One Thing at a Time

My mentor, Rev. Til Evans, once told me this story. When she first came to a new congregation folks had many suggestions about what needed to be done. One mom approached her after church on Sunday with a whole list of things that were wrong with the children’s program and needed to be fixed right away. These were real concerns from a committed member delivered with passion and urgency. Til said “I can only handle one thing at a time. Let’s pick one to work on and I’ll get back to you next Sunday.” And so it went, week by week until all the concerns had been addressed. The mom felt heard, and continued to be an active volunteer and member of the congregation even years later when I served the same congregation, trying to fill Til’s shoes.

I’m guessing Til told me that story as we sat drinking tea because I had likely recited my own list of the many problems that urgently needed to be solved. Til said “I had to humbly admit my limits.” I was struck by her courage to speak her truth. As a young minister I regularly tied myself in knots trying to accomplish all those things people told me needed to be done. What courage and clarity to say “here’s what I can do, the rest will have to wait.”

Now, some 20 years later I still remember this story – it sings in my ears whenever I find myself in a swirling cyclone of things needing my attention. Today I have a much better sense of what I’m capable of, which is rooted in being honest with myself and noticing my capacities. Over these 20 years I’ve learned by experience that it is just not humanly possible to do all the things I think would be good, nor all the things other folks in my communities hope to do. Perhaps it does require humility and courage to acknowledge my limits, especially when I’m disappointing someone’s expectations. But I think of that mom who, years later, told me how she felt a closeness with Til that was rare and precious. Perhaps, along with Til’s generosity of spirit and warm heart, that trust was rooted in knowing Til could admit her limitations and be counted on to come back with what she had learned.

Whenever the cyclone of activity and expectations becomes too much for you, I invite you to think of Til’s wisdom and strength to say “I can only do one thing at a time, where shall we start?”

Friend or Enemy?

My social media feed has figured out that I love trees and moss and native plants, (along with cats getting into boxes and dogs pushing buttons of course). Recently a post came up in a “Native Plants” group, with the photo a plant with tiny purple flowers I see all the time in my yard. The poster’s question- was this plant friend or enemy? Now I’m a native plant lover from way back, and I understand the harm that invasive plants can do as they push out native plants and all the critters that depend on them. But the post stuck with me- is this the enemy? It's hard for me to think of any plant as my enemy.

I’m pretty sure I have that plant, or one of its siblings in the front patch between my sidewalk and street, and based on how fast it grows it probably is invasive. So at the risk of being cancelled, I confess that a couple of years back I took (with permission) several of those plants from my neighbor’s front patch and planted it in mine. Why? Because another invasive plant, Lesser Celandine, had so thoroughly taken over my front patch that when it dies back with the first heat of summer, it exposes the bare soil which runs off quickly in the rain. Then in the July droughts nothing grows and there are no plants to hold in the water. I needed a plant that didn’t mind that challenging soil between sidewalk and street and could fill in quickly when the lesser celandine died back. I think of that plant with the little purple flowers as my friend, because it protects the soil, and helps hold water in the tiny patch.

I’ve tried planting clover and grass in that patch, but slugs think baby clover is the most delicious thing. I definitely thought of slugs as the enemy for a long time, but last year I decided I was really going to figure out how to get rid of them, and as I paid attention to the slugs in my yard, I began to notice how the parent slugs would bring their babies to a brand new basil plant to help them get a good start in life. Sigh.

Squirrels were my first enemy in the garden, as they stole all the bird food from my squirrel-proof feeders, but the more I watched the more I saw families of baby squirrels emerge from neighbor trees, delighted by their antics. I noticed that those same squirrels who stole the bird food defend the territory from mice and rats. Now these families of squirrels are old friends.

It turns out that plant with the little purple flowers is called “ground ivy” which has been a traditional medicine for headaches, colds, and a bunch of other conditions. Yes, it’s also invasive in some places. So is it friend or enemy? Perhaps it’s just a neighbor. It's hard to be alive in this world, hard to feed yourself and your family whether you are a person, a squirrel or a slug living on my block. Neighborhoods are complicated networks of beings with strengths and weaknesses. What I love is life- all the things willing and able to live and grow and fill barren places in the community of being where I call home. It feels like a gift of the spirit to watch relationships deepen as we know each other better, contemplating this web of life as I sit on my porch is a practice that grounds me and restores my spirit.

