Love In Your Self For Your Self

May the light of your soul mind you...
... May you be blessed;
And may you find a wonderful love
In your self for your self.
John O’Donohue, For Old Age

In my search for night mantras the other evening, I started to look again at John O’Donohue’s To Bless the Space Between Us, A Book of Blessings. I must have seen the book quoted on Barbara’s blog. My lust for books having gotten the best of me, I bought it. I read it some, but my to and fro between continents never quite allowed me to get into it.
The other evening, however, I was looking for a mantra that would keep me company — and safe — during my nocturnal skirmishes with my unfinished business. As I skimmed the pages, my eyes fell on the two-plus pages entitled For Belonging. Of the twenty blessings, three spoke to me. They said:

May you arise each day with a voice of blessing whispering
in your heart...
May there be kindness in your gaze when you look within...
May you become the gracious and passionate subject of your own life.

I connected this longing I feel within myself for ‘kindness toward my self’ — at last! — to Barbara’s latest blog, Samayou, where she writes —

We all hope for the perfect childhood, the perfect body, the perfect education, the perfect marriage, the perfect church, the perfect lifestyle, the perfect rescue kittehs even! We never stop reaching for that either, do we?

Does my inner landscape feel so desolate and dry, starving even, because of my own need for perfection? Or is it just because my attention is so much more on the outside world than on the inside?
At any rate, those lines of O’Donohue were a warning signal to myself that I needed to tend my inner garden if I do not want it to waste away.
In earlier years, I would have taken care of my wasteland by going out and buying something — as a token of my appreciation for my needs. Like when my husband used to go on long business trips and I found myself alone with two lovely little girls.
Today I know better. No one but myself can really give me what I need. I need to spend time with that fount of light which glows in my heart and hides behind my closed eyelids. I need to turn to Him, my friend and rabbi, who is forever available to my call. I need to feed more on the Word. I must write for myself before I write for and to others. I have to return daily to yoga to tell my body that I cherish it, aging and all. Then, I will return to my daily life, a bit better, with that peace which is within, the source of all beauty and kindness.

Art: Marlene Dumas, The Kiss

Insomnia

“Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while.”
Mt 6:31

I have a hunch insomnia is something that comes to people who are stressed at work, or by life in general, or like me who are getting older and sleep less. I come across a lot of remedies on line to cure insomnia. They all seem to say pretty much the same thing: don’t work at your computer just before bedtime; don’t go to bed too early; take a warm shower, drink half a glass of warm milk...
Falling asleep is not so much the problem. It is waking up at two or three a.m. and starting to think. In fact, I am not really thinking: thoughts come to me — unwanted, negative, brooding thoughts, particularly when I am not in a good place.
Like last night.
My knee has been bugging me since my return from Compostela. It seems to get better and then, whammo, I go up and down one too many staircases and I slip right back to some achy scary place.
I need to take a decision: cut it off or... No, I’m joking. I won’t cut it off. But I have to decide what to do, or so my friends at Las Duchas tell me. Whereas I have my ‘medical’ bearings in France, I have to find them here, hence my indecision.
At this moment, I am the frog in the milk jar. I am struggling to find a way out of it while feeling that I’m drowning. This will last till I finally find myself on top of a hunk of butter, till I find a solution. Which I did last night, I think, after laying awake for what like a long time, tossed from one thought to another, getting madder and frothier at the whole situation.
Constant physical ache drains me and puts me in a mood of self-pity and hopelessness. Thoughts of Haiti flash through my mind and I know I cannot begin to compare.
At three this morning, I stepped on to a downward spiral that led me to drastic decisions compounding my confusion. One black option hit me after another. Finally, I exclaimed, Holy Spirit, I need you NOW. Get me out of here!
I went to my computer, checked my e-mails, looked at the daily readings and then went to World Prayers where I clicked on the Prayer Wheel. I had to click several times till I got to a prayer that talked to me, ‘Don’t worry it’s going to be OK. It’s all right little one you’re safe and loved’ (Kevin Morals).
Is it at this moment that I thought of what to do? Maybe. To call my regular doctor whom I know rather than waiting for a specialist, whom I do not know.
I thought again of the gospel, of Jesus and his disciples so ready to take a break and rest for a while. But wherever they went, throngs of people were waiting for them. He saw them and his heart was moved with pity for them.
So, early this morning, finally, I went back to my bed. I joined the throngs of people by the lake. I found my way to Jesus and, as the night came down on all of us, I put my head on his lap and fell asleep — at last. The safest, most restful, place of all.
In His name.

