Mother's Gifts

A gift of image arrived last night. “A woman standing at the front, to speak to a roomful of men. Finally.” I was that woman, which means I was in that room. Yet I had not seen it as my companion saw it, spoke it. Such is the gift of companionship, of new seeing that reminds us we never see it all, even when we’re looking. So what was the room like? The front-standing? What does this new gift-image mean, beyond what I knew and saw?

Being there began with a promise made to new acquaintances over Turkish tea in Istanbul. Their teacher of blessed memory loved science as an awakening force to see Allah, to know Allah more deeply through the Book of the Universe. My teacher did too, before his journey concluded with an aneurism and the devoted singing of his colleagues around his hospital bed, sending him in unknown directions possible only with death. “Pursue the work of your teacher,” they asked, “in conversation with ours?” “If way opens,” I promised. Way opened, proposals were submitted, and interest in the work led to the drive to Cleveland one brightly lit, autumn Sunday afternoon. A non-Islamic scholar, fulfilling a promise by speaking a paper into a roomful of Muslim men, all of us intentionally faithful to a new path in companionship with a One I can only call Mother. A wilding One. Fierce. Gentle. Persistent. Embodied. Holy Mother, She Is. Glimpsed in Holy Writ, though so often silenced. Certain of Presence, unknown but for the path.

Driving up to Cleveland, singing lustily in the car with newly-learned chants and Mother’s circle-songs, I entered into a world hungry for knowledge, truth, companionship. A Muslim community of Light, new to me but unfolding graciously in path and time. I felt strangely at home, though surrounded by Turkish, Arabic, Russian-Muslim men. I can’t count the times I heard, “Ladies first,” as they made way for the only one amongst them. They listened as I spoke in the auditorium, though I know not how much they understood. Does token-presence unearth new abilities in others to listen? Certain of Presence, unknown but for the path.

An evening meal, joined by a woman-volunteer in their community, both our heads-uncovered, and then it was time to drive back. Late-night singing, chants and Mother circle-songs, and the path returned home. I know not all why it was important for me to go, to say what I had to say. I envision a new book project, a new way to continue upon the path that unfolds daily, hourly, as one footstep follows another on paths unseen. The gift-image suggests a tilting reversal, with peripheral awareness and love for those hungry for it. “Finally” could mean a “tit-for-tat” move of spirit, but I don’t think so, in the end. The Divine Mother, the Divine Feminine, the Gentling Fierce One who births the Divine Masculine does so with open-heart and vulnerable embrace. She knows the hunger that brings both together, for all to see and know something deeper, truer, than either alone. Perhaps the gift is to see this image with masculine-shaped osas—eyes—and share a part of the gift in return through the soul’s eyes, Hers and His both. Mother always has new things to say to her children, whether they know Her as She Is or not. How is She shaping me, us all, amidst the gifts and graces She’s offered? I honestly cannot say. This Mother’s Path comes naturally, yet feels so foreign. Certain of Presence, unknown but for the path.

So be it—for me, for you, for all of us.

Winds' Day

A blustery day, all around, as Piglet might say to Pooh. Or was it the other way around? The sun looks a bit like the moon, struggling to peer through the clouds. And then that too, is gone for good. The rain comes, cleans. It is good to be unattached, though difficult. Yesterday was a day of attachment, for instance. Tuesdays have that tradition in my path.

It was a marvelous day. A memory-laden one, in old haunts with new sensations. The Pie Place moved in town, making it a possible breakfast stop for us within walking distance. Well, easy walking distance. We’d made it out to the outer skirts of town before, for good pie. I began there, for some writing space, but the seats were simply too low. Isn’t that funny, a certain kind of strange?

