Unclenching

October 29th, 2024 | Click to Comment

A hundred-plus years ago, my ancestors owned and operated a mineral springs spa in Kentucky. People came in search of rest and healing, and reported countless stories of renewed health and vigor resulting from their stay. My family knew how to welcome and care for their guests, and worked hard to create a place that was a balm for body and soul.

During election season, visits from politicians were banned from the spa. In July of 1925, a notice that politicians would be turned away from the property was published in the newspaper. The local paper was the primary source of news back then, but even without today’s electronically charged media environment, politics at the time were divisive and political discussions heated. 

My great-grandparents knew that the agitation stirred by political speeches, or even the presence of local politicians during election season, worked against the healing effect of their spa. They protected their guests, their business, and the unique value of what they could offer, by holding firm boundaries in a politically charged environment. This was yet another way they gave their patrons rest and helped restore their health.

Today, most of us are weary of this campaign and anxious about the election’s outcome. Polls tells us that supporters of both candidates feel that everything is on the line, that a loss will throw the country into crisis. Fear, hate (which is largely driven by fear), and the dehumanization of the opposition distort our view of one another. We can’t see clearly, think rationally, or respond effectively when our perception has been hijacked by these overwhelming emotional forces.

When we’re possessed by the power of these ancient archetypal energies, they drive our actions. We lose the ability to clearly perceive what’s really happening, and to effectively choose how to respond. Our instinctive survival modes take over: Fight, Flight, or Freeze. At that point, we become prone to manipulation.

I had all of this on my mind a few days ago when I saw a roly-poly bug on the porch. It reminded me of my childhood, when a roly-poly, or pill bug, could fascinate me on a timeless afternoon. How predictable it was, curling into a tight roll when I touched it, so that I could tumble it across the carport like a little ball.

I would watch for it to unclench, sometimes impatient with it for taking so long. I waited to see it expose the soft, flat underside of its grey oval body just long enough for the tiny filaments of its waving legs to find the ground again, the rounded shield of its back turned up once more, protecting it as it moved through the world. Its legs would carry it over any surface, but not when it was afraid. Curled up tight, in survival mode, it was as if the roly-poly were no longer a living thing. I was willing to watch for a long time, because it was a relief to see it uncurl and be on its way again under its own power.

It’s hard to make good decisions when we’re afraid. Our automatic responses to danger take over; the instincts patterned in our bodies drive us into survival mode. We easily lose connection to the quiet center, the still small voice, the source of wisdom and guidance.

When our country was divided on invading Iraq many years ago, it was the story of weapons of mass destruction allegedly hidden there that tipped the balance in this country. I for one gave up my opposition and acquiesced to the invasion, conceding that this military action must be necessary to keep the world safe. I believed the officials who painted a terrifying picture and presented themselves as the shield and defense that would protect us all.

In that fearful time, I became as predictable as a roly-poly. I was easily rolled into the corner of supporting, even if reluctantly, that invasion. Later we learned that those officials said whatever they needed to say to make this country align with the invasion they wanted. The reports of weapons of mass destruction were not credible, but by the time we learned that it was too late.

Fear, and the hate that it often undergirds, makes us more readily manipulated. When someone tries to make us afraid, it’s a good time to guard the connection to our own center. To give in to fear is to give up our own agency. It’s good to ask, in this moment, “Is my physical survival really in peril?” And if in this moment my life is not in immediate danger, then how can I unclench, get my feet on the ground, and move in the direction shown by the life-giving wisdom within?

Giving ourselves time away from the onslaught of the news is a good start for unclenching and reconnecting to the divine light shining within our own center. We can find a way to create for ourselves some inner version of a healing spa away from the political noise, even if it’s only for a few minutes a day. We need a quiet space to cultivate health and wholeness, restore our strength, and get our feet on solid ground.

Then we can return to the world with the clarity to see other people in their full humanity. We can cultivate the ability to keep our balance and not be manipulated. We can cultivate the love that transcends fear and hate. We can take action responsibly, claiming the agency to convey some bit of light into the darkness.

