowly, eventually, finally reach the pins; it just takes a little longer sometimes. I realized that if the ball does stop, you can always ask for help (even if you have to ask the surly man behind the desk), get a new ball, and roll again. And, most importantly, I realized that there is so much good stuff going on while we wait for whatever it is that we’re waiting for.
So take your time. Pay attention. Enjoy the journey.
And know that, even when the ball moves slower than we ever thought possible, that at least the pins are happy for few extra moments of peace.
This post originally appeared on the author’s website at www.christineorgan.com.
Frosted Windows and Heavy Hammers
Photo Credit: Angie McMonigal Photography
A few weeks ago, I decided that this is the year that I am going to smash a few windows. I wrote all about it in this post here. I wrote about my struggles with comparisons and image and perfectionism, about all the ways that I let fear and doubt and what others might think hold me back, about the ways that I am trying to carve out a new way to define what is means to be balanced and successful and happy.
And I wrote about how it has become painfully clear to me that I am not the only one who suffers from this Frosted Window Syndrome, from this disease of dis-ease that thrives on Comparisons and Never-Enoughs and Gotta-Haves and the Pursuit of Perfection and the Quest to “Have It All.” I wrote about how it absolutely breaks my heart that so many people are fighting this never-ending battle to feel like they Measure Up, that so many people feel like they can’t Keep Up and that they are Not Enough.
I wrote about how I planned to smash some of those windows.
When I wrote all those things, it felt good to publicly commit to putting an end to the madness with plans to quit the Comparison Game, to quiet the Voices, to see what is Real and True, and to focus on what really matters.
It felt good…as a goal, an abstract, an intention.
And then, I was handed a hammer and put to the test. It was as if Something or Someone seemed to be saying, “Here you go. Let’s see if you really meant everything you just wrote. Let’s see if you can really smash some windows.”
Because not more than an hour after I hit “publish” on that post, a few windows started to frost up. Within mere minutes, I had two more rejections of my manuscript, I parted ways with my agent, and I suddenly found myself facing rather grim prospects of ever finding a publisher. I won’t get into the specifics of it all, except to say that the rejections were largely due to the fact that I am a Unitarian Universalist (astonishing, right?!?) and to say that none of it was all that surprising. Hurtful, yes. Surprising, not so much.
But while none of this was a huge surprise, the simple truth is that rejection hurts, even when it is anticipated. Setbacks are disappointing, even when they are expected. Closing doors echo very loudly, even if I am the one closing them.
And it is easy to say that we’re going to smash Frosted Windows and focus on what is Real and True when life is moving along smoothly and when things are working in our favor. It is quite another thing to smash those windows when the cold and the dark and the questions and the frustrations seem like they might be more than we can handle. It is one thing to say that we will focus on what really matters when the Voices are quiet; it is quite another thing to focus on what is Real and True when we aren’t quite sure of what that is, exactly.
As the events transpired, and I read the disappointing and hurtful words – words that were closing so many doors that I had optimistically held open for so long , words that called my faith into question – I found myself face-to-face with the frosted window of rejection and disappointment and (maybe even a little discrimination), with its cold and dark stare whispering you’re not enough, you’ll never make it.
For a moment, I was absolutely terrified that I might not have the strength to wipe away the muck and grime, let alone smash any windows. I feared that, despite my best intentions to focus on what is Real and True, I was still trapped by the hazy blur of false hopes and comparisons and put-downs. I worried that I just don’t have what it takes.
I re-read the email that was closing so many doors, absorbing the enormity of the information. My stomach lurched and tears sprang to my eyes.
But they did not fall. In fact, I found myself surprisingly relieved, almost uplifted. I knew that should feel disappointed and that I should be angry, but, honestly, I just wasn’t. Because, amidst all the hurt, I knew that I had been given an invaluable gift of a hammer and a very timely opportunity to use it.