Art: Reem Bassous, Homebody, 2008

Safe And Blameless

May the Godde of peace make you perfect and holy;
and may you all be kept safe and blameless,
spirit, soul and body,
for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Godde has called you and she will not fail you.
1 Thes 5:23-24

Two days ago, I read the morning Liturgy of Hours as I often like to do. I came upon an excerpt of 1 Thes 5:1-28 and read the lines above. This was a day when I go to Las Duchas; those words fitted the folks I was to encounter there.
How can I convey to my homeless friends — and anyone whom I meet really — that we each are indeed potentially perfect and holly, safe and blameless, called, and forever will be?
I sense that this is the way Godde sees us and Jesus came to remind us of this divine reality — a reality juxtaposed to the world we evolve in, but not of this world.
These lines mean obviously more to me than I think, for I cannot quite move on. Like brambles catching on wool, they don’t want to let go of me.
My mind also returns again and again to this young homeless pregnant woman. I had hoped to see her this morning when I dropped by downstairs, but she had not come.
Were I a painter, I would draw this tall young girl, her gentle round face surrounded by soft short curls. Everything is peaceful and joyful about her. She is my idea of our Lady of the Homeless.
Mary gave birth very much as a homeless, without a midwife or a relative to help her throughout her labor. What will it be of my young friend? How can we protect her and her baby? How can we ensure their safety?
The lines above are both a blessing and a promise, a reality that already is, a path to follow, a commitment to accept, a vision to lighten up this day as long as it feels healing and vital.
These words are all I need today to grow still and be.

Art: Chinese painting, Lotus Flower

The Refiner's Fire

But who will endure the day of his coming?
And who can stand when he appears?
For he is like the refiner’s fire,
or like the fuller’s lye.
Mal 3:1-4

Today’s readings rush toward me with images that want the full attention of my mind, memory and heart. Too many at the same time, however. My brain suddenly feels overcrowded.

You came, Jesus, already refined and purified and you became the due sacrifice. When you come back, it will be our turn. Maybe, I must ready myself for your return and prepare now for your fire and lye.
I feel that refining and purification have taken place throughout my life; I have been trimmed and pruned. All these times of challenge and hardship, of despair and desolation, when I did not know you loved me, that you were walking me through fire toward understanding and surrender. When I howled and shook my fists at you. When I doubted your existence. When I did not know where to look for you. When I could not feel your touch or hear your footsteps.
You are coming again to take me through the glowing coals. This time, however, you take my hand and walk ahead of me. For all that I am put through, you have already experienced — my sins, my mistakes, my failures. Nothing surprises you and nothing can turn you away from me. This is why I will follow you through the fire. I will keep my eyes on you and forget about the sole of my feet.
Shall we dance through the fire?
Is it truly our turn to become due sacrifices? Can this be?

Beyond these images of fire and sacrifice, another one comes to my mind that soothes and cools me.
Today, in Luke’s gospel, Mary and Joseph take Jesus up to Jerusalem to present him to Godde. Old Simeon and Anna recognize Jesus for what he is. I can see them holding him, so small, in their hands. They bless him. He is so very precious.
But another image floats in front of my eyes: It is you, Jesus, who are awaiting me at the top of the stairs of the temple. I am bringing you the infant that I once was and I ask you to bless this small being, a blessing that will keep me company until my last breath. The baby and I are one of course and you love us so. ‘Let the little children come to me,’ you said repeatedly all through your ministry. This is what the child in me wants to do. To come to you, climb on your knees, and look at the world from your lap.

So, yes, I need refining — shall I ever be ready? But my fear of purification through fire is alleviated by the refuge I find in your hands as an infant, today, as I present my tiny inner child to you.

