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Vigilance
There are lots of reasons—and good reasons—we are vigilant in our lives. We want to protect our families. We hope to protect ourselves. We watch our money. We notice where the dandelions spring up in our yards. We saw that look he gave you. We wonder whether our jobs will last. We watch for clues—continually—from our environment. When to laugh, when to look up, when to duck.
Some of us learn vigilance very early as a creative adjustment to a situation in which we needed to keep our eyes open and our wits about us. We were always watching, watching. Thinking, thinking. Preparing a mental plan. If he comes home drunk, I'll do this. If she doesn't come home at all tonight, I'll do that.
I've been thinking a lot about my own vigilance lately, about the gifts it's given me (it's a create tool for any writer, because it helps you notice absolutely everything), as well as the challenges, the straightjacket, it offers the way I look at the world. Sometimes my vigilance is exhausting because it wants me not only to notice everything but to anticipate everything and then to do exactly the right thing with the information popping up for my noticing. This is, of course, impossible.
Vigilance also doesn't really know the limits of her own powers—she's immature in that way. She promises perfect safety. She promises that we'll know what to do. But she doesn't see how her presence changes things that arise. Allowing and Breathing let whatever is emerging in the moment show up, unshaped, unmolded, reasonably—or relatively—uncontrolled. But Vigilance holds everything tightly in the name of keeping the person safe. This means a certain amount of shaping, controlling has to go on—there is a forced construct to protect.
I think it's possible to soften Vigilance into Noticing, which can then relax into the arms of Allowing. A certain amount of growth in safety has to happen to make that journey, and a supportive environment that can be trusted is certainly part of the mix.
Maybe there's enough distance now between the Us we were then and the Us we are now to allow our Vigilance to soften into Noticing. Many things we perceived as threats when we were small may now be annoyances or even less—just small things we now know how to manage. Let's soften where we can, and gradually, slowly, Allowing might just step into our pictures.
The group voice
This past weekend I began a year's worth of training at the
Indianapolis Gestalt Institute, where I will add a specialization in Gestalt approaches to the MDiv in pastoral care and counseling. I love both narrative and Gestalt and find that they work together harmoniously to help us be aware of the energy that's arising in the present moment and notice the story that is shaping the expression of that energy.
One of the areas that fascinates me is the idea of the arising field--the idea that we aren't separate individual beings but part of an interrelated field of events in each living moment. (That's a deeper subject that requires lots more explanation, but I'll tackle that in a future post.) The piece that's resonating for me this morning relates to a conversation I had with two others recently. We were discussing different stories in our lives, and I noticed that as I talked about my own awareness, I used the word "violence," which isn't normally part of my vocabulary. Hearing it come out of my mouth was jarring--I felt the energy leap out of me with the word. It shook me up.
Just moments later, one of the other people in the group described a story that included the theme of being forced to do something--the image she painted was not peaceful, and, in fact, I thought, "Oh my goodness, there's that violence theme again!"
The third person (whom I had never met before) was very high energy and had a loud voice. All movements and expressions seemed exaggerated, put-on. In the moment I was aware and curious about the expressions of "violence" that came from two of us but not the third. Then the person mentioned a difficult conflicted power struggle with his aging father and I thought--"aha...there's the source of that energy."
So my curiosity and my question is this: How much of what we express is really "sharing the burden" with another and helping them manifest emotions and circumstances they need in order to heal? Is your anger
your anger? Or are you assisting me by feeling something for me until I'm able to feel it for myself?
Popping the lid on our thinking
For as long as I can remember, I have used the phrase "popping the lid on our thinking" to describe that kind of thought that makes a numb for a moment as we feel a new thought sweeping through our minds and opening us to new ideas. Popping the lid means you open to new things and let the fresh breeze of possibility into your consciousness. It's a good thing. :)
Today is Emily Dickinson's birthday, and
Writer's Almanac today published this quote of hers: "If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry." Yes, exactly! Let the sun shine in. :)
THIS is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,—
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
[source: image and verse from http://www.bartleby.com/113/1000.html]
Don't let the cloud win
Last night I had a conversation with a friend about the nature of discouragement and the feelings of hopelessness and "why try?" that go along with it. It seems we all run through cycles of times when internally we feel ready and able to take on any task, and then times when we feel overwhelmed and too ineffective to resolve even the tiniest challenge. I'm not sure why our emotional boats pitch and sway like this--perhaps it's our inner sense of identity, maybe it's the stars, or it could be we're all fighting colds. :)
Whatever it is that disempowers us, when we feel low, the cloud of discouragement comes to sit on our shoulders. Suddenly we can't see the way out of things. Answers seem far away. Life doesn't feel right. We doubt our abilities. We wonder whether we'll ever feel effective again.