You see, when I started writing and working on my first manuscript, I told myself that I was doing it because I wanted to share my ideas, educate others about Unitarian Universalism, explore spirituality in a new light, and fulfill a dream. (The idea of a flexible career with a pajamas-and-yoga-pants dress code didn’t hurt either.) But, if I am being really honest with myself, my goal of writing a published book was significantly blurred by a (conscious or subconscious) quest for popularity, recognition, approval, acclaim, and financial success. And because of those frosty distortions, I often lost sight of what lay beyond the Frosted Window – connection, support, purpose, fulfillment.
Over the past two years, as I have shared my words and thoughts and fears and dreams, slowly I have scraped away the frosty haze of false hopes and misguided intentions and slowly I have begun to see what Real and what is True.
So when I received the disappointing news and was confronted with that all-too-familiar feeling of rejection, I knew that I should be upset that what I hoped for was slipping through my fingers yet again. But I just wasn’t. Because I knew that what would be left behind were the things that really matter.
Don’t get me wrong, I would still love to find a publisher for my manuscripts and I am not giving up on my dream of one day being a published author, but after using the hammer to get rid of the frosted haze that had been blocking my view, there is much less anxiety and desperation to it all. Without the blurred view, it is far easier to see that I already have what really matters – faith, love, support, fulfillment. And with shards of cloudy glass around my feet, it is far easier to see that when it comes to writing and spiritual community (and, I suppose, life in general) that this right here – the sharing and connecting – is what really matters.
On Building Bridges
Photo Credit: Angie McMonigal Photography
“We build too many walls and not enough bridges.”
Isaac Newton
About five years ago, I sat in church one cold and dreary Sunday morning while our pastor, Jennifer, talked about bridges. I came into church that morning a little lost, a little frustrated, and utterly exhausted. I didn’t really want to be there and I had been feeling so beaten down by life that I seriously doubted whether words of spiritual advice would make any difference whatsoever.
Nonetheless, I sat in that small church, distracted, and I listened to her talk about shoveling sidewalks and neighborhood parties and wide nets. She talked about the sacred act of building and strengthening bridges, about maintaining and honoring those bridges, and she then issued a challenge to us to become bridge-builders ourselves.
At the time, her words fell on a weary soul and an exhausted body. With a two year old at home and mountains of stress, I wasn’t looking to build bridges; I was just hoping to survive the day and maybe take a nap. Yet, somehow her words rang true and they stuck with me ever since.
On some intrinsic level, I think that we are all called – whether by God, some higher power, or the human condition – to be bridge-builders. We are naturally driven, I suspect, in some deep primal way, to want to connect, to build bridges – in our families, social circles, communities, and workplaces; with the natural world and the spiritual world; with others and even within ourselves.
But, what does it mean to be bridge-builders?
While we are called – compelled even – to be bridge-builders, it is not always an easy task. In fact, I think that it just might be one of the hardest things that we, as imperfect and ego-driven humans, are asked to do. Bridge-building is awkward and daunting and painful; it is clumsy and uncertain and utterly exhausting. Bridge-building means uncomfortable conversations and bruised egos and being the first one to say “I’m sorry” or “I love you” or “I was wrong.” And bridge-building requires a healthy dose of faith, copious amounts of forgiveness, and an infinite amount of grace.
I would be lying if I didn’t say that my ego and heart haven’t ached just a little bit when, after introducing some friends, they prefer each other’s company to my own. I would be lying if I didn’t say that doesn’t take frequent reminders to check-in with extended family and friends during those times when life’s obligations leave little room for anything beyond carpools and homework, conference calls and emails, paying bills and folding laundry. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I have to constantly fight the urge to wear my Facebook mask, to present a Pinterest-worthy picture of my life to the world, to pretend that I’m not constantly second-guessing myself. And I would be lying if I didn’t say that there have been times when the time and energy spent building bridges hasn’t left me feeling scared, inadequate, and completely drained.
There is a natural tendency, I suppose, to preserve, protect, defend, and maintain the status quo. We get busy and beaten down with the day-to-day stresses and the curveballs that life throws at us, and sometimes bridge-building just seems like too much work and a colossal waste of time.
