Frequency of Fullness

Water Me Well

11:18 AM

"I'm Fine" by Rachael Ibanez

Overwhelmed. This is the word I'm hearing everywhere I look right now.

Currently, Hurricane Harvey is washing over Texas, and I am trying to process images of children, their jammies wet and muddy, as they are towed down the streets of Houston in boats. As I write this, 7 million people in 18 counties have been impacted by this storm, and it isn't over yet.

Almost entirely eclipsed by Harvey has been the painful surge of angry racism that continues to cause argumentative and too-often-unproductive ranting as we take inventory, again, of our national identity. How do we leave our disturbing past behind while continuing to learn from it? To heal?

While these storms rage at the national level, I am equally undone by messages on my Facebook page from smaller communities of people who are hoping to inspire prayer and financial support for their friends and families who are up against leviathon-like personal struggles. One family I know personally is healing from within the sudden aftermath of a brutal car accident involving three children; dad drove the kids to school Wednesday morning, and 5 days later, the family had to say goodbye to their precious 8 year old daughter. They are currently mustering the strength to support another child who is struggling toward recovery. Overwhelming.

How on earth do we respond to these hurricane floods of pain, loss and need? In a world that is often chaotic and at times, desperate, how do we decide where to put our energy, our resources?

In today's meditation on what he refers to as "Cosmic Forgiveness," Richard Rohr takes a birdseye view when he says, "The forgiveness we truly need goes beyond forgiveness for this or that transgression. Ultimately, we each need universal, cosmic forgiveness for being who I am and for reality being what it is. The struggle to forgive this simultaneously broken and unified field of reality breaks us through to nondual consciousness."

Not surprisingly, I am reminded to begin with acceptance, and end with love.

We're supposed to love our neighbor as we love ourselves, and somehow, this idea seems more urgent than ever as the waters continue to rise. It also feels like a really big target. I find myself asking, again, this week...this hour...who is my neighbor? I believe that in the original historical and cultural context, the term neighbor refers to the one who is near. I suppose this means that if someone is calling for help, I respond. I show up. I do what I can, and I do at least what I would want someone to do for me.

Maybe I can't physically be planted inside a Texas shelter right now, reading bedtime stories to frightened displaced children, or in Missouri grieving with this sweet family while they try to recover after the sudden excruciating loss of their little girl. But I can still open my heart, write a check, and participate with organizations and individuals who can offer boots-on-the-ground comfort and relief.

I do work at my local shelter, preparing and serving food. I've done it for years. I just sign up and show up. If I'm honest, I know I am not helping all that much. But I am making a sincere attempt to connect with people in my community who have suffered tragedy and loss, my neighbors who struggle every day just to survive. I smile, I ask how they're getting through their day, and I wash dishes after they eat. It's something.

A woman I know who has signed up to serve at the shelter with me tells me that she was once part of that population, homeless and street bound for over a year. Somehow, she put one foot in front of the other, found all of the good services available in our county that might help, and walked gratefully through the tedious paper trail until she was placed inside the care system where she could receive support and inexpensive housing. She shows up, too, finding ways to serve even with very limited resources. She is doing what she can.

And when knee surgery slowed her down for awhile, I made soup and paid her a visit. No big deal.

Sometimes, the one-who-is-near stands on a street corner with a sign in his hands. My tender-hearted daughter Rachael, and her kind husband Daniel, were recently confronted with a displaced homeless man who has been devastated by his own rising waterline. Rachael felt like the wind had been knocked out of her when she saw his child, a toddler, sitting in a stroller nearby, waiting for dad to find shelter for the night. It was devastating to try, even for a minute, to imagine the panic this father must live with trying to machete a path to survival for he and his child to walk on. Mother and father to their own two year old, Rachael and Daniel stopped to talk, and mostly, listen; they of course mentioned the resources with which they were familiar, attempting to offer solutions. Many of these services wouldn't stretch to cover adult and child, or wouldn't address many of the particular (dire) needs of this little family.

