The Fiction of Being

Every life is a work of fiction. That’s what I tell my memoir students. People come to me wanting to tell their life story, the narrative that sums them up, the myth that captures their essence. They expect to find this story hiding inside them like one of Michelangelo’s statues trapped inside the marble, fully formed and waiting to appear.

They’re in for a big surprise, of course. Instead of finding the perfect story, they discover a tower of Babel, a slew of motley characters in search of a coherent author. There is no singular there there, they find, no masterpiece fixed inside of the stone. There are episodes, anecdotes, motifs, impressions, memories, and foregone conclusions melded with imagination. But a fait accompli narrative strong enough to support the sum of their many parts? This is just a fantasy.

We construct our personal myth from the random facts that life presents us, connecting dots to make a shape, devising plots from circumstance, changing characters, fashioning conflicts, adjusting structure, settings, and themes, as our lives unfold over time. Although our stories are fiction, we operate as if they were true. We are Homo narrans, the storytelling ape, the only species that survives by creating a conceptualized self—the character “I”—apart from the flesh-and-blood creature it is. This is how we brave existence on a mysterious planet. To cope with mystery, we create story. Having no idea who we are, where we came from, where we’re going, or what life means, we adapt by giving names to things and pretending the names and stories are real.

This is the root of our ignorance, mistaking ourselves for the story. When we see that this is a false equation, that we are not synonymous with our story, it is a watershed moment in self-realization. Students are often taken aback when this happens. “Who Am I?” they ask themselves, unable to locate their story on paper. This question is their initiation into the life of self-inquiry. In time, they come to see that the gap between story and self, which feels at first like a disaster, is actually an open door, a portal to personal freedom. It’s the crack in everything sung about in Leonard Cohen’s Anthem: “That’s how the light gets in.” Inhabiting this crack, standing outside our story, affords us a measure of liberation. From this witness perspective, we see that we are many selves living many stories. Although we’d prefer to think of ourselves as having a consistent personality across time and space, this is simply not the case. No one’s the same at work as they are at home, in flagrante delicto or shopping at Macy’s, sitting in church or drinking on Bourbon Street covered with Mardi Gras doubloons. As Dostoevsky pointed out, man is the animal that can adapt to anything. Shifting situations, we adjust our masks and stories, morph, dissemble, compartmentalize, omit, and change like chameleons,gluing our many selves together with this fictive “I.” Self-inquiry in writing or wisdom practice unsticks the glue and frees us of the adhesive pronoun. This unsticking awakens us to the truth. When you tell the truth, your story changes. When your story changes, your life is transformed.

Knowing how little we actually know, we suddenly become a lot more creative. Buddhists call this “beginner’s mind.” Meeting each moment with open awareness rather than through a narrative scrim, we find ourselves snapping to attention. “If your mind is empty,” said Suzuki Roshi, the author of Zen Mind, Beginners Mind, “It is always open for everything. In the beginners mind, there are many possibilities. But in the expert’s there are few.” Creativity comes from not knowing, acknowledging that we are protean, quantum, shape-shifting creatures with many compartments and numerous layers, a chorus of multiple selves. “Do I contradict myself?” Walt Whitman asked in Song of Myself. “Very well, then I contradict myself/ I am large, I contain multitudes." Meeting our multitudes is an adventure. The most predictable person turns out to be a matrix of incertitude, a hodgepodge of possibilities pretending to have only one face. We contain this complexity the best we can but the changeableness of our fluid nature is a mystery we must tolerate. Mystery is always changing its story. That’s what makes it a mystery.

Truth focuses our internal witness, connecting us to that part of ourselves that stands outside the flow of time and needs no story to exist. Writing is hardly the only way of stepping outside our story. Catastrophe is also terrific. I discovered this in my twenties when I was diagnosed with a fatal illness. For more than a decade, I sat in this in-between place waiting for my body to wither and die. This period of prolonged affliction stripped me completely of my story. The life I’d known had cracked down the middle, the house I’d lived in, the self I’d believed in, the future I thought was waiting for me, was suddenly condemned. Simone Weil, the mystic philosopher whose life was a study in affliction, compared this state of prolonged dread to that of a condemned man forced to stare for hours at the guillotine that’s going to cut off his head. The upside of this situation is that as the self-story is worn away, the witness grows stronger in proportion. Catastrophe shows us the part of ourselves that cannot be destroyed, the consciousness bigger than circumstances. We’re no longer defeated by samsara. We have the witness to stand beside us.

In spiritual circles, it’s commonly thought that story itself is an affliction, that our goal as truth-seekers ought to be story-less-ness, Zen-like just this-ness, detachment from personal myths, as if we had no shape at all, no history, memories, dreams or dramas. But is this really possible? Should we strive to transcend narrative, reject the storytelling imagination, and not enjoy being Homo narrans? Of course not. Story goes hand in hand with survival. Story matters in the same way that having a body matters; both help us navigate the physical world. Story is our vehicle. Story enables us to pass wisdom forward as well as to connect. “All sorrows can be borne if we put them into a story,” Karen Blixen wrote. Telling stories is a sacred act of communion; we know ourselves, being known by others; we see and hear ourselves through the eyes and ears of people who will listen to us. Connecting through story, we feel whole, knowing we are not alone.

There’s a beautiful story about a Jewish woman who’d gone to a therapist because she was having trouble breathing. As they spoke, the therapist noticed the camp numbers tattooed on the patient’s forearm. The woman coughed a great deal while telling her story. “When did you start having trouble breathing?” the therapist asked. “When my friend died two years ago,” the survivor admitted. “When she was alive,” this lady told the doctor, “we could talk about anything. Although she had not been in the camps, she understood. But now there is no one to tell. And the nightmares haunt me. I can’t sleep alone in the house. I know that if I want to live, I have to find another friend.”

