The Bigger Picture

September 24th, 2020 | Click to Comment

I know better than to try to change anyone’s mind about politics. From opposite sides of the political chasm in this country we can list our reasons until we’re out of breath, but the only effect is to scare away the birds.

Maybe we can agree, though, that the climate this fall is one of fear. I have things I’m afraid of, and so do you. And separate from the fear that arises from my own perspective on current events, there’s a collective fear in the air and across the airwaves. My fear adds to the climate, and the fear out there increases my own. Maybe that’s your experience, too.

When I experimented with spending a week largely away from the news, not listening to the radio or tv newscasts, and reading very little from the newspaper, I felt somewhat differently. I realized that the endless reports, analyses, and what-if projections, were claiming my attention in a way that made me less thoughtful and more emotional. I still have grave concerns, and I need the information shared by ethical reporting.  But I don’t need to feed an inner anxiety machine. Living in a constant state of fear, anger, and upset doesn’t help anyone.

I don’t want to belittle anyone for their politics. People whom I love and respect think differently from me. But I would like to share my main concern about this election, and I hope you’ll stay with me long enough to hear.

At a time when we disagree on so much, it’s easy to lose sight of the container that holds our ability to have a country in which we disagree. We have different ideas of how to attain increased peace and prosperity, but most of us do want to find a way to achieve that blessed state.

Stoking fear and mistrust encourages us to think of our “real” country as constituted of those who think like us. The Kentucky state flag reads, “United we stand divided we fall.” These words, of all that might have been chosen, remind us that there are powers that would turn us against one another for their benefit.

There are powers that would have us believe that the greatest threat to our democracy is from those who think differently from us. This way of tapping into our most basic fears is how much of politics works. The message is that the “others” would undermine our way of life, and that to elect them would hand the reins to those who do not value the principles on which our country was built. These are the political arguments in every election season.

The question of which party should hold the reins of power is a normal political question. But what’s at stake this year is not normal. It’s much bigger.

An unspoken but powerful message in the air this fall is that peace and prosperity will come through policies that lessen the ability of citizens to vote. This year, the question is whether we will accept the leadership of someone who is working to negate our ballots.

The most basic principle of a democracy is that the voters decide. We have a leader working against that principle. Most importantly, he has indicated that he has no intention of turning over the reins of power. We’ve never before had a president with a plan to circumvent the vote.   

This year’s election is not just a matter of who will lead. It’s a question of whether we will hold onto our democratic system of government or not. Strange as it sounds, it’s apparently possible to vote away a democracy.

The power of the president is being used to make important institutions into political mouthpieces. A politically driven Justice Department can’t uphold justice. A politically driven CDC can’t maintain trust and respect as a source of reliable information. A military that acts to police its own country sets soldiers against fellow citizens instead of protecting them from foreign enemies. Under this president, long-respected independent institutions on which we rely for our way of life have been turned into vehicles for propping up power.

The existential threat is not from those with whom we disagree. This is a distraction from the larger issue. It’s like arguing over who gets to steer the Titanic. This president uses his rhetorical gifts to turn us against one another, which directs our attention away from what matters most.

The threat is whether we will have a democracy that allows each of us to have a vote, and permits debate about public policy. We don’t see public debates of important issues in Russia or China. Is that what we want?

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In the Midst of It

September 20th, 2020 | Click to Comment

After half a year of guarding against the coronavirus, there’s no longer much that feels novel about it. We’re all learning to live with the isolation and limitation, along with the toll it takes. I feel like a potbound plant. Yet just as roots pushing against their container force new growth above the soil, the constriction of these days pushes me to leaf out in new ways, even as I long for life to open up again.

I’ve learned about sewing masks over these long months since the pandemic took hold. My first efforts were pleated rectangles, stitched on the machine one after another like a banner of prayer flags. In those early, frightening days when masks were nearly impossible to find, each was a supplication for safety, offered to and for my loved ones.

The masks I make now fit better, and there are many other places to find them. Maybe I’ll attempt another round with a new design, but these days I’m weary of the project and the clutter. It’s time to clear the dining room table, piled with the fabric, interfacing, and allergen filter I’ve experimented with. I designated a box for keeping my tools and materials at hand. Like the fears that arrived with the virus, they’re not quite put away but no longer sprawling everywhere.

