Fall is in the air. This has always been my favorite season - in Michigan where I grew up, the leaves change to brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red before falling delicately off the trees. I would pick up my favorites as I walked through my neighborhood and admire the individual color pattern of each. It all seems like a dream to me now... Fall is a time for dying, a shedding of old skin before the death slumber of winter, and then the joyous burst of life in the spring. It is the time for harvest, when we reap what we have sown throughout the current solar cycle. Many human cultures, recognizing themselves as part of this great cosmic system, have acknowledged this time of year, then, as a time to make amends with one another. Death has a way of bringing to the fore things that have been left undone - of forcing consequences to be faced. And so, during this time, our debts come due. We reap what we have sown. The fruits of our labor (both ripe and rotten) are borne.
Because we are part of an interconnected universe (and, even more intimately, human) community, our flaws, mistakes, and uncorrected issues tend to be brought out through our relationships with one another. We "rub" each other the wrong way, and things that need to be brought out of us to be dealt with for greater holistic health are triggered. Harvest time, dying time, is the period of the seasonal cycle to deal with those issues that have come out but not yet been addressed. We are an interconnected network. Therefore, I believe that "no (hu)man is an island" and thus no human's uncorrected issues, or sins, are hers and hers alone. Everything in the universe belongs, at least a little bit, to every one of us. And thus autumn is not just a time for individual shedding, but also a time for forgiveness. Many religions have acknowledged the great importance of regularly practicing forgiveness (and it's place in the great cycle of life in general) by ritualizing it during this time of the year: Jews celebrate Yom Kippur, Muslims celebrate Ramadan, and Jains do penance for their unaddressed karma during Paryushan.
I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness this fall, too. This year I've found myself entangled in some "messy" relationships, which hasn't been typical for me throughout my adulthood. Perhaps it is because my heart has been opening up in new ways over the past few years that those sticky issues, those thorns in my heart, have been "caught" by the thorns of others as they begin to get close. I have suffered some grievances, or very painful and unresolved conflicts with some I had trusted as friends, family, and cohorts. Perhaps, when we are hurt, it doesn't matter how much we consider someone a friend - it always hurts, it's always unjust, and it's always perpetrated by a being from this human family. But when we are shamed, rejected, abused, taunted, bullied, threatened, or beaten down by those from within our own tribe, however, the pain does seem to feel more severe. Perhaps it comes as more of a surprise. It's about trust, and who we let into our hearts and inner lives. When someone we trust betrays that trust, no matter the motive, we feel as if we've been shattered from within the sacred confines of our own heart. How, then are we to go on with our lives? How, then, do we resist the urge to board up our hearts to become bitter and brittle people who cannot truly engage in relationship, cannot truly grow, cannot discern spiritual wisdom, cannot access inspiration? How, then, after trauma inflicted by those that knew me but did not value me, am I to believe that I am still a being of light, precious to God and necessary to this earthly community? How, then, can I open myself again to life, rather than death, when I have been shattered?
Beyond these piled-up and writhing questions, undergirding them all with quiet dignity, lies the answer: through forgiveness. Jesus, when asked how many times a man should forgive a brother or sister who sins against him, said seven times seventy times. During the fleeting autumn of his own life, the "season" of his dying on the cross, he said of those that crucified him "forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do". This is what my own father advised me to do upon hearing of my own grievances. "Life is short, Kari" he said. "Just forgive them". My incredibly loving and ever-supportive husband, who truly knows my value and beauty more than any other human being in this world, said in response to my pain "You could do what Jesus did, and turn the other cheek. Or you could take a page out of Gandhi's book, and pocket the insult". My best friend said "Rise above the drama", and another friend said "Cut the spiritual entanglements based on fear - those based on love can never be cut". How grateful I am to have such mature and courageous people in my life, to hold me up and help me see the light when I feel that I'm wandering in the darkness. They hold a mirror in front of me, reminding me not only of my own value and beauty, but also of my own power and responsibility to be a loving and compassionate spiritual being who does the work necessary to learn from her mistakes and allow her weaknesses to become points of spiritual growth and strength, and uses her life to influence the world for love more than for hatred, bitterness or pride. I feel, in the midst of my pain and confusion, blessed. I feel blessed. And, this, I believe, is the beginning of forgiveness.