When the Maps You Trusted Are Wrong

 What do you do when the map you’ve been following doesn’t match the reality of the path in front of you? There’s a bridge under construction in my town that my GPS insists I should be able to cross. It’s kind of a shock to notice that the guidance you’ve been relying on is suddenly unreliable. Once, wondering if the phone knew something I didn’t, I walked right up to the gap only to confirm there was still a big construction site where the bridge used to be. But the software companies that make the map are far away, and here I stand, looking at an active construction site and an uncrossable bridge.

Trusting your senses is a good place to start. We are living in a time when many of the maps that have been guiding us haven’t caught up to the changes in the terrain we are trying to travel. So many aspects of our lives, of our communities, are “under construction” right now- and the ways we’ve always done things are simply not available. I talk with many folks who struggle with the gap between what they feel they should be able to do, and what is actually possible in this moment. Perhaps it’s something they were always able to do that now exhausts their changing body. Perhaps it’s a goal at work or at a volunteer organization that seems achievable but yet is always out of reach. It can be disturbing when an outcome is simply not available right now, while your map insists it should be possible. Maybe it is not you who are wrong, maybe it is the map.

How can you tell? Sometimes you don’t have a whole construction crew waving orange flags to make things clear. If you can resume your journey with a little detour, perhaps it’s easier and quicker just to take that other path going to the same goal without giving it too much thought. Sometimes it’s worth getting curious and investigating. What is the nature of the obstacle? How long might it take to clear? Is there something I could do to help? If a trashcan has blown over into the sidewalk, a moment of attention could quickly clear the path for everyone.

Sometimes we need to pull over and make a new plan. When we are talking not about literal paths, but about finding a life path, a spiritual path that we can travel with integrity, compassion and a sense of calling in the world it can be worth metaphorically pulling over to the side of the road and taking some time for discernment. Long ago, my partner worked for a company that was releasing an early GPS device. We had a beta test version that he used to write instructions, and we put it in the car. One day I was driving to a new place, and the road the GPS suggested changed to a dirt road. Hmmm. Then the dirt road got bumpy and rutty in the rain, then it turned into a bike path. I had to back up through the drenching rain and mud until I was back on solid ground again. I took a breath, turned around and found a new path.

Discernment is a way of making decisions that uses our whole self -- heart, mind, body and soul. It is a way of making decisions that also includes that which is greater than ourselves, be that the Spirit, the Universe, the community of beings. It is a way of deciding that takes a long view and a deep view and arrives at a conclusion that is harmonious for our whole being.

Once we have chosen our path, and begin moving along it, discernment continues to happen all along our journey. Discernment is not just about the big choices, this career or that one, this place to live or that one. We make big and little decisions all the time in life, for as long as we live. Each day we are invited to discern step by step the path we make by walking.

Discernment is not just about moving towards what feels good, or easy. For example, part of ministry is being with people who are struggling, being with our challenges as a community and as a world. There’s a certain way I feel when I know that something is the right thing to do, even when it is hard. I sense that staying on the hard path will matter, that it will connect me to something sacred, to the deep parts of myself, to the person I most want to be.

A blessing to all of us right now who are finding our path is blocked, that the way we hoped to travel is not available, that our map is unreliable. It’s frustrating, disorienting and sometimes scary. I wish you the wisdom to trust the reality you are experiencing, the wisdom to discern your path, faith that a way will open, and trustworthy friends and guides to support you on your way.

Hope Lives Bulbs and Roots

 

This week at my house, the daffodils are finally blooming, and I see signs that the tulips are not far behind. As gardeners know, the first flowers of spring come not from seeds but from bulbs. Any daffodil or tulip you see this today stored up energy all through last year’s growing season, and when it’s leaves were finished that work, stored the energy underground all winter, so it could start again, growing out of that bulb into the sunlight when the time was right. Just about anything you see growing right now comes from a bulb, or from its roots. Trees too- remember half of them lives underground. They have great reserves of life force they store year after year, century after century in their trunks and roots.

Consider mushrooms- I hadn’t realized that the mushrooms we see are like fruit that pop up when it’s time to reproduce- sending spores out into the world to start the next generation. The body of the fungus is a great web of tiny filaments below ground. How much of life is underground! How much life and growth happens where our eyes can’t see.