I have a photo of my young grandson when he was about five years old, kneeling beside a narrow garden bed alongside the garage at his old house. He’s wearing his purple baseball cap, a teal t-shirt, grey denim pants, and dark blue sneakers. Just past him a bright red tulip is open to the sun. His hands are loosely clasped at his knees and he’s leaning forward, a pleasant expectant look on his face, as he focuses on a purple hyacinth sitting low on the ground before him.

I want a world, a country, a culture, deserving of this child of my heart. Where the dignity and worth of each person is honored. Where we can somehow find a shared reverence for the value of life and of each other. And where we can regain attunement to what is ultimately true, acting out of the better angels of our nature.

Susan Christerson Brown

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The Fragrance that Draws Us In

June 22nd, 2024 | Click to Comment

The largest lavender plant I’ve ever seen is blooming beside my front porch this summer. Most of my mature plants are about ten inches tall. But this year one of them shot out stalks three or four feet long in every direction, like a botanical version of spherical fireworks. Each is tipped by a slender cone of buds opening into tiny purple flowers.

From early morning until twilight the blossoms attract bumblebees. They land heavily, bouncing at the ends of the long stalks like reverse bungee jumpers. The bees tolerate the thrill ride for the sake of lavender pollen and nectar, precious food for a nest located somewhere over the roof and beyond. Today, one of the bees is weighted with two full pollen baskets. They look like little orange balls attached to the bee’s hind legs—nature’s original cargo pants. It’s almost always four bees—for days, even weeks now, four bees at a time bobbing among the lavender stalks. The same four? I wonder.

Bumblebee with a full pollen sack

I enjoy taking my morning coffee onto the porch, breathing the scent of lavender and observing the bees sampling bloom after bloom. In recent days I’ve watched them with a grieving friend on my mind. I wish I could make life into something that holds the sense of the purpose and beauty and peace of this small garden spot. My friend knows suffering, from long years of heartache and loss as mental illness and addiction claimed this child she loved. Even so, the death her child, of anyone’s child, at any age, is too much, whatever the circumstances. The heartbreak this world contains is terrible.

I have so little to offer her, but decide I could cut some of these enormous stalks to make a generous lavender wand, weaving prayers along with the ribbons and stems. As I work, the scent of lavender wafts not only from the flowers, but leaves and stems as well. The lavender-scented air fills my breath and my thoughts; I imagine the pleasure taken by the bees in simply navigating by this perfume.

We’re all following the fragrance that draws us in. We are compelled by what attracts us, and by what we believe we need. The natural instincts of the bees lead them to the life-giving nectar and nourishment of a flower on a swaying stem. The instincts of the human psyche are rarely so simple and pure. What we cling to and what we resist often distort our sense of what we must have. Recognizing the fragrance of what is truly life-giving, and following it to the source, is the work of a lifetime.

What can we learn from the bees? They bury themselves in the blossoms for a moment then move on, their transitory bliss part of a larger pattern. They take their fill and buzz off toward the nest, returning from their explorations with something of value. They never forget that they’re part of a larger colony. They follow the scent of the flowers, and still they remember how to find their way home.

We humans have the freedom to choose what to put in our pollen baskets. If our choices are to be life-giving, we need discernment and sometimes help. Through some mysterious interplay of strength and humility, discipline and grace, we generally learn to delight in what brings life. Through wisdom we come to know our place in the larger pattern of things. Through the leading of the heart we learn to navigate by love. And I trust that even when we leave these gifts unopened, the greater love holding all of us will find a way to carry us home.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Tending the Soil of the Psyche

April 27th, 2024 | Click to Comment

This week I cleaned up the garden bed, neglected since last fall when I managed only to stack the tomato cages and drag away the spent vines. The winter’s brief deep freeze took the rosemary, leaving a dry and brittle carcass to dig out of the ground. The newly green thyme and mint looked healthy, and I was careful to work around it. I pulled fragrant wild onion, hoed up violets and clover, raked out and removed grasses and vines. With an entire bed of turned soil exposed to the sun, a new wave of weedlings will no doubt sprout soon.