This is how important our stories are. But just as the mind is said to be a terrible master but an excellent servant, story is not meant to be in charge. If we remember who is telling the tale, the story won’t be living us. The witness is our reality check, watching the passing show like a wise man on the banks of a river enjoying the flood of experience. The wise man does not drown. He knows that he is not the river. He’s the witness to the river, telling stories about its passing, the swells of love and waves of heartbreak, the depths of nature’s complexity. Students new to telling their story come to me frantic and drowning sometimes, overwhelmed by how impossible it is to capture life in words. I suggest that they try getting out of the river. I teach them to watch the river, instead, and describe, down to the finest detail, everything they see. If they pay attention to the river, especially themselves, in all their human complexity, they’ll have stories enough to last them several lifetimes. All they have to do is write.

 Every life is a work of fiction. That’s what I tell my memoir students. People come to me wanting to tell their life story, the narrative that sums them up, the myth that captures their essence. They expect to find this story hiding inside them like one of Michelangelo’s statues trapped inside the marble, fully formed and waiting to appear.

They’re in for a big surprise, of course. Instead of finding the perfect story, they discover a tower of Babel, a slew of motley characters in search of a coherent author. There is no singular there there, they find, no masterpiece fixed inside of the stone. There are episodes, anecdotes, motifs, impressions, memories, and foregone conclusions melded with imagination. But a fait accompli narrative strong enough to support the sum of their many parts? This is just a fantasy.

We construct our personal myth from the random facts that life presents us, connecting dots to make a shape, devising plots from circumstance, changing characters, fashioning conflicts, adjusting structure, settings, and themes, as our lives unfold over time. Although our stories are fiction, we operate as if they were true. We are Homo narrans, the storytelling ape, the only species that survives by creating a conceptualized self—the character “I”—apart from the flesh-and-blood creature it is. This is how we brave existence on a mysterious planet. To cope with mystery, we create story. Having no idea who we are, where we came from, where we’re going, or what life means, we adapt by giving names to things and pretending the names and stories are real.

This is the root of our ignorance, mistaking ourselves for the story. When we see that this is a false equation, that we are not synonymous with our story, it is a watershed moment in self-realization. Students are often taken aback when this happens. “Who Am I?” they ask themselves, unable to locate their story on paper. This question is their initiation into the life of self-inquiry. In time, they come to see that the gap between story and self, which feels at first like a disaster, is actually an open door, a portal to personal freedom. It’s the crack in everything sung about in Leonard Cohen’s Anthem: “That’s how the light gets in.” Inhabiting this crack, standing outside our story, affords us a measure of liberation. From this witness perspective, we see that we are many selves living many stories. Although we’d prefer to think of ourselves as having a consistent personality across time and space, this is simply not the case. No one’s the same at work as they are at home, in flagrante delicto or shopping at Macy’s, sitting in church or drinking on Bourbon Street covered with Mardi Gras doubloons. As Dostoevsky pointed out, man is the animal that can adapt to anything. Shifting situations, we adjust our masks and stories, morph, dissemble, compartmentalize, omit, and change like chameleons,gluing our many selves together with this fictive “I.” Self-inquiry in writing or wisdom practice unsticks the glue and frees us of the adhesive pronoun. This unsticking awakens us to the truth. When you tell the truth, your story changes. When your story changes, your life is transformed.

Knowing how little we actually know, we suddenly become a lot more creative. Buddhists call this “beginner’s mind.” Meeting each moment with open awareness rather than through a narrative scrim, we find ourselves snapping to attention. “If your mind is empty,” said Suzuki Roshi, the author of Zen Mind, Beginners Mind, “It is always open for everything. In the beginners mind, there are many possibilities. But in the expert’s there are few.” Creativity comes from not knowing, acknowledging that we are protean, quantum, shape-shifting creatures with many compartments and numerous layers, a chorus of multiple selves. “Do I contradict myself?” Walt Whitman asked in Song of Myself. “Very well, then I contradict myself/ I am large, I contain multitudes." Meeting our multitudes is an adventure. The most predictable person turns out to be a matrix of incertitude, a hodgepodge of possibilities pretending to have only one face. We contain this complexity the best we can but the changeableness of our fluid nature is a mystery we must tolerate. Mystery is always changing its story. That’s what makes it a mystery.

Truth focuses our internal witness, connecting us to that part of ourselves that stands outside the flow of time and needs no story to exist. Writing is hardly the only way of stepping outside our story. Catastrophe is also terrific. I discovered this in my twenties when I was diagnosed with a fatal illness. For more than a decade, I sat in this in-between place waiting for my body to wither and die. This period of prolonged affliction stripped me completely of my story. The life I’d known had cracked down the middle, the house I’d lived in, the self I’d believed in, the future I thought was waiting for me, was suddenly condemned. Simone Weil, the mystic philosopher whose life was a study in affliction, compared this state of prolonged dread to that of a condemned man forced to stare for hours at the guillotine that’s going to cut off his head. The upside of this situation is that as the self-story is worn away, the witness grows stronger in proportion. Catastrophe shows us the part of ourselves that cannot be destroyed, the consciousness bigger than circumstances. We’re no longer defeated by samsara. We have the witness to stand beside us.

In spiritual circles, it’s commonly thought that story itself is an affliction, that our goal as truth-seekers ought to be story-less-ness, Zen-like just this-ness, detachment from personal myths, as if we had no shape at all, no history, memories, dreams or dramas. But is this really possible? Should we strive to transcend narrative, reject the storytelling imagination, and not enjoy being Homo narrans? Of course not. Story goes hand in hand with survival. Story matters in the same way that having a body matters; both help us navigate the physical world. Story is our vehicle. Story enables us to pass wisdom forward as well as to connect. “All sorrows can be borne if we put them into a story,” Karen Blixen wrote. Telling stories is a sacred act of communion; we know ourselves, being known by others; we see and hear ourselves through the eyes and ears of people who will listen to us. Connecting through story, we feel whole, knowing we are not alone.

