First thing this morning, there was a list running in my head of tasks that needed attention right away, or so I believed. I made my way to the kitchen in robe and slippers, reaching automatically to switch off the lamppost out front. The inner productivity police were telling me I was already behind—not a very kind or peaceful way to begin the day.
But outside the window, past the lamppost, my neighbor’s saucer magnolia was in full bloom. Lit by the rising sun, branches and blooms leaning languidly over the drive, the tree’s abundant flowers spilled onto the ground below. The sight lifted me above the weary trails in my mind, and awakened me to the beauty of the morning.
That tree hadn’t worried as it weathered the winter; it didn’t fret about whether it would bloom. It didn’t resist coming to life in the early spring. It didn’t tell itself that opening its buds was too hard, or question its own timing when the days turned warmer. It didn’t judge the number of blossoms on its branches, or their color and size.
Instead, it simply allowed the sap to rise and the buds to form and the sun to invite them to open. It didn’t “do” anything. It certainly didn’t force anything. It allowed life and the season to flow through it.
And today, that beautiful magnolia invited me to do the same.
We have few sources of cool, clear water to drink from in these days of upheaval. They’re found mostly in those rare places where friendship, love, and community have carved a basin. This is where water from the deep springs can pool.
The trustworthy holding and acceptance, the reminders of what we know but might have forgotten, the respite of a place safe enough to think and process and grieve together—these gatherings sustain me. This water gives me life.
We all need that sustenance. Yet there are toxic pools where people gather in their longing for community, for belonging. There are poisoned wells, watering the ugly desire to vanquish and overrun.
Almost a year ago Carl Bernstein spoke of a “cold civil war.” It describes the state of our country. We’re living a clash of world views, of values. It feels like a siege.
The battle we didn’t want is here. It poses the question of who is best supplied, not just with material provisions, but with ideas and vision. Who has the fortitude to see clearly and respond appropriately, with strength and wisdom? Who invites others to join in a life-affirming movement.?
Fear or Love? That is the choice. Fear has its place. It can show us what needs attention. But it’s a terrible way to live. It limits our vision and our choices, and constrains our lives. How can we best live from the truth that love makes us free, and fear is a prison? How do we find our way to the water of life?
We need to find strength to live from love; we need the encouragement of others. What are the communities that truly give life? They matter. Find them, if you don’t have them. Hold onto them. Be clear about the water you’re drinking.
I would love to be looking forward into the new year with energy and clarity. It would be great to be moving ahead, powered by a sense of direction and a spirit of taking charge. But what I’m feeling is that I’m behind already.
Over the holidays it felt wonderful to check out from the news and the routines and even the Zoom connections that carried me through the prior months. Resting from them makes clear the effort that they all require. Now the gears are creaking as I try to get going again.
Transitions are hard for toddlers, and maybe they don’t really get any easier. We simply learn to soldier on. With the new year underway, it’s time for plans and schedules. The unopened door into the work that I have yet to begin is daunting as always. I have to remind myself that the work most always ends up being do-able once I walk through that door. It’s just a matter of turning the knob and leaning in.
Like all of us, my particular circumstances are set against our larger societal challenges. Bearing up in the current climate requires some effort in itself. There’s a race out there between the vaccine distribution channels and the new, more contagious, strain of coronavirus. I had internalized what felt ok to do, the volume of traffic in a store that felt safe to enter. Not much felt ok. Now the level of contagion is worse and I no longer have that sense of what’s safe. The virus is moving faster and the vaccine seems to be rolling out in slow motion, getting no closer to me at all. It’s a terrible thing when trying to live with good, responsible judgment seems indistinguishable from living in fear. And now there’s the chaos in Washington, too.
For weeks I’ve held onto how Rabbi Ari Saks recently described the meaning of Hanukkah. It speaks directly to this time. He says that lighting the menorah celebrates a victory in the midst of a larger battle, the outcome of which is yet unknown. It’s an act of faith, a way of drawing strength and courage from the small sources of light along our path. It’s also an act of courage to name what we hope for, to tend it, and to work for it.
