The Real Fight

March 26th, 2010 | 6 Comments

The hate spilling into public spaces and political discourse in this country feels to me like a flash flood these days. I knew that river was there, but as long as it kept within its banks I could approach warily and life continued as usual. But now bridges are washed out and the angry torrents are sweeping through all kinds of communities.

It’s frightening to see.

All that anger, all that fear, directed at some evil “other,” is a horrendous force. When some other person, or institution, or ideology comes to stand for everything we detest, we lose the ability to think rationally about the dynamic we’re engaged in.

Things become artificially simple when we disregard the humanity of the other person. It unleashes the darkness within us. When that happens, we lose our own humanity and evil prevails. Jesus was truly looking after us, speaking out of love and concern, when he said “Love your enemies.”

We all need to be asking: What’s behind all the anger? What are we really afraid of? When someone in the media really pushes my buttons and I feel the swelling tide that wants to drown them out, what exactly is going on?

The true answers are not the huge concepts, not the vague generalities, but the specific and deeper things. Personal ones. What am I personally afraid of? What is the source of the anger that is mine?

If the enemy is painted large enough to be an easy target, we don’t have to be specific about what we’re fighting, or clear about what we stand for. To really know our enemy we have to understand who we are, and face what lies within us. That is the first fight, and the one that’s necessary for peace.

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The View Through Old Glass

March 11th, 2010 | 3 Comments

Looking through old glass feels a little like standing outside of time. The wavery, watery pane distorts the view just enough to hold it in perspective, as a fleeting moment in the long passage of years. It holds the scene at a distance, even as it offers a reminder of life’s fragility. An old window softens the world.

The old glass reveals motion I cannot perceive otherwise: the imperceptible turn of the earth with its accrual of days into seasons, a year, a lifetime; the pull of gravity over time, drawing down the pane into ripples and waves, pulling at my body in the same way. All the moments count, no one of them more or less than another, which is hard to take because that’s not how we see our lives.

Time passes without our noticing, yet it leaves its mark. The view through old glass notes the brevity of a moment, even as it attests to the lasting change a moment’s passing leaves. It’s an image of the weight of the past, and of the vitality that sets this moment apart.

It shows our days to be part of a long unfolding, part of something larger. At the same time, it invites an appreciation of the moment as all we have.

If I could see the view through the other side of the glass, look through the curving lines of light at myself, would I understand something more about my life?

Comments (3) | Inspiration in the Everyday Tags: ,

Opening and Closing Rituals

March 1st, 2010 | 6 Comments

With the closing ceremony of the Olympics complete, we’re now released from the 2010 games. We take the stories with us, but it’s time to move on.  A closing ritual helps us go forward when something good is over. The games are declared closed, but the ceremony also points toward the next host city, and the gathering four years distant.

The pair of opening and closing ceremonies marks a container for the experience, elevating the events they frame. We need a moment at the beginning to say, “Let the games begin.” It helps us see the undertaking as part of something larger. We need closure at the end, a way to hold together the diverse events in a unified experience, making them part of us before we let them go.

Our lives hold many small rituals for beginnings and endings: lighting the Christmas tree, the last night of vacation, baseball’s opening pitch, a minister’s benediction, housewarmings, graduations, groundbreakings, memorials. We set those times apart because we know they’re important. At the same time, we are reminded they’re important because we set them apart.

Even our simple routines at the day’s opening and closing matter. These rituals reassure us as we gather strength in the morning. In the evening, looking back on our efforts for better or worse, they help us put the day to rest. Sunrise and sunset, though they rarely delineate our waking and sleeping, nonetheless offer a relevant ceremony. They form a vessel that contains our lives—a day—to lift up for a blessing, or healing, in grief or gratitude.

A day has meaning. It’s what a life is made of. So I’m considering ways to mark the day’s opening and closing with a small, sustainable, and meaningful ritual.

Does it work to make one up or does it need to evolve naturally? How does a ritual become meaningful?