It can be a pleasure to work in the spring garden, but something cast a shadow over that effort. Even as I was accomplishing what needed to be done, I noticed the familiar voice of my inner critic. The critic didn’t give me credit for the work I was doing. Instead, it kept pointing out that I should have accomplished this task months ago.

Just like the untended garden bed, the soil of my psyche yields its own unwelcome perennials. There is always an interior voice, critical and judgmental, that insists I should do more and be better. I’ve learned that what needs tending, just like a garden bed, is my inner landscape with its unrelenting inner critic. That’s who was judging me for being late to the task.

That inner critic would easily drain all the joy and satisfaction out of accomplishing the job, if I allowed it. The inner critic has no capacity to enjoy the day or to celebrate what has been completed. It can see only that the work should have been done already, and that there is more to do. In matters large and small, the critical inner voice is capable of acknowledging only the ways we fall short.

If we’re fortunate, at some point we realize that the inner critic does not know how to embrace life. It insists we work harder to be good enough, but never allows us to claim that blessed state. The demands of the inner critic are discouraging, not life-giving. It’s not helpful to chastise myself even as I’m working on what needs tending—whether it’s my garden or my life. If that’s how it has to be, no wonder I put off getting started.

There is much left to do in the yard, chores that might have been done a month ago if I had spent more time at home or worked a little harder when I was. But I want my work outdoors in the Kentucky springtime to be a pleasure as I pull weeds and set new plants. To have any chance of enjoying the garden, I need to be ready for that critical voice.

I’ll probably never be rid of it, but I don’t have to let that voice take charge. I can invite the inner critic to sit on the ground next to me. After all, she truly believes that she’s helping me to be good, to be worthy, to be safe from the criticism of others, and deserving of a place to belong. She believes it’s all up to her to see that I earn my place in the world. She has helped me to accomplish many things, but she can’t take in the beauty of life just as it is. She can’t experience love because she’s so busy trying to be worthy of it.

Whether tending a garden or tending the soul, it’s necessary to pay attention to what’s coming up. Weeding and cultivating both our inner and outer lives teaches us about ourselves and about the world. It creates a space where goodness can grow and flourish. It brings healing and abundance, allowing us to live more fully and become more whole.

As we learn to pay attention in this way, we begin to see more clearly. We’re better able to respond with what is needed. Of course, this takes time. It happens slowly as our lives unfold. It doesn’t mean we’re late. There is nothing to be gained from berating ourselves for not having come to it sooner.

Jesus offered a parable (Matthew 20:1-16) in which the workers who showed up to the vineyard late in the day were paid the same as those who had labored since morning. The same pay, whether for eight hours or for one? It doesn’t make sense. The part of me that tries hard to do right and wants the reward I’ve earned stands with those in the story who worked all day. “That’s not fair!” they protest, and I see their point.

But the point of the story is not that we are hard workers being taken advantage of. Rather, we are the ones showing up late in the day. It takes most of us a long time to arrive at the beautiful truth of who we are and what life is about. The part of me that feels aggrieved by how the workers are paid is aligned with the inner critic, passing judgment for being late—whether in getting a task done or in cultivating the life of the spirit.

Most of us show up for spiritual work when much of the day is spent, and Jesus taught that we’re not late. Making space for something beautiful and life-giving to grow from our little plot of earth is something to celebrate, no matter when it happens. We are welcomed and rewarded with fullness of life whenever we arrive.  

Susan Christerson Brown

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Mercy and Merci

March 10th, 2024 | Click to Comment

I had a dream recently in which I was making a sign that simply read “Merci” in red letters on a white background. I was on a front porch, nailing the sign to a square pillar coated with old and crackling white paint. It was important for the drivers going by on the road in front of the house to be able to read the sign if they looked to their left.

Merci—the French word for “thank you.” As I began to wake, holding onto the dream, I saw the word on the sign as reading “Mercy.” It turns out that the word mercy does come from the old usage of the French merci. The dreaming mind made connections I hadn’t thought about.