Is forgiveness the self-sacrifice of Jesus, who takes the world's sin upon himself so that the cosmic slate can continually be wiped clean? Is it the self-immolation of the boddhisatva, who renounces buddhahood to assist other sentient beings toward enlightenment? Yes, I think it is these things and more. Forgiveness is a profound, courageous, and loving act that brings great and deep joy. It is not the smug, power-based (fleeting) "joy" that comes from thinking you took the high road; it is the joy that springs from a place of being "in the flow" of Divine love. When I am fully connected with God's spirit, I feel that my "cup runneth over" and my capacity to love is infinite.
I began to write this essay as an exploration of forgiveness. I had hoped to come up with some elaborate cosmological explanation of the "mechanism" of forgiveness, and why it's important for spiritual health and why it works. But, I'm realizing as I write that forgiveness is mysterious. I know that it has something to do with accepting that, even when people choose to do malicious and hurtful things, it means they are hurting themselves and are in a worse hell than their victim, and already suffering the consequences of their sin in the midst of "committing" it. I know it has something to do with the "victim" freeing herself from the consequences of that sin, so that the negative energy doesn't stay bound up with her spirit. I know it has something to do with wiping the slate clean, which ultimately helps smooth out at least one wrinkle in the varied tapestry of cosmic life. And I know that it results in spiritual wisdom, love, joy, peace, and a deep knowing of Divine grace. But I don't quite understand it.
I think it's also worth noting that, because everything in the universe is interconnected, there is always a reason for everything we encounter in our lives, and the most painful experiences we have are those that hold the most potential for growth - it is these tender spots within our spirits that call for our attention and long to be given over to and healed by Divine hands. So, we always bear some responsibility for the experiences that come into our lives. The quality of the fruit that grows from these experiences, though, will be determined by how we respond to them. I hope that those with whom I have unresolved grievances choose to forgive me (the situation, and themselves) as well, passing their part of the spiritual burden on to Divine spirit to be resolved and dissolved by cosmic love.
Forgiveness is reaping the harvest of our work "in the fields". It is taking on the consequences of the unresolved entanglements in our lives and integrating them into our being for spiritual growth. It is "letting go" by giving the remnants of our grievances that are still with us to Divine spirit to be reabsorbed into the ground of being. Perhaps our sins, karma or unaddressed issues are like those dead leaves that cling to the branches in the fall. They change colors, brighten, so as to be noticed, and forgiveness is like the wind blowing softly on them so they'll drop onto the ground, only to disintegrate, become compost and nourish the soil below.
Forgiveness allows our hearts to become clear and open again. The Bible says "Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life", and indeed, it is the most important organ of perception in my own life. Allowing it to become choked off with the tangled weeds of bitterness would be spiritual suicide. Those weeds must be cleared out, and forgivness is what allows the cleansing light of God to flush that most precious of wellsprings. In this way, forgiveness is truly a matter of eternal life and eternal death.
And, so, I forgive, out of responsibility to serve out my purpose in this earthly life, and because I love myself. I forgive, out of Divine joy and a desire to experience the peace and euphoria of being connected to Divine spirit, and because I love God. I forgive, out of compassion and love for those who commit grievances against me, because you are all my brothers and sisters, are all precious, and because I love you.
