The Reality of Aging

            I found myself thinking about aging this week while on vacation at the same spot on the coast of Maine where we’ve been coming for the past twenty years or so. Not much changes here. Each year a cottage or two may get a bit of renovation. Just enough. Maybe one wall gets moved to make room for a slightly larger screened porch or the postage-stamp kitchen gets new linoleum.

            But this summer is an exception. This year some things are a good bit different. This summer both my husband and Roger, our big old dog, are feeling their age. Robert has a mysteriously sore knee, and rather than walk with Roger, assorted friends, and me around a boggy conservation area where we scout every morning for frogs, beaver, and an occasional bald eagle, he sits on the porch reading a detective novel, with a bag of frozen peas flopped across his elevated knee. And Roger, who seems to be feeling the pain in his arthritic knees more acutely in this moist air, just sniffs his food bowl, walks away, and plops himself down on the floor of the porch where the breeze off the bay comes up through the slatted floorboards.

            “He’s not eating today,” Robert announced this morning. “Maybe we’ll have to get him something really tasty at the market later on,” he says. “ I think maybe he’s just getting old and isn’t as hungry as he used to be,” I reply. And so I leave them together on the porch and wander outside on my own.

            In this quiet, sweet place where time truly seems to stand still, change is still the one constant. Here, though the changes are subtler and show up as things like occasional Internet access in one or two spots on the farmhouse porch, time marches right along. The brave 5 and 6 year-olds, who jump off the end of the pier at high tide with the teenagers and the grownups, look just like our daughters, who are no longer 5 or even 13, but 22 and 30 and living out their lives far from this quiet cove on the coast of Maine. 

            I wouldn’t have it any other way. Despite the toll that aging takes on our physical and mental bodies, I trust that we are part of a life force, of God or Spirit, a divine love and mystery that is at the heart of all that is, and that we, too, are ageless and without form. And I trust that, as Spirit, we are intimately connected to each other, to all life forms, and to our past, our present, and our future.

And so as these physical bodies, our cells in all their intricacy, inevitably wear down and we stay on the porch soothing our aging joints with a bag of frozen peas or maybe choosing not to eat just now even though there’s cheddar cheese sprinkled all over our kibble, Spirit, our true nature, remains stunning in its perfection, its beauty and timelessness. Just knowing that is all the reality I need.  And it is the only reality I trust.

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A Baby’s Face

            I have a new job. It’s a great job without any of the usual pressures or deadlines. There was no interview process required, no resume, no references, no mission statement or short and long-term goals to be clarified. Nothing! All I had to do was to be born, grow up, learn some things, make a few mistakes, fall in love, get married, have a baby, watch her grow up, love her, care for her, make a few more mistakes, read aloud, nurture her dreams, welcome her beloved into the family, and then say “Yes!” when she asked, “Would you like to hold your grandson!?”

            This is my new job. I spend hours staring into the precious, tender, expressive face of a sweet baby boy who is just one week old today. We hang out on the sofa or in his daddy’s big comfy chair. We sway back and forth on the squeaky place on the living room floor while his mama takes a nap, and then he and I just put our feet up and stare into each other’s faces. And there really are no words for it.

Here in my arms is a little life that just knows what to do. He has a map and compass built in and even a meter for goodness and badness. He’s elemental and spectacular all at once. Just like the haze of bright green buds that formed a misty halo around the treetops in my neighborhood after our unbelievably long and cold winter, this sweet baby knows what to do. I love to watch his little mouth with its precious curve of an upper lip begin to pucker and twitch as his tender head rolls to the side searching for something like sap that will fill his little tummy and then his veins, arteries, skin, bones, muscles and organs. Just like the trees, his instruction booklet says “Grow!”

My job is to notice, to notice and rejoice, to say, “Did you see that? Did you see what he just did?!”  And I get to do other sweet jobs like folding the tiny clothes and putting them in the basket, filling the Brita so there’s always plenty of fresh water for his mama, or taking out the trash. But the best job of all is just staring into his baby eyes, and finding…everything. Even his eyes are like the trees, windows into the impulse of life towards growth, beauty, and wisdom. What is here now, in these eyes, is the same spark that turns the haze of buds to masses of fluttering green leaves that will shade our summer picnics or provide shelter for the birds. It’s the same spark that will turn those leaves to brilliant reds and yellows and become a carpet on the woodland floor. And even in the depth of winter, even when the spark of life is kept just barely alive deep in the trees’ roots below the ground, still there is a spark, an intrinsic impulse keeping the tree alive.

 People say that its indescribable, the love that wells like a fountain from the heart of being itself when one beholds a baby’s face.

Trust them! It's real.