After making a call or two to try and find help, Rachael and Daniel went back into the store and bought diapers, juice boxes and some food, and paid for a night in the motel that the small family had made into a temporary living situation. They knew this would barely scratch the surface, and it broke their hearts that all they could offer was the proverbial "fish," not pond or pole. But they did something.

Even though I cheer when I read about a veterinary doctor flying to Houston to support organizations who rescue animals after the deluge, I'm pretty sure that I need to continue to fulfil my duties here at home. For me, reaching out with an open heart to the-one-who-is-near to me here and now is the most profound choice I can make. This is where I am, so this is where I can try to tune in to any cries I might hear from the rooftops nearby.

Written in the late eighties, "Water Me Well" lives in an old journal, a poem and a prayer of sorts that acknowledges my need for an evolution of the soul, for Cosmic Forgiveness. I am aware of the apparent contradictions as it focuses on both too much water, and too little. As a metaphor, the power of water to both destroy and restore us reminds me of my powerlessness in the face of things I can't control or contain, and this week in history, it reminds me of my commitment to begin with acceptance and end with love.

I need you to water me well,

I want to have my own story to tell

A song for the soul in the darkest night,

guiding them onto a kinder light

I want to raft the river where it runs

picking up passengers as they come

Carry them on while the water's white

giving them rest till the ends in sight

Water me well - tend to your child

Teach me tender - chasten me mild

Pour me out empty - then, Oh, satisfy me

Draw me an ocean, but water me well.

I wanted then, and even more today, to be someone who just shows up.

rewritten narratives

Surrendering the Story

2:52 PM

Equinox

I see now that my story drives me,

a rudder embedded in, and against, the flow.

It pushes the water, resisting the surrender that would guide my ship forward.

And what is a rudder without compass or captain,

or a raft with no current,

or a quest with no map of the wandering stars?

Feigning passivity, the radical surrender of one’s story

marks an equinoctial point

where night equals day, and time completes its circle.

About the poem: It sometimes feels like my inner poet knows things I don't know.

This poem referenced the concept of the equinox before I found myself looking it up, and I still don’t completely understand the related earth science, the astronomy, behind it.

But, I have this notion that like the position of the stars seem to shift with the earth’s wobble, the “boasting, running stars” as John Donne referred to them, our orientation in our own lives seems to shift when we break the push and pull of our personal stories.

be present

Mining for More

9:32 PM

Aaron and I take an almost-annual spring trip to Paradise Village, a stunning resort on a perfect strip of beach that cradles the Banderas Bay in Nuevo Vallarta, Nayarit, Mexico. We love it there, and we breathe in every moment a little more deeply knowing that a week sometimes passes quickly. On my last night to sip tonic water and lime underneath a beach-side palapa at dusk, I worried about how to spend our dwindling hours in Mexico, concerned I’d miss something if I didn't carefully construct a plan, the right plan, and carry it out. Eventually, the urge to control the moment dissipated, and I was able to sit right where I was, and drink in the sounds and sensations of the rhythmic ocean waves.

As long as I can remember, this temporary fear of letting go, of surrendering one happy moment without having fingers or toes planted firmly in the next, has felt like a little eternity, a small death. What if I miss something? It’s as if the threat of change causes me to feel something like grief over un-experienced joy, or a life that isn't fully realized.

This odd awareness of the life and death that is embedded in every moment has inspired an albeit slightly paranoid tenacity for staying engaged with those I love at any and all cost. Whether this defines a co-dependent implosion, or a hero’s journey, I am constantly aware that when it comes to people I love, “I don’t wanna miss a thing.” The last one to turn out the lights, turn off the TV, or put away the Red Vines, my tight grasp on moments that feel good to me, along with an unquenchable desire for connection, can paradoxically feed into a there's-never-enough perspective, leaving me discontent in the midst of abundance.