Mercy is the bestowing of a kindness that we have no claim to, that we are in no position to repay. Compassionate treatment when the ordinary terms of justice would allow retribution more harsh—this is mercy. Mercy also names the spiritual reward for bestowing this kind of benevolence on others.

So in the modern-day French acknowledgment of a kindness, “thank you” bears traces of humility. It names gratitude not just for the favor, but for the benevolence of a person who has willingly and generously chosen to bestow unearned kindness in their treatment of us. For their mercy upon us.

I didn’t give much thought to the concept of mercy in my younger years. I didn’t consider myself powerful; I wasn’t in a position to bestow mercy. Kindness, yes. Always. But mercy has a different flavor. And I felt, without ever articulating it, that mercy was needed by those who had done something criminal and were in fear of judgment—a dramatic circumstance that seemed far from my ordinary life.

But life brings wrenching changes that we are powerless to avoid, no matter how fervently we employ our favorite tactics to keep ourselves safe. While we make plans and devote ourselves to the things we think we want, loss makes its way to our door. Its power is beyond our control. We need help getting through the hardest things. “Mercy” is the deeply human cry when life blows open our door.

I recall the voices of my elders as they would respond to shocking news. “Lord have mercy,” they would say. Or in the way of my mother, who utters simply and emphatically, “Mercy!”

Life teaches us the humility and wisdom of asking for mercy. We have immense agency in our lives, but we do not have the power or control we want to believe we have.

Yet the other part of what life teaches us is named in mercy’s alter-ego: merci—thank you. Life has a benevolence that sustains us in every moment. We are carried in ways we forget to notice. Our very breath happens when we are paying attention to other things.

There are many ways to name the life-giving force that sustains all of creation—Love, Spirit, Source, God. May we all remember our connection to this Life Force and to one another, as part of the flow of love and mercy and thanks.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Claiming and Letting Go

November 7th, 2023 | Click to Comment

I’m learning that there’s an important discernment to be made about when it’s time to claim something and when it’s time to let it go. Another pair for Ecclesiastes. We do what we can to make things work, to play our part, to live well and care for others, but the outcome is out of our hands. This is true in love and work, art and politics, small projects and major endeavors.  

A photo taken as I was leaving my polling place after voting today

Life teaches us about differentiating between what is and is not our work to do; it accomplishes this by placing people and circumstances firmly outside our control. We can do harm to ourselves and others when we go flinging ourselves against what is. While the deepest desire of our heart can be a guiding star for our lives, our more casual or conditioned wants are a burden. Many of our ideas about how things ought to be bring more pain than guidance.  There’s a difference to discern between acting on our preferences and the right action to take.

Our habits of attention and patterns of emotion narrow our vision and cause us to focus on what distresses us. These habits create thorns that we believe indicate that something is terribly wrong and must be addressed. Our automatic way of moving through the world creates urgent problems to solve, and we believe that if we have agency at all we must solve them. We can’t see or feel anything else until that thorn is removed.

What we don’t realize is that we choose to prick ourselves with those thorns. The pain we put ourselves through is neither necessary nor helpful. We have the power to place our attention somewhere else, and to live differently.

Letting go is the practice that allows us to find out what is essential and what we’ve manufactured through our habits and conditioning. We develop our preferences and expectations over a lifetime, but when we make them a requirement for happiness these inclinations become a prison.

Letting go of who we think other people should be, and what we think should happen, is a lifetime learning project. And life helps us with it, showing us over and over again that people will be who they are and things will happen as they happen.

Our agency doesn’t extend to controlling people or events, yet we do have agency. Acting not from our habitual patterns but from our essential being—the higher, wiser Self who can see clearly what’s needed—is how we can act most effectively for good. Acting from this conscious awareness, rather than being driven by unconscious emotions, is the way to be accurately perceptive, genuinely strong, and truly loving.