But bridges aren’t built when we stand our ground and stay in our comfort zone; they aren’t built when we focus on relationship maintenance, rather than relationship sustenance. Bridges aren’t built in the masks or by pretending that we aren’t scared and confused. Bridges aren’t built when we snicker at the expense of another, when we think in terms of “us-them” and “the other,” or when we focus all they ways we are different.
No, bridges are not built this way.
Bridges are built when we cast a wide net, when we make the effort, when we are radically inclusive. Bridges are built when we ask questions and take the time to listen to the answers. Bridges are built when we lay ourselves bare and stumble through the muck; when we make an intentional and difficult decision to forgive; when we focus on our shared and common human condition. Bridges are built when we step into the heart and mind of someone else; they are built with a single phone call or email, with a tender touch, with an open mind and a generous heart.
Bridge-building is hard, hard work. But bridge-building is good work, beautiful work, essential work. Bridge-building is holy human work.
There are bridge-builders all around us, and we can be bridge-builders ourselves, whether we know it or not. With her prophetic words about neighborhood parties and shoveling sidewalks and taking the first step, Pastor Jen built more bridges for me than she could possibly know. And for that I am eternally grateful and continually inspired. We have both since moved away from that church community in Chicago, me to the suburbs and she to California and then Virginia. But I have no doubt that she has been continuing to build bridges along the way. Because once a bridge-builder, always a bridge-builder.
Who are the bridge-builders in your life?
Beauty of the Season? Really?
I did not plan to write this post. In fact, I had intended to write something very, very different.
Given that this weekend marks the winter solstice, I had wanted to write something poignant and insightful about the beauty of the season. I wanted to write about the joys that winter brings, about sledding and snow angels and hot chocolate. I had planned to write something spiritual about the way that winter’s long nights give us a chance to rest and reflect. I wanted to write something optimistic about all of the warmth that lingers in the chilly winter, about growth and rebirth, about the the changing seasons as a reminder that everything is temporary.
I wanted to write about these things. I had planned to write about these things, had hoped to write about these things.
But I just couldn’t do it.
Because, honestly, I FREAKING HATE WINTER.
Try as I might to dig deep spiritually and see all the good that winter offers, I just can’t seem to do it. In fact, I hate almost everything about winter. I hate the snow and ice and frigid temperatures. I hate the bulky sweaters and heavy boots and the way my hands are always cold. I hate the muddy puddles that pool by the door. I hate that it’s dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. I hate shoveling. And I hate that it takes longer to get my kids dressed in their winter gear – coats, snowpants, hats, and mittens – than it does to actually get where we are going.
The optimist in me wants to learn to love all of life’s seasons, even the cold and dark ones. And the UU in me is trying desperately to “respect the interdependent web” and enjoy winter for its role in that cycle of connectedness. Yet despite my spiritual, optimistic, glass-is-half-full attempts to appreciate winter, the simple truth is that I HATE WINTER and I’m only hoping to survive the next few months.
I want to be more tolerant of winter’s harsh personality. I want to see God’s beauty in the dormant bud as much as in the flowering bloom. I want to be stronger, more resilient to the bitter and biting cold. I want to be more flexible to the changing seasons on the calendar and in life.
But some days, it is just so hard to be tolerant, to see the beauty, to be resilient. Some days it is really hard not to be consumed by the darkness. Sometimes it is almost impossible not to rage against change, almost impossible not to scream “ENOUGH ALREADY! I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!” (By now you’ve probably figured out that I’m not just talking about winter here.)
It feels selfish and self-indulgent to wallow in my disdain for what amounts to a minor inconvenience, a slight discomfort. It seems short-sighted and pessimistic to focus on the darkness and the harsh conditions. It feels feeble and gloomy to wallow in the ugliness, desperate and ungrateful to long for lighter, warmer days.
But does loving life mean that we have to hide our disdain for the colder times? Does respecting the web of connection mean that we have to delight in all aspects of a network so complex and delicate that we cannot possibly make sense of it all? And does the cultivation of gratitude mean that we are prohibited from yearning for better, brighter days?
Hardly.
Maybe tolerance doesn’t come from looking with favor on every hassle and indiscretion, but rather through an admission of our unhappiness and a willingness to move through it. Maybe resilience and flexibility don’t ask that we greet bleak conditions with delight, but simply that we acknowledge the discomfort with truth and kindness.