In this and so many other ways, we’re living in the in-between. Covid has imposed strange, yet increasingly familiar, routines even as it remains long way from being over. The end, so far, isn’t even in sight.

I would have thought that my imposed solitude should yield more creative work, and more plans for teaching. After all, the quiet is something writers and contemplatives long for. But for much of the summer, I haven’t been able to settle on what project to take up next, or what kind of plans to be putting in place.

I remember months ago considering paths to choose from, different directions in which to focus my attention. New possibilities surely still exist, but at this point there is nothing to illuminate the path forward. I lack a sense of beckoning energy, or of alignment with a greater will, when I consider generating something new.

If I knew what to work on I would do it, but the character of this time resists forward momentum. Even now as the calendar turns toward fall, usually a productive time for me, it’s not a season for looking forward. For now, I’m doing more learning than teaching, more reading than writing. I’m digging and planting in my yard, and trusting that the soil of my inner life will yield new growth as well. We’re living in a liminal time. I’m getting through it with this repeated mantra: Bow to what is.

For me, bowing to what is means allowing myself to see what is happening and to accept that it’s real. It means not resisting or denying what is true, even if I dislike it. It means trying my best to see without distortion. Only then can I respond effectively, whether it’s showing compassion to myself or someone else, or setting a boundary where it’s needed. We can’t force the world to be as we wish, we can only meet the world where it is and go from there.

The events of this year are bigger than I am. I can’t fix what’s wrong. Yet how I respond, how each of us responds, matters. We need deep healing in this country—not just a fix, but a reset. How to do that is beyond me, but I want to be part of finding a way. When things are this out of balance, the best thing I can offer is a commitment to connecting to the true, balancing center, and encouragement for others to do the same.

So my direction, for now, is not so much forward but inward. I look for glimpses of the pattern being woven through the unfolding of these days. I listen for the messages behind the daily onslaught of news. I value silence, a rest from the stream of information that yields no insight. If true knowledge is to be had, it must come from deeper and more enduring place.

The upheaval we’ve all experienced this year has made clear that we are not in control. But we do have choice. We’re part of something bigger than we are, and each of us has a role to play as this greater reality unfolds. This is a time for each of us, in our own way, to listen for our soul’s wisdom.

This world is in dire need of the genuine gifts that each of us can offer. We must read the inner compass that allows us to bring forth the abilities that are uniquely ours to share. How do we act not from fear but from love? What can we offer that strengthens the collective?

This liminal time offers an invitation to consider questions that we’ve held off, perhaps for years. It’s time to listen—not to the cacophony out there, but to the wisdom that dwells inside. It’s time to see clearly, respond effectively, and create a society that can somehow hold us all. Let’s keep working to find a way of life, individually and collectively, that fits better.

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Reclaiming Space from Opportunistic Weeds

August 3rd, 2020 | 2 Comments

Lately I’ve been weeding and mulching according to the sun, working when I can have shade in the heat of the summer. By 8:30 my time’s up, and even that is pushing it. Afterwards it feels good to sit on the porch and cool off, enjoying the improving landscape as the sun lights up the yard.

When I dug out a shrub from the front yard earlier this summer, I didn’t do anything beyond smoothing the dirt to reclaim the space it left. I pulled a few weeds then looked away for a moment. Suddenly the opportunistic crabgrass had not only taken over but grew in a mound threatening to replicate the size of the bush that had been there before. Among the spreading fingers a small cranesbill geranium with pale pink flowers bloomed—who knew you were there? But the voracious weeds nearly choked it out.

Nature abhors a vacuum they say. Physicists seem to be saying there are no vacuums, really. Everything exists in a field that connects everything. But our senses recognize that creating a space invites something to fill it.

Putting things in order, clearing space, is enormously satisfying. It brings peace. Then immediately the world presses in. So we need rituals and routines for holding that space, for preventing the opportunistic weeds from taking over and choking out what would bloom there.