There’s a beautiful story about a Jewish woman who’d gone to a therapist because she was having trouble breathing. As they spoke, the therapist noticed the camp numbers tattooed on the patient’s forearm. The woman coughed a great deal while telling her story. “When did you start having trouble breathing?” the therapist asked. “When my friend died two years ago,” the survivor admitted. “When she was alive,” this lady told the doctor, “we could talk about anything. Although she had not been in the camps, she understood. But now there is no one to tell. And the nightmares haunt me. I can’t sleep alone in the house. I know that if I want to live, I have to find another friend.”

This is how important our stories are. But just as the mind is said to be a terrible master but an excellent servant, story is not meant to be in charge. If we remember who is telling the tale, the story won’t be living us. The witness is our reality check, watching the passing show like a wise man on the banks of a river enjoying the flood of experience. The wise man does not drown. He knows that he is not the river. He’s the witness to the river, telling stories about its passing, the swells of love and waves of heartbreak, the depths of nature’s complexity. Students new to telling their story come to me frantic and drowning sometimes, overwhelmed by how impossible it is to capture life in words. I suggest that they try getting out of the river. I teach them to watch the river, instead, and describe, down to the finest detail, everything they see. If they pay attention to the river, especially themselves, in all their human complexity, they’ll have stories enough to last them several lifetimes. All they have to do is write.

 Every life is a work of fiction. That’s what I tell my memoir students. People come to me wanting to tell their life story, the narrative that sums them up, the myth that captures their essence. They expect to find this story hiding inside them like one of Michelangelo’s statues trapped inside the marble, fully formed and waiting to appear.

They’re in for a big surprise, of course. Instead of finding the perfect story, they discover a tower of Babel, a slew of motley characters in search of a coherent author. There is no singular there there, they find, no masterpiece fixed inside of the stone. There are episodes, anecdotes, motifs, impressions, memories, and foregone conclusions melded with imagination. But a fait accompli narrative strong enough to support the sum of their many parts? This is just a fantasy.

We construct our personal myth from the random facts that life presents us, connecting dots to make a shape, devising plots from circumstance, changing characters, fashioning conflicts, adjusting structure, settings, and themes, as our lives unfold over time. Although our stories are fiction, we operate as if they were true. We are Homo narrans, the storytelling ape, the only species that survives by creating a conceptualized self—the character “I”—apart from the flesh-and-blood creature it is. This is how we brave existence on a mysterious planet. To cope with mystery, we create story. Having no idea who we are, where we came from, where we’re going, or what life means, we adapt by giving names to things and pretending the names and stories are real.

This is the root of our ignorance, mistaking ourselves for the story. When we see that this is a false equation, that we are not synonymous with our story, it is a watershed moment in self-realization. Students are often taken aback when this happens. “Who Am I?” they ask themselves, unable to locate their story on paper. This question is their initiation into the life of self-inquiry. In time, they come to see that the gap between story and self, which feels at first like a disaster, is actually an open door, a portal to personal freedom. It’s the crack in everything sung about in Leonard Cohen’s Anthem: “That’s how the light gets in.” Inhabiting this crack, standing outside our story, affords us a measure of liberation. From this witness perspective, we see that we are many selves living many stories. Although we’d prefer to think of ourselves as having a consistent personality across time and space, this is simply not the case. No one’s the same at work as they are at home, in flagrante delicto or shopping at Macy’s, sitting in church or drinking on Bourbon Street covered with Mardi Gras doubloons. As Dostoevsky pointed out, man is the animal that can adapt to anything. Shifting situations, we adjust our masks and stories, morph, dissemble, compartmentalize, omit, and change like chameleons,gluing our many selves together with this fictive “I.” Self-inquiry in writing or wisdom practice unsticks the glue and frees us of the adhesive pronoun. This unsticking awakens us to the truth. When you tell the truth, your story changes. When your story changes, your life is transformed.

Knowing how little we actually know, we suddenly become a lot more creative. Buddhists call this “beginner’s mind.” Meeting each moment with open awareness rather than through a narrative scrim, we find ourselves snapping to attention. “If your mind is empty,” said Suzuki Roshi, the author of Zen Mind, Beginners Mind, “It is always open for everything. In the beginners mind, there are many possibilities. But in the expert’s there are few.” Creativity comes from not knowing, acknowledging that we are protean, quantum, shape-shifting creatures with many compartments and numerous layers, a chorus of multiple selves. “Do I contradict myself?” Walt Whitman asked in Song of Myself. “Very well, then I contradict myself/ I am large, I contain multitudes." Meeting our multitudes is an adventure. The most predictable person turns out to be a matrix of incertitude, a hodgepodge of possibilities pretending to have only one face. We contain this complexity the best we can but the changeableness of our fluid nature is a mystery we must tolerate. Mystery is always changing its story. That’s what makes it a mystery.

Truth focuses our internal witness, connecting us to that part of ourselves that stands outside the flow of time and needs no story to exist. Writing is hardly the only way of stepping outside our story. Catastrophe is also terrific. I discovered this in my twenties when I was diagnosed with a fatal illness. For more than a decade, I sat in this in-between place waiting for my body to wither and die. This period of prolonged affliction stripped me completely of my story. The life I’d known had cracked down the middle, the house I’d lived in, the self I’d believed in, the future I thought was waiting for me, was suddenly condemned. Simone Weil, the mystic philosopher whose life was a study in affliction, compared this state of prolonged dread to that of a condemned man forced to stare for hours at the guillotine that’s going to cut off his head. The upside of this situation is that as the self-story is worn away, the witness grows stronger in proportion. Catastrophe shows us the part of ourselves that cannot be destroyed, the consciousness bigger than circumstances. We’re no longer defeated by samsara. We have the witness to stand beside us.

In spiritual circles, it’s commonly thought that story itself is an affliction, that our goal as truth-seekers ought to be story-less-ness, Zen-like just this-ness, detachment from personal myths, as if we had no shape at all, no history, memories, dreams or dramas. But is this really possible? Should we strive to transcend narrative, reject the storytelling imagination, and not enjoy being Homo narrans? Of course not. Story goes hand in hand with survival. Story matters in the same way that having a body matters; both help us navigate the physical world. Story is our vehicle. Story enables us to pass wisdom forward as well as to connect. “All sorrows can be borne if we put them into a story,” Karen Blixen wrote. Telling stories is a sacred act of communion; we know ourselves, being known by others; we see and hear ourselves through the eyes and ears of people who will listen to us. Connecting through story, we feel whole, knowing we are not alone.