And maybe Grace isn’t found in pretending the dark and cold times aren’t exactly what they are – hard and difficult. Maybe Grace comes from a simple acknowledgement that “THIS SUCKS,” followed by a deep breath and the inherent understanding that, for better or worse, this too shall pass.
This article originally appeared on the author’s website.
The Pragmatic Believer
Source: Google Images Creative Commons
This time of year also fills me with a number of conflicting emotions. As someone who was raised Catholic, I might be considered a metaphorical Christian by some. Nonetheless, I am very much Unitarian when it comes to my theological beliefs – a Pragmatic Believer of sorts – so Christmas holds no almost no religious significance to me. It does, however, hold a great deal of spiritual significance for me. I love Christmas for its glitter and lights, uplifting carols and delicious cookies, generosity and thanks-giving, time with family and friends, and its somewhat romantic nostalgia. But, the religious humanist in me cringes at the commercialization of the Christmas holiday and the general assumption that all who celebrate Christmas hold tight to Christian theology.
Throughout the entire month of December I find myself thinking: Where does this holiday fit into my faith and spiritual life? And where do I fit into the holiday?
I first heard the poem “Mary” by Philip Appleman at church a few years ago. I enjoy reading it every holiday season as I struggle with the many conflicting emotions and beliefs that I have about Christmas. Regardless of religious affiliation, I find the poem to be a universally powerful reminder of the importance of considering alternate perspectives and the role of the Pragmatic Believer.
Mary by Philip Appleman
Years later, it was, after everything
got hazy in my head – those buzzing flies,
the gossips, graybeards, hustling evangelists –
they wanted facts, they said,
but what they were really after,
was miracles.
Miracles, imagine! I was only a girl
when it happened, Joseph
acting edgy and claiming
it wasn’t his baby – – –
Anyway, years later
they wanted miracles, like the big-time cults
up in Rome and Athens, God
come down in a shower of coins,
a sexy swan, something like that.
But no, there was only
one wild-eyed man at our kitchen window
telling me I’m lucky.
And pregnant.
I said, “Talk sense mister, it’s got to be
the one thing or the other.”
No big swans, no golden coins
in that grubby mule-and-donkey village. Still,
they wanted miracles,
and what could I tell them? He
was my baby, after all, I washed
his little bum, was I
supposed to think I was wiping
God Almighty?
But they wanted miracles, kept after me
to come up with one: “This fellow at the window,
did he by any chance have wings?”
Wings! Do frogs have wings?
Do camels fly?
They thought it over. “Cherubim”, they said,
“may walk the earth like men
and work their wonders.”
I laughed in their hairy faces. No
cherub, that guy! But
they wouldn’t quit – fanatics, like
the gang he fell in with years ago’
all goading him till he began to believe
in quick cures and faith healing,
just like the cranks in Jerusalem, every
phony in town speaking in tongues
and handling snakes. Not exactly
what you’d want for your son, is it?
I tried to warn him, but he just says,
“I must be about my father’s business.”
“Fine,” I say, “I’ll buy you a new
hammer.” But nothing could stop him, already
hooked on the crowds, the hosannas,
the thrill of needling the bureaucrats.
Holier than thou, he got, roughing up
the rabbis even. Every night
I cried myself to sleep – my son,
my baby boy – – –
You know how it all turned out, the crunch
of those awful spikes,
the spear in his side, the whole town watching,
home-town folks come down from Nazareth
with a strange gleam in their eyes. Then later on
the grave robbers, the hucksters, the imposters all
claiming to be him. I was sick
for a year, his bloody image
blurring the sunlight.
And now they want miracles, God
at my maidenhead, sex without sin.
“Go home,” I tell them, “back to your libraries,
read about your fancy Greeks,
and come up with something amazing, if you must.”
Me, I’m just a small-town woman,
a carpenter’s wife, Jewish mother, nothing
special. But listen,
whenever I told my baby a fairy tale,
I let him know it was a fairy tale.
Go, all of you, and do likewise.
