Tag: faith

No Words

I have no words
that will change your plight.

I cannot undo the past
nor change the course of your life.

I am powerless to rescue,
fix, or uplift you in your time of need.

Please know that I see you,
know that in my heart I weep.

Know that while I empathize
I can never fully understand your pain.

There is no judgment here,
only heartfelt compassion.

When I reach out a hand to you,
wordlessly, it is out of respect.

I believe in you.
I believe in your strength and your courage.

In my silence, know that I bear witness
to the potential that lies within and before you.

I believe in the power of your own love to overcome.
There are no words to define what is possible in life.

(Image: imgarcade.com)

Nature’s Voice

The tiny crayfish slowly made its way over the rocky water bed, climbing in and out of crevices, antennae constantly moving.  Perched on my haunches, trying valiantly not to move and startle the small creature, I watched in fascination.  His translucent body moved with such tenacity over what must surely be a challenging terrain for him.  The wind shifted, creating ripples in the water, and he was gone from my sight.

I lifted my head to listen.  There it was again:  a sudden, slight shift in the wind.  Mother Nature was gently tugging me from my reverie and beckoning me homeward.  I stood and shook the kinks out of my muscles, heeding her kind warning.  Time to go home.

As I made my way through the tangle of trees, stepping over fallen branches, and being wary off uneven ground, I noticed the wind shift again.  Her voice was more urgent now, a warning.  I decided to stay off the beaten path, and stick to the cover of the trees.  Noises ahead told me people were coming.  Boys!  As they approached, I noticed there were four or five of them, carrying something like sticks.  No, not sticks, they were carrying snakes.  And they were looking for someone.  Me!

I ducked behind a bush and held my breath.  Elbowing each other with bravado, the boys failed to see me crouched nearby.  Birds and wildlife scurried out of their path, sensing as I did that they meant only harm.  “She’s got to be here somewhere!” I heard one shout.  “Probably by the creek.”

They stepped into the woods, and not trusting my luck, I made a dash for home.

“There she goes!”

I fled along the path, until I saw the opening to the farmer’s field that bordered my backyard.  Breaking out of the woods, I caught sight of my best friend, Scott.  He knew as soon as he spotted me that I was in trouble.  Hailing his brothers, they met me just as my pursuers were catching up.

“You have a problem here?”  Scott’s oldest brother stood, towering over the tallest of the boys.

“Uh no.”  The boys turned on their heels and disappeared back into the woods.

“What were you doing in there all by yourself, young lady?” the older brother demanded to know.

I shrugged.  How could I tell him I was never alone when Mother Nature was looking after me.  I opened the gate and stepped back into the safety of my own backyard.

“Thank you for the warning,”  I said to the Wind.  The trees before me bowed gracefully at her command, and I knew my gratitude had been acknowledged.

At five years of age, it was easy to trust that life was guided by a loving presence, and I lived my life accordingly.

At fifty, I only wish I had such innocence to guide me once again.

(Image: tabbystardust.deviantart.com)

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.

 

 

 

 

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.”

 

Focused Intent

For years a padded treatment table doubled as our dining room table.  The height was right, but the width was too narrow, and it felt awkward to sit guests around it in the center of our large dining area.  Replacing it was not a priority, but I knew if I didn’t move it out, I’d never get a proper dining set.  So, one Sunday morning, I packed it away and started to polish the hardware floors.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for our new dining room set.”

“Is there something I don’t know?”

“No, but it’s never going to happen if I don’t make room for it.”

“So, we’re not going to eat in here anymore?”

“Not until the new table comes.”

In the midst of this exchange, my parents arrived unexpectedly.  “Guess what we did today?”

I had no idea.

“We bought ourselves a new table and chairs.  Would you like our dining room set?”

* * * * *

I shared this story with a friend.  I had learned about it in a workshop.  Set your intent by specifically asking for what you want, and clear any blocks that might stop your wish from manifesting.  Then let it go, and let God.

She and her husband were struggling to get by, with one income, and three children; the youngest having a lot of special needs.  Their old car was on its last legs, and they couldn’t afford the vehicle that would make their life easier.

“Believe me,”  she said.  “If that worked, I would have done it long ago.”