So Java Moose it was, a familiar watering hole for me with books and journals. I felt a return to some writing space there, where I enjoyed proper seat-heights and a bit of coffee. I even refused the cup-sleeve for ecological reasons, and demurred from the desire to purchase a mug with “Java Moose” on it. The local ladies' knitting club made the space feel so homey, domestic, maternal. A short walk back ‘home’ released Marley from her ‘padded cell,’ as I’m calling the Subaru where she rests until house-keeping comes. Some re-nesting and then we were off to Naniboujou for a late morning hike up to Devil’s Kettle—with canine companion straining at the leash to being, then in tow by the end. A nice lunch followed, the “Hiker’s Combo,” to be precise. One of the best club-sandwiches (half of one, at least) that I’ve had: wild rice bread, shaved turkey, applewood bacon, a slice of brie cheese, cranberry sauce, and a bit of lettuce. The soup was fresh too—tomato-cream-cheese with great chunks of tomatoes. A walk on the shoreline there, at the lodge, jarred some old memories of my love, in that space, from days gone by. 

A day of attachment. The longing is palpable within him—for a place that is uncontested, assured, never to die. His places of origin—hometown, house in which he grew up, shopping malls, parks, restaurants—have all evolved or become something else. The entire structure of his family changed ten years ago, upon the unexpected death of his father. A stalwart presence in the family disappeared. Branches of relations pared off, rarely to sense their connection to one another again, in any familiar way. Previous girlfriends arise, similar stories are reviewed and enjoyed. "Here is where my dad asked me to release his ashes," I hear. A time of solo-journeying along the shore seems natural. Then returns are shared, to basalt rocks that never change. Agate beaches that look the same, to untrained-naturalist eyes, at least. The sound of the waves remains constant, soothes the soul a bit.

Where am I in this drama? I ask sometimes… I am a constant companion, yet my intellectual-spiritual-embodiment cycles befuddle him. My regular irregularities unnerve him, as I feel drawn to this practice, then that. This literature, then that. This new activity, then that. Sometimes I enable my beloved’s worst resistances, I fear. Or at least his anxieties. I confuse care-taking with companionship, protectiveness with ‘necessary suffering,’ to use Rohr’s term. I lament the felt-lack or apparent absence of discipline in his life, in our life together. I know no other ‘container’ in which all of this makes sense, works for good. And I’m willing to try—have had experience within—many such possibilities, like prayer practices, embodied practices, communal-circle practices. All to no avail.

And then I sense my own attachments, to make ‘what would be’ from ‘what is.’ If I’ve learned anything in my over-ten-years of marriage, it’s that I cannot change anyone but myself, and sometimes not even her. There’s incredible freedom to be had, right here, in ‘what is.’ For ‘what is’ is pretty good. A beautiful view, companionable and canine devotion, time to breathe with good herbal tea to help breathing deeply. Well-sorted mail and quiet energies of good work that awaits. That can wait.

So perhaps a day of prayer with a little Newell, some brain-candy reading of Steig Larson’s trilogy, perhaps even a walk in the rain to Artist’s Point, to see if the basalt rocks have changed after all.

I bet they haven’t. Not much.

Tuesday

How we struggle to receive. Yes, ‘we.’ Presumptuous of me to impose my own particular spiritual struggles onto anyone reading this, you say? Probably. But as probability goes, I bet it’s a good bet. The energy that comes with acute production and perceived achievements—for me, academic writings, a book, lecture-notes and leading-teachings—seems all there is these days. My soul seems ever attuned to the next mountain, the yet-considered way to show worth. So will I become blind to a week’s splendor at the Shore? 

Why continue to solve this problem by obsessing about it?! Open the door...

A poem of remembering arrives from a friend.

The sun rises, shimmering its light across the lake.

And this, after an evening’s hazy moon lit up the waves

With an expansive warmth and holy invitation.

What more does one need to see abundance offered, every angle?

A group of local ladies convene their morning meeting.

Business as usual—knit and purl, cable and twist, perhaps a rib.

“Using up my sock-yarn, you know. This is for an unusual mother.”

The gathering smiles and sighs with approval, amusement.

Efficient recycling. New ages of maternity.