At 10: Yes, I enjoyed that piece of candy, but a whole candy bar would be better. Better yet, 5 candy bars. At 20, Yes, I know I'm loved, but it's never enough. At 30, My husband is good to me, but it would be better if he would be more (insert current complaint). At 40, A glass of wine is nice, but more is always, always better.

And in my 50s? Thankfully, this decade has, through trial and failure, morphed into one of acceptance and surrender, about settling into the experience of all that resides in this present moment.

What if I knew today that I would be gone tomorrow? Would I waste even one second wishing, wondering, or looking in the rear-view mirror? Would I spend those minutes worrying about whether people visit my blog, or would I still sit lazily on the couch, unkindly focused on my embarrassing sausage-shaped toes?

What if there isn’t any more that can be accessed in this moment by wishing and worrying?

There would be only this moment, lived more deeply.

For me, mining for more looks like slowing down and focusing on what's right in front of me. Today, I went on my morning walk, and I began as I always do, running a virtual gauntlet of mental gymnastics. Thankfully, I have begun to notice much more quickly when my mind is dragging me around, the tail wagging the dog.

I instinctively took a deep breath, whispered internally, "Lets think about all of that later," and I indulged in a sensory inventory, taking in the morning moon while she stubbornly held her place in a sunlit sky. I felt a brisk breeze on my face in tandem with the comforting warmth of the sun on my back, and I purposefully I widened my gaze, aware of all that I could pull into my peripheral vision,

And that's when I thought to myself, sometimes, it's almost too much to contain.

restoration

On Beauty and Wholeness

6:30 PM

"What's Left of Us" by Rachael Ibanez

Some folks from my church here in Ft. Collins regularly serve meals together at the Rescue Mission, and since I facilitate and schedule the teams, I also try to show up and serve most of the time myself. I enjoy it, and the service helps to keep me grounded. Last night at the Mission, a concerned and supportive friend of mine looked at me and said, "Are you tired? You look really tired."

I was. But for some reason, at first, I felt like I needed to defend myself. Then, a little rush of shame, or embarrassment.

For some weird reason, I feel forced to justify the need to rest. Ever since I can remember, I have ignored physical and emotional urges, messages from the body to sleep, eat, or just to pause, choosing instead to fixate on my terribly-important worry list, or on the very-real needs of those around me. I have a tendency to avoid or even ignore self-care, and this pattern oddly doesn't always actually serve the needs of others, and it leaves me flattened like a pancake.

One part wonky childhood dysfunction, and three parts trauma from all of the little earthquakes within my first marriage, I lived for decades in a state of watchful waiting, anticipating another painful blowout at home...and there were plenty. Negotiating life within this unpredictable environment produced the hyper-vigilance familiar to people who have survived addiction, trauma or loss. Becoming adapted to an unhealthy habitat gives way to an underlying sense that there just isn't time for the basics like rest, food, or showers. A helpful coping strategy during certain types of crisis, the instinct to do whatever it takes to avoid more trauma would eventually become a habit of mind, leaving me stuck in the trenches and foxholes long after the war was over.

Years ago, I attended a workshop, a group counseling experience, that ferreted out some of my most basic defects of character. It was really eye opening. I was gifted with the opportunity to listen to complete strangers offering their initial impressions of me. "You probably think you're too good for me," and, "you seem obsessed with your appearance," were favorites. Truthfully, I was riddled with insecurity, most of the time, feeling "less than," not "better than" the others in the room, so the workshop gave me a lot to consider about what my internal messages were portraying to others.

After enduring a challenging barrage of simulated situations that typically coerce attendees to run headlong into typical emotional reactive ruts, or triggers, we were ultimately encouraged to know and accept ourselves completely: darkness and light, strength and weakness, beauty and scar tissue. The whole package. During a meaningful moment at the very end of all of these workshops, having lied down on the floor under dimmed lighting, I listened to my own heart as it spoke to me the following statement of purpose to guide me moving forward.

Through beauty, healing and openness, I use my energy and my voice to empower and inspire to create a world that's tender and safe.

These are my values. This is what mattered to me then, and it's what matters to me still.

