Feeling Busy this Holiday Season?

At this time of year my friends tell me they feel scattered, busy, and overwhelmed by all that is on their plates. Many of us have holiday traditions that require preparation, on top of the usual business of repairing the furnace, putting snow tires on the car, doctor’s visits, meeting deadlines at work or school.

On top of these very real demands on our time, there are the urgent suggestions that come at us through the media. The whole world seems to have a lot of things I need to do right away, most of them involving my credit card. Economists and reporters call this “The holiday shopping season” because it accounts for between 20 to 40 percent of typical retailers' total annual sales. This time of year I get a staggering number of e-mails from retailers insisting that I “Shop now and save” alerting me to “One day only special offers” to “get them now before they are gone.

Let’s interrupt that. This season, this “dark of winter” is a time of emptying and letting go. The trees have dropped their leaves, and now we have a wide open view of the sky. In the Catholic tradition Advent is a time of emptiness, a time of waiting. In most Catholic churches the holiday trees and greens are not decorated until after the 4th Sunday in advent, when the time of spiritual preparation is complete and the time of celebration begins. For observant Catholics, waiting to welcome spiritual light of the Christ Child into the world, Advent is a time of “emptying ourselves of ourselves.” I think this is really important wisdom for Christian and non-Christian alike. Without a time of emptying, our spirits are too full to receive anything new. This year as our culture insists we fill up our time and our shopping carts and our homes, the spirit invites us to enter into a time of emptying.

Perhaps we keep so busy in these dark days because we know that emptying is not always comfortable. Sometimes when we are quiet and still our hearts fill up with concerns and feelings we have been too busy to feel. Sometimes we find ourselves shopping or working precisely because our hearts are so full. But if we can give ourselves some space to just be quiet and still, those worries and memories and feelings that rise to the surface of our attention often drift away, one by one, leaving us with more inner spaciousness if we meet them with a compassionate awareness, without grasping or pushing. The wisdom of the ages tells us that there is a value in our journey into the emptiness, into the darkness, because it empties us out for the returning light.

What would it mean to empty our hearts and minds during this darkest time of year, to make room for new gifts, new light, new growth? It takes intention to carve out a little time for our spirits in this busy season. Some of our traditions give us that time- reading holiday stories to a child, lighting a candle, gazing up at the night sky or falling snow. I invite you now to take a moment and consider the seasonal traditions of your family, your spirit, your community. Which of those traditions offer an opportunity for emptying yourself? Which traditions make you feel like a crowded parking lot? What is your inner wisdom inviting you to let go of to make room for whatever new light may be on the horizon?

As we wait in this darkest time of year, let us prepare room for something deeper, something more important than “the holiday shopping season.” Let us be grateful for the gaps and in-between times instead of rushing to fill them up. Let this be a season of emptying our hearts and minds -- a time of listening. May we make time for our deepest, truest self, open to the possibility that something new may enter in.

Is There a Spiritual Path for Everyone?

As a seminary student, I felt inadequate reading theology books so dense I could barely complete my assigned reading. I was miserable sitting in meditation class. How could I get anywhere on my spiritual journey if I couldn’t sit quietly in meditation? If I couldn’t get through Tillich’s Systematic Theology? I got the impression that the spiritual journey was like the New York Marathon- thousands of people training and racing, and a few elite winners.

But something fundamental about this paradigm does not harmonize with the idea of a loving God. Think of how diverse Humanity is- folks who have been to school and haven’t. Folks who run marathons and folks who can’t walk. Eventually it dawned on me- whatever the spiritual journey might be, at its core it must be so simple that even I could do it. I began to look at the spiritual journey in a different way. Instead of wondering how I could win the spirituality Super Bowl, I began to ask “What kind of spiritual journey could include all of us?” and “what is the spiritual journey we are already all on?”

The Christian Mystic Teresa of Avila was an Abbess at a convent in Spain in the 1500s. She was a Spiritual Director to the nuns there, and always trying to help them discern their path. She wrote volumes about the spiritual journey, but often came back to one point; whenever you are confused about your journey, start with practicing love for those around you. She wrote: "The surest way to determine whether one possesses the love of God is to see whether he or she loves his or her neighbor. These two loves are never separated. Rest assured, the more you progress in love of neighbor the more your love of God will increase."

