spirituality – Page 16 – One Woman's Quest

Emptiness

Sue Bender, in her book Everyday Sacred, uses the symbolism of the bowl to depict the spiritual life. She relates this image to Tibetan monks, who as part of their training must survive with begging bowls: they must ask for what they need and make use of what they are given before they can beg for more.

Everyday Sacred literally fell off the shelf and into my arms one day, as I was reaching for a novel in the library. It could not have appeared at a better time. I was mesmerized by Bender’s words, and loved her analogy. I could relate to the idea that we are bowls, or vessels for Spirit, and that whatever comes into our life must be consumed and processed before we can ask for more. In this way, we make life sacred.

Shortly after discovering the works of Sue Bender, my marriage ended, leaving me shattered and scarred. I prayed for a sign that everything would be okay. Signs and omens surrounded me, and I felt comforted. Then I got my new phone number. I was disappointed that it had no obvious pattern to remember: 2695 were the last digits. One day as I sat musing over how I was going to remember the number, I had a thought: what did the numbers spell?- b-o-w-l. Bowl!

Life had served me up a full helping of misery, and it would be a long time before I could empty it, but I came to understand that emptiness is what I needed before anything good could come my way. As long as I hung on to anger, grief, or resentment, my bowl did not have room for anything else. Empty was the goal.

(Image: www.hungrysouls.org)

Wrestling With The Unknown

A dark shadowy figure passed the door of my office. It moved on all fours and had a very feline shape, like a panther. I followed it down the hallway and into the empty room at the end.

I knew this was no earthly creature, but I did not expect the force that hit me as I entered the room. Doubled over in pain, my chest was drenched in sweat, and my head was reeling. A foul odor filled the room, rendering me nauseous. I stumbled to my knees, then collapsed on the floor.

“Mom? I saw something that looked like a cat come this way.” Marie had been working reception in the foyer. I heard her just outside.

“Stay away!” the words came out gurgled, as if I was choking.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“No! Something’s attacking me! Stay out!”

“What should I do?” A good question, and I was wondering the very same thing, but the violence of the attack overwhelmed me and I couldn’t think straight.

“I just feel so sick! Get a bucket.”

I’d never encountered anything like this before. I was certain it was some type of demon, but what, I didn’t know.

“Throw the pail in here, but don’t come in,” I advised my daughter.

“Mom, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be! Whatever this is likes fear. I’ll be okay.” I only wish I felt as certain as I sounded. I heaved into the bucket as the pain ripples through my midsection. I felt like I was on fire. What was this thing?

I tried to focus on my breathing and center myself, but the waves of nausea and the sheer physical pain made it almost impossible. I was determined not to let this thing get the best of me.

Night was coming on and the only other person still in the building would be leaving soon. I didn’t know how I was going to drive home.

“Get Robert,” I called to my daughter.

I could see that Robert was alarmed when he saw me.

“I need to get home, Robert. But I can’t get there in this state. Can you take us?”

I don’t remember the ride home, but I do remember Robert’s helpless look as he left us in the driveway. Inside, I left Marie to explain to her father as I closed myself away in the bedroom to battle it out. I steeled myself for the fight, but it seemed the more determined I was the greater the force that hit me. I wanted to unleash my growing rage on this unseen foe, but somehow I knew that would only add fuel to its fury. The more I fought, the greater the suffering. I was growing weaker by the minute.

Then I remembered a book I had read in my last year at university: The Man Who Wrestled with God, by John Sandford It was recommended by my religious studies teacher, and tells the story of Jacob, who is about to ascend the ladder to Heaven when he is tackled by an unseen opponent. Jacob fights and fights, until he realizes that he is wrestling with God, and that the only thing to do is surrender.

I knew my only hope was in giving over to God. I’d had a dream once, where God picked me up and cradled me in His hands. I needed that now, so as I centered myself, I imagined that my mattress was the hand of God, and that with each breath I surrendered deeper and deeper into the hands of a loving force. I imagined myself falling through the blackness that had threatened me, and landing in a place of comfort and love.

Love yourself, were the words I heard to guide me. Love yourself just as you are.