This cloud, as heavy and dense and real as it feels, is just vapor. Vapor filled with the exhaust of past experiences, of all the doubts that stick to us during ther day, of all the fears we project into the future about obstacles that could arise.
The reality is here, in this moment. Right now. We are capable creators, who sometimes forget or can't see (for whatever reason), the sheer joy and power of our potential to create. We can create for ourselves clouds around our heads or beautiful meadows under our feet. We can pave our own way with obstacles or line the path with beauty and peace. We create in every moment, and our creations--for better or worse--inspire others to create their own worlds.
So today, if the cloud of discouragement follows you around, remember that it's not real--it's not who you are. Reject the worries that say your life isn't what it should be. Claim responsibility for where you are and know that wherever that may be you have within you the creative power to create the story you want. There is a force (I'm convinced) that is for you--it's part of your creative heritage. Try it and see. Just say to that cloud "You're not real," and pay attention as your internal energy begins to build.
We're not here to be victims or our lives--passive recipients of events--but to create the lives we envision, in love, in blessing, in joy. Let's try it! :)
Listening to Receive
This morning a thought occurred to me about a subtle difference in listening that can make all the difference in relationship. Last night I saw the movie
Everybody's Fine with Robert DeNiro. It was a sweet movie with a simple a painful premise: when we tell people in our lives--especially those to whom was are closely tied--that we are "fine" and cover up the real struggles, events, and happenings, we create a distance that makes our relationships artificial. It's true--I've seen it and lived it in my own life.
There is a school of thought (one I do subscribe to, mostly) that whatever we pay attention to grows. So the tendency to not talk about the bad stuff as a way to avoid making it real is understandable. But there's also that level of "protectionism" (I didn't want to worry you) and fear (I didn't want to burden you) that really can be justifications for hiding.
Some of this ability to speak truth has to do with the quality of listening. If we have rarely been deeply heard and received, telling these kinds of realities about our lives--job loss, fears, relationship troubles, health issues--may leave us feeling very vulnerable and exposed. How can we trust the other person to care and handle our truth in an honoring way if they haven't ever received what we've said in the past? If someone doesn't feel your real presence, if they don't really understand you, if you can stand next to them and feel alone, why would you tell them the deepest things you're struggling with in your life?
I think when we make the choice to be authentic, to tell the truth in love no matter how we are received or by whom, it heals us,
for usHopefully the other person will receive what we say--maybe not today, and maybe not this time. But when we're authentic, at least the other person sees it and knows we're making some kind of effort on behalf of our relationship with them. And that decision, made as consistently as we can make it, will sooner or later lighten the air between us so that one day, we'll realize that no matter how the other person reacts, we have shown up authentically in the world. And that's big. And it gets easier, the more you do it. :)
Community losses
At my Quaker meeting, we have lost three wonderful women in three weeks. Mary's death was unexpected and a shock--she was in her 50s, a peace activist, a gentle, beautiful woman. Hilda was in her late 80s, and even though she'd lived a long wonderful life, she was strong and sure, with a great sense of humor and more than a little twinkle in her eye. Her loss is huge for all of us. And Betsy, a colorful, 80-year-old artist with a love of expression (who was known to sing prayers in meeting), passed away yesterday morning, surrounded by her closest family members.
Our community rides together in a small boat that is feeling wave after wave of grief. Those who helped navigate with their wisdom and experience are not with us. Who will move into those roles now? How will the community continue? What are we feeling, and how will we share or manage those feelings in a way that help us feel more connected and less isolated?
Grief demands many things of us, individually and collectively. It asks us to feel what we feel. It invites us to share with each other (not all of us feel able to do that, though). It lets us respond in our own way (by pulling away or reaching out) but it draws us into the heart of the paradox of what it means to live. To live and to lose. To love and to let go. To risk loving again, even though this means the hurt will be that much more intense.
This morning I'm wondering what grief looks like for communities--those who lose key people who were so much more than individuals. People who embody the heart and soul of the community in a real way. When they are with us no more, what does the community have? How will it grow and change? What's next, when the clouds of grief begin to dissipate enough for us to begin to consider the road ahead?
Important questions, I think. I don't have answers today--only more questions. But maybe we'll discover them along the way.
This past weekend I began a year's worth of training at the Indianapolis Gestalt Institute, where I will add a specialization in Gestalt approaches to the MDiv in pastoral care and counseling. I love both narrative and Gestalt and find that they work together harmoniously to help us be aware of the energy that's arising in the present moment and notice the story that is shaping the expression of that energy.
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