Art: Pipilotti Rist, Selfless in The Bath Of Lava, 1994

Cursing The King

“Let him alone and let him curse, for Godde has told him to.
Perhaps Godde will look upon my affliction
and make it up to me with benefits
for the curses he is uttering this day.”
2 Sm 16:11-12

David never fails to impress me, for he can be the worst of men — as when he has Uriah killed so that the king can bed his soldier’s wife — and the best of men — as today when he accepts to be injustly insulted recognizing the possible source of the ranting. Godde.

Show me any personality today accepting to be insulted, tolerating a nobody to come along and yell his or her truth. Show me anyone, myself included, who will take such an attack with thoughtfulness and consideration. How could I? I take myself so seriously.

In Walking on Water, de Mello talks of the ‘illusion and tyranny of the self.’ He recommends exercises to break this most powerful chain of all — our addiction to this self. In one of them, he suggests to turn to my sensations, thoughts or feelings, and say, ‘I am not these sensations, I am not this body... I am not these thoughts... I am not my feelings... I am not my depression...’ A mind-expanding, even possibly mind-blowing, experience.

David was a complete human being — with sensations, feelings, emotions, depressions, temptations, revelations. As I read his story and his psalms, I find him ‘real’ and endearing. Today, however, I find him admirable because he is unjustly accused by the man called Shimei. As a matter of fact, on two occasions, David chose not to kill his king: Saul committed suicide by falling on his sword. In any case, in this anecdote, David shows that he was not the prisoner of his self. He did not retaliate against his accuser. He saw the Divine will in the accusation and hoped that some benefit would come out of the curse. Centuries later, Jesus would also be accused unjustly and will remain silent to death. Martyrs have kept on the tradition.

Some years ago, during a preparatory day for a retreat, we previewed a couple of presentations. One was on Matthew 25, ‘For I was hungry and you gave me no food.’ We were closing our meeting when a homeless appeared in the door and walked to the lectern. He began addressing us on that same topic, without mentioning the evangelist or the verses, and berating us on our being fake Christians. How most embarrassing! So very true as well. We were being caught red-handed and knew it. A priest present took charge of the exchange, some money was given, and we closed our meeting and his harangue, holding hands, with an Our Father. We knew the man had not insulted us, but just showed us our truth. This was the best Christian talk we ever heard on the topic and it left us an indelible memory.

Next time someone curses me, insults me or just tells me something I would rather not hear, I hope I remember David and his magnanimity, self-awareness, and trust in Godde.


Art: Martine Johanna, Deeper

Thank Godde For You

‘If you would be my disciples, you have to hate father and mother!’ ... The father and mother Jesus is talking about are the father and mother we carry in our minds and that control us. Those voices! This is what we have to free ourselves from, tear out of ourselves.

Anthony de Mello
Walking on Water

Last night I heard myself say ‘Thank Godde for you’ to my husband as we were falling asleep. It felt so right; it bubbled up and stated something I hold true. I probably have said it before, but yesterday it felt as if said for the first time, as if, finally, I could recognize the incredible gift he has been in my life.
Of course, he is not the only gift in my life; many people are as well. I have in the past written gratitude lists, with the names of all those who have graced my life. He always heads the list, however: he is truly the turning point in my life — life before and after him. From shadows to light.

It did not all start this way. Some maternal tapes hidden in a drawer of my brain had been telling me all along that I am an ugly duckling, disposable, unworthy, that some new model would come along, brighter, prettier, more educated. Was it because my mother had left my father and her children that, like my father, I expected that I would be left as well, again?
For the first twenty years of our marriage, I lived according to those tapes. I had examples all around me. First, I feared our marriage would break after nine years, like my parents’; then a best friend’s picture-perfect marriage collapsed after twelve years. The couple who brought Marriage Encounter to our parish separated after twenty six years. I would hear of couples breaking up and wonder, when will it come to us? What shall I do to protect myself? Where shall I go? I never felt I had reached a safe zone.
Add to this my sister wondering why I was so lucky; women friends repeating how wonderful my husband is — how young-looking, charming, intelligent. As if they forever compared him to me and wondered how I had come to marry him? Why me?
So I often found myself insecure and jealous.
A sister close to him, however, would tell me that I was the best thing that ever happened to him...