There’s a beautiful story about a Jewish woman who’d gone to a therapist because she was having trouble breathing. As they spoke, the therapist noticed the camp numbers tattooed on the patient’s forearm. The woman coughed a great deal while telling her story. “When did you start having trouble breathing?” the therapist asked. “When my friend died two years ago,” the survivor admitted. “When she was alive,” this lady told the doctor, “we could talk about anything. Although she had not been in the camps, she understood. But now there is no one to tell. And the nightmares haunt me. I can’t sleep alone in the house. I know that if I want to live, I have to find another friend.”

This is how important our stories are. But just as the mind is said to be a terrible master but an excellent servant, story is not meant to be in charge. If we remember who is telling the tale, the story won’t be living us. The witness is our reality check, watching the passing show like a wise man on the banks of a river enjoying the flood of experience. The wise man does not drown. He knows that he is not the river. He’s the witness to the river, telling stories about its passing, the swells of love and waves of heartbreak, the depths of nature’s complexity. Students new to telling their story come to me frantic and drowning sometimes, overwhelmed by how impossible it is to capture life in words. I suggest that they try getting out of the river. I teach them to watch the river, instead, and describe, down to the finest detail, everything they see. If they pay attention to the river, especially themselves, in all their human complexity, they’ll have stories enough to last them several lifetimes. All they have to do is write.

              Written by  Mark Matousek    

HALLOWTIDE 2015~ THE GIFT OF SILENCE

Going for a walk in my valley this week, I become aware of the quieting of the voices of the Green World all around me. Golden leaves of chestnut and sycamore are already forming burnished heaps on either side of the lane, and I sense my favourite beech trees ready to shake out their coppery hair and settle down for a long winter's sleep.

Whether known as Samhain, (Ireland) Samhuinn, (Scotland) Nos Calan Gaeaf, (Wales) or All Hallows Eve, (England) this is the time to celebrate the hushed time of the year, for one of the blessings of the Old Woman of Winter, the Cailleach as she is known in Scotland and Ireland, is the gift of silence.

There is a vast solace in silence, in the deep peace of emptiness, the fathomless mystery of the Void, where all things arise and where all return. In a mechanized world in which silence is increasingly rare, and it is almost impossible to find a night sky which does not reflect electric lights, these are gifts to be cherished. The fallow time, the unfilled schedule book, rest, sleep, quietude, less rather than more, are held of little value in our constantly on-the-go modern society. 

Unlike ancient and indigenous cultures, modern society has no comparable ritual practices that allow for the experience of return and renewal by going into the deep silence found within the earth. Yet yearning for this experience is indicated by the number of white westerners who have appropriated the Native American sweat lodge ceremony for their own rituals. This is why entering the Silence is so important in all Mystery work. If you do not regularly quiet your mind in silent meditation, even if only for a few moments, you cannot engage in the all-important deep listening to the wise voice of your soul, your inner guides and teachers, and the Divine Source.

If possible, try to have in your home one room, however small, that you reserve for silence. Choose beautiful, clear colours full of light for the walls and some symbolic or mystical pictures to put in it, and dedicate it to the Divine, in whatever form is meaningful to you. Do not allow others in and do not go in yourself unless you feel able to maintain an inner silence, so that you can hear the underlying voice of the Universe.

As you are preparing your quiet room, try also to prepare it within yourself, in your heart and mind. In this way, no matter where you find yourself, even in the midst of chaos, you will be able to enter your inner room to find peace and light in the silence of your soul.

WILD NIGHT FOR ME~~ AWAKE~~ AND ASLEEP

Haven't been so..... under attack.... FOR YEARS. And I hate to put it that way, as I'm not really paranoid about this.... but it was not a mere mood, it was very real, and followed me into my dreams. Came from nowhere in particular as well. 

Temptation is strong..... not to ruminate on past sins & failings, which I could and sometimes do, nor feel any stirring to return to "old ways", it wasn't like that. It was much more of a look at here and eternity and feel left out somehow and that the Lord cannot be trusted and there really is no other reality so we are, in a word, screwed.  That God is not trustworthy, not loving, playing his own game with us, his creatures. 

The urge was strong just to give up. Give up the faith, do whatever, take up other spiritual systems.... makes no real difference in the end. And no sense of God in all this, nothing at all to hang on to.

Strange? I suspect this has happened others, or similar.... especially those with prophetic giftings, who usually fall prey to all kinds of desolations. But for me, I'm ordinary. Whether I like it or not, I'm completely ordinary. I may have wanted a place, a particular place, of some sort, in the Great Plan of God, but I'm just one of the many. 

It was not depression coming in, I am more than familiar with that one. This was more, and it's hard to describe, and even as I look over what I'm writing here, it sounds whiney, and not anything significant. But somehow I suspect that for me, it was.

FINALLY, as I was waking up, still in this particular struggle, or whatever it was, I was given reminders.... not direct comfort to me and beautiful words just for me..... which perhaps I would have liked, but reminders, of others, having gone before, thinking & feeling some of the same, and also not feeling the presence of God with them. Some pictures of people I know.... and many I don't know, though the ages (it seemed) and some we all know something about, like Mother Theresa, who had her call, a big call, waited for it to be confirmed within the channels of the Church, which it was..... and went on her way to India...... and then, evidently, for the entire rest of her life, never felt God's Presence to her again. She just lived by faith, period. Not putting myself in her league, but considering that this sort of thing happens to folks in her league, guess it can certainly happen to the rest of us.

One thing which was very interesting was seeing folks from the church I grew up in, Salem Covenant Church in Worcester.. I have appreciated it before, gave me a good foundation for sure in the Bible and all.... haven't much thought of it for years now. Ordinary people really, bunch of Swedes, many a tad ornery or cheap or whatever, but they were committed to something beyond themselves. For sure. 