That’s where we are as this year begins. There is hope and good news, but the shot in the arm is not here yet. There’s a new vision and leadership, but the transfer hasn’t happened. We’re in between the promise and the manifestation, and we persevere.
Once a week I tune in for a guided meditation offered by a wise teacher named Marion Gilbert. During her Monday Meditations I experience my burdens being lifted. It shifts my perception in a way that lets me feel absolutely carried and supported, with a perspective that allows me to be completely at peace. It works on my psyche just like smoothing an animal’s fur.
My worrying mind wants to be in charge. It thinks it should be in charge, yet has no capacity to change much of anything. My strongest agency comes from where I place my attention and what I choose. The best choice is to find that solid place to stand where I can observe the mind doing what it does, and be aware all the while that reality is bigger than what the worrying mind is able to perceive. That’s when I can remember that I’m being carried into the new year, that it’s not all up to me, and that ultimately all will be well.
This year as we move into the time of Advent, I’m offering a class exploring the symbolism and the healing power of the mandala. In this season of increasing darkness without the holiday observances we usually enjoy, we need some new way of inviting Advent to speak to our hearts. We can all use some encouragement, and my hope is that this class will help.
Perhaps you’re familiar with the tradition of lighting candles in an Advent wreath during the weeks leading up to Christmas. This ritual is especially comforting as the weather turns colder and the nights grow longer. Four candles in a circle, as if to mark the four corners of a square, represent characteristics to kindle in our own hearts. The Christ candle itself, the light of transformation, marks the center point.
The shape of the Advent wreath and its candles forms a mandala—a symbol of the sacred wholeness that is the essence of all creation, and of our own souls. “Mandala” is a Sanskrit word for circle, and designates an infinite variety of circular patterns. The combination of a circle and square is a common mandala design, representing a union of heaven and earth. This universal, archetypal symbol shows up throughout history and in every culture. It is one of the first shapes that young children draw, and it appears in our dreams as a sign of healing and wholeness.
In the spirit of lighting the Advent wreath, we’ll consider a different realm of life at each class meeting and name a particular quality we wish to kindle. If you wish, you can create your own tabletop mandala and enjoy the increasing light as we burn an additional candle each week.
We’ll also engage in a dialogue with the soul through creating a series of mandalas, whether with colored pencils, crayons, marker, paint, or collage. No artistic ability is required whatsoever.
Along the way, we’ll look at examples of mandalas in nature, art, and architecture, gain insight from C. G. Jung’s perspective on mandalas and what they represent, and discuss the symbolism that shows up in the mandalas we create.
As the year winds down toward the winter solstice and the celebration of Christmas, I hope you’ll join me in making space for a new way to invite meaning, inspiration, and hope to the season.
Details:
We’ll meet via Zoom on Monday evenings, 6:30 – 8:30, beginning on Monday, November 30. The final meeting with be Monday, December 21 (which happens to be the day of the winter solstice). The cost of the class is $80. To sign up, just write to me at susan@mildlymystical.com and let me know you’re interested.
Through all the challenges of this season, the beauty of autumn has restored me almost daily. In the isolation brought by the pandemic, changing colors offer something new in every walk through the neighborhood. Through the divisive political climate, the trees present a cyclical drama where everything has its season. Even, or especially, amidst the painful realities of the time we’re in, nature is a healer. The landscape itself compels us to savor these glorious days for the short time we have them.
I love the towering shimmer of tulip poplar leaves, stirred by the breeze like ripples in a golden stream. I’m in awe of the maple’s golden-red foliage, translucent in the sun, like the glow of stained glass in afternoon light. Holly berries redden, pinecones open, burnished acorns fall from the oak. Each tree in its own way yields to the turning of seasons, again and again and again. The reassuring rhythm is a balm for anxious days.
In the tender days of a difficult year, this beauty touches me more profoundly than ever. When I allow the natural world to speak, my heart responds. I’m reminded of what I’d forgotten: I love this land, with its proliferation of life and growth and beauty. I love its forests and orchards, its fields and gardens, its grazing acres and neighborhood lawns. I love the variety of what grows here—the feast of color and shape, texture and size, rooted in the local soil of each one’s unique place.