Yes, I am greatly in need of restoration this week. Sitting outside this morning, I have carved out a few moments for meditation, not in my usual spot, but on the back patio overlooking the open space behind my house. The spring rains have been generous, offering up twenty different shades of green, including pale, sweet smelling Russian Olive trees and pungent, blue-green spruces. There's a friendly-but-worn oak porch swing sitting invitingly just a few feet beyond the back gate, and tall, summer grasses are bending to the breeze, accented by a wave of slow moving Cottonwood seed pods, all scouting out a soft place to land. In this moment, I am reminded of my personal mission statement once again: through beauty...

So, how is beauty a part of my purpose?

I am laughing at myself this morning, remembering how important it seemed, back in the day, to be beautiful. Here and now, in my 60th year, I feel like I have finally laid some meaningful groundwork on this one. It's not about me. There is no longer any mandate to be physically beautiful, or to age better than the next girl. It doesn't matter, and it doesn't satisfy.

Maybe, on some mystical level, I knew even then that the goal of this adventure is to be restored to wholeness through experience: through nature and the present moment, through writing and poetry, through music and art, and mostly, through relationships and community. There is beauty erupting and rising through all of these gifts when our eyes are open to it.

It's this kind of beauty that resonates all around us, offering the simple abundant quality of life we need to be whole, to be a vibrant, to be at peace and to be generous.

questioning memes

Listening to the Inner Sceptic

3:08 PM

A few days ago, I found myself in a relatively benign exchange with a friend that later left me swimming in a pool of anxiety, straining to keep my chin just above the water line until I could sort out feelings that seemed threatening and incriminating.

It may be worth mentioning that these feelings weren't imposed on me by anyone else.

I simply became convinced that I had made a lousy decision, torturing myself with judgment and self-criticism until I finally did the work of forgiving my personal, albeit minor, error in judgment. The weird thing is that mostly, my suffering was unnecessary, and the issue existed only in my head.

So, I'm just wondering here. Does everyone assume the worst about the way he or she might be perceived by others?

We sure do in my family, and in the broader sense, in my tribe. We dance as fast as we can, trying to anticipate each other's needs, trying not to offend, to miss anything. Personally, I also spend equally as much energy mentally trying to justify and defend my positions and behaviors (to avoid feeling like I messed up). But, it's silly to spend so much energy trying to avoid being accused, being found guilty. or being seen doing anything wrong.

The thing is, when my friend and I finally connected after my misdeed she honestly thought my decision had been wise. The torture was all my invention, my unkind parent-voice telling me what I expected people to be thinking. Self-induced, wheel-spinning, suffering.

In his book Addiction and Grace, Gerald G. May, M.D. says that addiction is compulsion that flows in more than one direction, fueled by both attraction and revulsion. In other words, while most people associate compulsive behaviors primarily with attraction, we are equally driven by avoidance. Attachment in either direction is binding, and bondage is prison.

It sucks to spend decades trying not to make a mistake.

It's also impossible.

However we refine the systems we use to avoid errors in judgment, we will continue to make mistakes. It's baked into the cake, as they say, of this human experience. More significantly, we may want to ask ourselves, why am I listening to the mean voices in my head?

Author and wisdom teacher Don Miguel Ruiz recently added a fifth agreement to update his famous book, The Four Agreements, encouraging us to "be skeptical" of our own thinking, a concept previously endorsed by others like him, including the late Wayne Dyer. Truthfully, many of the thoughts that ping around in our heads aren’t based in reality, but are simply echoes of past input that's no longer current, or helpful.

Author/teacher/pastor Dave Brisbin says, "When you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail."

And when we entertain judgmental thinking, especially toward ourselves, we of course project that sort of mean thinking on others, assuming they must think the way we do. We can live a lifetime trying to avoid experiencing something we perceive as painful, or we can notice when an awful feeling seems familiar and become willing to question the beliefs that are fueling those feelings.