It was a lot of work to pull out the crabgrass and other weeds that took over that fertile patch of soil. The job would have been easier if I had jumped on it sooner, but it’s done now. I worked carefully to keep the volunteer geranium intact while I extracted the weeds from around it. This time I covered the bare ground with a layer of mulch to help keep the weeds down. I need that help to hold the space until I get other things to grow there.

Whether it’s in a garden, or on a tabletop, or between the lines of a day planner, holding space can feel unproductive. It’s the antithesis of having an agenda. And yet holding space is about the healthiest intention we can have.

It’s interesting to consider the difference between an “agenda” and an “intention.” Agenda is a kind of willfulness, the imposition of not only what, but how and when. An intention is more expansive. It names a value and leaves open how to achieve it. It’s the yutori of consciousness (yutori being a Japanese word meaning “a space of sufficiency and ease”). There are times when the focus and direction of an agenda is needed—it enabled me to do the work of clearing the weeds. At other times, intention is needed to allow room to breathe and for new life to grow. While an agenda tries to avoid surprise, intention makes space for the unexpected and creates the possibility of delight on the way to where we want to go. Intention holds things lightly.

Creating and maintaining space in our lives claims the fertile ground of our heart and soul. Staying with our creative and contemplative practices protects us from encroachments that rob us of what we need to be fully alive. We don’t have to let ourselves be overrun by crabgrass, whether it takes the form of negative thoughts from within or impositions from without.

At a time when the news feels more oppressive week by week, fear and despair (or the anger and hate that disguise them) are the weeds that can take us over if we allow it. Our lives individually and collectively are too important to allow that to happen.

We have the ability to love one another and to bring love’s healing to the world. We need space in our lives and our hearts to do that work. The gentle intention of holding space is important right now. Holding and tending our heart space, being watchful for weeds and removing them promptly, will allow beauty and healing to bloom in our hearts, our lives, and our world.

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Seeing How the World Works

July 17th, 2020 | Click to Comment

I’ve loved the yin/yang symbol from the first time I saw it as a girl. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but recognized something mysterious and true. Over the years I’ve come to understand more about the dynamic it represents, and life continues to teach me about what it means.

Yin/Yang Symbol

The symbol shows the opposites of yin and yang in a dance. It depicts the endless cycle of one side growing into fullness, at which point it gives way to the other. That’s why the seed of the opposite appears as a small circle in the middle of the widest point.

A better word than “opposite” for the forces in play is “complementary,” which suggests not so much either/or, but rather both/and. The complementary forces are two sides of a single coin. Each would be meaningless without the other. They are not separate, even though they are as different as they can be.

The pandemic we’re all living through is my latest teacher about what this powerful symbol embodies. A virus unleashed for which we have no defense and no treatment is devastating—to our health, our economy, and our way of life. At the same time, at no point in my lifetime has it been this easy to see how interconnected our lives are. We had forgotten that.

There are many two-sided effects from the virus. The limitations that constrain daily life are burdensome. Yet the many things we can no longer do has brought spaciousness to our schedules. Shut-downs have issued an invitation to explore what previously was edged out of the calendar. We’ve had to give up in-person gatherings for Zoomtime, but in exchange we can include others without the limitations of geography. Remote meetings have been around for years, but we needed a push to find out collectively how well it can work. In-person classes and meetings draw able-bodied people from a limited geographic area. Technology breaks open the possibilities as those barriers disappear. The tossed coin spins through the air in a mesmerizing pattern of dark and light.

The monumental shifts we’ve experienced have happened with unsettling speed. Practices that only a few months ago seemed carved in stone have now crumbled. Whether the change is welcome or painful, we have an immediate sense of the impermanent and illusory nature of our institutions and ways of life.

Finding out that broad changes are indeed possible within a short span of time threatens our sense of security and stability. Yet in another two-sided truth, it also offers a sense of freedom and possibility. We’ve learned that our shared perception goes a long way toward creating our reality, which is true in times of stasis as well as change. Ideas held by enough people become our collective experience. The world we can envision is a world we can make, however far from our current reality it may be. We know this in a way we did not when this year was new.