Closer to the Reason

    If you are at all like me, you may have a number of guardian angels in human form, people who look out for you in unexpected and tender ways. One of my angels is my brother-in-law. Among the countless things he does to help keep me functioning well in life is to provide me with music; not just any music, but the kind that appeals to the 17-year-old in me, the one who chose folk concerts at Passim's in Cambridge over drinking with my buddies at the German brew-house. He is a genuine folk person from "back in the day", as my grown children would say, a supporter of the folk scene in its finest hour.

    This week he sent me off on my two-hour commute to school with a copy of the newest CD release from the Canadian group, the "Wailin' Jennys". I listened to it once towards the end of my ride in and was captivated by the melodies. Today, on my way home, as I listened again, I was stopped in my tracks by a song entitled "You Are Here". Before I knew it, I'd put it on repeat, even stopping for tea at a rest area so I could listen without the road noise.

    
    I have a mantra practice that I love dearly, a practice that fills me up to overflowing. This was like that. I have no doubt that this mantra of many verses provided nearly the same energetic healing and protection as the Sanskrit mantras I chant nearly every day. With wisdom, beauty, and stunning harmonies, its message and melody filled me to overflowing, as it played over and over all the way home.

    The shock of being turned away from the denominational path to ministry that I was following until just a few weeks ago is very, very gradually wearing off. But underneath there is a rawness, a tenderness that catches me off guard. Its similar to the experience I have when I unexpectedly find something of my mother's among my things and realize that her hands were the last to hold it. There are no words for that, not that are adequate to capture the layers.


    But somehow this song did, with lyrics that touch into the wisdom at the core of all of the great religious traditions the world over. Start right here, they say, on this ground, with the truth of who you are and where you've been. Start with the  truth of your wanting it to be different, of your wanting it to be someone else's responsibility, with your wanting to just trade this life in for one with no pain. And then stay there; no bargaining; no escaping. Stay until you know, until you know in your bones that the only way out is through. 


"You wonder why, you wonder when, how you became who you've become.   
...Every darkened hallway, every fallen dream, every battle lost and every shadow in between, will bring you to your knees and closer to the reason....And every broken arrow, every hardened smile, every foolish gamble and every lonely mile, will bring you to your knees and closer to the reason. 

And there's no making cases for getting out or trading places, And there's no turning back. No, you are here...And every sign of love, every seed that's growing, every sweet surrender to that silent knowing, will bring you to your knees and closer to the reason...and there's no turning back, no you are here." (Ruth Moody- SOCAN 2009)


    This is Holy Week, a time when Christian churches the world over retell the story of Jesus' death and resurrection. "The truth is right here", say the lyrics and the gospel stories, The Word, that tells of Christ's last days. Both describe the deepest truth we can know, a reality we glimpse around the edges of the experiences that catch us up short. We are more than meets the eye, more than flesh, more than bones. We are, even when our dreams or our bodies die. The who of who we are is without physical substance, yet is an overflowing fountain of love and joy. 

    That we are each a spark of the creative force of the universe, right here in this human body, in this precious life, on this holy ground, right here, is the truth that brings me to my knees. 

    It's what gives me the words.


 

 

"You sound angry," a friend wrote to me in an email yesterday. 
You could have knocked me over with a feather. 

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross writes eloquently about anger as a stage of grief. If I remember properly, it comes right on the heels of shock. But I'm not very good at noticing anger. I walk right past it, not realizing that it's pitched a tent and rolled out a sleeping bag. It's just hanging out...biding its time until I notice we're not home anymore.

I grew up in a time when adults didn't show their deepest  emotions on the surface. The adults in my life were shell-shocked from the 2nd World War and craved order and peace in their lives. Their grief was so deep, that most days they kept busy, while powerful emotions lurked just below the surface.
 
"You sound angry."  

Yes, its probably true. And it doesn't really matter that I can feel the the wisdom and the blessings in this redirection, or that I have all the support I'll ever need to find a new way. I wish I could see around corners and know that something tangible and rewarding is ahead. But I can't. 

So I'll just crawl into that tent and hang out with the hard stuff for as long as it takes to feel what it feels like right here, right now. And when I'm ready,
I'll know.

This afternoon I took a little foray to a high-end market in a gentrified neighborhood to buy myself a chocolate bar. I needed an adventure with a satisfying conclusion. After lingering over the chocolate, I stood in front of a rack of greeting cards, and one in particular grabbed my attention. On the outside was a photograph of three middle-aged women on a streetcar or a bus, arms slung over their seats, heads thrown back with abandon, huge grins on their faces, each woman facing in a different direction with parcels and packages in a chaotic jumble all around them. The message on the outside was “Happy Birthday!” and the message on the inside was “You know you’re in the right place, if you’re lost!”