The hues of this season sing of abundance, with the dazzling specificity of each particular shade. May this array of beauty speak to our hearts; may its diversity show us what can grow. May this glorious outpouring of life teach us generosity, and may the words we speak to one another be carried forth on the breath of love.
Many years ago when I was an undergrad, I learned that the week of final exams was a time of great anxiety. The dorm’s common rooms filled with study groups, and solitary students hunched over their desks late into the night. Across long tables in dining halls we commiserated about upcoming tests and unwritten papers. (We scarcely noticed the cafeteria dishes clattering in the background as other people prepared our food and cleaned up afterwards.) It was the crucible of the semester’s end. Fashionable girls abandoned blow-dry styles for ponytails, and went about bare-faced, attired in sweatshirts. The library tables were full, and everyone looked stressed.
My senior year I lived off campus, in a neighborhood where no one else was in college. The strangest thing happened. During finals week I had some exams. I studied. I wrote papers. I worked hard and I finished. The drama I believed was part of finals was entirely missing. No pervasive anxiety anywhere, except when I showed up to take a test. For the first time I understood that the concentration of worried students on campus created its own separate atmosphere, a storm cloud looming over the dorms and classrooms.
The time we’re in feels something like being caught under that storm cloud. Certainly, there’s more at stake than a student GPA, and the expanse of unease is far beyond the reach of a college campus. But the principle is the same. On a national scale, we’re creating this atmosphere as we amplify each other’s anxiety.
The news is intense right now. I listen to NPR on the radio while I’m cooking, read online newspapers over coffee, watch news on tv in the evening, and try to keep up with The Atlantic magazine here and there. The routine of all this news-gathering has a soothing regularity, despite the distressing content. The state of our nation is a topic of urgent conversation over Zoom or in person. But all of this takes a toll.
Our collective emotional pitch is creating the reality we’re living, and it’s not good for us. It keeps us on edge, affects our relationships and our health, and creates a climate where disinformation can easily take hold.
I’ve had to learn to recognize when I’ve hit my limit for news, and more importantly, how to step away from that anxious mindset. Though at this point I can’t walk a few blocks to reach a different climate, I’m finding that walking a few blocks helps anyway.
Different things help different people. In this final week before the election, it’s a good time to be intentional about cultivating some peace of mind. How can you allow yourself at least a few minutes a day to rest from the rising anxiety? Is there a place where you can be in nature? Is there a project you enjoy working on? Is there a friend with whom you enjoy spending time? Is there something new you’d like to learn? Can you revive your mindfulness practice?
In that last, quiet undergraduate year, I missed the excitement of finals week on campus, just a little. What I actually missed was being caught up in the shared experience with my classmates. For all the distress, we were going through something important that bound us together.
I know now that I could have helped myself and others if I had been less overtaken by the hive mind. I could have made more of a contribution if I had more perspective on the hive’s anxiety. I could have offered the genuine assurance that we simply had to do the work in front of us, and the reminder that a few deep breaths would make it easier.
That’s true now, as well. We can’t control events, but we have a great deal of choice in how we respond to them. We can choose where to put our energy and attention. We can recall how we’ve been carried through other difficult times in our lives, and allow that to give us a better perspective. If each of us can keep our balance individually, it will help bring peace when we need it most.
Jonathan Haidt’s book, The Righteous Mind, is helping me better understand some important dynamics of the liberal/conservative divide. I can appreciate some of the things driving the thinking of others, even if I don’t agree with them. And I find that we sometimes have more in common than I realized.
In my previous post I discussed Haidt’s first two major points. He shows that the basis of our political and moral decisions is based more on instinct than reason, and he examines the difference between the left and right in regard to the five main foundations of moral judgment.
Haidt’s third major point is that human beings thrive when we are connected to others and feel part of something greater than ourselves. Being part of the whole lifts us out of the mundane reality of everyday life. This gives life meaning, and we need one another for that experience.
Groups of people who agree on a moral worldview offer a sense of support and belonging to their members. This creates something that Haidt calls moral capital—his term for the trust, accountability, and buy-in that allows a group of people to work together, trade with each other, and achieve what they could not accomplish on their own. Moral capital gives individuals confidence that their investment of time, energy, and resources will be rewarded. Moral capital encourages people to work in a way that benefits not only themselves, but the others in their community.