September 26, 2011
June 17, 2011
My heart is breaking open, and truth is spilling out
I don’t know anymore if the ruthless pursuit of truth is the thing to live for above all. What does it mean to pursue truth: to know that I know, or to know that I don’t know? Or both? Is it always ultimately healing and life-giving in an eternal sense? Or does its searing pain burn away trust and love along with what is incomplete? I must submit, once again, in my ignorance, to that greatest of Truth-tellers, hidden behind so many veils. I must admit that I just don’t know. Truth abstracted from its Person can no longer be my idol, but its Person can. My heart is breaking. I hate feeling vulnerable, messy, and helpless almost as much as I hate ignoring the pursuit of authenticity, but I will keep seeking after Truth through Divine relationship, even in the stickiness of my own preconceptions splattered upon the floor around me, because that is my deepest soul nature. And I will be open to It coming to me in different guises. I will not let the weeds of bitterness choke out my heart, that most integral organ of perception and the wellspring of my life. I will fight to remain open, even as, even because, my heart is breaking open. My heart is breaking open (agony). My heart is breaking open (Hallelujah). My heart is breaking open, and truth is spilling out.
I am reminded once again of Jon Foreman's haunting song "Cure for the Pain", in which he sings "It would be a lie to run away":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7M-_sZIh2cQ
I am reminded once again of Jon Foreman's haunting song "Cure for the Pain", in which he sings "It would be a lie to run away":
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7M-_sZIh2cQ
May 8, 2011
Mother
It's my first Mothers' Day as a mother myself, and I'm feeling privileged to be mother (and all that entails) to my wonderful son Forrest. Today I'm enjoying him, what it is to be his comforter, nourisher, security, love, teacher, guide, disciplinarian, and defining matrix of his world. But I'm also thinking of my own mother. Everything I know about being a mother has been inspired by my memories of her mothering and by my invocation of her spirit throughout these past 7 months. Even though she's passed on, she continues to guide me with quiet strength in some mysterious way. I miss her with an ache that just never fades. She's been gone 5 years now, and to honor her in light of Mothers' Day, I'm posting the eulogy here that I wrote and read at her funeral in 2006. You pervade my being, Mom. I miss you. Thank you for creating me, supporting me, loving me, and teaching me how to be that most sacred of figures, a mother.
Eulogy:
Once upon a time, there was a little fish named Finda. She grew up at the mouth of a stream, and thrived there. One day, she began to wonder what was outside of her own little stream. She wondered if currents existed in other place that felt different, what kinds of other creatures lurked outside of her community. Her head swirled with dreams of what lay beyond. One day, she went exploring on her own. She found herself in an interesting place. The water was pushing at her tail in a stronger way, almost as if it were calling her on an adventure. So, Finda took a deep breath, and dove in the direction of the pressure. She found herself tumbling and twirling in a column of water, barely able to breathe. She was terrified! “What if I made a mistake?” she wondered. Finally, with a slap, the twirling stopped, and Finda hit a rock. She looked around her, and was amazed at what she saw. There were gloriously beautiful and exotic creatures all around her – so colorful and varied. It was unlike anything she ever could have imagined. Soon, she met an exciting rainbow trout, and he became her companion. They traveled the river together and shared many exciting adventures. She hatched 3 eggs, and doted over her beautiful baby fish. The little family was happy. One day, after many years, she encountered something strange. A wiggly pink piece of food appeared before her eyes as if by magic, and it glistened in the sunlight. She was curious, and bit onto the food. Immediately, a searing white-hot pain burned through her mouth. She was lifted up out of the water, her world, and she gasped for breath. She wriggled and wriggled for her life. Snap! – she broke free, but not without a souvenir to remember the experience. Finda was left with a wound that never left her. She continued with her travels down the river and never complained about her wound. She was content to be with her little family. One day, she began to wonder what lay beyond her surroundings, just as she had in her earlier days. She wondered if the river was all there was to life? It seemed to her that there must be more. The question tugged at her day and night. Where does the river lead? They had heard stories about what was beyond the river – it was called “ocean”, and all kinds of beliefs about what it was like abounded throughout riverine communities. But nobody really knew that it existed, let alone what it was like. One especially cloudy day, as she and her family swam along, they ran into an invisible wall. It was a strange wall, and it tasted salty. It was a bit scary, but intriguing. The rest of her family was afraid, but she was bold, an explorer. She heard the ocean calling to her. So one day, with characteristic bravery and adventurous spirit, as her family looked on, she took the leap through the salt wall into the great beyond.