            I had just finished a conversation with a classmate over lunch in the dining hall about the mysterious and uncanny ways that Spirit gets our attention. We’d been talking about hard wake-up calls, and that led us to remembering all the other ways Spirit has of getting through to us--subtle, breathtaking, even humorous. So, there, in front of the card rack, I burst out laughing. And I would have fallen to my knees if I had been anywhere else but the grocery store, because I knew I was on holy ground. Tucked inside a goofy birthday card, the only card I opened, was the message I most need to hear. “Lost is a matter of perspective”.

            Religion is full of language about being lost and found. The Hebrew and Christian sacred texts begin with a story about being kicked out of Paradise, about becoming lost. One of my most exciting discoveries in Old Testament class was learning that the word repent simply means to turn around, to go back and find a new direction. All the heavy, burdensome meanings of the words “sin” and “repentance” were added during dark times by folks very much interested in being and staying in control of the institution of the Church. But sometimes it’s not a sin to be lost.

            Our human history is full of stories of arduous, glorious and gritty redemption. The story of the resurrection of Jesus is about redemption, about the power of love over the darkness and confusion of life, about the journey of learning that freedom comes when we recognize our undeniable connection to each other and to all that is. But its not the only story that grew out of our very human experience that we are somehow lost, disconnected, out of touch, or in need of redirection. Think of all the great literary sagas that involve journeying and getting lost, tales of arduous struggles leading to a triumphal return home and a hero/heroine’s welcome, a celebration that acknowledges that the journey has accomplished its task. The traveler is home to their true identity.

There’s hardly a culture that hasn’t needed to tell a story about coming back to who we are, that hasn’t needed to hear the deep inner truth that its alright, there is always a way home. You’re already there, breathing in and out, feeling the blood pulse through your veins, aware of the sights and sounds around you. Alive, because aliveness is what it’s all about. Deep within the physicality of life there is one truth, one light. We are all one body, one pulsing, vibrating being that physicists use rhapsodic language to describe. And even in the hardest moments, moments of shock when everything we know is suddenly unrecognizable, and we can’t reorient, because none of these landmarks were on our map; even then, even there, we are that grace, the love that is life itself.

Today I needed to be OK with lost, with the tender place of turning around, here on this ground that was one place a few weeks ago and now is another. This ground that I thought was leading somewhere else, was leading right here, it turns out. As the shock wears off, it’s beginning to feel like sacred ground. This place where I’ve landed was on the map, but now it has a different name. And it’s all right with me if we call it Lost, because sometimes, just like those women on the train, I know I’m in exactly the right place, if I’m lost.

Here Is What I Know --April 11, 2010

          I woke this morning from a dream about truth and memory. In it I was working to convince a young attorney of the truth of my memory of a situation. And he, with agility and persistence, was pointing out to me all the inconsistencies in what and how I was remembering. I was adamant that he see the significance of the events my way, but he just didn’t. Nothing I said could convince him that I was right.

          The truth is that my life has been a symphony of inconsistencies the past few years, as I’ve attempted to take a deep inward journey along an institutional path. I faithfully followed the path that I thought would open to a creative and compassionate life of service. Yet here I am, standing at the end of that path, looking down into the crashing surf. The truth is stark and real, and going forward is no longer an option.  Not this way.

          Spirit has a way of catching us before we fall off a cliff, at least sometimes. But often that catching can be devastating and doesn’t resemble anything like what we think of as grace or blessings. Everything we’ve invested in seems to be crushed under a heavy foot, tossed off a cliff into the waves, severed. And it may be years before we are able to look back and even begin to see the hand of divinity, in those events, turning us toward the perfection of a more authentic future.

          Sometimes divinity is that lawyer in my dream, unconvinced that what we think will ultimately be most productive and fulfilling for us will actually allow for the fullest expression of our gifts. It might take countless choices, including walking into walls or coming to the end of the road, before we actually step out with a sure and confident step onto a path that opens to a future both rewarding and true to who we are.

    But if we are brave enough, if we can bear the weight of bone-deep sorrow, shock, and disappointment and just stay with it, leaning into it as if our lives depended on it, which they do, we might begin to sense a deeper truth. That we are never alone. That we are inside of all things, all experiences, and that they are inside of us. That nothing is  lost,  as long as we appreciate its value. And that as one path reaches an end, another is already beginning to open, gently and tenderly beckoning us forward into the promise of another day, a fresh start, an adventure of the spirit we wouldn’t miss for the world. An opportunity to bring the blessing that is who we are to the service of Light and Love.