The birch trees spread their golden hues,

Across the sky and upon the weathered floor.

Leaf-peeping is nearly past, but just enough for late-bloomers

To enjoy, to breathe in, to sneeze, and to smile.

A beloved canine awaits freedom from her padded cell

For cleaned room, new paths to smell, and much straining

With excitement. Reminding her pet-parents what a

Blessing abounds, all around, every angle.

Post-Partum of Start-Up

I feel as if I am losing my center, mostly as I struggle to feel anything amidst an overwhelming emptiness. 

But what a productive and successful time this has been! A conference paper for a conference with Islamic scholars has been written and submitted. Six different ‘sections’ of a curriculum I oversee have gotten off the ground with necessary technological and plenary-lecture finesse. A new class is unfolding in the work to which I have felt drawn—interreligious encounter and companionship—and a book-project of 17-years’ duration has finally arrived, hard-copy, onto our dining room table. Some re-entry bumps within my ‘real’ life have smoothed out. My beloved has relaxed a bit into this new body-focused partner, even surprising me with a book that he would hate himself but suspects I might enjoy. Many of the shared, food-oriented frustrations upon some change of habits have lessened. Differentiation-within-relation…yea. J A good sign. Mostly, I’m saddened to feel a loss of focus and writing-flow here, in this space.

Impulses of activity have arisen during these few days of rest and celebration, but I do find myself resisting another mountain of achievement and the cognitive drive to climb it. I am most attuned to some energies bubbling up to conceive some new bodywork goals. I sense a new chapter is beginning soon and decks must be cleared to attend to it, listen fully. Sitting practice has become non-existent, except for Quaker community practice. Too stationery (ary?) for my current mental chatter. Perhaps it’s time to face the monkey-mindedness with intentional calm-abiding after all.

I think I will refer to this numb space in which I find myself the post-partum of start-up. One cannot help but love the creative blessings that have arrived with such striving, but there’s a renewed sense of emptiness within as well. What had been such an intimate part of your body for so very long now has its own life outside of you. How strange it is, but how logical, to feel so very empty. Stranger still to be aware of a thanksgiving for what is, just as it is.

Blessed be.

Body-Literacy -- 3

“Why move?” I heard inside my head. An odd but necessary question for an “authentic movement” circle. “Authentic Movement” describes an unfolding teaching-learning practice developed originally at the intersection of Jungian psychology (especially his ‘active imagination’ work) and dance performance. A description, from the newly-revised website for the Authentic Movement community:

Authentic Movement is a simple form of self-directed movement. It is usually done with eyes closed and attention directed inward, in the presence of at least one witness. Movers explore spontaneous gestures, movements, and stillness, following inner impulses in the present moment. The witness watches and tracks inner responses to the mover with the intention of not judging, but focusing on self-awareness. … [This] cultivates a contemplative frame of mind, clarity of perception, and movement that is personally enhancing.

Pioneers include Mary Whitehouse, Joan Chodorow, and Janet Adler, though their students have continued to develop the outreach of Authentic Movement in multiple directions, inwardly and outwardly focused: meditative-spiritual practice, tool for professional psychotherapy, method for creative-process renewal, and community outreach for address and resolution of community-wide problems.

As the body-literacy project continues to unfold in my own life, an invitation to explore this practice arrived. I accepted. Not unrelated to my “If not food, not sex, then what?” musings, I was surprised to hear the persistent question, “Why move?” as the circle-practice began. What does it mean to allow spontaneous gestures? To follow inner impulses in the present moment? What movement follows that is not directed or controlled by one’s mind? I have an incredibly narrow palette in my experience for any of these questions. Partially my over-developed sense of ‘mind’ and all that it entails, partially an under-developed exploration of 'body-experiences & potential', with all those entail.