Anyway, just felt like sharing.

WEIRD DREAMS LAST NIGHT~~~

My husband doesn't quite remember his, even as he was trying to once awake, it slipped away. He knows about dreaming very rarely, so I was eager to hear..... but nothing came back. 

My dream on the other hand, I do remember, for the most part:

We (husband and I) went to a large building, unclear if it was a government building, museum, historical house or building--- seems we went to tour the place, so it was open to the public. There were groups being brought around, many stairs, very dignified and beautiful, lots of oak and some stained glass and books in a library (not like a public library, maybe a law library? Official in some way). Huge windows looked out over a veranda and a large property, with some gardens, like formal gardens, all the way to some river in the distance. It was beautiful, really.

Suddenly there was singing, unclear just where it started from or by whom, but it was first among the guests, those in the tour groups. First one and then another and then everyone on all the floors, and the tour guides, and it was some kind of extended hymn, I almost recognized it but did not. Just knew it was a glorious and beautiful hymn of some rather formal type. 

Suddenly some kind of force--- wind perhaps--- brought me out to the grounds, to the gardens. which as I said were extensive and beautiful. And THEN some things began to happen to ME..... my entire body and then my mind, conciousness, even ability to SEE or UNDERSTAND what was happening.... were completely changed. Totally. I became very small, very very small. And THEN I was put underground. I could FEEL the soft warm earth, could SMELL it somehow. I felt like a seed being planted, not like a person being dead and buried. And then it was DARK. And I was content.

Next morning I went on Facebook and saw THIS, posted by a priest friend, who had led a Healing Conference at the local church a couple years before:

WOW! What a confirmation! And what a gift! 

TRANSITION ALMOST COMPLETE

This Easter Season has been HUGE for me. Usually they are, but this has been even more so. Nothing that much happened externally, and the only church-related servic e we attended was on Easter morning. We had observed Lent and gone to Confession in preparation, but that is all.

I guess it's because of things that are happening internally. I have written before about the sense of being in some kind of transition, and finding it disconcerting, confusing, maybe scary. One gets used to things how they are, one gets used to seeing themselves a certain way. Transition goes from one state of being to another, in such a way that nothing will be the same again. Using Labor & Delivery as a metaphor, first we're not a mother, then we are-- even if we lose the child then or at any time after, first we have X children, now we have X+1, and so on and so forth.

For me, I have seen myself in a vocation, of a "Sermon on the Mount" variety, for many years, and am both good and bad with that, comfortable & uncomfortable. I especially noticed something late last week, when I was participating in an End-of-Life Planning Meeting with a family in conflict over these issues, among themselves, and with their nursing home resident, who is his own person. No details needed about the meeting, but I had some kind of silvery thing happen and became very nostalgic, like looking at an old movie.

The process of "leaving" that vocation is well in process now. No real outward changes to report. I am still going to work, have no indication that I can "retire" (my husband will not even rationally discuss me retiring before I turn at least 68), and have pretty much resigned from or otherwise let everything else go, as concerns lay ministry. HOWEVER.

The time is HERE, and the Lord Himself is to be my Focus, and my Ministry.

I can't see how this will go, how it might look. My husband requires an enormous amount of attention, and I have four adult children plus two grandchildren to think about. I'm not the best wife (two divorces thus far prove that) and there have been all kinds of issues with the kids, so I guess it's fair to say that I get, at best, "mixed reviews" as a mother/stepmother. I've got a very good work reputation (not bragging, it appears to be fact) but have never made much in the way of salary and have no idea if whatever service I could render was of temporary, permanent, or eternal benefit. I've also been valued as part of various lay ministries, and some protests were made about me leaving some of these now, till I could explain, however poorly and briefly, that I am aware of a "change in season" from the Holy Spirit, and then was blessed to have had that confirmed by leadership (past few days).

About all I know is that the Lord Himself, who has appeared to me a few times requesting that I comfort Him (as I've told you) is going to start showing me HOW to do so. And this will be for the rest of my life, now and perhaps into Eternity.

I hope this makes sense. I will report on my progress or lack thereof as we proceed. BTW: I have no idea where sewing/quilting fits into this change. Maybe it's to "distract" me as I leave work, make it easier to do so, by being another kind of work, with a different purpose. The lack of clarity as to purpose of sewing/quilting for me parallels my lack of clarity with change in focus in general.

Gracie~~~

                

Her decline continued, she didn't appear uncomfortable till last evening. At that time she appeared quite weak and lethargic and had a bout of diarrhea--- that is all. When we got up this morning she was lying on the living room floor, and when I touched her she cried. We got her comfy on the couch, and wrapped her in a fleece blanket to keep her warm. No more sounds, though she enjoyed being gently patted. And within an hour, she died. 

So my Gracie, after fourteen years, is gone. Best cat I EVER had. Sweet, simple, and I believe she fulfilled the purposes God had for her--- to be my companion all these years, resident pet therapist at the Haven of Grace -Jude, the Executive Director, gave her to me one year for my birthday- she shared my quarters and evenings and weekends she spent time with the ladies- then companion to my mother in her latest years- and been our fur baby the last few. 

I am so sad. Jack is very good, handled everything, and is a comfort.

GRACIE FLANAGAN 2002-2015

SIMPLIFY. ORGANIZE. MANAGE RESOURCES WISELY.

It's been a "one thing leads to another" sort of thing the past couple of years. I have worked in health and human services my entire career, and been involved in lay ministry, so had never heard of organizing, not as a profession. One of my work colleague's wife was a professional organizer with her own company, so I heard of that... then while in the process of checking on job postings (on behalf of my husband who was forced into early retirement four years ago), I saw her post an apprenticeship. Timing was not right for me then and I didn't know enough about the field, started to read about it, look into it, and linked to sites on simplifying, organizing, managing resources wisely, creativity, and productively. And found that interesting as well. 