I probably don’t have to tell you all that my mother was a remarkable person. When I think of her, the main thing that I think of is her incredibly fierce inner strength. She had conviction. That incredible inner strength was combined in my mother with a deeply sensitive compassion, making her an amazingly valuable person for doing the work necessary to make the world a better place to live. She believed in many worthwhile causes, and truly acted out her convictions in loving, peaceful, and effective ways. To the best of her ability, she practiced what she preached.
She was truly a visionary, an innovator, and a revolutionary, ahead of her time. She was counter-cultural. She took more extra steps than we’ll ever know in order to help form young minds, those of my siblings and I as well as those in her classrooms so that we would value that which is truly important.
Yesterday, at the visitation, I was speaking to one of my mother’s friends from her teaching days who told me all about her and how she believed so much in empowering young women, even before it was fashionable to be involved in womens’ lib. Mom believed that young women were tomorrow’s leaders, and they had to be empowered if we were ever going to change the world. She committed herself to that cause, raising up tomorrow’s leaders and innovators through teaching. I remember that when I was a child, Mom would not allow me to watch the Miss America pageants, because she did not want my brother and sister and I to value only outward beauty. I feel so fortunate to have had a mother like her. She taught me to respect myself. She taught me that I can do anything I put my mind to. She gave me the self-confidence and skills to believe that I’m capable of breaking every glass ceiling out there.
My mom was so passionate about peace in the world, and had such a big heart (something that is not valued enough in today’s society). As kids, we weren’t allowed to play with toy guns. We weren’t allowed to watch any violence on television, movies, or video games. I am so thankful for that. To this day, Ami, Kevin, and I are all very sensitive to any violence that we see or experience. This allows us to see the world through different eyes than many of our peers, and inspires us to work for peace in powerful ways. There is so much strength in compassion and sensitivity. Mom, of course, hated war. I know that everyone hates war, but I learned first-hand how much my mom hated war when the Gulf War started in 91. She didn’t cry too often, but I remember that as she watched the news that night in the kitchen as she made dinner, they announced that war had been declared. I was alarmed as a child to walk into the kitchen to find my mom bent over the counter, by herself, weeping over this news. She cared so much about people. The people of Iraq, the people of Kuwait, the soldiers on all sides – they weren’t just numbers to her – they were people. I think the reason that she was able to see them as real people is because of her willingness to reach out and understand cultures so drastically different from her own in a time when that just wasn’t done. And she valued human life so much. Mom was an independent thinker, and a brilliant woman, with more beautifully humble inner strength than anyone but God knows.
She was a practical idealist who believed that anything is possible, but that we have to go out and be the change we want to see in the world. Because of that, I believe it’s people like her who make life worth living. This is her legacy to me. And I will carry these values, ideals, and zeal for compassionate causes on through the next generation as I move forward in my life to make my own family.
I honestly believe that my Mom is at peace as we speak. For much of our lives, death seems like simply a far-off theological concept. We can talk and think and worry about it for our whole lives, but we’ll never quite understand it until we experience it. I had the opportunity to be with my mother this past week as she experienced it. There is a bond between mother and daughter that can only be described as mysterious. She participated in creating me. She held me in her womb, and I entered the world through her. When the bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh and spirit of your spirit is dying, there comes a whole new understanding of death. When she left us, there was nothing but peace surrounding her. I know with a great certainty that she is at rest. She is dancing with God, at true peace.
Thank you, Mom, for everything. Thank you God for giving my mother to the world.