When people can trust one another, they don’t have to hold back out of fear that their hard work will be taken advantage of. Their shared commitment to act for the good of the group brings out the best in its members. Moral capital is a source of real power, and it allows the group to be highly effective in what they undertake together.
In many ways, a moral community operates like a powerful hive. To belong, individuals must sacrifice some personal freedom and act for the good of others in the hive. In this way the community multiplies the power of an individual, making itself into a cohesive organism able to survive challenges and defend against enemies.
Here’s what Haidt has to say about building a strong moral society, by which he means a society with ample moral capital:
“Moral communities are fragile things, hard to build and easy to destroy. When we think about very large communities such as nations, the challenge is extraordinary and the threat of moral entropy is intense. There is not a big margin for error; many nations are failures as moral communities, particularly corrupt nations where dictators and elites run the country for their own benefit. If you don’t value moral capital, then you won’t foster values, virtues, norms, practices, identities, institutions, and technologies that increase it.
“Let me state clearly that moral capital is not always an unalloyed good. Moral capital leads automatically to the suppression of free riders, but it does not lead automatically to other forms of fairness such as equal opportunity. And while high moral capital helps a community to function efficiently, the community can use that efficiency to inflict harm on other communities. High moral capital can be obtained within a cult or a fascist nation, as long as most people truly accept the prevailing moral matrix.
“Nonetheless, if you are trying to change an organization or a society and you do not consider the effects of your changes on moral capital, you’re asking for trouble. This, I believe, is the fundamental blind spot of the left. It explains why liberal reforms so often backfire, and why communist revolutions usually end up in despotism. It is the reason I believe that liberalism—which has done so much to bring about freedom and equal opportunity—is not sufficient as a governing philosophy. It tends to overreach, change too many things too quickly, and reduce the stock of moral capital inadvertently. Conversely, while conservatives do a better job of preserving moral capital, they often fail to notice certain classes of victims, fail to limit the predations of certain powerful interests, and fail to see the need to change or update institutions as times change.” (pp. 342-343)
We all tend to believe that we own the moral high ground. We gather with like-minded people and share a hive mindset. The sense of community is enjoyable, and we find empowerment in aligning with those who think like us. Belonging to a hive gives us a buzz, so to speak.
Inside communities like these, politics takes on a religious fervor. The left and right come to view each other not as opponents, but enemies. Without shared moral capital, the two sides cannot work together. This is the morass we’re in, and we can’t get out of it by trying to change each other’s mind.
We need a way transcend the impasse we’ve reached. Einstein said that problems are never solved on the same level at which they are created. We must orient ourselves according to a higher vantage point. It’s imperative to elevate our perspective and our dialogue so we can talk to one another. Our challenge is to release our death-grip on being right, and to cultivate moral humility.
Moral humility means easing our battle stance. In conversation, it means willingness to listen. It requires resisting the urge to be right, and refraining from attack. Moral humility seeks instead to understand the fears that drive the other person. This is not easy. Moral humility makes our judging mind give up the driver’s seat.
This is not a call to abandon what we think is right. It is rather about expanding our moral sense to reach beyond our hive. Moral humility does not mean that anything goes. It means noticing when a puffed-up sense of righteousness threatens to take us over.
If I’m convinced that I’m right and you’re wrong, I can’t see anything new; I can only see what I already know. Moral humility means I’m less invested in being right, and more invested in discovering how the world works.
This can look a lot like curiosity, and a sincere interest in learning from each other. Practicing moral humility together allows us to exchange ideas, not just shout at one another. Perhaps it even helps us create a place where, individually and collectively, we all can thrive.
In a political era that renders us painfully disconnected from one another, Jonathan Haidt offers some help. Informed by his studies of how politics and morality are entwined, he explores the very different world views that shape our political and moral decision-making. In his book, The Righteous Mind: How Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion, he describes how we arrive at moral judgments. His work shows what contributes to the chasm between people on the left and the right more clearly than anything I’ve encountered.