When she called me the next time, her tune had changed.  “I thought about what you said,” she explained, “and I realized that my block was my attitude.  So I asked for a van in which we could transport our family, and I set aside my disbelief.    The very next day, I was walking to work and ran into an old friend I hadn’t seen since high school.  We talked over old times, and then you won’t believe what happened.  She said she had heard about our daughter, and she wanted to help.  She said she had come into some money and she would like to either buy us a new vehicle or give us the money to pay down on our mortgage.  We pick up the van next week!”

* * * * *

The system does not always work so well.  One friend asked for abundance for years, but nothing happened.  She even tried to get specific, asking for a set amount of money, but somehow, it never manifested.

I do believe that we get what we ask for, and I also believe we have to be careful about what that is.  For years my sister “just wanted to be thinner”, but she didn’t do anything to make that happen.  Her wish came true, but the cost was not worth the prize:  cancer ensured she shed the pounds rapidly.

Picture what you want, then be open to receiving it.  Anything can happen, but you have to be able to picture it first.

 

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.

 

 

Plateaus

“I don’t know, Lynn;  I just feel flat, as if I’m stuck.”

“You’ve probably just reached a plateau.”

“What do you mean?”  Lynn, fifteen years my senior, was a beloved cousin and mentor.  When I was young, I knew her as a famous singer who traveled and performed with celebrities.  Poor health forced her off the road, and a failed marriage stripped her of all material wealth.  Yet, Lynn never lost her quiet dignity, and I found in her a gentle friend, who was always willing to listen.

“The spiritual journey has been compared to climbing a mountain:  sometimes the going is easy and exhilarating; sometimes it is steep and difficult; and sometimes you reach a plateau.”

“That feels about right.”

“Have patience, and when the time is right, you will move again.”

I always pictured Lynn as a pillar in my life.  Her strength and presence often held me up.  Since she died fifteen years ago, no one else has taken her place.

* * * * *

My quest for spiritual enlightenment started as a little girl.  I distinctly remember being five and having a strong sense of purpose, as if God put me here on this earth to do something.  I felt it was important to keep the door open for God, so that I would be ready when the time came.  My faith was pure, innocent, and wholehearted.

Fifteen was when I started to have doubts and  turned my back on God.  I also fell into a depression that would not break for many years.

At twenty-eight, I felt like I suddenly woke up from a deep sleep, and the quest was on again.  These were the years when Lynn and I bonded, and I tackled that mountain with fervour.  I had never felt so alive.  Even through hardship and pain, I never felt alone.  I knew that God was with me.

Then I turned my back again.  It was nine years ago, but now I’m backing, asking questions again; wondering.

I guess I just hit another plateau, Lynn.

 

Adjusting Focus

At thirty-one, I suffered from acute anxiety depression.  Translation:  the amount of stress in my life overloaded my ability to function.  My mind snapped, and I was reduced to a blathering blob of human jelly – trembling uncontrollably and  unable to perform even the simplest of tasks.  I lost all sense of self.

While incredibly frightening at the time, in retrospect this a time of breakthrough.  The black abyss into which I had fallen was a wake up call to re-examine my life.  Obviously, the way I had been progressing was not working for me.  I needed to regain equilibrium.

In desperation, I sought inspiration.  I found it in one particular quote, whose author I have long since forgotten:

I turned to God when my foundation was shaking, only to discover that God was shaking my foundation.

Prior to losing my grip on reality, my life had been externally focused.

My oldest sister was dying of cancer, and opted to die at home, which resulted in my mother and I becoming her primary caregivers. At the same time, I had returned to work full-time in order to allow my then husband the luxury of finding himself career-wise.   Ideally, the plan involved swapping roles, but his search led him to uncover an insatiable love for racing, and I found myself juggling work, childcare, and homemaking.

In response to the unhappiness I was feeling, I strove to better myself by enrolling in a fourth year French course at the university, and pushing myself to become more physically active.

In short, I had taken on way too much.  I like to think God pulled the plug.

Alone in the bottom of my black hole, I discovered something miraculous – my faith.   I hadn’t given it much thought before, yet, there is was, like a faint beacon of hope, drawing me out of my darkness.  I realized that I did believe in God, and more than that, that God believed in me.   My doctor offered long term drug therapy, but I preferred to take God’s challenge, and build a new foundation from within.  A spiritual dialogue began.

Twenty-three years later, with the threat of the c-word over my head, I find my equilibrium challenged once more.  I have not forgotten that God uses nudges as reminders.  I need to find balance again.  The dialogue continues.

(Image:

Allef Vinicius)