The changes brought by the virus are not the only challenges to our country; its yin/yang lessons apply elsewhere. In the upheaval of our time we’re witnessing a political arsonist set fire to our nation’s institutions. It’s traumatic, like watching wildfires destroy old growth forest. I’m among the grief-stricken as the canopy of justice, responsibility, and protection burns. Yet after a forest fire comes new growth. A diversity of life emerges with plants that could not flourish in the dense shadow of the former trees.  

In everything happening in our country and around the world, something bigger than we can see is at work.  We all have a part to play in its unfolding, in this dance of dark and light. The flames will eventually burn out, the sunlight will touch the earth in new places, and seeds long dormant will break open. The world will be remade once again, and we can each contribute to making it stronger and better for all of us.

A Japanese poet and samurai named Mizuta Masahide, who lived over 300 years ago, understood the yin/yang nature of the world. These lines of his endure:

       Barn’s burnt down—
       now
       I can see the moon.

These lines offer the revealed moon as the round white circle in the yin/yang symbol, seeding new light in an expanse of dark. 




















						

	
   						

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Remaking the Landscape

		                 
                        

                        	June 7th, 2020 
							 
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I’ve known for months that a shrub in my front yard needed
to be moved, but all through the fall, winter, and most of the spring, I avoided
doing anything about it. It was a big project and I was focused on other things.





There was nothing wrong with the plant itself, but it was out of balance with its surroundings. It obscured the once-visible house number and blocked the roses trying to grow nearby. This happened little by little, the barely perceptible daily change imparting no sense of urgency. The encroachment grew, until a few days ago when something changed.










The tide of emotion moving through this nation and washing
over me needed some kind of release. Grief and pain and anger over injustice is
finally permeating our individual and collective psyche at a level we’ve never experienced
before. And on that particular day, not knowing what to do about the larger picture,
I found myself wrestling with the simpler task in front of me.





I cut into the ground with the tip of my shovel, making a circle wider than the reach of the shrub’s branches. I put my whole body into it, gripping the handle, foot on metal, shoving the blade into the soil with all the strength I could muster. Yet I also worked carefully. This bush was rooted in the wrong place and causing problems in the landscape, but I didn’t want to destroy it. Instead, I wanted to resituate it elsewhere. 





When the underground structure was finally exposed, I was able to tip the shrub over. The root system ripped free with the sound of a thousand filaments breaking, muffled by the earth. One root, inexplicably longer and larger than the others, I had to cut with a pruner. I didn’t want to harm the plant, but I was doing violence to its intention to remain.





As I dug and sweated and pulled on those roots I held the
question of where I was planted, and in what ways I might be rooted in the
wrong place. I held the question of how our collective landscape needs to be
remade, and what my part might be. 










I continue asking, praying the question of what I can offer to support change, how I can act in a way that is compassionate and responsible. The answers take time. The questions are seeds, and I’m tending the ground where they can grow.





The shrub is doing well so far in its new location. I watch
its leaves and water it well, willing it to take hold in this better place. The
leaves are indicators but the important work is below ground. That’s where the
hidden roots make their connection with new soil. 





Beneath the ground unfolds a process that despite its familiarity remains a mystery. The seeds of questions we’re willing to ask break open, pushing new life up into the sunlight.





Susan Christerson Brown

						

	
   						

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The Leaven All Around Us

		                 
                        

                        	May 13th, 2020 
							 
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This morning I lifted the lid on my Dutch oven to see the most beautiful loaf of sourdough bread I’ve made yet. The reveal has some drama, and a successful result is something to celebrate. The dough has a life of its own, making each loaf turn out differently. 





Sourdough loaf baked in a Dutch oven





My relationship with the starter and the process is ongoing, and includes an element of the unknown. But my understanding grows, and the quality of the bread reflects the cumulative learning with every bake.





This grand experiment began in the initial, shocking days when
the pandemic overtook us and normal activities ended. In a spirit of
grow-your-own self-sufficiency, I wanted to see if I could capture wild yeast
from the air and make my own sourdough starter. The ingredients were flour,
water, time, and attention. 





It took weeks to coax a bubbling starter into being. I fed
it, adjusted its diet, and found the place in my kitchen where it was happiest
to live. I even gave it time on my porch when the breeze was warm, inviting
more yeast to the party. 