Eulogy:
Once upon a time, there was a little fish named Finda. She grew up at the mouth of a stream, and thrived there. One day, she began to wonder what was outside of her own little stream. She wondered if currents existed in other place that felt different, what kinds of other creatures lurked outside of her community. Her head swirled with dreams of what lay beyond. One day, she went exploring on her own. She found herself in an interesting place. The water was pushing at her tail in a stronger way, almost as if it were calling her on an adventure. So, Finda took a deep breath, and dove in the direction of the pressure. She found herself tumbling and twirling in a column of water, barely able to breathe. She was terrified! “What if I made a mistake?” she wondered. Finally, with a slap, the twirling stopped, and Finda hit a rock. She looked around her, and was amazed at what she saw. There were gloriously beautiful and exotic creatures all around her – so colorful and varied. It was unlike anything she ever could have imagined. Soon, she met an exciting rainbow trout, and he became her companion. They traveled the river together and shared many exciting adventures. She hatched 3 eggs, and doted over her beautiful baby fish. The little family was happy. One day, after many years, she encountered something strange. A wiggly pink piece of food appeared before her eyes as if by magic, and it glistened in the sunlight. She was curious, and bit onto the food. Immediately, a searing white-hot pain burned through her mouth. She was lifted up out of the water, her world, and she gasped for breath. She wriggled and wriggled for her life. Snap! – she broke free, but not without a souvenir to remember the experience. Finda was left with a wound that never left her. She continued with her travels down the river and never complained about her wound. She was content to be with her little family. One day, she began to wonder what lay beyond her surroundings, just as she had in her earlier days. She wondered if the river was all there was to life? It seemed to her that there must be more. The question tugged at her day and night. Where does the river lead? They had heard stories about what was beyond the river – it was called “ocean”, and all kinds of beliefs about what it was like abounded throughout riverine communities. But nobody really knew that it existed, let alone what it was like. One especially cloudy day, as she and her family swam along, they ran into an invisible wall. It was a strange wall, and it tasted salty. It was a bit scary, but intriguing. The rest of her family was afraid, but she was bold, an explorer. She heard the ocean calling to her. So one day, with characteristic bravery and adventurous spirit, as her family looked on, she took the leap through the salt wall into the great beyond.
I probably don’t have to tell you all that my mother was a remarkable person. When I think of her, the main thing that I think of is her incredibly fierce inner strength. She had conviction. That incredible inner strength was combined in my mother with a deeply sensitive compassion, making her an amazingly valuable person for doing the work necessary to make the world a better place to live. She believed in many worthwhile causes, and truly acted out her convictions in loving, peaceful, and effective ways. To the best of her ability, she practiced what she preached.
She was truly a visionary, an innovator, and a revolutionary, ahead of her time. She was counter-cultural. She took more extra steps than we’ll ever know in order to help form young minds, those of my siblings and I as well as those in her classrooms so that we would value that which is truly important.
Yesterday, at the visitation, I was speaking to one of my mother’s friends from her teaching days who told me all about her and how she believed so much in empowering young women, even before it was fashionable to be involved in womens’ lib. Mom believed that young women were tomorrow’s leaders, and they had to be empowered if we were ever going to change the world. She committed herself to that cause, raising up tomorrow’s leaders and innovators through teaching. I remember that when I was a child, Mom would not allow me to watch the Miss America pageants, because she did not want my brother and sister and I to value only outward beauty. I feel so fortunate to have had a mother like her. She taught me to respect myself. She taught me that I can do anything I put my mind to. She gave me the self-confidence and skills to believe that I’m capable of breaking every glass ceiling out there.
My mom was so passionate about peace in the world, and had such a big heart (something that is not valued enough in today’s society). As kids, we weren’t allowed to play with toy guns. We weren’t allowed to watch any violence on television, movies, or video games. I am so thankful for that. To this day, Ami, Kevin, and I are all very sensitive to any violence that we see or experience. This allows us to see the world through different eyes than many of our peers, and inspires us to work for peace in powerful ways. There is so much strength in compassion and sensitivity. Mom, of course, hated war. I know that everyone hates war, but I learned first-hand how much my mom hated war when the Gulf War started in 91. She didn’t cry too often, but I remember that as she watched the news that night in the kitchen as she made dinner, they announced that war had been declared. I was alarmed as a child to walk into the kitchen to find my mom bent over the counter, by herself, weeping over this news. She cared so much about people. The people of Iraq, the people of Kuwait, the soldiers on all sides – they weren’t just numbers to her – they were people. I think the reason that she was able to see them as real people is because of her willingness to reach out and understand cultures so drastically different from her own in a time when that just wasn’t done. And she valued human life so much. Mom was an independent thinker, and a brilliant woman, with more beautifully humble inner strength than anyone but God knows.
