Like silk
whispering across my skin;
a gentle mist
kissing my soul;
kindness unburdening me;
warmth, and cinnamon spice;
She comes.
Of the Earth, is She
whose heart beats with mine
a rhythm of life
renewal
and deepest bliss
Her essence luminous and night
shimmering at the water’s edge
or pulsating at the core
of darkness
Alive. Very much alive.
No fanfare proceeds Her,
No choir of angels.
In stillness, know Her.
In openness, receive Her.
She is here.
She is here.
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)
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.
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.
I have thought of my life as a rally race, in which I am driving blindfolded and without a navigator. There have been many bumps in the road, and several turns, but a whole lot of discovery. One of the greatest treasures I have encountered on my journey is compassion. I stumbled upon it unintentionally.
I have always approached life with passion and courage. At five, my peers would ask me to form an army against the neighbourhood bullies. Fearlessly, I would lead the confrontation, ready to fight. At eight, I had a reputation for beating anyone who crossed me. I gave up the physical battles by thirteen, but anger still lurked just below the surface.
At twenty, I applied for a job in customer service, only to be told I was too intimidating. I ended up in collections. An attitude of judgment closed me off from others. Life was a battlefield, and my sword was raised.
Then, at twenty-eight, something happened. The walls around me came tumbling down to reveal a highly sensitive and intuitive side. It is impossible, I discovered, to empathize with another, while holding judgment. Opening my heart in empathy, unlocked compassion. The world suddenly became kinder, warmer, and more loving. I laid down my sword.
Compassion without limits, I would learn, can be detrimental. I felt so wholeheartedly for others, that I forgot about my own needs. Conservation was the next treasure I needed to find in my life quest. The ability to establish boundaries, and set parameters on how I expended my compassion. Life is about balance, and while there are limitless opportunities to help others, I do not have limitless energy. Free will dictates making healthy choices. I understand, but have not fully incorporated this treasure.
The last gem I am just uncovering, although I still have a lot of digging to do. It has been a hard road to come to the realization that I do not have to be the first, the best, or the only. I am not sure, but I suspect, that it relates to my sense of not being good enough.
A work in progress.
The significance of the fourth bun comes from a story about a fool, who upon discovering it takes four buns to satisfy hunger, thinks that she can skip the first three and just eat the fourth with the same result.
I have been that fool.
* * * * *
“Why are you here?”
We are an eclectic group of first year psychology students: ten of us that have been appointed to this group facilitator. Meeting twice a week and doing “group therapy” is a requirement of the course.
“Because we have to be?” one student jests. Nervous giggles all around.
“No, really. Think about it? Are you here to fulfill your destiny, or are you here because that is what expected of you? Are you pleasing your parents?”
I knew I wasn’t pleasing my parents, well, at least not my mother. She didn’t see the point in women having an education. I was interested in psychology, but not yet sure that was the path I wanted to follow. Why was I here?
The question haunted me. What was I looking for? What did I hope to achieve?
The answers had nothing to do with education. On my own since seventeen, I had an intangible hunger that I sought to satisfy. I felt as if I was swimming in murky waters, unaware of the dangers beneath the surface, and just treading water on top. Trying to achieve my education, while having to work full-time to support myself was not easy. At some level, I knew that education held promise for the future, but the immediacy of my hunger overshadowed any rationality.
I wanted security: the kind of security offered by a stable home. I wanted to feel loved and supported, and not like I was clawing my way through life in order to survive. I wanted to not always have to be so strong and independent, and I wanted an end to this feeling of being so alone.
The first bun would have been to finish my education; two, to find a career; three would have given me time to establish my independence; and four to marry and create a family. Young and impulsive, I skipped to four.
Now I understand why I never found the satisfaction I was looking for. It took a long time for the hunger to subside.
(Image: leitesculinaria.com)
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.
“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.
One Woman's Quest 