A story is told about a group of blind men who happen to cross paths with an elephant, and of course, they attempt to answer the question, what is it? Appropriately engaging the senses they possess, the men begin a scratch-n-sniff research style, essentially feeling their way to a definition for "elephant." It isn't a surprise when they come up with entirely different ideas about their subject because they are each bound by a limited and unique perspective. While the truth of the elephant exists, the definitions given by each of these men are subjective and limited by their proximity to a specific element of the animal's physical composition. In other words, alone, each man's version of the elephant can only be partly true. Combined, the men would surely get closer to the whole truth as they discuss and compile their findings.

No one has to be lying, ignorant or unenlightened for everyone in the room to see the world from a completely different perspective. In fact, this is inevitable. We are, every one of us, human information processors, each with our own inner workings, and data that is specialized. If I have always lived in a desert environment surrounded by a variety of snakes, and if I have never seen an elephant before, then it stands to reason that touching an elephant's tail would bring up images of the snakes with which I am familiar. I can only make inferences based on available information and experience. If I have no awareness or background that would allow me to imagine an elephant, then describing an elephant as it truly is would be out of reach.

I used to believe that I was responsible to know and impart absolute objective spiritual truth, feeling guilty for having faith that seemed to wax, wane and differ from others within my faith tradition. I've loosened my grip on that idea, happily. Don't get me wrong, I do believe that absolute objective truth exists. I just don't believe that I am able to see it, understand it or digest it...much less teach it to others. In fact, even though there are teachers I respect and trust, I remain unconvinced that anyone can see the whole picture. The parable depicted above conveys this idea perfectly.

Another study on spiritual perspective can be found in the musical Fiddler on the Roof, when Tevye, a poor milkman and student of the "good book" listens to acquaintances arguing in his village. One man makes his point, and Tevye admits he may be right. But when another man challenges the first with an equally sound argument, Tevye agrees with the second man, too. A neutral observer asserts that they can't both be right, at which point the frustratingly flexible Tevye finishes his commentary with, "You are also right."

As I approach sixty, I have come to believe that I am only capable of seeing part of the truth from the perspective I have, given my experience and viewpoint. The Bible puts it beautifully: "For now we see through a glass, darkly (like blind men describing an elephant)...now, I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known" 1 Corinthians 13:12. Given this scriptural analysis, how could I possibly believe that I fully understand God or even myself?
We have to accept, and this is terrifying, that we don't know everything. Why is this so uncomfortable especially for those of us who grew up in the framework of spiritual dogma? When we realize that we don't have the whole map in our hands, we can't really continue believing that we're still in control of the journey.


Most importantly, how does this belief make a difference in the way I live my life?

• First, I am released from the notion that fully defining right and wrong is a thing in terms of my access to truth. This acceptance frees me from self-judgement and fear, and and builds faith and surrender into my spiritual practice. If I simply don't know all of the possible answers and outcomes, I have no recourse but to ask for help, and trust in the God I believe in, the one who loves creation at least as much as I love those in my inner circle. 
• Furthermore, I choose to be skeptical of my own assumptions (conceptual credit to Don Miguel Ruiz and his Fifth Agreement.) I see only in part, like those blind men feeling their way around an elephant. I am experiencing my way through this life, and the only way I can get smarter than my own experience is to talk to others and listen deeply about what they are discovering on their journey. 
• Finally, my acceptance that I can only see "through a glass darkly" builds openness and empathy into the conversations I have with others, allowing me to lighten my grip on confrontational arrogance and instead, shoot for a stance of humility and respect for the specialized data I can only receive from those outside of my limited perspective

"Can't Touch This" by Rachael Ibanez

Lately, my days have been more peaceful. My "buttons" get pushed less frequently, and at least some of the time, I am able to claim the space between what happens...and my reaction to what happens. This space is a gift, miraculous, offering the opportunity for me to make choices without slipping on the ice of reactivity, clinging instead to the shore of  just-do-the-next-right-thing.

As I string together my beaded chain of aha-moments, I am aware of progress. There are certainly a few more bricks mortared into the foundation of the life I hope to have lived before I’m through, but my experience of that foundation has limits. I still have days when I seem to fall through the center of the Earth and find myself spinning and sinking into an ancient, manufactured reality that only exists in my memory, a memory that is mewed more to subjective perceptions than objective truth. In other words, some days, I forget what’s real, and tumble into old ruts rooted in anxiety.

When I was little, I remember singing the song “Trust and Obey” in church; for me, the song seemed to have a sort of ominous subtext. In my experience, the emphasis settled on OBEY, while TRUST had little substance or meaning. And very little comfort.

 We learn about fear when we’re little. We learn it from the things people say and, also, from the things they do. More so, we learn from the way it feels to be in the presence of others.

Our parents take the brunt of it as we observe them more than anyone else. My parents were and are, wonderful loving parents. They were also chronically human. Even though I knew my father liked me, loved me, and would always care for me, his occasional anger when challenged scared me causing me to re-calibrate the trust I had in my own perspective. My mother, lovely and loving, managed four little girls with tenacity and a magical sense of order, but her own inner current of anxiety left me wondering, where’s the fire?