We might never choose to do the deep work of this kind of discernment, except that life brings experiences of disappointment, pain, and failure that demand a reexamination of what we thought we knew. Over and over again, life invites us to loosen our grip on who we believe we are and what we believe matters. As we accept this invitation, the world grows larger than the parameters of our preferences. We realize that we don’t always know what’s best for us, and learn to hold less tightly to what we thought we wanted. And in the process, we come to see ourselves as part of a mystery more vast and beautiful than our smaller self could have ever imagined.  

Susan Christerson Brown

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Considering a Rule of Life

August 5th, 2023 | Click to Comment

I’m reading Cynthia Bourgeault’s The Wisdom Way of Knowing, a small book about the teachings that have long helped humanity find connection to the spiritual source of life. We have always been in need of greater wisdom, strength, and guidance than our own devices offer, and these teachings help cultivate a way of life that helps us be receptive to higher knowing. Bourgeault traces the Wisdom teachings that have appeared, gone underground, and reappeared for thousands of years. They have given rise to various religions, tend to fall into the shadow of the very human institutions that arise from the initial religious insight, and continue to find new ways to emerge into human consciousness.

The Benedictine rule of life is one of the practices she names that has come down to us from the Wisdom teachings. Bourgeault anchors her book in the early days of her teaching about spiritual awakening. In an intentional retreat setting, she led a small group in living their version of a Benedictine rule of life. Their days were a rhythm of physical work, prayer and meditation, learning, and rest.

In this retreat setting, among kindred spirits and in a structured rhythm of daily life, they experienced the gift of seeing the unity and the beauty behind this world of ten thousand things. They had a direct experience of this life as a manifestation of the love that is the Source of everything. She attributed their experience to the power of the rule of life, practiced in a devoted community.

Her writing inspired me to experiment with looking at my activities through the lens of a rule of life. Not that I had specifically defined a rule of life for myself, much less expected a mystical perception of reality. But I wanted to try experiencing a day holding a balance of four main areas: physical work and exertion, mental effort and learning, cultivation of space for being receptive to the Divine and becoming a vessel for greater love, and rest. Or in other words, the day’s work for body, mind, and heart, plus rest.

Through this way of looking my time, meditation was not so much a singular practice apart from the day, but rather just one part of the sacredness of the entire day. Even housework, those simple, humble chores necessary but discouragingly endless, took on new dignity as an important part of the day’s rhythm. It helped to see that effort as part of what makes up a full life. The work of the mind, too, as I made notes to prepare for an upcoming meeting, took its place as part of the totality of the day—no more or less than important than any other task. It helped bring a greater sense of ease to my work. Exercise was not so much a chore to check off as an important part of a whole life—like one of the wheels required to keep the cart on the road and moving forward.

I’ve long thought of a rule of life as a burden, something that’s “good for you,” something that you really “ought” to do—like removing sugar from your diet—and just as difficult and grim. Discipline is necessary in all sort of contexts, but the very word suggests living without pleasure or comfort. In a similar way, my unexamined sense of a rule of life has felt to me like the prospect of a house with no pillows.  

What if that isn’t true?

What if a rule of life names what matters most, and establishes a rhythm of life that has space for those things? What if it ushers in a life that’s more joyful and more meaningful? What if instead of a harsh list of things I must do, it honors and elevates those things that are difficult, or boring, or depressing, and makes space for the things that are life-giving? What if it eases the continual low-grade fever of angst about things I have not seen to? What if it helps me see the beauty I’m currently missing?

Some seasons of life are more conducive than others for establishing a rule of life for ourselves. Times of transition when we need a new rhythm for our days, or times of stress when we need the support of a healthy routine, both serve as particular invitations for putting into place a rule of life. Yet even in the ordinary times of our lives, it helps to name what is important and consciously make an effort to incorporate it. The only vehicle for our highest aspirations, our deepest longings, is the concrete way in which we live out our days.

I’m interested in experimenting more with establishing a rule of life. But I’m trying to keep it simple and do-able. I’m asking, “How do I want to cultivate my life through body, mind, and heart?” And, “What does that look like?”

