Sand dollars

Sand dollars. Whole. Broken. Covered with bugs and barnacles. Green hats of seaweed finery. Perfect on the outside. What is on the inside? Decorated. Plain. Upside down. Right side up. Holes all the way through. Broken in half. Waiting to be taken back to sea or taken home by a passerby.

Last week I walked the beach at Soltura for one last bit of leisurely solitude before the new workshop participants arrived. Little did I know that the words above (penned during those moments) would become the metaphor my mind returned to when asked to share my recent experience.

Words seem so inadequate & insufficient. Even powerful words like glorious, magical, terrifying, magnificent, pure & true. Learning. Growing. Changing. The Light. The words are everywhere if only we open our eyes to look and to see the miracles before us.

"Whole" with finery and beauty keeping others at bay. Broken wide open yet still hidden behind tears and confusion (bugs and barnacles). Boldness that says, ‘Get away!’ The caretaker, the mother, the protector—looking out for others while slowly letting their “control” cover them over like tiny bugs invading the shells. Holes in the middle. Others broken in two. Torn between two sides with a gaping space filled with nothing. The nearly invisible one—buried deep in the sand on the edge slightly away from the others. Will you notice that one?

We see each other in each other. Together we gently pick up the shells. They cannot return to their original form. They will never be the same and yet they will be whole. The beauty is that we get to re-define what wholeness looks like. Maybe it looks like glorious, magical, flawed & broken, pure & true sand dollars on the beach.

Sand dollars and people—are they really so different?

Refusal of Silence

“Being a Silent Woman is not about being quiet and reticent, it’s about stifling our truth. Our real truth.” --Sue Monk Kidd, Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

A few days ago I wrote a post called “Simmering.” Many interpreted it, including myself, as a poem about anger—my anger. And, yes, of course that is true and yet it is not. For as I wrote those words I could envision a specific time and place, I could see the room, feel the tension in my young body, and witness the face of the one who was simmering. The words were about that face and that time and place AND the words were bigger than that with a parade of other faces, times and events being added along the way. They were not simply “simmering” faces. They were faces that attempted to "silence."

Ah, but the beauty is. This woman; that little girl; refuses to be silenced.

Last weekend I was drawn to create a collage using my own picture as the base. When I started, I envisioned layers of color ranging from dark to light with an emphasis more on the darkness that I felt had been surrounding me for several days. But as I worked, the darkness began to recede and colors of life and light arose. A lioness emerged with her power and courage. Jewels began to cover the page. The process was amazing, because even as I had selected dark rows of background, I found myself covering them with flowers and diamonds and kisses; with sweetness and bubbles and butterflies. Something very real emerged. Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled.

"Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled." I believe that is something truly worth pondering. How about you?

Simmering

The mind is so complicated. A memory returns in a flash and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that in that remembered moment your heart was pierced deeply and the wound is still healing decades later. Sometimes the healing does hurt more than the original wound.

anger simmers like a pot on the stove; threatening to explode while silent and steaming.

turn up the heat just a bit and you will be burned, so steer clear and gently tilt the lid letting the pot release some pressure.

still the anger simmers; ready to bubble over and make a mess. so, you inch away but not before inhaling the aroma of contempt and blame.

you believe you have made the mess. if the pot explodes it will be your fault; and so, you control the temperature as best you can with your tiny hands.

hands thrust inside too big oven mitts that swallow them like boxing gloves. as time goes by your hands will grow into them, but they will always feel clumsy.

never allowed to take a healthy swing, you punch the air like windmills spinning in the wind.

the circle continues on. the steam releases ever so slightly, but still the anger simmers like a pot on the stove.

photo from here

I Do Not Know

A friend wrote me today and asked, "How are you?" At the moment the only response I had was "Aaaaaaarrghhhhhh" in true Peanuts-style. It made me smile, however, to know someone was thinking fondly of me. I have been wrestling lately between my calling and the price I feel like I pay for "seeing well." Wondering if this is the persecution Christ talks about. My work has been filled with amazing transformative
experiences that seem to be peppered from all sides with challenges and potential setbacks. It is enough to make me question if it is all worth it, but somehow quitting seems to be just what the enemy (whatever that means) would want me to do. And so, I dig my Lucy heels in and hold my ground while praying for sunlight, rest and wisdom.

I ran across this quote last night while reading Will and Spirit by Gerald G. May, M.D. He calls this the "fundamental contemplative statement concerning good, evil, and God:"

I DO NOT KNOW. I do not know what is ultimately good or evil, nor even what is real or unreal. But I do know that there is no way I can proceed upon my own personal resources. In this as in all things, I am utterly and irrevocably dependent upon a Power that I can in no way objectify. I call this Power God, and God is beyond my understanding, beyond good and evil, beyond doubt and trust, beyond even life and death. God's love and power and Spirit exist in me, through me, and in all creatures. But God is unimaginably BEYOND all this as well. I also know that in my heart I wish to do and be what God would desire of me. Therefore, in humility and fear, I give myself. I commit my soul to God, the One Almighty Creator, the Ultimate Source of reality. Good or bad, right or wrong, these things are beyond me. I love, but I do not know. I live and act and decide between this and that as best I can, but ultimately, I do not know. And thus I say, in the burning vibrancy of Your Love and Terror, THY WILL BE DONE.

Amen

photo taken on my morning walk today

The Battle

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.” --Genesis 50:20

Sometimes the battle between good and evil feels so strong it is almost incapaci-
tating. Is that the goal of evil--
to incapacitate?

There is so much to consider in each seemingly small verse like the one above. I understand that the brothers (the "you") intended to harm Joseph in this story. They are human. But where I get hung up is God’s place in the whole scene. Did God “intend” for Joseph to suffer all those years so that many could be saved? The thought of imposed suffering for the good of others leaves me cold. It is a topic I have been wrestling with of late.

My last week was filled with an array of emotions and powerful experiences. I watched transformation of souls occur before my very eyes. I experienced it for myself. I felt the power of God in nature and witnessed it in the rain, wind and hail. I saw eagles soar and light shine on trees like something in a painting. Miracles were all around. And, I could sense a battle to stop this good from happening.

Does the heat get turned up when God’s work is being done? Who turns up the heat? God? Satan? The Universe? Me? Many questions bounce through my mind for which I have no answers. I feel like I could try to ignore them and hope they go away or I could become absorbed with them and thus paralyzed from moving forward.

The balance for me is in being aware and willing to wrestle with the thoughts. Even making a small start and putting a few words on paper brings me hope. Not that I will necessarily come up with the answers, but that I will continue to move, to choose life, to reach for the light rather than become absorbed by darkness.

I choose to wrestle. How about you? What does your wrestling look like today?

photo by bill