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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
A rich conversation a few weeks ago has me thinking about how often the Bible is abandoned in the pew when people leave the church. It’s like a painted masterpiece hidden behind a forgettable print. Lots of folks equate the Bible and the church, but they are not identical.
The scriptures collected in the Bible have spoken to people for thousands of years, even as each generation decides for themselves whether those writings continue to have value. It’s fair to ask whether the Bible has anything real and relevant to offer. The question is as old as the scriptures, and asking it keeps the Bible alive.
Exploring the question of whether scripture matters becomes easier when we become aware of the smudged lens we’re looking through. There are all kinds of assumptions and agendas we might have inherited for reading the Bible, ideas that we might want to question.
For example, we might have gotten the idea that the Bible is more or less a book of rules. But the many stories of dysfunctional families told in scripture is enough to counter that mistaken notion. The Bible isn’t a single treatise, it’s a library of books in conversation with one another.
Neither is the Bible intended to be a literal account of historical facts. The biblical writers were concerned with something much more important to the heart of life than recording particular events; they were interested in the meaning of how life unfolds.
If we learn these stories as children, we appropriately absorb
their symbolic power in a naïve and literal way, touched by the story but not yet
cognizant of the difference between literal and metaphorical truth. This is part
of the beauty of childhood, and the delight of seeing the world through the
eyes of a child.
For example, the story of Jonah contains a scene where Jonah is swallowed by a big fish—amazing! Little ones have no need to question whether this is literally possible. They identify with Jonah, knowing how it feels to be overtaken by what we cannot control and taken where we don’t want to go. It can be scary! Jonah wants to run away from God, and finds out he can’t. Yet in this story things turn out ok, and a child finds reassurance in that. Even in the frightening parts of the story, God takes care of Jonah. What a relief!
As we grow into adulthood we need more subtle levels of engagement if the story is to continue speaking to us. The child’s understanding isn’t wrong, but there is more to explore. As adults we can learn to consider the story from a symbolic perspective.
When Jonah tries to avoid what he needs to do, his life is churned up like a storm at sea. We know how scary that chaotic state can feel. Unless he faces the issues that lurk beneath the surface of his consciousness, Jonah and those around him are in danger. Resisting what life requires of him leads to nothing but trouble. When Jonah finally acknowledges his powerlessness over his situation, yielding to what feels like certain death as he stops resisting, it’s like being thrown into a churning sea. But instead of perishing he finds himself caught and held by an immense power. He relinquishes control to a mysterious force and finds it not threatening but life-saving. It takes him where he needs to go. Amazing! By submitting to a wisdom and will greater than his own, Jonah’s life is saved. As is ours. When we can release our ego’s grip on its own agenda, life will support us in ways we could not anticipate. What a relief!
If we cannot enter the symbolic meaning of what the Bible
offers, we cannot fully enter into its depth and power. But we need support in learning
to view the biblical writings in a fuller and more nuanced way. Without that
support it’s no wonder people reject the stories as nothing but relics from
childhood.
Looking at the Bible with a fresh lens brings the writings
to life, whether inside or outside of church. No church holds the definitive
interpretation of scripture. In fact, the Bible’s stories and teachings grow in
meaning when they are lifted out of old contexts and into new circumstances, read
with the lens of new experiences. We can take the Bible into the places where we
find ourselves, whether or not we expect to find the church there.
Scripture is portable and always has been. It travels into new environments in a way that a particular church, which exists in a particular place and time, cannot. For better or worse, that’s why we have so many different churches and denominations. People read the Bible and bring their own interpretation to it. They see something new and want to build a community that approaches life in a new way.
Its portability has also allowed scripture and those who value it to endure massive upheaval. When the First Temple in Jerusalem was long ago destroyed and Israel sent into exile, they recorded the stories that sustained them, becoming people of the book. After the destruction of the Second Temple, when its centralized religious practice ended, the scattered nation endured by relying on what individuals could take with them: private rituals, prayer, and scripture.
Buildings and institutions come and go, but the issues wrestled with in scripture endure. The writings deal with archetypal forces that impact human life, a full range of emotion and experience. The deep history of these ancient writings speak to the deep reaches of human experience. The stories explore everything from humanity’s struggle with power to the call of what our soul longs for most. They’re as relevant today as they ever were.
In the next few weeks I’ll be mulling over some of the stories
I love from the Bible, and sharing brief reflections on them here. Whether or
not these stories are familiar, I invite you to see them anew and hope you’ll find
in them some connection with your own journey.
It wasn’t until I took down a favorite piece of art last week that I felt the poignancy of leaving my office of the past two years. I had been caught up in details—boxing things up, trying to pack for the move while keeping the place presentable, and looking ahead to how I might arrange my new space. But removing the enso print that I’ve regarded so often over the past two years touched me. This good place would soon be part of my past.
Fortunately, our office suite is making the move together. I’m
able to continue sharing space with wonderful people. It’s a positive move, the
new space is beautiful, and I’m happy to be going there. But change, even when
it’s good, can be bittersweet.