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Learning to See

February 20th, 2010 | 3 Comments

I enjoy taking pictures. It’s a pleasure to look at the world with an eye toward framing a photograph, and in that state of mind I tend to see more. Someday I might take a class or invest in a better camera, but in the meantime I just snap photos of what looks interesting.

So during a recent stay in an eighth floor hotel room I was glad for its view of the city, especially at nightfall. But when I pulled back the curtain with camera in hand, I found the scene obscured by water droplets and condensation. No good. With the window sealed so that it couldn’t be wiped clean, I would have to find another vantage point.

As I gathered my things for a trek down the hall, it seemed a lot of trouble to traipse around in search of a clearer window. But the light at evening had drawn me to look outside, the color and pattern of towers and skies held my attention, and I couldn’t resist trying to capture the image.

In looking for a better view, however, I was rejecting what I had already found beautiful. Photography helps me notice what’s in front of me, but it’s still easy to miss things. In this case I had only seen the foggy window as an obstacle and not part of the scene. I want to open my eyes and pay attention to the world I’m walking through. But that’s hard to accomplish with preconceived ideas about what’s worth looking at.

So I returned to the window and observed how the water on the glass reshaped the light from outside. I considered how the pane of moisture softened my perspective on the city. And I realized that for one evening, in that particular place, I didn’t have to resist the uniquely filtered view.

Is there something in front of you that you might cease resisting?

Comments (3) | Inspiration in the Everyday,Paying Attention Tags: , , ,

The Message in a Misquote

February 18th, 2010 | Click to Comment

I learned from reading at Sacred Miscellany that the popular wisdom rendered as “Music has charms to soothe the savage beast” is actually a misquote of the original, and more interesting, “Musick has Charms to sooth the savage Breast,” from a play by William Congreve.

We learn to fight the beasts “out there,” scarcely acknowledging the struggles taking place within our psyches. No wonder we’ve misread the line. Yet, as Paul knew, the demons within our own breast are always present, and deprive us of peace with far more consistency than the snarling enemies out in the world.

Our culture’s outer directedness has altered the line, but we pass along the misquote because we’ve experienced the truth of the original. Music does have the power to calm and comfort us. It offers courage and inspiration. Music can touch us profoundly in a way that nothing else can. Even if we’ve never faced down a tiger using a stereo speaker, we believe it will soothe the savage beast because we know it has soothed us.

George Winston’s December CD is one I return to again and again for its power to soothe through the clarity and tranquility of his piano. What soothes your savage breast?

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The Practice that Yields Spring

February 16th, 2010 | 2 Comments

Winter seems endless about now. Even as the days grow longer, the snow piles deeper. With no discernable effect on the temperature, the returning light seems powerless over the season.

Yet exactly the right things are happening to bring life to a frozen landscape, even if the wintry scene appears unfazed. The earth continues its cyclical journey, progressing through the incremental changes that carry us into spring and the miracle of a new season.

But if spring were dependent on human motivation, it might be a different story.

If I committed to a vision and faithfully took a small step toward it every single day, I would want to see something happen. If I had begun a practice at the winter solstice, I would want to see some evidence of change by now. I would suspect I was wasting my time unless I could see some tangible result. Without that, I would probably be tempted to quit.

And then how would spring ever arrive?

I’m asking myself what small steps I need to be taking now. What does springtime look like for you, and what kind of steps might carry you towards it?

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The Storm that Doesn’t Arrive

February 7th, 2010 | 2 Comments

The forecasters predicted some serious winter weather this weekend. My plans were in question; falling temperatures were expected to ice the wet roads, followed by an accumulation of snow. I went to bed under a winter weather advisory, wondering if an important event the next day would even be held.

The next morning brought a dusting of snow, the roads were wet but not frozen, and the winter storm I was braced for simply didn’t happen. I felt a little silly for spending the previous evening watching out the window and wondering when the freeze would begin.