“I can’t,” I wanted to cry out, but I knew the message was right. I didn’t love myself. The nausea washed over me again. “Okay, okay,” I thought. “I love myself. I love myself.” And suddenly, I realized that I could love myself. That if I could see me through God’s eyes, I wouldn’t be so critical, but would behold myself with forgiveness and acceptance. So for the first time in forever, I felt okay with me. And as this new sensation dawned, the darkness receded, and with it the pain and vomiting.

The battle was over.

I had found calm in the eye of the storm, and it saved me.

Abuse of Power

Although I never met the man, I can imagine him as somehow mesmerizing, with a captivating smile, a soothing throaty voice, or sparkling dark eyes. From all descriptions he is an average middle-aged man, slightly balding, and plump around the middle. Without a doubt, he knows how to charm.

I first heard about him at a conference for healers. A reputable woman was promoting his work as ground-breaking, and rooted both in science and spirituality. His workshops carried a hefty price tag, but were reportedly worth the sacrifice.

I didn’t go.

“He’s very mysterious,” people reported back to me. “And very powerful.”

As always, I listened without commenting. New Age workshops were popping up everywhere, each one proclaiming to offer the answer. I liked to bide my time.

“He only works with women.”

My ears perked up.

“And only if you are chosen.”

Why is that? I wondered.

One by one, I watched the women flock to him. “He gets us,” one woman explained. “It’s like he can look inside and he knows exactly what each person needs.”

“He’s seeing my wife at three in the morning,” a distraught husband told me over the phone. “What kind of therapist meets with clients at three in the morning?” I was wondering the same thing. “I feel like I’m losing her.”

I agreed to talk to his wife.

“He’s helping me cleanse myself of the past and all the bad relationships I’ve had.” True enough, she’d had her share. But why the middle of the night? “It’s the time of the day when there are the least physical distractions and the psychic energy is stronger.”

Looked like red flags to me.

Then I met Kay. Kay was young, and beautiful, and highly intelligent, but something wasn’t right. She had enrolled in a therapeutic touch class, and while she seemed to be enjoying the course, I noticed she seemed agitated. I pulled her aside to ask if she was okay.

“Yes. The course is great and all. It’s just……..”

“Kay, if you have concerns, talk to me. It’s not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no. It’s not you. Not at all. It’s just that I’m not sure I should be taking this course.”

“Does it conflict with your beliefs and values?”

“No, no. It makes so much sense. It’s my mentor. He doesn’t like us to study with anyone else.”

Why on earth not? I must have looked dumbfounded.

“Eventually, obviously……but for now, he doesn’t want us jeopardizing the work we are doing.”

A realization was dawning on me. I offered her the name that had come to mind.

“Yes, I work with him! Do you know him?”

“I know of him.”

“He’s amazing, so powerful, and he’s helped me so much. I just don’t know why I feel so guilty about taking a course like this. It feels so right, so why am I scared?

“Explain to me why you shouldn’t.”

“It’s part of the process. In the beginning, he requests that we set aside all doubt, and questions, and trust solely in him. He’s helping us gain faith.”

And he control, I thought to myself.

The next time I encountered Kay, she was visibly shaken. “Can we talk?”

Ushering her into a back room, I pulled up two chairs.

“I’m not sure whether he followed me or not?”

“Would he do that?”

“He knows everything. I can’t get away. I tried, but he found me. He says there is nowhere I can escape him. I am so afraid. I don’t know what to do.”

“Kay, back up a bit and tell me how you met him.”

“A friend of mine was part of his inner circle. He told her to bring me to him. He said he could help. I was having difficulties. I thought it was worth a try.”

“Did he mention you by name?”

“No, but he knew she had a twenty-three year-old, blonde friend at the university who was going through a hard time. My friend knew it had to be me right away.”

“No offense, Kay, but this is a university town, and the chance of anyone having a friend that fits your description is pretty good.”

I could see that my words had hit their mark. “Oh my God. You’re so right! What a fool I was.”

“No. You just wanted to believe there was an answer for you. It felt right at the time.”

“What about all the other things? Could they be made up to? But, no, not possibly. You have no idea.” The look of terror reappeared. “Oh my God, he’ll kill me for talking to you!”

“You are okay, Kay. We’re safe. What else did he tell you?”