The first point Haidt makes is that we make our moral and political decisions instinctively. Only then does our analytical mind come along and construct the reasoned arguments that justify those moral and political choices. Haidt’s analogy is that reason is like the rider perched on top of an elephant. The elephant of instinct holds the power to set our direction.
This is why we don’t change each other’s minds with our clearly reasoned arguments. It’s helpful to remember that important decisions are made according to deep feelings about what matters most. Reasons don’t convince anyone. They simply explain or justify our decisions. If someone comes to see things in a new way, it’s because the change happens at a deeper level.
Haidt’s second major point is that human beings make moral judgments according to five main categories. Though all of us rely on these foundations of morality, some carry more weight than others, depending on the individual. The categories are:
Care vs. Harm
Fairness vs. Cheating
Loyalty vs. Betrayal
Authority vs. Subversion
Sanctity/Purity vs. Degradation
We use these categories to make sense of our experience and to determine what is right.
These categories affect everyone’s moral judgments, but we interpret behavior in relation to these categories differently. For example, both liberals and conservatives value fairness. Liberals tend to focus on fairness in terms of equality and social justice. The liberal idea of fairness is a level playing field. Conservatives tend to focus on fairness in terms of proportionality. The conservative sense of fairness is a society where people receive rewards according to the effort and contribution they make. Both liberals and conservatives value fairness, but their attention is directed to different aspects of what makes a system fair.
Liberals are most concerned with the first two categories of morality: care and fairness. Liberal political messaging generally addresses support and protection for vulnerable individuals, and creating a level playing field for everyone. The other three categories of moral decision-making do not carry the same import in the liberal mindset. Conservatives give more equal weight to all five categories. Conservative messaging includes the importance of loyalty to the group, respect for authority and the need for hierarchy in an orderly society, and the dignity and sanctity of human life. As Haidt points out, this gives conservatives an advantage in their political messaging. Speaking to all five moral categories offers more ways to connect with the priorities of individuals.
Haidt describes how studies of neurological structure reveal differences between the brains of individuals who describe themselves as liberal and as conservative. Neurological patterns of those who identify as liberal correlate with seeking and enjoying novelty and diversity in their experience, whereas those who identify as conservative show neurological patterns aligned with putting new ideas to the test and wariness of new experiences. A healthy society needs both perspectives, and thrives when these two propensities can be in conversation, determining through dialogue and debate how best to proceed.
Haidt offers further explanation of the difference between liberals and conservatives by examining three primary moral themes: autonomy, community, and divinity. Which is most important to you? Has it changed over time?
The moral theme of autonomy is central in what Haidt designates as WEIRD culture: Western, educated, industrialized, rich, and democratic. But in other parts of the world, and among conservative people in the West, community and divinity matter just as much as autonomy. In many cultures, community and divinity far outweigh autonomy in importance.
To create a society that effectively safeguards autonomy, the moral categories of Care vs. Harm and Fairness vs. Cheating matter most. Again, liberals who place the highest value on autonomy will be most concerned about the moral categories of Care and Fairness. On the other hand, to create a society that effectively safeguards community, the moral categories of Loyalty vs. Betrayal and Authority vs. Subversion are more important. Safeguarding a sense of the divinity of human life and society, makes Sanctity vs. Degradation the main priority. Once again, Loyalty, Authority, and Sanctity are categories of moral concern that resonate more strongly with conservatives, whereas WEIRD people focus mostly on Care and Fairness.
Seeing these fundamental differences in perception laid out so clearly has helped me understand more about my own moral and political values, as well as those of others. It has also made me more aware of what I hold in common with those whose politics are very different from mine. This is a welcome surprise, and perhaps even a way to find common ground. At a time when our nation is in such great need of the ability to work together, perhaps the non-judgmental insights Haidt offers can help us crack open the heavy doors of our ideological fortresses.
Haidt’s third major point is that human beings thrive when we are connected to others and feel part of something greater than ourselves. I’ll look at what he means by that in my next post.
As late summer shifted to fall this year, I decided to plant a tree. I’ve been adding shrubs and perennials where formerly only grass and violets grew, but planting a tree feels different. As a child, watching the growth of a sugar maple that I helped my grandfather plant taught me how a tree changes the landscape with its powerful presence. Planting a tree matters, and choosing well is a significant task.