In my field "productivity" can be a threatening thing, a pressure to keep interactions with clients to a specified minimum length of time, treatments are defined in minutes, but some definitions of productivity are quite different. It appears to be about maximizing our personal and organizational time, talent, and treasure... to keep things simple and manage our resources wisely. My life is all about that, as my husband and I deal with our mid-life transitions. And that, in a nutshell, is my current interest in professional organizing and productivity!

ADVENT PREPARATION AND CONTINUITY

There is something reassuring about our traditional annual reflection with regard to the story of Mary and Joseph's journey to Bethlehem, Christ's birth in the manger, and the promise of hope that arises within the celebration of the true meaning of Christmas. The story returns to us year upon year as a constant and tradition. It's a mainstay.

Within our personal lives as the years pass by, new family members may be born, others may return home to God, we might move or begin new work...but each December Christmas returns and the opportunity for renewal and hope is brought to light. There is a sense of familiarity and continuity that is sustaining and ever constant when Advent comes round and once again we begin anticipating His arrival.

On this second Sunday of Advent while I contemplate the story of Christ's birth, I am reflecting on how the story of my life is not unlike a complex and beautiful tapestry being woven upon a loom. Each thread and fiber holds an experience, interconnection with others, and frequently a valuable lesson or two. One by one the threads are woven together. These fibers stretch horizontally across the weaving creating the weft which will ultimately reveal the intricate design of a lifetime lived to completion.

Before the weaving begins, the Weaver fixes vertical fibers to the loom. The vertical fibers are strong and usually the same color. They form the warp that will hold all the other threads to the weaving. These are the durable and lasting fibers that are foundational to the lasting strength of the tapestry and all that will be woven over time. I imagine God places the warp on the loom of life before birth. Whatever particular strength is necessary becomes the anchor for the soul's journey from birth to death and beyond. Part of our work on this earth is come to know what our warp is made from.