My first efforts at bread were heavy and dense—less fluffy pillow and more like memory-foam. But I kept at it. Eventually, both the starter and my ability gained strength. I’m still learning, but I’m making progress.





The loaf I made today came out high and round, golden brown,
with rustic edges to the scores I slashed just before placing it in the oven.
The aroma while it baked was a dark and yeasty bass note, a hint of the
underworld of life not visible or commonly met in the daily round. 





The leaven for this loaf was literally taken out of the air.
Not thin air, but air dense with life, with wild yeast that move through the
world all the time. There’s much more than the virus that moves through the spaces
between us.





The cultivation of this starter is a flavorful testament to the fact that we live and move and have our being in a field, not a vacuum. The space surrounding us is rich and dense and full of life. It is not an emptiness but a connective medium. It conveys all manner of ways through which creation affects us, and we affect one another. 





We are part of a larger world that exists outside our concrete perception. This greater reality reaches us, impinges on us, supports and challenges us, and works with us when we manage the skillful means and awareness to engage. This rich field—call it Energy, the Life Force, God, the Higher Mind—offers leaven for our lives. 





There’s no need to procure yeast elsewhere. Everything we need to bring life to the simplest of ingredients—flour, water, salt—is right here.





Sourdough round cooling










Susan Christerson Brown

						

	
   						

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Tending Life at Home

		                 
                        

                        	March 23rd, 2020 
							 
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The office I’ve had to leave unused for now





Over the weekend I made a trip into my office to pick up some books and papers, and to bring home my plants. The eerily quiet world sharpened my attention. Nothing felt ordinary about the familiar drive to downtown Lexington, and the short trip seemed to take a long time. My usual sense of knowing what to expect is gone.





I pulled into the lot for the first time in ten days, pulled
a Clorox wipe from its plastic canister, and rolled my folding hand truck to
the door. After wiping down the metal plate of the door handle and tugging on
it to allow the deadbolt to turn, I waved my fob in front of the electronic
lock and opened the door. 





The beauty and peace of the office suite was the same as ever.
A sense of warmth and serenity permeated the space. I made my way down the hall,
moving past other welcoming rooms. One practitioner left a beautiful silk
flower on her massage table, holding space for seeing her next client, whenever
that may be. 





Stepping into the reassuring familiarity of my office, I
felt a sense of relief. So much has changed, but I still drew pleasure from the
art on the walls and small sculptures on the shelves. I felt embraced by the soft
light, the well-fitting curtains I sewed, the books waiting to be consulted,
the tea ready to be brewed. The chairs sat at an easy distance for conversation,
less than six feet apart. 





I felt the safety and support that I’ve worked to provide
for others within these walls, yet at the same time a deep sense of sadness
that none of these healing spaces can be used for now. Every part of this suite
offers a spirit of tranquility and healing—gifts that we desperately need in
these days. The absence of people in this beautiful place is heartbreaking. 





Those of us working in these spaces didn’t have the chance to say goodbye, and now we bide the time in our separate homes. Along with the rest of the world, none of us knows when we can return or how the world will look when we do. We wait, doing what we can while the world is remade.  





The plants were a little dry, but still green. I put the heaviest
one on my rolling cart and carried the others, loading them all in the back of
my car. 





I’m taking care of my office plants at home for now, where I’m tending most everything else. I’ve moved to Zoom for meeting one-on-one and with groups. I’m grateful for the technology that allows me to work and lets all of us to keep in touch. 





As most everyone is doing for now, I’m working at keeping
life alive in whatever way I can. 





Waiting, pausing, and tending life at home

						

	
   						

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A Word of Encouragement

		                 
                        

                        	March 19th, 2020 
							 
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Excerpt from a letter to those whom I see in my practice. I offer it here to support and encourage others as well. 





A windowsill in my office





This is a time to take especially good care of your inner
life, just as you follow recommendations for staying physically healthy. Notice
what’s happening inside and hold it with kindness and self-compassion. By
supporting ourselves in this way we allow emotions to release, rather than have
them set up camp and impede our lives. Listed at the bottom of this note are a
few online resources you might find helpful in these times.