I spent weeks mulling the options for a particular spot in my back yard. I wanted a tree that will flower in the spring, grow fruit I can share with the birds, and take on a pleasing rounded shape. It had to fit under the power lines. After much reading and google image searches, I finally narrowed the search to some variety of the crabapple.
Years ago, a spreading crabapple tree grew just outside the door to my children’s kindergarten. Perhaps memories from those days colored my choice. I can still see the tree full of children, as natural there as the fruit or the foliage. They clambered along its branches and tasted the sharp fruit, theirs for the taking, as their mothers or fathers lingered on the lawn at the end of the school day.
At local nurseries I encountered a plethora of dogwoods and redbuds and cherries—all lovely—but no specimens at all of the tree I was looking for. I was starting to question my choice until, at the third garden center I visited, I found not one but three varieties of crabapples. Jackpot! The nursery guy liked the Sugartyme, the only name I recognized from my research. It’s a good tree, but not quite the shape I hoped for. Snowdrift was another lovely specimen, with orange-red fruit and leaves turning gold in the October sun. The third variety was the Donald Wyman, bearing bright red fruit and glossy green foliage.
I pulled out my phone and compared pictures of the mature trees, read about their care, then walked for a while among the other trees and shrubs as I considered which to bring home. Returning to the crabapples banished any indecision. The colors of the Donald Wyman made me smile. Its shape already felt familiar, like the silhouette of a friend. I didn’t so much choose my tree as recognize it. This was the one I wanted to bring home.
The Donald Wyman is a species discovered at Harvard’s Arnold Arboretum in the 1950s. The tree is named for the head horticulturalist who found it. Nature made something new in that garden, and a naturalist with a trained eye and a continual presence in that place recognized the importance of the fresh arrival growing there. I’m glad he was paying attention.
With my back seat folded down, the tree man easily loaded it into my car through the hatchback. There was even room to bring home the Allegheny viburnum I had found on my tour of the garden center. When I got home and unloaded it, the tree brushed the top of the garage doorway—I had to set it out in the driveway to give it room to stand. I wheeled it around back and placed the container where I thought it should go. I studied the tree from different angles, including from inside the house, continually adjusting until it was perfectly placed.
Then there was the work of getting it into the ground. I gathered what I needed: shovel, pine mulch soil conditioner, Bio-tone fertilizer, and pine bark mulch, all carried or lugged or wheeled to the planting site. I dug a wide hole, not too deep, and made a nest of well-conditioned soil to welcome and protect the first year’s root growth. I made sure the slender trunk was straight and tall, and the prettiest branches facing where I’ll view my tree most often. I watered it in, and admired my work, and told the tree: I’m glad you’re here.
The next night we had some weather. The sky darkened toward evening and the wind blew hard. The leaves and branches and entire upper half of the tree bent under its force, whipping back and forth. The young tree seemed so vulnerable out there, and some deep and non-rational protective instinct cringed at having left it to the elements all on its own. As if I should have kept it inside? Of course that didn’t make sense. And another part of me, seeing things more objectively, recognized that this is what the tree is made for. By some miracle, it is created to live in the elements, to weather the seasons, to grow and thrive in a full range of experience. I will water it and give it every support I can. But like the children all those years ago, now grown, this tree is meant to have its own life.
In the hour after I planted the tree, a robin swooped toward a slight branch, then seemed to change his mind about its ability to hold him. A smaller mockingbird lit briefly, then flew away. A couple days later I watched a blue jay pluck one of the bright red crabapples. When the fruit dropped to the ground he followed, pecking away at the skin until the round morsel in his beak glowed creamy yellow in the afternoon sun.
I’m invested in this tree, its place in the landscape, its relationship with the birds in its branches and the chipmunks at its base. I look forward to witnessing the amber color of its leaves in the coming weeks, and its fragrant white blossoms in the spring. Its growth in any moment is imperceptible, yet if all goes well it will achieve a height and breadth that changes the landscape. Life flows through the tree, and the jay, and me. For this glorious time we’re given, we are here.