“He can command nature to do his bidding. He has spies everywhere. One woman went canoeing, off by herself, in a remote area, and he sent a hawk to greet her. She saw it!”

“Also possibly a coincidence.”

Searching my face for some reassurance, Kay continued. “He told me once that he sent a bear to follow me. I saw it’s shadow.” Before I could say anything she added, “Do you think that was just power of suggestion?”

“I think that’s a real possibility.”

Kay leaned back in the chair and let out a long groan. “Oh my God, I slept with him.”

“You what?”

“I slept with him, and he’s gross, well you know, old.”

“How did that happen?”

“He made me meet him in the middle of the night. He had all these candles and incense burning. The lights were dim, and there was meditation music playing in the background. I felt like I was in an altered state. I didn’t want to at first, but he convinced me that this would be good for my soul; that it would cleanse me of all my past sins. How could I be so stupid!”

I’d heard enough. This man was going too far. With Kay’s permission I called a friend who worked with the Victim’s Unit through the local Police department. Kay’s story was not new to her.

Kay moved away two weeks later. Unfortunately, she was not the only woman I would encounter who had fallen under this man’s spell. All of them attractive, intelligent women, whose only sin was the desire for enlightenment.

Riding Without A Handlebar

I have retrieved my old bicycle and am happily pedaling down the street when I realize that the handlebars are missing. How could I not have noticed that my handlebars are missing? What have I been steering with? On closer examination, I notice that there is a partial bar protruding where the handlebars used to be, which seemed to be working for me, but how precarious! How did I expect to manoeuver over bumps without something solid to hang onto?

The question that arises for me is not whether or not I can “surf” the chaos – I know that I can – but how does someone raised in a pattern of chaos and dysfunction, learn to ride the calm of normalcy?

I am strong in the face of adversity, but not so strong when things are going well. There is an underlying anxiety, or nervousness that something is not right, or just around the corner. I would love to be able to embrace the joy of life, without fear of its instability.

The bike in my dream is reminiscent of the one I received for my ninth birthday. It had a big banana seat, and long looping handlebars, that rose up above the front tire, in a sweeping ‘u’. My first wheels of independence, I rode that bike everywhere, confident that I could outride anyone in the neighbourhood. I still have visions of myself leading a pack of riders down some of our best hills. Such a feeling of freedom!

In those days, when my handlebars were intact, I was confident of my abilities. I had a strong sense of purpose, and felt ready to face the challenges ahead of me. I had a vision.

According to the dream, I gave that bicycle away at some point, and have only just now retrieved it, a little worse for wear. Amazingly, it still fits me. The tires are intact; and the seat supportive, but the big sweeping ‘you’ is missing. So, it is. Life’s bumps, and times where I no longer had ownership, have eroded that very mechanism that helped me navigate.

I don’t want to be nine again, but I would like to regain the momentum that allowed me to climb those steep hills and soar down those hills, fearless, impassioned, and in the moment: free.

If this bike is going to work for me, I’ll need something new to hang onto. Something more conservative and practical. Something that gives me stability and control, and supports me when choosing a direction.

The Nature of God

I heard a story years ago that merits repeating here. (These are my words, not the original.)

A three-year-old asked to be left alone with her newborn sibling. The parents, obviously, denied her request, but when she kept persisting, the grandparents suggested that the baby be put in the crib, and a monitor in the room turned on so that they could listen in. The adults were curious. As soon as the little girl thought they were alone, she whispered to her new brother: “Quick, tell me about God. I’m forgetting already.”

Imagine if we could all remember where we came from. If God was not a mystery, but one evolving, omniscient force to which we all were consciously attached. Imagine how that would change the world.

Yet, we do not have such memory. We have opinions, speculation: faith. Some would kill for their convictions, even without proof. God is a super-charged, elusive concept that can empower, or stifle life, depending on human interpretation.

I don’t know anymore than the next person about the nature of our origins, but I do know this: looking into the eyes of my newborn granddaughter there is a presence of something beyond the innocence of her being. Watching her approach life with such enthusiasm and hunger, makes me believe that there is an innate wisdom there that surpasses our mundane knowing.

I have more questions than I’ll ever have answers.