The office I’ve created has been a place of growth and
healing—for me and for others with whom I’ve met. It has been a beautiful
space, filled with books and art and light and comfort. It has been a safe container
for the emotions and the realizations that come forward in the midst of sacred
conversation.
In addition, the person who offered his services in this
space before me was one of the few professionals in Lexington familiar with the
Enneagram. I always appreciated that sense of continuity as I work with the
Enneagram as well.
As the boxes and furniture are carried down the hall into
the new office suite, I feel gratitude for the good things that have happened
in this space. As I leave it behind, I take with me what I’ve learned here. I
look forward to creating a new space of welcome and sanctuary. And I trust that
my practice will continue to grow, building on all that has come before.
May the movement of the Spirit continue bearing all of us forward. May we retain the wisdom we’ve gained as we leave behind what doesn’t serve, and may we move with grace into the new year and the new places where life will take us.
It’s easy to feel how near we are to the winter solstice.
The exact time of the solstice occurs this Saturday night, December 21, at
11:48 p.m., but we each have our own internal sense of reaching this turn. As
the days grow shorter and the dark descends earlier there’s a twinge of dismay.
We know better than to worry—the days will lengthen soon enough—but nonetheless
we light candles and extra strings of lights to ward off the dark. The hustle
and bustle can be a welcome distraction from that instinctive unease.
A dramatic marking of the winter solstice was built at
Newgrange in Ireland around 3200 BCE. At the solstice sunrise, the first ray of
light above the horizon pierces the center of a long, narrow passage, illuminating
a small, womblike room deep within the structure. There is just enough space to
stand along the circular stone walls surrounding the chamber’s main feature—an enormous
stone basin resting on the ground. The shaft of sunlight at the winter solstice
shines directly onto a spiral design carved into the far wall.
We hold much in common with those who built this magnificent
structure. Though our culture has made huge advances in science and technology,
we are reliant on the same earth and the same sun to give us life. With the
growing dark, we are subject to the same ancient sense of dread stirring deep
in the psyche. We may not believe that our rituals cause the sun to return, but
we wait expectantly and experience a sense of relief when it does.
The festival of lights in this season is something we need, whatever
our religious traditions may be. In the midst of it all, there’s a pagan soul within
me that insists on marking the solstice. The winter solstice is the herald of the
new year.
This year, I’m remembering the wide stone bowl that fills the chamber deep within the mound at New Grange. When I was there, I had the overwhelming feeling that the basin was a place to give birth.
At the solstice this year, I’m holding that basin in mind and asking: What wants to be born in the new year?
What question are you holding here on the verge of the solstice?
Fairy tales often present an aging king and the search for who will take his place. These stories remain fresh because they describe a cyclically occurring crisis in the lives of individuals and of nations.
A king who no longer has the strength to serve, in a fairy tale, represents longstanding ideals that have lost their vitality. When these guiding principles cease to inspire, they need to be reinvigorated. When they no longer spur people to offer their best, or to strive for the highest good, these crowning values need to be replaced. We need ideals with real power to remind us of what matters, and to lead us forward into life. We need inspiration that connects with our lived experience.
In fairy tales it is not the powerful or clever candidates
who pass the tests to become the new ruler. It is rather the one in touch with instinctive
and even naïve insight, able to stumble upon the right answer or to find help
in an unlikely place, simply by following his nose. When ideals have lost their
power, we lose our way. we need this kind of humble, grounded energy to gain
vitality and aliveness.
Listening to the gospel reading on Sunday, I realized that
this search for revitalizing energy is what John the Baptist exemplifies. He is
part of the move to release what no longer inspires us, and to search for what
has the vitality to replace it.
John the Baptist goes into the wilderness and lives like a
wild man. He leaves civilization behind—no garments of woven cloth, no bread,
no roof over his head. He wears animal skins and eats locusts and wild honey.
He knows that something new is needed to bring meaning into people’s lives. He
is radically open to what comes next, but does not yet know who or what it is.
John the Baptist is important in this season of Advent. His
was not a quiet waiting, but an active preparation. He stirs the pot, and
things begin to happen. Jesus comes to him to be baptized and then makes his
own journey into the wilderness. When Jesus returns, he brings a new teaching and
a new reality that changes the world.
When the old is no longer working we must face the frightening
task of letting it go. It’s a time of going into the wilderness, of being
willing to inhabit that vulnerable place of not knowing. We must set aside our barren
practices to allow the vital life force to inhabit us again and propel us forward.
To do this wisely means being open to guidance greater than our own calculations. Instinctive energy reinvigorates, but it can also be dangerous. It is incredibly powerful, able to overrule reason. On the path forward it can be the one step back before the two steps forward. We need connection with both our highest and best ideals as well as the material realities of our lives.
John the Baptist is a shocking character. He shows up when a shock is needed to get things moving. When change is crucial but we don’t yet know what will be, we hear his voice crying in the wilderness.
When a wild man wearing animal pelts arises, change is in the wind. It’s time to answer his call and to make our own journey into the unknown. We need to listen for true wisdom and guidance, whether individually or as a nation, to find the compelling new vision that will lead us forward.