If my life is viewed as a tapestry being woven upon a loom...what is the constant thread (my soul's strength), the foundational warp of my journey? What qualities, values, or beliefs hold my life experiences in place? How do I experience a sense of continuity and "weave" as my story unfolds upon the loom of life?

~~~~from SACRED-LIFE ARTS

GIVING PAUSE

This from D'v:

The reason that we have to think and ponder before the Lord everything we stitch is because, as you are discovering,  everything takes a piece of us.

Every project, every vision stitched, every revelation revealed and unveiled  though the work of our hands as ordained of Adonai, takes time, which belongs to Him, and resources, which are His. But more it takes us. It takes who are in Messiah and spills it out for His sake, for His glory. We are, in this holy work, for so it is, poured out for His sake and for the sake of those to whom He is revealing Himself in these His holy works.

You are learning now, on a very steep curve I think, but we must all make no mistake. It is a holy work, this work of our woman's hands. An offering to Him who both created and redeemed us and set us under His holy shelter.

Behold behold behold.

"I AM LORD." says He.  "BEHOLD AND LOOK UPON ME WITH AWE AND TREMBLING.

"BEHOLD."

End of message. 

My response:

Seriously~~~ this is HARD! At least for me, and in every aspect!

That said, I got the borrowed Singer up and threaded, bobbin wound and inserted, and tested a few rows of stitches on a scrap. All set for the morning!

D'V:

Am glad. It is a new thing for you. And it is hard to learn something completely new. It's not like you had a foundation in sewing to lean on.  It'll all click.It has to. I don't know what the Lord plans but I'm hoping you can show me how to use a sewing machine.

Me:

Be glad to! A little more confidence AND practice. My husband is SO proud of me! That part of this whole thing is interesting.... and fun. He's always romantic, as you know (except when he's angry & snitty of course) and always proud of me in a general way-- but this is so specific a thing for him to be proud of! Last evening when he was talking to his sister for their weekly telephone check-in, he was telling her all about what I was doing--- from his perspective. Cutting & pinning & measuring and stitching....

I do waste some time wondering WHY God has put this on me NOW..... but between you and me, it's an urgent thing to trust and obey about this. Forgive me if I repeat myself over and over, but usually nudges to me are about service, not about doing something that may be useless --- or not, depending on what is made and how it comes out --- and that may have an aspect of personal satisfaction and possibly even--dare I say it? --- FUN. Or at least people appear to have fun and when the anxiety of new gets left behind, maybe it will be for me?

D'v:

Of course it will be fun you silly!

I hate to state the obvious but if you are doing it out of obedience, trust and love, that is service to HIM. 

Long time ago He told me that He misses His daughters. Their tenderness, the way they love on Him. He misses us. This is a gift from your Father who wants to bless you.  That He will use it for His purposes is a blessing. That it is a joy, and it will be, is the mercy that makes the work of it more like play. 

POW WOWS AND TALKING CIRCLES

Went to a "Talking Circle" at Endicott Park in Danvers, sponsored by the Massachusetts Center for Native American Awareness (MCNAA). About 30 people traveled from Connecticut, the South Coast, Western Massachusetts, attended and shared their stories. They also gave warmth and encouragement to others.                                        

I went with a work colleague, who has an extraordinary interest for things Native American. We had gone to a Pow wow this past summer together, also at Endicott Park in Danvers, which was great. Not only did the work colleague and I get to know each other better, but the music, dancing, food, and fellowship at the Pow wow was most impressive. Obviously we are all children of  he One Great Spirit!                                                     

STORIES MATTER

The lives we live are based on the stories we tell; 

and the stories we tell build the world we live in.

Indeed, I am learning lots about STORY. Having been an avid reader my whole life--- at least since I learned how to read--- I have always loved stories, all kinds, all genres. and I've always had an urge to write, a desire to be a writer. Nowadays--- I want to be a STORYTELLER. And I want to help others tell and share their stories.

I have had vivid yet brief dreams, frequently, lately, about stories and that STORIES MATTER. I have been in what appears to be an almost infinite library, which made me exceedingly happy--- perhaps it is Heaven! Jesus has spent time with me, telling and re-telling His Parables, and explaining them. Jesus was--- IS--- a STORYTELLER. And He reiterated to me that STORIES MATTER.

I want to write, to speak--- to share MY story, which is, in its own way, fairly interesting. We each have one, and we are each unique, a wonderful creation of God the Eternal, the One Who SPOKE "Let there be light" and there was light!

DE-CLUTTERING + ORGANIZING = PURGING

Thought I’d get your attention!

You know it isn’t just us (you, me, maybe a couple others), but as a society, including within secular circles, among folks who have little spiritual insight nor “feeling”. In the world, those who have given it thought tend to believe it has to do with the over- muchness of our material life, which is non-sustainable, as well as unjust to most who live on this earth. In other words, it’s not right that so few have so much, and we can’t keep doing this anyway, our resources are running out.

For those who may have spiritual inclinations, Christian or otherwise, the sense is that our “stuff’ has not just cluttered our physical living and working spaces, but have cluttered our hearts and souls as well. An increasing chaos which increases stress, just by having it around, this is not good for our body-mind-spirit, individually nor collectively.

For Christians, I think it’s “same old same old”, in that there has always been a tension between ascetism (think hermits and some orders of religious brothers and sisters, think of Saint Francis of Assisi who on his conversion went to the Vatican and appeared to the Pope of that time naked) and the prosperity gospel thing (God loves us so wants us to have have have…). Not too many of us have it figured out.

For my husband and me, it’s been interesting. I cannot imagine all the stuff that continues to come out of his closet--- “old records”--- of every description, that he is now heaving. HOW and WHY he kept it all, other than his accountant mindset, and HOW and WHY we had to move it all….. is absolutely beyond me.

As for me, it took way too long to get through all of my mother’s things which were in the storage unit. The first year after she died I could not do it at all. After which I could do it in nanoseconds, gradually working up to minutes and finally to as much as a half hour. Jack was very helpful and very patient with me. (Just for the record, now that it’s gone I had a burst of anger at my brother, who left all her care and all her things for me to deal with, without any assistance from him. But we digress. And that anger went rather quickly. I think. Because I realize, deep down, he just CAN’T). And now that it IS done and it IS gone, such a sense of freedom!

All our stuff is now where we live! Cars are empty of stuff. And each closet, each drawer, each cabinet is getting pared down. To the essentials. And even more, clothing may be essential, but if it hasn’t been used, or no longer fits--- no matter how we may wish to think it may again--- going to be used by someone else. If it exists it needs to be useful. If not to me or to us, then to someone else.

INSPIRE: ARTS AND WORSHIP CONFERENCE

This, which took place in early June 2014, was experiential, primarily worship. We started with Morning Prayer, infused with music, some danced. The CtR Choir, robed, sang chants.

Even after the time of worship in the sanctuary, when the workshops were going on, there was still that feeling of worship, and of being in the Presence. You know?

Four good choices, and could only go to two:

First I went to one on THE ARTS AND KINGDOM-COMMUNITY. 

This was co-led by Christ (prounced "wrist") Otto and Rev Pillsbury. Christ is the minister and director of Belonging House, which rather than a physical location is a virtual community, of arts, Christians, Christian artists, and the like; he has moved to Salem deliberately in the past year. The Rev is planting an Anglican Church in the Portland Maine area, called the Light of Christ. Lots of emphasis on music and the arts and outreach and community.

We went around the circle of particpants, about 30, told name, community, church, and why we came to this today. This, at least for me, was a tough one. I could give the demographics easily enough, but the reason? I mentioned that I wrote some, had just made my first quilt, and that both my sons were musicians. And personally, I remembered very deeply that their father was--- is--- an artist. And a good one. (Too bad he's mentally ill. But many are and have been.... think of Vincent Van Gogh. But we digress). 

The presenters dug into Scripture first and foremost, we studied a Hebrew word pronounced kind of like "charush", which has been translated as "artisan" We talked about God telling Moses to appoint two men... will never get their names right without looking them out, to "be filled with the Holy Spirit" and have gifts and talents to make all that was necessary for the Tabernacle. For the Worship. For the BBQ (as the sacrifices were eaten by the people afterwards, part of what built their community). So that is the true purpose of "art". For the Glory of God and so we can have a super worship experience when we meet with Him!