Maybe the compulsion to avoid judgment perpetuates the familiar cycle. And maybe, practicing compassion toward my mistakes, errors or quirky bad habits can help.

One thing I think I'm sure of, we don't have to believe what we believe.

slowing down the reactive impulse

The Art of the Pause

12:12 PM

I am more than a little red faced as I share this true story from my recent travels to Puerto Vallarta during which I morphed into a pool of frothing entitlement, alienating myself from fellow travelers as I clawed my way to an unnecessary front-of-the-line position.

I really do try to be a nice person.

More to the point, I hope to grow spiritually and become more aware of of the influence I have on the planet, and on others. I often wonder, what will be my legacy?

A current tool I am working with is something I refer to as the art of the pause, and although I know that there is a lot of philosophical discovery floating out there on the interweb, I didn't read this on someone else's blog although I have found the term literally all over the place online since starting this post; this concept came to me in a daily journal. I was recently reflecting on an impulsive quality woven into my personality (my Mama will back me up on this one!) and as it has created some occasional turbulence, I decided that I would practice an impossible 30 seconds of breathing and just...pause...before reacting to a trigger, whatever may push my buttons. That window of time, that moment, affords me the opportunity to make a choice, to think and then act, rather than act and then think, forcing myself to later lament a dumb decision.

In this case, this act-then-think incident took place while boarding the plane on my return home to Denver after a perfectly wonderful vacation with my husband Aaron. We had very desirable flights coming and going this year, early enough upon arriving in Mexico to put on bathing suits and run around on the beach before our travel day had concluded with a stunning but typical sundown. As we prepared to reluctantly leave the country and return home to Colorado a week later, we enjoyed a pretty full day at the beach before catching a cab at 2:30. That was the plan, anyway.

Not one to jam a lot in on a travel day, I prefer to get ready and wait; this travel style, however, has very little appeal for my husband who is most content when jamming the maximum productivity into his days, including vacation days.

Typically, Aaron gets a bit backed up in the evening when enjoying our Paradise Village vacations. He wants those last few minutes of reading. He also wants to squeeze in the sunset walk, the hour at the spa in a steam room and shower, and a lovely dinner. All of these together make for a busily luxurious routine at Aaron's end-of-day, but this pattern caused a bit of a traffic jam as we were leaving PV this last Saturday afternoon.

Not messing around, I was dressed and waiting in the lobby an hour before we were to leave. This largely had to do with a craving for coffee, a welcome boost to get me through the travel push that would include cab rides and customs. I thought I would have a latte and read a bit, and we would still have plenty of time to grab a bite to eat at the airport, which we usually squeeze in as planes don't serve real food anymore, just chips and over-priced jerky.

Our 2:30 pm meeting time came and went, and when Aaron arrived after steaming and showering that one-last-time, it was 10 minutes to 3:00, and we were already cramped for a 4:15 flight. Oddly, there had been a bit of a hangup at the spa and he still had to go back to present an ID which would slow us down even more. I was quickly losing my ability to "be a nice person."

I tried to relax in the cab, but I was feeling the stress (and carrying a bit extra as Aaron didn't seem to be carrying any of his own.) How does he manage?

He finally felt a little squeezed when we arrived at the airlines only to be informed that we were too late to check our bags; fortunately, our slightly disgruntled airline servicewoman harumphed her way through a 3-minute-late check in, but not without communicating that this was in no way ok. Bag checked, boarding passes and passports in hand, we started to run.

There would be no coffee or food for the next three hours on our flight, and therefore, no lunch or dinner. We ran the fairly long yardage to the terminal where, finally, we would spot our airline to the sounds of urgent announcements that our flight was in its final boarding. At the gate, we got to the back of the line to wait our turn. All of this time, I hadn't said a word to my sweet husband. I was talking to him in my head, but not very nicely. Frankly, I was pissed; this was not the experience I wanted to be having.

It was in this state that I noticed that the gate attendants were announcing the boarding call for Zone 4 passengers, and I thought, Uh-oh! We were supposed to board with the people who had Zone 2 boarding passes!