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Freeing the Form in the Stone

April 21st, 2023 | Click to Comment

Michelangelo described the process of creating his magnificent sculptures as a matter of seeing the form within the marble and then removing everything that didn’t belong. With this lens on the process, Michelangelo didn’t so much create David as reveal him by chiseling away the block in which he was encased.

Michelangelo placed his talent in service to the image he was given. Through his inner vision he engaged with a reality not yet manifest in physical form. He gave it his attention, recognized its value, and worked to bring that vision into the material world. The profound beauty of the sculptures he created gives credence to his way of working.

Our more ordinary creations may not reach the stature of Michelangelo’s David, but being guided by the end product that we envision makes bringing something new into the world—writing, teaching, decorating, cooking, or any other creative endeavor—feels a little more manageable. A guiding vision makes it easier to recognize what does not belong, and to chip it away.

In the King Arthur legends, the sword of kingship is encased in stone, and only the true king can draw it out. In these stories, what lies embedded in the stone is a true identity, revealed not by chipping away the stone but by extracting the sword. That is another way of describing the challenge for each of us—finding the connection to our own true heart and our own true calling so that we can claim and wield the sword of our unique power and agency.

Like Michelangelo’s freeing of the form within the marble, the symbolism of extracting the sword points to a way of freeing the essential beauty of our soul. Our potential, our creativity, our ability to love, often lies hidden within the hard stone that we’ve learned to use for protection. As life unfolds, we find out more about who we really are and learn to let go of the things that get in the way. In the process, we bring our long-obscured form into the light.  

It would be great to have a clear vision of that final form, but that is not clear to me. Nonetheless, I am getting clearer on the patterns that do not serve me, and I’m working on letting them go. In that way, I’m chipping away at what doesn’t belong.

Through it all, I trust that there is some higher wisdom, a knowing that is not fully conscious but which urges us in the direction of wholeness. I try to stay attuned to this lifegiving movement, known by many names: the Higher Self, the Higher Mind, the Divine Wisdom, the Light, the Truth, the Ground of Being, the North Star, Divine Guidance, the Life Force, the Tao, God.

Whatever we call it, I believe that this loving and life-affirming presence does see the essential form that’s possible for each of us. It offers us guidance and direction for chiseling away what does not serve, and setting free what is encased in stone.

Susan Christerson Brown

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The Impact of the Aspens

October 22nd, 2022 | 1 Comment

This fall I visited Denver and the iconic Rocky Mountains for the first time. I knew to anticipate a difference from the familiar green rolling ridges and limestone cliffs of the Appalachians. But the mind’s expectations hardly prepare body and soul for the encounter.

Depending on weather conditions, the mountains are a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t backdrop beyond the Denver skyline. The changeable visibility might offer a view of distant snow-capped mountains, or the entire range can be obscured by clouds and smog. We were fortunate to have a clear day heading west out of the city on I70.

Even the foothills are jagged and rough, desolate brown on some slopes and filled with evergreens on others. My ears popped as we drove up the steep inclines into the mountains.

White-barked trees with golden leaves began to appear. They glowed as if lit from within, growing in clusters. Aspens. They’re all connected, I learned. Each sends out roots that can grow into new saplings. These were families of trees.

What a gift to see the aspens in their October glory. From a distance, they make threads of light among the dark firs on the mountainsides. The bright lines and pockets of color are like the Japanese art of kitsugi, repairing cracked pottery with liquid gold—brightening, elevating, and making unique the piece that has been broken.

Up close, the aspens shimmer in the breeze with a gathering, rising sound like tumbling water or the sudden flight of a tree full of birds. The leaves are golden coins winking in the sunlight, like the glittering disks of a thousand jeweled belly dancers, held aloft on slender white branches.

There were valleys filled with these trees, like huge golden pools surrounded by mountainsides of deep green. We passed the exit to Golden, Colorado, named for this exquisite swath of color. I no longer think only of beer when I hear that name.