Here is where I am finding hope this year, even when the late snows or frost damage the spring’s ephemeral blossoms. As sad as it is to see the fragile buds and flowers crushed, or eaten by backyard critters, my hope is underground, in those bulbs, in those roots. My hope is in the trunks of the maple trees flowing with sweetness. The eye-catching blossoms that flutter to the ground in the wind are but a brief season in the life of that tree. My practice these days is to follow the beautiful signs of life back to their trunks and roots. To marvel not only at the temporary beauty, but at the persistence, the enduring life spread out all around us. We can practice following a similar trail in our own lives, our own spirits. Where are the reserves of strength and vitality in your life, in your story, in your community? What sources of nourishment and strength are available to you as seasons come and go? A great treasure trove of life-force persists below the surface which living beings draw on in hard times, and in times of flourishing. On this you can depend.

 

A Spiritual Practice for Boredom

 “I’m Bored!” I would complain to my Dad when I was little. “How could anyone ever be bored?” He would invariably reply “There’s so much to think about!” And yet boredom naturally arises from time to time. For many folks it is arising quite frequently these days when so many of our usual activities are curtailed.

I once used the word “bored” in therapy and my therapist suggested “sometimes when we feel bored it means there is something we don’t want to look at.” So I tried that on- whenever I felt bored I would ask myself “is there something I would rather not look at behind the boredom?” I began to notice that often this was true- that if I took a moment to sink down into myself, a feeling, a memory would arise that invited a deeper look. It might be challenging to explore more deeply, but at least it wasn’t boring!

I tried this with people- when I found someone boring to listen to, I would try to listen more deeply, and sometimes it worked! A fascinated audience does sometimes bring out a more interesting conversation. Often when it doesn’t work it’s because the person who is speaking is bored with what they are saying- they are not engaging deeply with what they are saying and so it is boring no matter how hard I listen.

Sometimes when I’m bored these days, it’s a sign pointing me towards unused energy and creativity. This often happens on a Saturday afternoon after a long work week. My partner and I are recent empty nesters, and the shock of having a few hours to do whatever I want is still novel. I find I just have to be bored for a while before some inspiration strikes me- a new dish to cook, an adventure to plan. Often if I simply settle in on my porch, resigned to boredom, some fascinating new bird will come to my bird feeder, and I am bored no longer.

Another pattern I’ve noticed is that I often feel bored during transitions- some part of me is arriving somewhere new, and I am bored as I wait for the rest of myself to arrive. When I go on retreat without my phone or computer there is invariably a time of acute boredom at the beginning of the retreat as I settle in. After months of wishing I had my full time and attention to give to Spirit, having no other demands pulling at me feels a bit unsettling, boring even. But as I settle into this more spacious way of being ideas, feelings, inspirations invariable flow in to fill the space.

Often there is another patch of boredom at the end of a retreat day, when I have already prayed and read and walked and there is literally nothing left to do. I feel guilty that I SHOULD be doing something with this precious retreat time, but eventually remember that the spiritual life is not really about doing anything. The things we do are just touchstones, guides on the journey. When I am finally empty of worries, feelings, curiosities and am just empty and still, it is a moment I often recall later with wonder when I am back in my regular life- “how could I ever have been so empty? So Still? With no needs or wants, just being?”

In the coming month I invite you to notice boredom when it arises and consider it as an invitation. Where might the feeling of boredom be inviting us? Is it inviting us to listen or look more deeply at what we are experiencing? Is it inviting us to notice that this experience no longer serves us and it’s time to walk away? Is it the seed of some creative new project waiting to be born? Is it time to listen for the slow quiet speech of the spirit? Or is it simply inviting us to be grateful for the spaciousness of a quiet empty moment? This month let boredom be like a meditation bell calling you to notice what is really there.

The Mystery of Dreams

Consider dreams- those fanciful stories that arrive, without our bidding, while we sleep. I have been noticing and pondering my dreams for 25 years now, and the longer I study them, the more I am amazed. After all these years they continue to surprise me with their creativity, and with the way they evoke things which had been going on beneath the surface of my consciousness in useful and surprising ways. As my teacher Rev. Dr. Jeremy Taylor was fond of asking “Who writes this stuff?” – because it is surely not our conscious mind, and yet here they are, showing us night after night a prolific creativity outside the light of conscious control.