And in fact, the w ord "charush" was taken apart, as each Hebrew letter has a picture and a meaning of its own, so that a word can, in a sense, be a complete idea, or sentence. And the Hebrew letters in this word mean "the one who opens the door for the people to meet with El Shaddai"!!!!!

On another note, what came out of that introduction and for the rest of the day was that I am a quilter, and a fiber artist. I could talk colors and spirit, way more than technique; as you know, I have no technique. I was told by several participants, from different faith communities and different arts that essentially anyone can learn techniques, and with discipline & practice get pretty good, but not everyone had "it" in them and it was sensed that I did! 

I met others who are doing everything from traditional quilts to rugs to three-dimensional fabric scuptures to vestments for priests and altars, banners for processions and dancing in the sanctuaries represented...... Pictures were shared, on cell phones and smart phones and so on and so forth. Emails were exchanged, favorite websites cited. I met some lovely local women, and we may be getting together to take this discussion further, maybe do some work together.

If my good friend D/V could have been there, she would have LOVED the conversation. And her work, like that about the Daughters, would have been mulled over, received, welcomed. Many are doing similar things, unexpected things. And MANY are starting late in life!

Lunch was quite good--- with lots of great fellowship at the tables. My profession as ombudsman came out and so I was told all kinds of stories. People have no problem seeing me in that role, evidently. (BTW: that Care Plan Meeting with the hard-to-reach and sometimes adversarial son went VERY well. From my perspective it was pretty much a full scale mediation, but we all started out on a new and better level at the end. I spent time with the mother again; she in essentially non-verbal, has had bipolar most of her life with a late diagnosis, meaning there has been quite a bit of brain damage. But we got eye-to eye in a few minutes, and there was true communion. She almost reached out to touch me. In due time)

Second I went to one called THE BLANK CANVAS. 

This was led by an older woman, Barbara LaChance, who has already done quite a bit--- Pastoral Counselor, Psychotherapist, Healing Minister & Trainer, Life Coach, Life Strategist, Published Author.... And just a few years ago, while she was walking in her neighborhood, minding her own business, as she was going by the Community Arts Association building (I pictured one like that in Rockport, as she lives in Mystic CT)--- and she had that "urge" to go in, and seek out lessons. Pretty much the "urge" was really a voice, the Voice.... She talked with one of the instructors, told her she had never done anything more artistic than paint the walls in her house.... and the teacher was thrilled. And then I heard from her the same words I heard in the morning--- after a couple weeks of lessons, the teacher told her she could teach essentially anyone technique and most could do something, but only a few had "it" and she did.... So she's a painter now.

Oh, and a couple years ago, she was ordained an Anglican priest. Again, later in life, and a complete surprise. THOUGH she remembers the seed of that desire being planted back in grammar school, which was a Catholic school.... (I realize we may not understand or agree about the ordination of woman, but it's not worth discussing heatedly, at least not between you and I)

The teaching, which she usually does over the course of a day, condensed into a couple of hours, is pretty basic stuff. We start out as blank canvasses, God has a plan for the masterpiece he wishes to make of us, life happens, sometimes parts of the picture have to be corrected, sometimes he has to turpentine the whole thing over and start again. (Shades of the Potter and the Clay?). I was also using that as a segway into us working out our lives and purposes, by cooperating with the Master. And also using the same ideas and techniques to create our own art, to bring Him glory. You get the picture I'm sure.

And then, we had worship in the sanctuary, again, some more. Lots of music, Holy Spirit singing, and then two teams were formed so that participants could go forward for prayer--- related to art, or to healing. I did not get up for that, and could tell it was time to go home. In some ways I wish I could. Before I left I bought Barbara's book, THE BLANK CANVASS. Happy to share.

That's it, for description, though I think there will be more I will refer to as time goes on.

One thing for instant reflection and pondering--- 

For SO LONG I have been kind of "stuck" or seemingly so, as has my husband. Even though on the interior lots was happening, and we were involved, very, with the generational healing, which he still observes changes, on-going changes, from. But in other ways--- our finances, our kids..... and me being near burnout at work.

THEN I got a really good performance review (except for spelling and the need to be more succinct in my documentation.... I have that bent for stories, like my husband I guess) but was so affirmed as a resident advocate, someone to stand for the elderly & disabled. AND there's the training I'm going to THIS week--- in Providence, by The Eden Alternative, on "creating home" in long term care settings, and staying, once again, after eight years away, at the Haven of Grace.

And then SUDDENLY there's this event today, which I had kind of heard about but not planned to go to until late this past week. 

Not sure how, but I'm sensing they go together somehow. 

And BTW: Hubby is very happy with being Tour Guide on the Salem Trolley. He has a sense that just as an actor might say... "this is the part I was born to play".... that THIS is the right thing for him. IN the small sense and in the large sense.

Any of this make sense to you?

Response:

Had never heard that word before, "charush".   Which I suppose is hardly surprising. :-) Like very much it's taken apart meaning. Everything about who we are in Christ should "open the door for the people to meet El Shaddai".  We don't often live that way but it is how we should all be living.  Thank you for sharing it.

Am not surprised, on any level, at all, that you are a fiber artist, a quilter.  At all.  Have been telling you repeatedly, as have others, that the things that frustrate you are just techniques, methods.  Anyone can do fiber arts.  Anyone. You are greatly gifted dearheart and teaching you
techniques is no different than learning anything else and you are astonishing good at learning and you know it so relax and let Him open it for you. 

And don't be surprised if it is stages.  Bits and pieces.  Do not let the enemy make you deny that which is His gift for HIS glory.   But to have an eye which first sees Adonai, then through Him and in Him the colors of not just His creation but Him, and who has, in Him, the ability to translate what He opens for them, now that is the gift.  That is what makes the artist.  You have a very distinct 'eye' on Him and in Him.  The fact that you were so excited about going yesterday spoke of His call on you. And the opening of it.  The beginning, I think, of the flowered gift.

Needs be I think a place for holy arts.  There are enough places for secular needle arts but these don't fit a holy artist.  The bent is wrong, off, and we know it in our spirit, by the Spirit.  It's twisted often, full of confusion and humanism.  To have a place where you can share what He has been doing and showing that is safe and welcoming and worships Him and sees Him in it, is a wondrous gift.

Am not surprised that you sensed it time to go home when the final coming forward for prayer happened.  There is a time and a season for things and though it is very near, it is not quite yet full time.  This is a great gift dearheart.  The gift of needlework.  I'm not speaking from the Lord just from inner sense but I think that the fullness of the giving of this gift to
you needs to be done under your husbands mantle.  That's how great it is.

And keep sensing, or attaching it to, the gift of you two being sent out. Do not know why and do not know if that is correct.  You would have to ask the Lord.  But when you are both sent out, I think that may be some kind of major part of it.  I think am seeing someone lay a mantle over your shoulders but I don't know that that is the right word.  Anyway.

To your thoughts at the end.  Yes, I think they do go together, all the things happening and be sensed in Him right now.  You have open ears and an open heart my dear beloved sister.  May He speak to you and it directly and clearly, lifting you up and proclaiming you His own.

(Not sure.  Am seeing Papa holding you.  You are facing Him.  He then is lifting you high, a very little girl and quite adorable, up, up, up.  He is showing you to His courts and calling you His own.  Your eyes are completely on Him.)

As to your husband.  Thinking out loud.  The symbolism.  He is a tour guide, showing, uncovering, explaining, history.  If this rings rightly in Him then how would this translate to the Lord?  Would he be opening the door for people to understand history (?) and how it points to Him?  How it all
points to or away from Him?  I don't know but I sense it may be an important thing to ponder.

So much going on right now for you both. Threads being sewn into the tapestry of His creation in you both and becoming visible to the eye.

Love you sis.
Thanks for sharing
Shalom
D'v