Seeing the aspens comes at a price for an unacclimated lowlander. The body’s strength drains out like water at 11,000 feet. The low ache of a brain in need of oxygen, the effortful thought, the necessary slow pace of movement, the fluttering heart, all mark how it feels to move through these heights.

Physical energy and mental agility grow cloudy in the high mountains, at least in the short time when I was there. I didn’t so much claim an experience as submit to it. It was an encounter: with power, with beauty, with vastness, and even with desolation. We watched a storm gather on the side of a mountain, and found ourselves peppered with snow-encased hailstones on a mountain pass. Temperatures dropped, the sun came and went. A huge ranch spread over a barren-looking plateau seemed to me an image of loneliness. I can still see the woman in boots and jeans unlatching a wide metal gate, the driver’s door of her pickup standing open—and feel her dignity and grit. 

I felt the absence of how familiar terrain cushions our journey through this world. The enormity of the landscape jarred me awake, wide-eyed, as I took in what I could. The mountains inspired awe, and demanded a gathering of one’s own strength to meet them. They evoked humility, effortlessly demonstrating that life is more than I can imagine.

I’m grateful for every part of experiencing the mountains, but it’s the aspens that make me smile. Their gorgeous, golden color amidst the rugged landscape was a kind of generosity. Their inviting shimmer was like the gift of hospitality—a gift shared by those who welcomed us into their homes at the end of the day as well. Beauty and delight touch the heart when we’re traveling unfamiliar territory.

I want to remember the power of connection that I saw in the aspens, and the impact it makes on the landscape. I want to remember that I have the chance to foster that kind of community, beauty, and hospitality in the life I live. And I want to remember how much it matters.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Presence without Answers

June 11th, 2022 | Click to Comment

In my mom’s new electronic photo frame, images from across the decades show up in delightfully unexpected order. Our family keeps it interesting by continually sending new pictures—some recent and some from the past. Yesterday the display showed a fabulous picture of my dad from the late 1950s. He was in his mid-twenties, leaning against his Chevy and looking like he was going to own the world. Then a recent picture of my thirty-six-year-old son came into view. Stretched out on the floor with his baby daughter, his face expressed a more mature kind of optimism. He showed the peace, strength, and love I knew from my father, years after that youthful snapshot.

Seeing the younger generation at a later stage of life suspended my usual sense of the passing of years. It bent time to see the grandson older than his grandpa. The daughter who would be me was not yet born; in that juxtaposition of photos my baby granddaughter was older than I was!

There’s a rare and treasured picture of four generations of mothers and daughters in our family taken when I was a baby. My mother is now about the age of the great-grandmother who seemed ancient when I was young. Somehow, I’m now in the role of grandmother. Decades after that picture was taken (and still many years ago) I took my place in a different photo of four generations, posing on the porch of the same house. I can still hear the ringing metallic creak of that screen door swinging open—a sound that announced love and welcome, remaining constant through all the changes from childhood into my years as a young mother. In this front porch snapshot my daughter was five or six, and my grandmother had become her great-grandmother. My mom in the photo is a little younger than I am now. How can this be? As with so many before me, I understand my elders better with each passing year.

My beloved grandparents passed on long ago. Recently I’ve lost my dad. A friend says one of the gifts of grief is the appreciation of what’s here, of our time with each other, and how much it matters. How brief it is. Another gift is the perspective on what has real weight and what doesn’t. It helps us see difficulties as the passing circumstances they are. It can remind us not to fritter away our energy and attention on things that don’t really matter.

Ironically, it takes a long time to understand how short life is. For much of my life the years seemed to extend far in front of me, and I took them for granted. But it’s not just the brevity of life that we’re slow to appreciate. There is also the mystery and gift at work through the living of our days. We have access to the Source of life, but it usually takes a long time to wake up to that reality.

Regardless of whether we’re awake to it, the Life Force moves and animates us in amazing ways. What unfolds is glorious. Looking back from a distance is like watching time-lapse photography of a flower bloom. In those earlier years I thought that living a life was my own doing. Now I know that my actions were more a matter of Life moving through me. Sometimes I was in the flow, sometimes I resisted it. On my best days, I showed up fully for what unfolded. I responded to the ways Spirit nudged me forward. Am I doing that now? I hope so.