These days I’m making an effort to be aware of how I’m resisting
the current circumstances of my life, and gently inviting that resistance to
ease. I’m trying to cultivate the practices that help me engage with others in
a calm and grounded way, and to make time and space for the things that help me
feel more resourceful and present. Walking in my neighborhood, meditating,
listening to music, talking with friends, digging in the dirt, reading, and
writing all make a difference for me. I’m seeing how important it is to take a
break from the news and allow times of quiet when I can rest, inviting a sense
of the greater Presence. 





I’m also holding the question of what I might be able to
offer as we make the changes coming in the next few weeks and months. I trust
that what we’re going through together can create space for reshaping of our culture
in a positive way, and I’m curious about how I might help that happen. I’m open
to experiencing this time of withdrawal as a chance to reconnect with what is most
important. And at the same time, I’m appreciating my connection with others as
a primary value in my life.





It’s important to remember that we are not alone. We are in this together, and I believe we are inseparable from the One for whom there are a thousand names. The sacred ground of being holds us in love and sustains us through everything that happens. 





I hope you and your loved ones are well, and wish you peace
as you navigate this unsettled time.





With love,





Susan





Here are the online resources I mentioned:





For those able to claim space and time at home, this is
about creating a half-day retreat:







Blog: Creating a Home Retreat: Finding Freedom Wherever You Are [FREE Half Day Retreat Included]







This is a beautiful site operated by Irish Jesuits. It takes
you through a prayer that changes daily:





https://www.sacredspace.ie/daily-prayer





This is a list of mindfulness and meditation apps:





https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/top-meditation-iphone-android-apps#buddhify





This is a nine-day course called Novena for Times of
Unraveling:





https://onlineretreats.abbeyofthearts.com/courses/54/overview





These are practices for cultivating self-compassion from Kristin
Neff:





https://self-compassion.org/category/exercises/





These are instructions for meditation not connected with religion:







How to Meditate







These are instructions for doing Centering Prayer:







Centering Prayer







Here’s a list of virtual museum visits:







The Ultimate Guide to Virtual Museum Resources, E-Learning, and Online Collections







If you provide your email, you can access this list of
virtual gallery tours:





https://www.travelandleisure.com/attractions/museums-galleries/museums-with-virtual-tours





These are online art lessons for kids:






http://wildfreeandcrafty.com/2020/03/15/free-online-art-lessons-for-kids/?fbclid=IwAR1ifWn6WxFdQgnvaXygweQMAciYgWv-SLgF-98qmJ31MCth2TgxBdC83WI






And with your email, a sketchbook revival virtual workshop:






https://www.karenabend.com/sketchbook-revival-2020/


						

	
   						

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Coronavirus and Clarity

		                 
                        

                        	March 10th, 2020 
							 
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Everyone has moments of feeling alone, as if we’re plodding
through our days disconnected from the rest of the world. But as we watch the
spread of the coronavirus, evidence of our interconnectedness challenges that
perspective. Perhaps in more normal times we question our role, our belonging,
our place in the family of things, as the poet says. The spread of the virus
says that what happens to some of us affects all of us. We’re all in this
together.










To believe we are separate is to be looking at the world through a distorted lens. We are part of a greater whole. Whether hourly workers have paid sick leave affects everyone. The struggles of small businesses to stay afloat ripple through the community. The decision of whether to stay home when we’re sick affects not only those in our immediate circles, but potentially impacts other places around the world. No one is an island.





We respond to this reality, to the world and our circumstances, with either fear or love. Our choice matters. We can’t choose the emotions that arise as we see the spread of COVID-19, but we can choose the ones we live by. We can’t control events, but we decide how to meet them. Our lives and those of others are shaped by whether we act from fear or love.





I see love in how people are taking care not to spread the
virus. Careful handwashing protects not only the ones doing the washing, but
those with whom they come in contact. As we learn that the virus is spreading
undetected among apparently healthy people, those who aren’t particularly
worried about their own health do a great service to those more vulnerable when
they take precautions. Love also plays a role in discerning whether to gather
and how best to look after a community.