Learning About Death

Taylor was diagnosed with lung cancer at the age of twenty-one. Although he never smoked a day in his life, his father’s family were heavy smokers, and he suffered for it. He was my cousin Lynn’s only son.

I belonged to a weekly meditation circle at the time, and Taylor, who was studying to be a physicist, asked if he could join. I told him that we not only meditated, but liked to explore the realm of intuition as well, and he said that was fine with him. So week after week, Taylor would join in and add his scientific musings to our experience. He told me that while he was skeptical, he was sure physics was going to bridge the gap between the rational world and the irrational. He said that I needed to involve myself in research, if I was ever to prove the existence of anything beyond the accepted norm. I would laugh and tell him that I was a Literature major, and research was outside my norm.

Taylor’s bald head, and limping figure became a fixture at our weekly meetings, and we all came to love his gentle banter. Unwilling to accept anything at face value, he brought a healthy balance of skepticism to our circle.

Then one evening, he did not attend. Nor the next.

His mother called me. “Taylor is in the hospital, and they think he has three more weeks to live. He is asking for you.”

He was asleep when I entered the room. His girlfriend greeted me and told me that he slept most of the time, but that if I could wait he would wake up. She excused herself and left us alone.

Taylor’s body look so fragile and boyish lying in that bed. An oxygen mask covered his face, so that only his closed eyelids could be seen. His head was still bald, and he looked more like an infant than the young man I had come to know. At this point in my life, I had not been this close to death, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

Taylor’s eyes opened and I saw him register my presence.

“Hey, Tay!” I tried to sound cheerful, compassionate.

He reached up and pulled the oxygen mask down. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.”

“I asked you to come, because I want to talk about what’s happening to me.” His words were laboured. I could see it was an effort for him to talk.

“Okay,” I began. “Are you sure it won’t be too much for you? Are you okay without the mask?”

“Oh, yes. It just keeps me comfortable.” He replaced the mask and took a few breaths. “I fall asleep a lot. Even mid-sentence.”

“That’s okay,” I reassured him. “I’ll just wait.”

“Thank you,” and he was gone again, sleeping behind the mask.

I looked around. The room was spacious with a large picture window overlooking the southwest part of the city. A recliner sat in the corner by the window, and several other chairs allowed for many visitors. The blue walls reminded me of the night sky just as the last rays of light are vanishing: a blue tinged with indigo. So this is where people came to die.

“I want to talk about my dreams.” I understood now why he had invited me. I had enrolled in a course at the university that explored the meaning of dreams. It was actually a religious studies class, and examined how God speaks to us through our dream messages. “Everyone else wants to talk about things that have no meaning for me anymore, like getting their cars fixed, or the weather. I don’t have time for small talk.”

He closed his eyes again. I waited.

“I have been dreaming about horses.”

“Interesting. Horses were the original mode of transportation, so they are seen symbolically as the vehicles that transport us from one realm to another. Apparently horse dreams are common at the end of life.”

He nodded. “Sometimes I can’t tell if I am dreaming or it’s real.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am so emotional. I can’t seem to turn it off.” I had to smile. My highly rational, intellectual cousin not being able to control his emotions.

“Well, I’m no expert, but I’m going to guess you are going through one hell of an emotional time.”

His eyes met mine and we both laughed. “You’re right about that.”

We both fell silent.

* * * * *

Our visits became a daily occurrence, but I never stayed long as it tired him too much. We talked about his dreams, his emotions, and as it got closer to the end, we talked about his fears.

“I’m not sure if I’m actually dreaming,” he told me one day. “More and more I feel like what I am experiencing is real.”

“Describe it to me.”

The silences were growing longer. Speaking, or even staying awake, seemed to take great effort now. I would hold his hand to let him know I was still with him. I felt such reverence towards my young cousin for letting me share these moments with him.

“I see figures. Grey figures.”

“Do you know who they are?”

His eyes stared, unfocused, into the space before him. “No. Can’t really say they are people.”

I pondered this revelation while he rested. I thought back to a story my mother told me about my birth. During my delivery, she suddenly lost physical consciousness, and found herself, disembodied, floating above the delivery table. She said she saw her father beside her reaching out his hand, and as she went to take it, she realized what was happening and pulled back, being jolted back into her body and the labour pains. She claims that she had refused death in that moment, and remembers telling her father that she had five babies to look after and couldn’t go with him.