One thing I know is that life is short, and I don’t want to miss out on it by not being present. As I experience time bending, connecting the generations, I see the fleeting beauty of the time that I have. I want to savor it, or at least show up fully for it. And I’ve learned that engaging in some kind of creative work helps.

Creating calls forth our best self. It asks only that we show up and engage. In making art, or taking it in, we engage with Presence. Art doesn’t provide us with answers; it doesn’t have to. Its job is to be present. It invites us to attend to what’s real, and to experience how reality shows up in the beauty that passes away. It helps us hold the questions, and to allow life, whatever it brings, to flow through us.  

Like a Rothko painting, art can be a doorway into a temple. Engaging with art creates a still point in a turning world, the axis mundi that makes an opening for eternity.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Courage and Tenderness

January 19th, 2022 | Click to Comment

It takes some courage to take on what’s new, to try something new, to live into what’s new. Right now it takes courage to keep going through the rumbling storms into the new year. Marion Gilbert observes that this new year will be what every new year is: a continuation. That’s helpful. Remembering that a new year doesn’t arrive fully formed makes meeting it feel less daunting.

At the same time, a continuation brings a lot of old baggage. The heavy realities we carry forward weigh on what’s to come. I think of Jacob Marley’s chain, forged link by link. Bracing ourselves to endure its weight requires one particular kind of courage; allowing ourselves to release what’s not needed is another.

The long endurance that the COVID era requires is a new place to be. We’re having to dig deep for the extended perseverance it takes. Our reservoir of everyday coping strategies ran dry long ago, and we need the kind of spiritual sustenance that cannot be generated by force of will. It’s a fresh challenge, or at least a deepening one, to find those wells of replenishment and to continue dealing with the crucible of our current time.

However we characterize it, this malaise is not just our individual experience. Talking to one another makes it clear that we’re experiencing this collectively. At the same time, when the positivity rate is at record levels in Kentucky and people still can’t be bothered to wear a mask, it’s easier to see the divisions than to feel like we’re in this together. But that’s exactly why it troubles me to see bare-faced shoppers: I know we really are in it together. I pray for anyone who needs a hospital bed anytime soon.

Because I tend to look toward the positive aspects of things, something in me wants to resist saying that we’re in a hard place. I’d rather focus on finding some good that comes from all of this. But as the challenges go on and on there is simply no avoiding how difficult these days are, even for those of us not suffering on the front lines of public contact and health care.

In a recent column, David Brooks points out that Americans are driving less but deaths from traffic accidents are up. Belligerent behavior in hospitals, schools, and in public is on the rise. Substance abuse and overdose deaths are increasing. We’re giving less to charity.

Perhaps healing begins with acknowledging the truth of this painful era. There’s a kind of surrender that comes with looking directly at how things are, showing compassion for ourselves and others as we make our way through it. This kind of surrender is not the same as giving up. It’s more a matter of being honest about the condition we’re in.

Naming what’s real honors the loss we’re all experiencing. Acknowledging the painful realities that we’re trying to cope with brings a tenderness to how I move through the world. The vulnerability and fragility that I sense in myself and others feels both sad and true. It slows me down, and makes me appreciate the genuine moments of beauty and hope.

The courage to abide with what’s true makes us more receptive to what our ego would otherwise dismiss. It helps us to pay attention, to see what we would otherwise overlook, to be truly present. The tenderness evoked by these times helps us appreciate the beauty of caring for one another, of connecting with one another. It shows us how we need each other. Bringing presence to one another makes things better.

Tenderness helps me notice and appreciate the moments of beauty and connection that permeate every single day. Beauty is spiritual sustenance, and even sweeter when shared. As we honor what is true, we can help heal this world by bringing our attention to what is beautiful, sharing it with others, and enjoying those moments together.

Susan Christerson Brown

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