My point is not to bash forecasters. They do their work the best they can. The thing is, I knew better than to get caught up in weather-watching.

My own experience has taught me that a lot of winter storm advisories, literal and metaphorical, never come to fruition. And while it doesn’t hurt to be prepared for ice and snow, or challenging days, it doesn’t make sense to spend a lot of time worrying about it.

I know now that a better approach was to simply prepare my talk, be aware that I might need to change my plans, and then allow myself to sleep under blankets rather than advisories. It’s a lesson I want to remember.

Do you find yourself watching for events that might happen? Have you found a way to stop worrying about what might be in store?

Susan Christerson Brown

Comments (2) | Finding Courage,Soul Tending Tags: ,

The Spaciousness of Silence

February 3rd, 2010 | 4 Comments

Noise takes up room. Clatter and clamor can make any space feel crowded. Against a sudden onslaught of sound, the body hunches down, closing in to protect itself.

Silence, on the other hand, feels like spaciousness. My body responds to the quiet with an expansion of interior space, where lungs can fill to capacity, drawing a full, deep, calming breath.

A friend accustomed to the crowded city of Hong Kong once told me that sharing small apartments had taught her to create space with silence. Refraining from unnecessary talk or sound helped to ease the stress of tight living quarters.

Why would we refuse the expansiveness that silence offers? With our constant flow of media, we behave like children of the valley, accustomed to narrow views of what lies above and unnerved by the full dome of surrounding sky. In filling our lives with walls of sound, we deny ourselves the chance to experience the exhilarating infinity of creation and the specificity of it that we embody.

Beneath an expanse of stars we experience both our smallness and our place within the infinite universe. In a similar way, when we enter into silence we experience a moment as limitless and ourselves as part of what time cannot measure and space cannot contain.

Silence makes room for the unexpected. It allows us to listen for what we might otherwise miss. Silence is a space in which we can come to see ourselves as belonging, and to know ourselves as loved.

How do you experience silence? Is it stressful or relaxing? What do you notice about your interior life when you find a quiet moment?

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In the Beginning is the Breath

January 20th, 2010 | 2 Comments

The search for meaning begins exactly where we are. If we want to seek connection with ourselves, with others, and with the divine, there’s nowhere else to work from. We don’t have to cross the distance between where we are and where we want to be in order to begin our journey. It starts from here.

It’s easy for me to wander off, feeling overwhelmed at all I don’t know and all I haven’t done. It’s easy to get stuck thinking there must be catching up to do before I can start. But on a good day, I can remember that I already have what’s most essential.

“For I am fearfully and wonderfully made,” and something within me urges me always toward wholeness. I believe it’s a spark of the divine that exists in everyone. My task is to wake up to that life force and pay attention to what’s happening now, without being distracted by what I have or haven’t done in the past or what I might do in the future.

Ok. Sure. But how?

The best way I know to begin being present to what is unfolding in my life, is through the breath. Our breathing is another way we are wonderfully made. Without a thought we bring into our bodies the air that sustains life, and exhale what we do not need to make room for the next breath. Our breath requires no attention, but it is with us every moment. When we are mindful of the breath, it gives us a way to find our balance, clear our minds, and pay attention. When we notice the act of breathing we have the chance to relax body and mind, and become grounded in the present moment.

Even the story of creation in Genesis begins with breath. The Hebrew word ruah, translated as the “spirit” of God moving across the waters at the beginning of creation can also be translated as “wind” or “breath.” Ruah is also the breath of life breathed into humanity by God. Creation begins with ruah; life begins with ruah. It seems fitting that our journey to God would begin with the breath, as well.

Our breath is always available as a starting place, which is good, as starting is something we must do over and over again. No matter how many mornings we wake up, we have to start each day anew. It’s the same with our practice and prayers. Every day we begin again. It helps to have a routine for beginning, and a focus on the breath is elegant in its simplicity. Our breath is where we are. It’s a start.

What helps you to begin again?

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