This I find to be comforting advice. The Spiritual Journey can be confusing. Meditation can be tedious, and theology can be un-readably dense, but all of us have neighbors. Every time we interact with our family, our roommates, our co-workers, our neighbors we are on a spiritual journey whether we know it or not.

If you have trouble with meditation, or prayer, or other spiritual practices, you are still on the journey. Whenever we are lost and not sure where the journey is leading, we return to love. Each time we interact with others we have a chance to practice love. The journey is unfolding now and in every moment, just open your heart to love and you are on your way. 

Leaf and Trunk

Fall is a busy time. Whether you are caught up in the back-to school calendar or the agricultural calendar or have construction projects underway, there’s a lot we want to get done before the winter weather begins. I keep my “do list” on yellow sticky-notes that proliferate like autumn leaves this time of year. In fact, the image of orange, yellow and brown leaves swirling in the wind and drifting over the walkways captures perfectly my sense of scattered busy-ness as fall activities intensify. It helps to remember that much of what we are holding, much of what swirls by can be let go like leaves from a tree.

The tough part is discerning what we can let go. Just reading all those e-mails, or handouts that come home from my son’s school, takes time. We can’t always decide leaf by leaf what to let go. When we identify with all those items on the sticky-notes, our own spirits become scattered and are easily buffeted by even a gentle breeze. Instead of trying to think about each leaf, to organize each leaf, I have started thinking like the trunk of the tree. Because what the tree is doing during the fall transition is moving nutrients from the edges of its body into its core, its trunk, where they will be safe until spring. What is at the core of who I am? What is at the core of my life? When the storm winds blow and leaves flutter away, what remains?

So how do we think like a tree trunk? This is one of the gifts of spiritual practice. Whenever we take time for practice we have an opportunity to center ourselves and to ground ourselves. This is especially true during the busy season. When we return our attention to what is truly important to us, the unimportant things often flutter away. The mere act of returning our attention to our spiritual life strengthens our soul, strengthens our relationship to what matters. When we sit in meditation or prayer, or whatever our favorite spiritual practice may be, we gather our energies in to the center, and strengthen ourselves for whatever storms may come.

We are Not Alone

After the sidewalk on my block was replaced, grass failed to grow in the clay-like topsoil the contractors used. I’m a passionate gardener, and a plant nerd, and this made me sad. Each day as I walked my dog around the neighborhood, I noticed all the places which had once been lush and green, where now nothing grew in the new soil. Winter came, then spring, and the bare patches stayed bare. I wrote a note to the city building department, mentioning that the soil they used didn’t seem to have enough organic material for plants to thrive. A couple of weeks later a truck came and laid a fresh layer of the same tan clay over the bare spots. I added a layer of leaf compost and shade-friendly grass seed to my own lawn, which helped a bit, but the bald spots around the neighborhood remained. Each day as I walked I composed a new letter to the city in my head, but never did send it. I felt sad, and powerless, and sometimes angry.

Spring turned to summer, and the heavy rains of late summer began. Something green caught my eye- an emerald green moss was beginning to grow on the hard clay earth. I stopped in my tracks. Nature had found a way I had never even considered.  These bald spots were not a problem I had to witness and solve all by myself. I had a secret partner who was working on it with me. Actually, in that moment I felt like I had 3 partners: the moss, of course, and our natural eco systems, and spirit too, restoring my hope and reminding me I was not alone. Whether you are a theist, an atheist or an agnostic, there are reminders all round us that the heavy problems of the world are not ours alone to solve; we have partners co-creating with us.

 It was a rainy year, and the moss grew steadily. Many days on my walk I bent down to watch its tiny, slow progress. I’d never paid much attention to moss before, but now I saw it everywhere, especially on rainy days. I noticed all the different varieties and how it fills in niches other plants can’t fill. Another year has passed, and there are still big bald spots on my block, even in the places where I regularly lay new grass seed and compost. But on rainy days the lawn by my sidewalk shimmers green with happy growing moss, and I remember we are never alone.

I'm Tired

We were trying to resuscitate an organization that existed in name only. I knew there was a need in my community, and I knew the mission of this organization filled the need, so I was hoping others would join me in bringing it back to life. My colleague Anne and I arranged a day-long retreat, and carefully planned a program that we hoped would support and inspire participants and begin to build the web of community we would need for the organization to continue.