We had been married twenty-one years when we attended Marriage Encounter. I was told that he was Godde’s gift to me — and had no difficulty believing it. But that, in turn, I was to be Godde’s gift to him; this was harder to accept. That weekend, however, set my heart at peace. It removed much of the fear; it erased some of the tapes. Some time later, I admitted that, after twenty five years, married life was finally becoming easier.
A few years passed and, eleven years ago, I found out that I had breast cancer. Suddenly he saw how much he was taking me for granted. I am not inventing this: he told me. Cancer suddenly made me precious, or showed him the role I had played in his own life. He would have to tell you; I am not quite sure what he saw. I just know that from then on our relationship moved on to another level.
Today, we are part of those fifty percent of couples who stay together, enjoy each other’s company, are best friends, lovers, confidants.

The mother of my good friend Beth told me at her daughter’s wedding that a married life was not about sharing or giving 50-50, but rather 90-90: each one feeling that he or she always gives so much more than the other. This is probably the comment that has helped me most in my married life.
As part of the Marriage Preparation team, I was the first speaker, on Communication, and started by saying that broken marriages were part of my family’s tradition — that I had decided not to follow it. So many of us today come from broken marriages...
However much I may have said hurtful words, however threatened I may have been, through the exhilarating and crushing roller coaster of married life, something held us together — where others have not had this chance.

For years, I prayed Godde to help me love well those I love — for I had known toxic love and did not want to pass on the favor.
Then, it began to dawn on me slowly that, in my chain of priorities, Godde had to come first: the bull’s eye of my life, everything radiating from it, like the rings made by a stone ricocheting on a calm stream... How could this be?
Today, I sense that Godde is holding both of us together and has gifted us with this incredible relationship of two people who started so different and are growing so alike.
Our old neighbor in France reminds us to enjoy each other: her husband died two years after retirement twenty years ago and she misses him every day. On the other hand, seeing the two of us brings a smile on her face.
Yes, I thank Godde for the person in my life (a man in my case). It is strange looking back and remembering the turmoil while today the connection is so deep and tender. What a most extraordinary gift.
Living each day as if this were the only, the first, or the last day.

Art: Sabine Dehnel, Abendrot, 2001-2006

Happiness

There is a story about a man who runs out to meet a monk who is passing by the village. ‘Give me the stone,’ he cries, ‘the precious stone.’
The monk says, ‘What stone are you talking about?’
The man says, ‘Last night God appeared to me in a dream and said, “A monk will be passing by the village at noon tomorrow, and if he gives you a rock that he is carrying with him, you will be the richest man in the country.” So give me the stone!’
The monk reached into his sack and took out a diamond; the biggest diamond in the world, the size of a human head! And he said, ‘Is this the stone you want? I found it in the forest. Take it.’ The man seized the stone and went running home. But he couldn’t sleep that night. Very early the next morning he went to where the monk was sleeping under a tree, woke him up, and said, ‘Here’s your diamond back. I want the kind of wealth that enables you to throw wealth away.’

Anthony de Mello,
Walking on Water, 30

I have just embarked on a lovely journey: I am reading again Walking on Water: Reaching God in our time.
I became a fan of Anthony de Mello in 1984, when an Australian Jesuit gave me the book Wellspring in Delhi. Since then I have collected his works and I return to them every so often. I like the gentle breeze of the Spirit which reaches out to me through the pages.
I lived in India for several years a long time ago now and since then I have learned to enjoy Ignatian spirituality. Anthony de Mello combines both since he was an Indian Jesuit.
To the story above, I can imagine two responses: one is to want to keep the stone and enjoy all the pleasures it can buy; the other is to feel like the man in the story and ‘want the kind of wealth that enables you to throw wealth away.’
I understand the man’s quest and this may come from my age. In Hinduism, human life comprises four stages: student, householder, hermit, and wandering ascetic. I have reached the third stage, physically and spiritually. Not that I live as a hermit, but I sense a growing detachment from the media turmoil, political and ecclesial turbulence, and impact consumption. [Of course, I can think of quite a few younger friends and relatives who are already quite ahead of me on these three accounts.]
These next few days I will hold Anthony de Mello’s hand, figuratively. I will follow his thoughts and explore my own. This prospect brings a bubbly joy to my heart, a gift to fill my time and mind, to help me reflect on some of the things that keep me prisoner and prevent me from walking on water.

Art: Linda Plaisted, Water Fantasy