 And my concept of God confused me, too.

When I was younger, the god-of-my-understanding seemed to talk out of both sides of his mouth claiming comfort and forgiveness and unconditional love on one side while, according to biblical tradition, threatening and carrying out mass destruction of those who didn’t submit to His will. He also seemed impotent in regard to the suffering of his creation, refusing even to intervene in the death of his own son on the cross. If the Father stood by while Jesus was tortured and killed, how could I trust that he would intervene on behalf of my little interests? And more significantly, why did Jesus seem to accept his fate with so little argument?

It's almost as if he chose to put more emphasis on the life he was living than the way he would pass from one life to the next...

I have mostly made peace with these questions without necessarily resolving them, and I think this trade is a real bargain. I admit that I don’t understand all of the truths woven into the stories, and I accept that it’s more important to trust than to know. At the crux of the issue, however, has been this nagging and unnerving inability to trust myself.

When we arrive here on Earth, the fine print hidden in our agreement includes this isolating truth: I will be required to figure things out for myself, on my own. People I love and lean on will offer input, and they will have strong opinions, but at the end of the day, it’s completely up to me to choose how I will spend my time and resources on the planet. I will have to choose who and what I listen to, as well as who and what I believe. I will be hurt, and I will hurt others unintentionally. This is what freedom looks like.

Second-guessing my intuition, a less-than-productive pattern that has hamstrung my ability to move through the process of making decisions, has plagued my capacity to move forward since I was small. A classic codependent, I learned the art of imagining how others may respond to any move I make, causing me to freeze even when action was acutely necessary. I can’t say this trait has been useful. Decisions, and the consequences that follow, are a powerfully organic force of life, and it’s torment to live at odds with our choices. What ifs burden my thinking, and it hasn’t gotten better as I age; it mostly ebbs and flows.

So, although these issues have stalked me all the way to my 59th year, I have declared my 60th year will be the year I shed the automatic anxiety I have carried all of my life, and learn what it really means to trust.

I called my friend a few days ago, drowning in unbearable crushing worry. I made a good case for it, for the sense that something bad was about to happen, and worse, that I was responsible. I had strong rationale for my own guilt in the situation; this is always the greatest hurdle.

After first asking if apologies for past offenses had been offered, he patiently reminded me that I could use the tools, the only tools, that could start to level the ground under my feet: awareness, and contrary action. In other words, pay attention, and when I experience an emotional trigger, do something entirely different than I normally would in response.

First, I can become more aware when my chest is tightening, and my breathing becomes more shallow. At moments when this is going on in my body, my mind is usually racing around in circles, too, so I want to notice any familiar patterns there. Then, I can do something different from my habitual pattern. Avoid the rut, and go another direction. Go on a walk, write about it, help someone who needs a hand.

 Maybe, I can’t “know,” but I can believe that I am loved and led, and that it’s going to be all right.

 This is the choice. This is the path.

This morning, the snow is falling in buoyant wet, chunks, and I sacrifice my normal routine of meditating on a pillow in a softly-lit space for sitting on my bed, watching the snow fall gently on the trees, just feet away from my gentle perch.

I know. Radical move.

Spring snow produces a rain/snow mix, wet and burdensome for the branches straining to support its weight. I see this happening just beyond the bench underneath my window, and it breaks my heart a little. It's not the weight of the snow, or the strain on the trees...it's the beauty of it.

Life as I often experience it is so full, so busy, so distracting, that a simple exercise like sitting by a window to observe the falling snow is foreign, and emotional. Given quiet moments like this one, my normal pattern would be to allow thoughts of the day, needs of others around me, household duties, or the list of benign to-dos to pour into the space and time available like concrete, either weighing me down or leading into urgent or frenzied activity. Or worse, I could be compelled to fixate on a pool of ever-available anxious thoughts and work myself into a sense of powerlessness, or sadness.

Snow like this, slanted, fat and rhythmically consistent, is one of Nature's favorite magic tricks, slowing down what on warmer days would just be rain, so we can watch it falling in slow motion. Special effects. I slow down with it, gently led into the spiritual, mystical act of observing the world I've been born into.

Frenzy doesn't seem to fit into a moment like this one, but, truthfully, the sadness is here even now, mixed in with awe and wonder at the resilience, the provision written into Nature's magical blueprints. Like the whipped frosting snow clumps building into mounds on the branches outside my window, beauty, like this, is often weighted with its fragility, its temporal nature. At the very same moment we experience the loveliness of something like snow, we are also aware of the melting. Is it even possible to enjoy the moment without anticipating its end?

I don't want to challenge my feelings, but the slow motion encourages me to be an observer, to pay attention. To see and feel everything that's right here, with me, right now. Space.

Feeling something like I do today, I wrote "Expectant" Thanksgiving Day, 2015, in appreciation of the expansion that quiet moments offer, especially moments inspired by something greater, bigger, than just my own thoughts.

Ex.pect.ant - having or showing an excited feeling that something is about to happen, especially something pleasant and interesting. Synonyms: eager...psyched...hopeful