The day was going pretty well- folks seemed to catch our vision, and we were enjoying being together. As we moved into the sleepy after-lunch time we were planning to talk about our vision for the future. We spread out a big sheet of empty paper for us to fill in our ideas. My esteemed colleague who was to lead that section gave a big sigh and said “I’m tired, I just don’t have the energy for this.” I was alarmed! We had worked so hard to fill this event with life and enthusiasm, to give folks a positive, rewarding experience so they would want to stay engaged with the organization. I was tired too, we were all tired, and clearly the only thing to do was power through the end of the program. What was she doing?

After a silence she said “Does anyone else have some energy for this?” Another colleague, Cari, said, “Actually, I have some thoughts about this.” She picked up the markers, and began filling in ideas on the big empty page as she talked. Other colleagues chimed in and soon the paper was full of colorful ideas. My co-facilitator just observed as the conversation unfolded. The day ended with energy and enthusiasm for the future, and a commitment to meet again.

Here’s what I learned that day; so often I assume that I am indispensable. I assume that if something needs to be done, I am the only one who can do it. Even if my body and spirit are asking for a break, I expect myself to power through. But if I power through, I am not leaving room for guidance of the spirit. Why wouldn’t guidance come through our bodies? What if a felt sense of “not this, not now” was an important truth? Anne spoke her truth that day, the truth of what she was feeling in the moment: her tiredness, of her lack of energy. This made space for my colleague Cari to speak her truth- that she was excited and ready to step in.

If you are a fixer, a problem solver, if you are always the first to say “I can help with that,” it’s a leap of faith not to rush in and do the thing that cries out to be done. It’s a leap of faith to be authentic and honest, rather than ignoring the messages of body and spirit saying “I’m tired” or “this doesn’t feel right” and powering through. It requires faith that we are not alone- faith that we are part of a web of community larger than ourselves. Can we have faith that if the spirit is truly calling us to do something, spirit will help make it happen like a stream helps the paper boats that children set on the water and release?

To admit that we are tired, that we are overwhelmed, that we are not quite sure what to do requires the humility to admit that not only do I have limits, but I am not the only one capable of contributing to the solution. If we have the faith and humility to admit our limits we make space for help to come from unexpected places, as Anne made space for our young colleague Cari to emerge with fresh energy and new ideas.

Am I doing this right?

At the end of a weekend-long retreat, we were invited to bring to mind a word or phrase arising out of our experience. I was surprised that this not-particularly- spiritual thought came to mind and felt like a hard-won piece of wisdom:

“Just because it doesn’t feel good, doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong.”

Sometimes prayer and meditation does feel great. When I sit down for quiet meditation, I often rise with a greater sense of peace. When I pour my heart out in prayer, sometimes I feel lighter, or more connected to the divine. But at this particular retreat, I felt a lot of things, and most of them weren’t lovely. I felt grumpy, I felt stuck, I felt sad. What was I doing wrong?

My son in the midst of a particularly difficult teething period

As kids we are raised with rewards and punishments. If you get good grades you get praise, if you get detention you get frowns, or maybe you get grounded. At work you might get a raise or a promotion if you are productive, you might get fired if you don’t meet your quota. I used to think my cavity-free history at the dentist was due to my virtue, until my friend who meticulously brushed her teeth 3 times a day had her 3rd root canal- it turns out her soft teeth were just genetic. She wasn’t being punished for “doing it wrong”; she was doing the best she could at being a person with soft teeth.

As we mature in our spiritual practices, we’ll notice that there is not always a direct relationship between what we do and how good we feel. A practice that may give us great peace one day might be colored by irritability and distractions the next. I felt apologetic, and judged myself harshly on those occasions, but as my retreat came to a close, I was relieved to realize that grumpiness is not a sign that the spirit has deserted us, or that our practice is not good enough. It is simply that we are humans, and we are capable of a vast spectrum of feelings. The spirit is with us in both the moments of bliss, and the grumpy moments of distraction.

I found this liberating; I had done all the things I could do, and still felt irritable, but when I realized that “just because it doesn’t feel good doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong” a weight lifted off my shoulders.