Taylor’s eyes were open again. “What if the figures that you see are here to escort you to the other side?” I asked. “How do they make you feel?”

“Afraid.”

“Maybe your fear is what is clouding your ability to see them.”

He didn’t wake up again that visit.

* * * * *

The next day I arrived at the hospital later than usual. Taylor’s mom met me in the hallway. “He’s gone. He tried to wait for you, but didn’t make it. He did leave a message for you, though. I don’t know what it means, but he said to tell you that you were right, that all came out clear in the end, and not to worry about him.”

As I hugged her in condolence, I thought my heart was going to burst.

In his short life, this beautiful young man shared so much with me: his theories and questions, his deepest vulnerabilities, and his experience of the beyond. Together, were we able to strip away all the noise and distractions of everyday life to touch something much more sacred and real.

Shaken

The year my second daughter was born, it seemed to rain eternally. I can’t say when the depression set in, but by February, I didn’t want to leave the house. I prayed a lot to God, asking what was wrong with me. By all accounts, I had everything anyone could want: two beautiful children, a brand new home, friends and community. The more I tried to rationalize, the greater my gloom. Is there more to life than this? I asked.

During this time I had a recurring dream, in which I visited my childhood home:

I walk in the front door and notice that the carpet leading upstairs has been changed to one with geometric designs, and that the once blue carpet in the living and dining area is now red. Upstairs, I see that one of the walls in my sister’s old room has been bricked over. As I pass through the house, the inhabitants are unaware of my presence. Only the family cat swishes her tail in annoyance at my presence. Stepping out the backdoor, I fail to see that the step is missing, and fall, jolting myself awake.

Haunted by the dream’s insistence, I decided to drive by my old home. A “for sale” sign on the front lawn revealed that this day was open for agent viewing. Curious, I walked in. A quick glanced revealed red carpets throughout, with a geometric pattern running up the stairs. I rushed up the stairs and down the hall, where I found the room with the bricked wall. How odd! Descending the staircase, I glanced at the photos on the wall to see the faces from my dreams staring out at me. In the kitchen, I spotted the cat’s bowls. The agent on duty asked me if I wanted to see the back yard. Remembering my dreams, I said no and made my exit back through the front door.

I drove a block before the trembling hit me. Shaken, I pulled over. What had just happened? The house was exactly as I had dreamed it. But why? Everything suddenly seemed so surreal. What did it all mean?

I felt as if I had just been hit over the head with a giant frying pan. For months on end I had prayed to God and asked if there was something I was missing in my life, and now this. I decided that God had answered my prayers, with one resounding “YES!”. There was obviously more to life than what I was experiencing, but I would need to look within to find it.

Needless to say, that day changed my life.

Saying Goodbye To Father

My father fought against death at the end, even though he was wracked with pain, had difficulty breathing, and spent many of his nights in hospital.

“At what point do we stop all this intervention, Dad, and talk about keeping you comfortable?”

It was the early hours of the morning after another night spent in emergency.

“Now,” his voice cracked as he spoke. Dad was so clearly in distress it was alarming. Involuntary spasms of pain kept him from resting, and the strain was telling on his ashen face.

I took his hand in mine. “Dad, all I want for you is peace,” I hesitated. “To be honest with you, Dad, I have never known you to have peace in your life.”

He squeezed my hand. “Not a lot.”

“Do you believe that there is something for you on the other side, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Honey. I don’t have the faith that you do. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Some say that our feeling about God is related to our relationship with our own father.”

“How so?”

“When you were a boy, huddled in the coat closet, hiding from your father, what were your thoughts? Did you ever think about God in those moments?”

“All the time.” My father closed his eyes and laid back. “I remember asking God over and over, what I did wrong to deserve the beatings. I thought God was punishing me.”

“Exactly, Dad. Maybe your fear of death is because the little boy in you thinks God will reject you, or inflict more pain.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “You could be right. I know I’m afraid.”

“God didn’t punish you, Dad. Your father did. I have to believe there is something better awaiting you.”