The witnessing-role I played first was familiar, if requiring focus, attention. Sadness arose as I became aware how much negativity my mind (or body?) unleashed: fear, envy, awareness of the vulnerability of movers, anxiety about non-directed/guided actions in shared space. It seemed all I could hear or imagine were the unexpected injuries that could come, the closing in of quiet ones amidst the expressed freedoms of others. Slowly, the awarenesses began to transform into their celebratory counterparts—the value of freedom, the beauty of expressiveness untrammeled, the mystery of movers in their own process unavailable to any witnessing. Although I had desired to move first (mostly to get it out of the way!), I recognize the witnessing role now as an easing of my mind’s controls. I was weary of mind by the time my own body’s movement began.

My recollection of this time now centers mostly in poetic jottings or phrases. Flow. Deep sadness, memory of youthful fear. Shame. Smallness. Alone, isolation. Awareness of others’ connections. Envy, desire. Smiling release and sensation of strength, arising, stature. Seedlings and oak trees. Deep roots and hard work accomplished. Seasons. Ease and rest.

Two other questions then surfaced, which, amidst eyes-closed-movement, eventually made me laugh. “Why do I have a body?” followed closely by “Why am I a body?” The laughter erupted. You see, my mind recognized a conceptual frame, collision, and renewal of something with which I’ve wrestled regarding friendship and intimacy. Do you have friends or are you a friend? I’ve written about this elsewhere (forthcoming book, actually!) as the collision between correlational habits of mind and contemplative ones, the former with an inherited dualism or objective-subjective split useful to analysis and the latter with an enacted-surrender unto unified mind of nonbeing more suited to wisdom-walking or fullness of life. Regardless of all that jargon, however, what a strange two-in-one question for an embodied soul to ask, in the end. Who is asking, if not the bodied-mind? And will answering it make living within biological existence any more controllable, straight-forward, articulate? Can one's body actually be had anymore than a person ought to be had? Respectively...I don't know; not likely; probably not.

Perhaps one’s body simply has an important role to play in the unfolding of a spiritual path, one’s own path. Perhaps this is where doctrinal impulses—the systematic ones that strive for precise and accurate articulations of consistent and coherent merit—meet their end, for a time. Or their beginning. Perhaps the answer to my question comes not at the beginning, but only in its time, even at the end.

For now.

Thresholds of Here

I’m not back, but I am here. 

Gladness overflows for entering into work rhythms on a campus, to have the commute to my office and anticipate the political (or not) chumming with colleagues engaged in similar callings of theological education. A rich harvest season looms ahead, with a lightness of spirit and sleight of hand in getting all kinds of overwork done, in good order. Metaphorical “balls that drop” because of growth management demands and resulting overwork seem to “bounce,” not break. A broadening container for life has been given, across multiple communities and webs of relationship, such that new paths, new partners, seem not only possible but probable. I’m here, and so very thankful. But I’m not back.

Why bother with such minimal distinctions? For one, the notion of “being back” is prohibiting me and those I love from “being here,” being present to the richness, fullness, that beckons. “How does it feel to be back?” is probably the most frequent question I’ve received in the last month upon my return from a spring-semester sabbatical. Dear co-workers are welcoming their colleague back into work-collaborations on campus, and of course, they know who this person is, right? Actually, no, they don’t. They can’t. “Being back” suggests a return but, at least when sabbaticals are well-engaged in multiple-dimensions, the journey itself prohibits any return to the pre-sabbatical person. The one who arrives on campus after a sabbatical is rarely the one who had left campus in the first place.

“Re-entry” is another notion often discussed amongst all those who truck in the practices of higher education, meaning sabbaticals in this case. “Re-entry can be a bear,” so the saying goes. After months free of campus or student responsibilities and open-ended time devoted to research and conceptual work, faculty face overwhelm and disorientation. “Re-entry blues” or in some cases, like mine, “Re-entry fullness.” Overwhelming, whether experienced negatively or positively. Requiring of some re-acclimation. But re-entry is not accurate either. The learning community that welcomes a person into its midst again after a sabbatical is rarely the one who had said farewell to him/her in the first place.