The other day my son was complaining of leg pain that we couldn’t explain. My husband remembered when he was a teenager he had mysterious growing pains. Growing is a good thing to do that doesn’t always feel good. Why do we feel horrible when we have the flu? Because our body is using so many resources to fight the virus. Healing is the right thing to do, but it doesn’t always feel good. Grieving is an incredibly important thing to do that doesn’t feel good. Standing up for yourself. Being present with someone who is suffering. Being open to unpleasant truth. All these things are really important parts of being alive, of being on the spiritual path. And none of them feel good.

Sometimes unpleasant feelings do call for a change in what we are doing. If you sat on your foot until it became numb, go ahead and move your foot. If you drank too much and have a hangover, you might make a note for the future. If you had words with someone and regret what you said, it’s probably time to seek reconciliation and forgiveness. But if you have opened your heart in meditation or prayer with honesty and integrity, if you have entered a spiritual practice where before there was always refreshing water and now it is dry, and you find yourself asking “what did I do wrong? Why don’t I feel comfort and solace?” I invite you to remember: “just because it feels bad doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong. ”

Judgement and blame don’t tend to bring us closer to peace, closer to the divine. Instead they seem to shut us down. If, as Jesuit Theologian Walter Burghardt suggests, contemplation is “the long loving look at the real” we are encouraged to stay with the unpleasant as well as the pleasant, without judgement, without guilt, because all of it is real. When it doesn’t feel good, try a long loving look at the reality you feel in that moment. Wherever you are, the spirit is there too.

What do you Want?

What do you want? If I had a magic wand and could give you your heart’s desire, right now, what would it be? This is actually a hard question for most of us. Even if you are healthy, if you have food to eat and a warm safe place to sleep at night, there is still a sense of wanting, of a desire for something more that haunts us human beings. There is a hunger in our hearts asking us for…what?

When I began my training as a Spiritual Director some years back, I thought of Spiritual practice as something I SHOULD do. If it seemed dry and boring, that was only as I expected it should be. Imagine my surprise when our teachers suggested we set aside those “shoulds” and instead follow our desire. Now I was raised to believe that each of us has inner wisdom that we should follow. But as human beings living in community, we all get the message, probably many times a day, that we should set aside our desires in order to fulfill our obligations to one another. Remember when you were little and wanted to be a ballerina, a pilot, a professional baseball player, a fireman? (What did you want when you were a child?) We are taught from a young age that to be a responsible adult we must set those desires and dreams aside and do something practical.

When folks come to me for spiritual direction they often confess, perhaps with some guilt or defensiveness, that they don’t have a regular spiritual practice. Why not? Because it would be boring and dry and they don’t have time for it anyway. But most people do have something that makes them come alive, that restores them when they are drained: an afternoon sailing, or walking through he woods. An evening by the fire with family or just pausing to wonder at a beautiful bird. How would you feel if I suggested that following your desire in these ways is a spiritual practice?

What if we believed, with The Rev. Arvid Straube that: “Prayer is simply being in touch with the most honest, deepest, desires of the heart.” What if we believed that feeling of desire is an invitation … an invitation to move into deeper relationship with oneself and with the oneness of all that is? What if our deepest desires come from the divine, lead us back to the divine? Is this some new heresy? Actually, St. Augustine, early church theologian, bishop and church father, described this kind of desire: “restless is the heart until it rest in thee.” He believed that we long for a closer relationship with the divine, that we all have a kind of spiritual hunger built in, and that we feel restless all our lives as we try to move into closer and closer relationship with the Spirit. This holy desire is found in the words of Mystics of many faiths. For example the Sufi poet Rum writes: “I once had a thousand desires. But in my one desire to know you all else melted away.”

To reacquaint ourselves with our own deepest desires, we have to first acknowledge that we are hungry. Sometimes admitting what we really desire is hard because getting it seems impossible. I want inner peace. I want justice for all people. I want to create something beautiful. I want to be part of something larger than myself. And most brazen of all… I want to experience my connection with the divine. When the world assures us that getting a new TV or a new car is a far more reasonable and realistic response to our hunger, one of the most important jobs of our spiritual practice is to “simply being in touch with the most honest, deepest, desires of the heart.”

What do you want? What do you REALLY want? And what would it feel like to honor and follow the part of you that knows?