We humans often think that what we see, hear, feel, and think with our waking mind is all there is. Our dreams hint that even our own psyches hold mysteries we have yet to uncover, parts of ourselves that our conscious, waking minds are not really paying attention to, parts of ourselves that are still emerging, still in formation. There are many theories about what dreams are, and I believe dreams probably have multiple purposes? One role of dreams is as a reservoir of creativity. Dreams help us process our lives without using the rational mind, or in a way that is complementary to the relational mind.

Paying attention to dreams can be a fruitful spiritual practice. Even if you haven’t remembered a dream in years, you might find that you remember a snippet of a dream here or there just because you read this column. If you wake up in the morning with the sense that you have had a dream, be still, don’t fully wake, just allow your conscious mind to go back inside the dream and review it, revisit it. Notice the landscape, notice the colors and how you feel. Have you been to this place before? Have you felt this way before? Jot down a couple of key words once you have revisited your dream.

Just remembering a dream with your conscious mind now and then, letting it accompany you back into waking can offer some insights or new feeling tones or colors to some aspect of your life. Once you are fully awake, think back over the dream and notice if any parts peak your attention, and invite those into your waking day. I once dreamed I had an armful of oranges, and when I woke I was inspired to draw with my orange pencil. I noticed how much that beautiful bright color was missing in our long dark winter, and how just having orange in my life seemed to cheer me up. Another time, when my son was young, I dreamed of a female lion, and happened to have a little figure of one that I put on my desk. It made me think of all the ways I was like a mother lion, fiercely protective of my son. It made me feel powerful at a time I was struggling with the chores and challenges of motherhood.

More details may come back to you in the simple act of writing the dream down. You could keep dreams in your regular journal if you already have a journaling practice or create a special journal just for dreams. Some folks start the day with their cup of coffee at the computer capturing dreams from the night before in a digital journal. Sometimes as we turn our dreams over in our waking minds insights are revealed, but other important insights may be hidden from our conscious minds, and so sharing our dream with an understanding friend can be fruitful.

When I first started exploring my dreams back in seminary, I wrote in my class notebook “I am concerned that my subconscious will not have exciting new messages for me, only things I already know.” But the more I pay attention, I find there really is something new and radically different to be found in dreams, an invitation to use the non-rational part of our minds. Our dreams are a fresh well we can draw from when we are ready to be surprised, when need reassurance that we are more than our thinking minds.

Seeds of Autumn

There is a lot of poetry written about autumn, much of it praising the brilliant colors of the leaves, and the melancholy as the trees let them go, which remind us of the things we let go of in our own lives, or that final letting go. As I was walking through a park with my friend I asked “what else is there to be said about fall?” She thought for just a moment and then reached up to the nearest tree, a sycamore, to pull off a seed ball. She ran her thumb across it and hundreds of tiny seeds were set free, each with their little puff of fluff that helps them travel. “Seeds – they are everywhere this time of year” she said.

As I have taken my morning walks each day I see that it is true- the milkweed pods with their cottony fluff. The bean tree pods that rattle when you shake them. The gross goo of the gingko tree fruit all over the sidewalk. A shower of little maple-tree wings fluttered by my window in the wind yesterday.

Seeds are the reason of the cranberries and apples and winter squash that show up on our tables at this time of year. Seeds are the reason we have the holly berries and pinecones with which we deck our halls. Here in the northeast the end of fall, beginning of winter there is a great abundance of seeds- so many plants taking this moment to release their investment in the future, feeding us and all the animals who need that nourishment to get through the coming winter.

I usually think about seeds in the spring, when it is time to start my garden, but the plants have been preparing their seeds all season, packing them with the crucial DNA, with a shell to keep that precious material safe until it’s time to grow, with a bit of nutrition to get them started, and with their own unique strategies to help them find just the right spot when it is just the right time to spring to life. All the seeds dropped now by trees, floating on the wind, or squirreled away by squirrels must wait. Many will wait until spring or summer, some will wait for years.

How hopeful I feel as I walk through my neighborhood noticing all the clever plant parents releasing their precious seeds- none of which are going to germinate in this frozen soil. So many of the trees and flowers and weeds that come to life next year will have had their start in this cold and blustery moment. Perhaps it will give you hope too, to think of ourselves releasing our own metaphorical seeds, year after year, some of which will sprout in another season, while others may wait for years to find their right time to grow. Blessings for all the seeds released this season: the ancient wisdom coiled inside their very DNA, the hard protective shell for the waiting, and the faith that the right time to burst forth and grow will come again- as it always does in the ancient cycle of life.