So here we are, neither ‘back’ nor ‘re-entered.’ And where is here? A threshold of many dimensions, doors, leading into

·         new communities—the Nur Community (Islamic), women-centered spirit-circles, contemplative conferencing

·         new work—interreligious methods unto new book-proposal, ‘naked writing’, integrative leadership in familiar circles

·         new voice—musing vulnerable, budding poetic, exploratory artistic, differentiated academic, blog-plenary professorial

·         new bodywork—active, internal-restful, yoga, authentic-movement, wild-heart

·         new companioning—doctoral support, spiritual listening, liturgical service

How hard we strive to keep the stream the same, to slow the changing currents into an eddy or pool in which we can keep warm. We long to return to the familiar, to the warm and provisional. We spend lives attempting re-entry into what has been. How else does one learn trust, we imagine aloud, if not within protected quarters, well-defined and even predetermined? If nothing stays the same, then how can we know steadiness, stability, durability?

The irony, of course, is that the life of trust only grows across instability, change, disruption. Trust is not necessary within a harbor or in a stagnant pool. There’s so little movement or diversity that everything looks trustworthy, the same. Robust trust, on the other hand, grows out of enacted stability across ever-changing streams, relational tenacity amidst regular disruption and change. The only way to grow steadiness is to have unending situations in which to practice being steady. We never return, nor does anyone “come back.” If one is fortunate, however, one can learn to be here. One may practice finding thresholds and actually venture forth across them, learning a life of trust in new and robust ways, with tenacious and trustworthy companions.

Body Literacy -- 2

I don’t know how to view the world from my core in what I do, in what (it seems) my calling or contribution to the world is. After a very full week of re-entry into this work—preparing for classes, ordering lecture notes, conceptualizing learning activities for other learning styles, attending to institutional and collegial needs of a shared learning community—a morning’s pause, respite really, has opened before me. So...,

I put the poop-bag into my pocket, leash up my canine companion, and walk into the mist of a pre-autumn morning. The sights and smells remind of me something, just out of reach. I breathe in the softening air and remember an invitation to view life from my mid-section. What do I notice? How new and foreign it feels. I realize my posture has shrunk to protect—hide—my core once again. This, after several committed hours to bodily activity, care in hunger and satiation, companionship with others exploring a body-path. Frustration arises. I do not know how to sustain this invited-practice, to view, hear, feel the world around me from my core. It is unclear whether way will ever open in direction of that desire. Way has opened to share at least a foreseeable path, for a time, with others wise in these things. But how do I start, again and again?

The wisdom is recognizable so far: signature ‘expressive delight,’ I call it. The language given me for understanding—for living more deeply into—this work I have called ‘mine’ describes a tell-tale sign of living wisdom in “an expressive (theological) delight able to companion the suffering of self and others.” Sitting in a circle of new companions, for a practice unknown and uncertain, I was struck by the consistent awareness of gratitude, of thanksgiving to be right where they-we were. Thanksgivings were easily spoken, said with heartfelt vulnerability. Suffering of self, the difficulties experienced in exquisitely painful particularity, were not neglected or ignored in these thanksgivings. Both were held in unity, together. Leadership of the circle had the shy smiles of living wisdom too. A space opened in the circle to express a delight of living alongside faced difficulties and companioning to come. “An expressive delight able to companion the suffering of self and others.” Tell-tale sign of wisdom incarnate.