He closed his eyes again, processing what I suggested. “You were a child, Dad. It wasn’t your fault. You need to forgive yourself.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

We didn’t talk about it further, but we did speak to the doctor on duty about changing Dad’s care. Plans were made to transfer my father to palliative care. The day he was to be moved, my father announced that he didn’t want any visitors. He said he needed time to settle in. They moved him mid-morning. He died within hours. I rushed to his side, but it was too late.

“Good for you, Dad,” I cried. “You finally made it.”

On Wisdom

The difference between knowledge and wisdom is experience.

A young man once asked me if he could shadow me for a summer, so that he could learn from me. I asked him to tell me about his life.

“It’s good,” he replied.

“Tell me about a hardship that you have overcome.”

“None that I can think of. My life has been easy.”

“Are your parents together?”

“Well, no,” he explained. “They separated when I was fifteen.”

“That must have been hard.”

He shrugged. “That was about them. It wasn’t about me.”

He was a nice young man, and I believed him to be very sincere. “What will you do with your summer, if I say no.?”

“I was thinking I’d try to get a job at a resort up north.”

“That’s what I would recommend!”

His disappointment was visible. “But I want to help people; I want to do what you do.”

“Let’s look at this hypothetically. If someone came to you suffering from deep depression, how would you help them?”

“I would meditate on it and look for answers.”

“I see. And if none came?”

He had no response.

“Let me explain something,” I was starting to feel a little bit like David Carradine talking to Grasshopper. “Much of my ability to help another comes from life experience. In the case of depression, who do you think would be in a better position, someone who has lived through it and come out the other side, or someone who has meditated on the possibility?”

He didn’t need to answer.

“The best thing you can do for yourself right now is gather experience. Learn all that you can, too, but when your intellectual knowledge, meets your experienced knowing, then you will be ready.”

“How long will that take.”

I had to suppress a smile. I was impatient once too. “That depends on you. From where I stand, you have a ways to go.”

“Why’s that?” He looked offended.

“You haven’t even recognized the pain of your parents’ divorce. How can you help another deal with their wounds, when you haven’t looked at your own?”

“There is time for everything,” I said more gently. “Now is a time for gathering. Go North. You’ll learn much more there than I can ever teach you now.”

A Witness To Death

My mother told me that when she was a child, she would wake up in the middle of the night to find her mother slaving over the woodstove. Grandma was a midwife. Mom said Grandma’s dreams would tell her when a baby was coming, and she would get up and cook for her family, knowing she would be away.

Grandma’s gift passed on to me, with a slight variation.

I first learned about it the night my four cousins perished in a fire. I awoke in the middle of the night with an awful chill. When my mother told me the news, I realized that I’d already known about their passing.

Walking home from school one day, at the age of eleven, something unseen stopped me in my tracks. The image of my paternal Grandmother filled my mind along with the sensation of her love, and a farewell. I arrived home to find my family gathered around. “I know,” I said, before anyone could speak. “She told me.”

Lying beside my ailing sister one night, I had a vision of a spirit. He told me to listen for the howling of the wolves, and that my sister would pass through the fire on her way to the other side. I was with her the night an unexpected storm came in. The wind it brought sounded like a pack of wolves howling outside the window. I had been holding her hand, but the heat from her body was so intense, I had to let go. The nurse said her temperature was higher than her thermometer could measure. She passed away ten minutes later.

Do I believe in life after death? Yes. Does that lessen the grief of losing a loved one? No.

Grief is the natural response to loss. Life may go on, but the relationship has been permanently altered, and that is loss.

When Dee found out she was dying, she made me promise I would be there to hold her hand. Death, like birth, I told her, is not something we have control over, but I would do my best. The call came at 6:30 one morning.

“Dee says it’s time,” her mother told me. “Can you come?”

I had children to get off to school, and so it was two hours before I arrived at Dee’s bedside. She was already well on her way. With one hand I grasped hers, then placed my other over her heart as I leaned in to whisper: “I’m here.”

Dee’s eyes opened and she took one last gasping breath and died. Her spirit, like a breeze, flowed through the house, flickering all the candles her mother and sister had lit to mark the occasion. She was free!

I witnessed the miracle, and then I grieved.