Forgetting all about the art of the pause, I left Aaron in the dust, and ran to the front of the line.

I lifted my boarding pass up to show the attendant, urgently claiming, "I was supposed to board with Zone 2!"

He looked awkwardly at the people who had been waiting in line for the Zone 4 announcement, but reluctantly motioned me forward. Clearly, the folks at the front of the line were none too happy.

The blond, recently tanned couple reminded me that we already had assigned seats for this flight, so "it really doesn't matter."

Well, it apparently mattered to me.

Nothing had gone the way I had expected so far on this outing today, so I had high hopes at this point to join my earlier boarding Zone 2 crew. I had, after all, logged into my computer last night in order to get on the plane as quickly as we could to avoid waiting in this long line (with everyone else.)

As if I was some other loud-mouthed woman, I heard myself say, "We were supposed to board already, and he, pointing at the flight attendant, said I could go."

I heard the aggravated but restrained female traveler say, "Be our guest. Go right ahead."I sensed their critical gazes burning like a heat lamp directed at the back of my head as I boarded the plane. I remember thinking, "what are they so mad about?" as I located my seat and settled down. Aaron eventually made his way to the seat next to mine, and I took a chance, asking him what he thought about the kerfuffle at the front of the line.

He had the gaul to suggest that it had been inappropriate of me to shove into the line in front of that couple. Oddly, I wasn't upset with him; truthfully, I already knew, although not in time to stop myself from being the jerk that butted into the front of the line on a technicality. What on earth had brought me to this moment?

I want to start by saying that even though I try to be a nice person, I can still be selfish. Clearly, I had expectations at the start of the day that included Aaron being on time, opening up room in the schedule for the little comforts I feel entitled to when I travel. Expectations and entitlement are yellow flags...if you want to be a nice person.

Looking back from a safe distance, which is a good spot from which to gain some perspective, I am remembering why I first started practicing the art of the pause.

Clearly, acting on impulse breeds an environment where bad decisions can thrive, where the few seconds it takes to respond and not react are tougher to come by. What might have been my assessment had I stopped to think in that moment, to ask myself do I really need to board faster than the 4s? What difference will it make? How might my decision to butt in affect the others in the line? Will this act build a bridge between me and the other human beings around me right now, or will it create unnecessary tension?

I have, in any given moment, the potential for kind awareness of others, as well as the potential to be a drooling blob of selfish me-centered grabbiness. Leaving out those few seconds to assess the negative impulse, read the room, and check in with my own heart on the matter allowed me to trip and stumble into a really embarrassing plane ride and, BTW, an awkward airport shuttle to our car during which I managed to also talk myself out of making a sincere apology to the poor couple I elbowed out of the way. I missed that chance.

But I can still allow myself to learn what I can about my potential for being "that woman," and about how the moments of that day stacked up to create a memory I would exchange for a different one if I still could. I guess for now, I 'll have to settle for the lesson, and keep an eye out for similar opportunities to practice the art of the pause.

Photo: https://www.pexels.com/photo/people-sign-traveling-blur-2069/

humility and enlarging perspective

Describing an elephant

8:27 PM

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.

Seriously. I don't believe truth is relative. I believe that from where I sit, and with the limited ability I have to interpret what I see, universal truth is like one of those 5000 piece puzzles, and I'm holding only one or two pieces. In my world, if two people are disagreeing or experiencing conflict over anything, but especially religion or politics, it can't automatically be assumed that one of us is fully wrong, and one of us is fully right.

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

The weird thing about truth is that you just don't see it 'till you see it. In the meantime, humility, faith and cooperation may help.

Pages

Water Me Well

Surrendering the Story

Mining for More

On Beauty and Wholeness

Listening to the Inner Sceptic

The Art of the Pause

Describing an elephant

Laury Browning

recent posts

Labels

Blog Archive

Pinterest

Popular Posts

Like us on Facebook

Followers