This work I call ‘mine’ has been further conceived as the articulation, modeling, and fostering of such delight in whatever environment or role I seem to be placed, led. This means articulation for my understanding, modeling for my own learning-experimentation, fostering spaces in which I may practice receiving (which oftentime means surrendering precious ‘absolutes’ I’ve inherited to welcome larger and larger ‘absolutes’ coherent with but transcendent of previous ones). Such articulation, modeling, and fostering may also open doors for others to welcome understanding, learning-experimentation, and receiving, of course. If I’ve learning anything on this path, however, it is that little is gained by qualifying my own process dependent upon the openness (or not) of others. Companions are absolutely crucial on the path—interdependence allows nothing less—but each of us is unavoidably responsible for only our own process-opening…or refusal-closure-pace of process. So I listen and practice, attempting to be faithful to this path of articulation, modeling, fostering—attentive to my own path, hopeful for connection with others’ paths, but practicing non-attachment to affirmation/condemnation from others. All this constitutes what I’ve called here “wisdom walking.”

All this also compels awareness that the way opening to shared paths with body-wise circles is indeed an ‘opened way’ in which to learn. No less certain: I have no idea how to start. I have little awareness of how to feel, to regain feeling, to open the door to feeling first so that life comes from there, in harmony with mind-spirit. An ironic statement, of course, in that the summer has been about little if not feeling, which comes and goes as it will. Not unlike scripture describes Spirit, with a shy smile.

The practice unfolded in circle, well-established and communicated. An ocean opened up before us, me.  The “I” I have known began to gasp for air, perchance to drown. At the very least, overwhelm. I was returned to a time of being pushed out of my family thirty-years’ prior when a new circle companion took my place in the circle without awareness it had been my only safe anchor, the only familiar place. Tears arose from all directions, no clear origin to conceptualize and redress. I remembered words “fetal position” from the instructions and my body mimicked the memory. More recent body-memory, enacted in a relatively new (for me) morning yoga practice, reminded me felt-strength can be received underneath or beyond mind. Impatience with feeling small moved me into the rudimentary alphabet. Returning my awareness to my core posited notions of mind-following-body, again and again. Is it possible? a voice asked within me. How does the dan tien become Primary Mover in human being? I’m sure Aristotle or Thomas Aquinas would shudder at their language swiped for this purpose…which makes me smile and repeat it: how does one’s core, one’s mid-section, become Primary Force moving and directing human fullness? As I explored motion from my core, exploring capacity of my head to follow the flow of movement instead of leading it, I became aware of a difference, the words written here. Movement from the core, mind following body's lead.

The first part of the practice concluded, inviting us into an intentioned time of personal-integration before sharing words in the final section or group-integration. Stilted words came first, in green marker on paper: cannot, positive, negative, etc. The drum-beat softened the edges, drew an abstract exploration of page-space not unlike the Korean-Japanese artist-teacher I “met” this summer at the Guggenheim, Lee Ufan. My spirit had yearned for weeks now to explore abstract drawing or practice in such fashion but I had not known how to start there either. Pen followed drum beats, spirit-body breathed into the sound-structure provided. Mind eased, letters disappeared, all that remained was rhythmic marks and dots, guided forward in multiple directions chosen in a manner inarticulate.

The circle spoke its experiences in brief and diverse fashion. My mind spoke in my turn, mostly from its petulance. “I don’t know where I am. It’s going to take a long time,” I heard myself say. Then a dissonance of some kind felt itself awaken, suggesting to me (belatedly) that what I had spoken was, in fact, inaccurate. Confirmation arose in me as the tears flowed, again without aware-referent or obvious ‘cause.’ Tears not unlike the salty ocean that had opened before us, that had overwhelmed articulate speech in the circle. Tears salty enough to cleanse but also to confirm an open way. A companion assured me the tears would not last forever.

As I walked back to my car in the holy darkness, I felt a bit of that other tell-tale sign that invites attention as gift: sacred envy. Something Wise is here, whispering its unspoken welcome, waiting for any and all willing to step into the surf. Perhaps it is good not to know. Perhaps sacred envy leads each of us to lean bodily into the trust of those who do know, who have learned to breathe in such a surf, who have been cleansed by their own tears, who live from the core of their being-loving-serving. 

At the very least, it is good to breathe open at the core once again, to offer a small thanksgiving into the morning-mist, and to walk into the ways of the day, whatever may unfold.