I also see love on the part of health care workers, making
themselves and their facilities as ready and as safe as possible. We all take
reassurance in the fact that they show up to care for those made seriously ill
by this virus, as well as the other illnesses they treat every day. They
strengthen our society through the courage and generosity of their work.





Certainly fear is driving behavior as well. My local grocery
store displays two new signs: “No face masks” and “No hand sanitizer.” Trading
in the stock market seems as panicked as the run on cleaning supplies. Fear has
shown up in the senseless suspicion of Asian people, and in the desire to place
blame for the outbreak. Fear can also drive us to put our heads in the sand, refusing
to live in the real world, ignoring or denying the seriousness of a situation
that we do not want to face. Anxiety and fear spread more easily than the
virus, another reminder of our interconnectedness.





Yet we can also share a sense of calm and love with one
another. Peace in the face of challenge is something we can spread through our
communities. A loving presence passes easily from one person to the next, and
it alleviates all sorts of suffering—our own and that of others.





Choosing love includes taking care. It means seeing as
clearly as we can what is happening, and making good responsible choices about what
we will do. Depending on our circumstances, love might mean showing up, or it
might mean staying home. 





We tend to forget, perhaps for long stretches of time, that love
exists at the heart of everything. It’s like the water table deep in the ground,
supporting our lives and connecting us to one another. That ever-present source
of life remains available, and the more of us who can tap into it and share it,
the more readily everyone can drink from its life-giving waters.

						

	
   						

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Moving Across the Face of the Deep: the Process of Creation

		                 
                        

                        	February 7th, 2020 
							 
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Part of a series exploring stories and images of the Bible, and allowing them to breathe. You can read the introduction to the series here. 





Genesis opens with not one but two different stories of
creation. It’s a beautiful way of teaching that life holds more complexity than
a single perspective can convey. It also signals that scripture is up to the challenge
of dealing with that complexity. 





Offering these two separate accounts makes clear that the value of these stories is not in their literal meaning. Instead, the insight they offer comes from allowing them to speak in a deeper, symbolic way. If the two creation stories were taken literally, they would contradict one another. But stewing over which is “correct” would be to miss the point. 










The first story starts with the opening lines of Genesis, and describes beautifully the process of any act of creation. The Creator hovers above the undifferentiated expanse of what is yet to be, brooding over a formless void and gathering the power to begin. This state is echoed in the experience of anyone who tries to bring something new into the world. We begin by allowing ourselves to be in a state of not knowing, and to encounter what is ready to be known but isn’t yet clear. 





In the story, the creative power of God is released through speech. God says, “Let there be light.” In the act of naming what is needed, the need is met.  This first act of creation calls into being the foundation of life and the illumination of what exists. Light is a basic need, a longing, the energy from which all life arises. It allows us to see. Light represents consciousness—the ability to understand, as well as the capacity for self-reflection. With light, we move forward.





Like plants that turn toward the sun, we orient ourselves toward all that light symbolizes. Yet the story reminds us that creation begins in darkness. It requires an encounter with formlessness and the teeming energy of the unconscious before lifting what we can catch hold of into the light of awareness. 





After God creates light and divides it from the darkness, subsequent days in this first story of creation continue to bring order out of chaos—separating the essential elements of the universe, placing them within their proper boundaries, and filling them with life. Creation happens over the course of a seven-day week, with humanity being its culmination. In this story male and female are created at the same time, and they are made in the image of God. 





Creation as something inherently good was a strong statement
when Genesis was written. It contrasted with the creation stories of
surrounding cultures, which depicted life as arising from corrupt beginnings,
whether formed by creators of selfish intent or arising from the decaying
bodies of vanquished gods. 





In the Genesis story, with a reassuring rhythm repeated day
by day, God intentionally creates the heavens and the earth. Each new aspect of
creation is good. Creativity and dignity are woven into the fabric of human
life, as we are made in the image of the Creator, with calendars that echo the
week in which the universe was created. 





On the seventh day God rests, marking the fullness of the work accomplished and honoring the need to be restored. This ancient practice of a day of rest is as much needed now as it has ever been.   

						

	
   						

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