Here Is What I Know: April 8, 2011

        

I got to thinking about traffic lights today when I noticed myself talking to a green light at a crowded intersection.  Maybe you know what I mean. “Just stay green, stay green,” I chanted internally as I entered the intersection and “Thank you, thank you!” as my car slipped through just as the light was turning yellow.  I confess that I talk to street lights all the time. It may go back to a scene from an independent film I saw years ago in which a young girl was riding along in a car with a kind man, a mentor of sorts, someone who was opening the world of possibilitiy to her. I don’t much remember the plot details, but I’ll never forget the game she invented as they drove along. At every intersection they approached down a long, wide, city street, the stoplight was red, but when the young heroine blew hard at the light, she replaced it, like magic, with green. And, of course, as this unlikely duo drove down that long boulevard, the smile on her young face grew brighter and brighter until she absolutely glowed.

            We humans like cause and effect. We like flipping the light switch on the wall and having the dark entryway fill up with light. We like shaking the dogfood bag and  hearing all four feet thump to the floor off  the forbidden sofa and trot into the kitchen. We like pulling open the tivak envelope that the cloth shopping bag arrives in after we’ve sent in the check to the address on the back of the cereal box. When the rain comes down in torrents in the early spring, we like knowing that the dry brown lawn will eventually turn green.

And some of us blow at streetlights, because we love feeling that burst of delight when we change stop to go, no to yes.

But life is rarely that predictable, at least not that kind of predictable, and it doesn’t feel like a game when we walk into a wall of resistance or receive devastating news. When no amount of positive thinking can change stop to go, no to yes, not even blowing at streetlights feels like a game. And we’ll stay curled up on the sofa, thank you very much, no matter what treats you might have for us. I know.

 But maybe if we’re lucky some kind and generous soul pulls into our metaphorical driveway and invites us out for a ride, a rambling conversation with no particular destination, except for a change of scenery. And she listens to us as we tell the story of a door that just closed for good, the promise of  a future that will never arrive.  And she listens to our silence that is too dense for words.

Its a long ride. In between the silences there are deeper silences still. But the scenery is changing and we get a little curious about where we are. We begin to notice the landscape, we open the window to feel the breeze on our face. It begins to dry the tears from our cheeks. “ Would you like to drive  a little?” she asks, and we do. So she pulls over and we switch places. We drive and she navigates. We begin to smile.

 “At the next light, take a right,” she tells us. So we slow down as we approach the intersection, but then we begin to speed up, and without even thinking we look right up at the stoplight and hear ourselves saying, “Just stay green. Stay green!” 

And we do, at least for now.

Here Is What I Know: April 7, 2011

            This morning I woke with a sadness like lead in my bones. It was the same sadness I’d taken to bed with me last night, a sadness so deep I could barely breath, a sadness about the loss of a future I’d been working towards for years. Like a shroud, it weighed me down as I pulled the covers close around my head and sobbed.           

When I was a little girl I took offense at the suggestion that adversity carries seeds of redemption. By redemption I mean the grace and truth of God’s love that actually keeps company with whatever circumstances arise in our lives. My childlike perspective was that if everyone knew kindness and lived kindness, there’d be no sorrow and we could release all negativity from the world. It was that easy. Why couldn’t my loved ones get it right? It was just a matter of will, after all. I wanted everyone around me to open their eyes to the wonders and blessings of life. But of course it didn’t go like that most days, except when we packed up our belongings and headed out on an adventure in search of natural wonders…our vacation once a year.

            Most days I escaped into imaginative play as a way to hold back the offending darkness that hung over the people I loved most. There, in my imagination, I acted out the nurturing and loving relationships I craved.  I’m sure that I could find a diagnostic label for my forays into imagination in one of my daughter’s thick social work textbooks, but whatever they might be called, they kept me safe.

            But now I’m well into the middle years of my life and intimately acquainted with sorrows, with shame, grief, and loss. I’ve even practiced staying with groundlessness ~~ leaning into it~~ as the wise Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron teaches. I know that if I allow myself to taste it and not turn away or reach for something sweeter, I might experience a fleeting moment of compassion for all people everywhere, who just like me, as Pema says, are weighed down by the trials of daily living and are longing for comfort ~~ and for release. And if I can stay with it through all the difficult emotions that arise, something else, something fresh might just enter. For me that freshness is the Divine Consciousness, God, the Oneness, the Light that knows no divisions or separations and pervades all things. Blesses all things.

            And so I put my feet on the floor and quietly agreed to walk into whatever arose, the sadness still so heavy, so raw, the disbelief still so present as yesterday’s tape played over and over in my head. I sent out a few tentative emails, wishing, more than anything else, to allow some scrap of tenderness to loosen the tight bands around my heart. Gentle replies began to arrive, messages filled with tender words, wisdom, and concern. Eventually I picked up the phone and made an appointment with a wise and compassionate healer.

And as I walked tentatively and gratefully through the hurt and the fear and on into the light of this day, grace, those perfect, tiny seeds of redemption, began to sprout and take root in the hidden recesses of my heart.