She was a practical idealist who believed that anything is possible, but that we have to go out and be the change we want to see in the world. Because of that, I believe it’s people like her who make life worth living. This is her legacy to me. And I will carry these values, ideals, and zeal for compassionate causes on through the next generation as I move forward in my life to make my own family.
I honestly believe that my Mom is at peace as we speak. For much of our lives, death seems like simply a far-off theological concept. We can talk and think and worry about it for our whole lives, but we’ll never quite understand it until we experience it. I had the opportunity to be with my mother this past week as she experienced it. There is a bond between mother and daughter that can only be described as mysterious. She participated in creating me. She held me in her womb, and I entered the world through her. When the bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh and spirit of your spirit is dying, there comes a whole new understanding of death. When she left us, there was nothing but peace surrounding her. I know with a great certainty that she is at rest. She is dancing with God, at true peace.
Thank you, Mom, for everything. Thank you God for giving my mother to the world.
December 31, 2010
Beauty: Reflections on, Projections of
I'm on the Oregon coast right now, on vacation, and it's been storming for a full day. One of the reasons, perhaps the main reason, that I love traveling, no matter what the conditions, is that I love to get a feel for the character of a place. Even if the weather is grumpy, fierce or downright depressing, I feel the spirit of a new place, and enjoy getting to know it. This particular place seems rugged, fierce, tough, and wild. It's stunning! I am in awe at the great power I witness here, where the waves "do whatever they want all the way across the Pacific and then encounter this coast" (as my husband so eloquently put it), slamming against the shore with wild abandon, white caps obliterated into angry mist as they hit scraggy rocks - wind, their constant companion, whipping relentlessly at the trees standing sentry at the gate to land. It's all so intimidating and inspires in me a feeling of great respect for the Earth and all its different expressions of itself in nature. I'm overwhelmed, awe-struck and captivated by such beauty.
I've been thinking a lot about beauty recently. The topic came up with some girlfriends at a party, which is always a sensitive topic to broach with young women, and there were some tender feelings prickled as we discussed the idea of the "truly beautiful woman" and touched on whether any of us qualified. The question arose: What does beautiful mean? What is beautiful?
My mother, a very beautiful woman in every way, was careful to raise me in an environment where I would strive to develop as a whole person - strong, intelligent and confident. Some people might call this feminist - I just call it healthy. My sister, brother, and I were not allowed to watch the Miss America pageant that came on television once a year because it encouraged limited notions of the value of a woman. And so I grew up with a very open view of what a beautiful woman was. In fact, I didn't give much thought to what a beautiful woman was, because there was so much more to women than just what they looked like, in my mind. My mother had this mug, or bookmark or something in the kitchen that had a quote printed on it: "Beauty is truth; and truth, beauty" and this always resonated with me, and I believed it. But when I encountered adolescence, of course new challenges arose. Thank God I endured those years with the solid foundation of where to find my value (in all of my identity) underneath the raging storms of emotion and self-doubt, but on the surface, it suddenly became important to me (as it does for many girls) what boys thought of me. My awakening sexuality was at first expressed in terms of: Who sees me? Who wants me? Am I captivating? Am I worthy of attention? And most importantly, Am I beautiful?
"Am I beautiful?": This is the question that rings through each and every woman's mind in one form or another, and it is unfortunate that we often seek the answer to this question in the response of others (men, women, all) to our presence, especially when we do not feel empowered to define our interpretation of reality for ourselves. Because I had the confidence in my teenage years to know that my value did not just come from outer beauty, I was able to excel at many things. I was the MVP for the basketball team (my one year of athletic glory), I played piano, flute, French horn, and guitar, I was the flag captain in the marching band, I was on a competitive math team, a competitive trivia team, and had lots of friends. I knew I wasn't worthless, but I never knew if I was beautiful. Boys seemed to respond to a certain kind of pretty that I just couldn't figure out. I had no concept of graceful, refined, or elegant. I didn't know how to walk, talk, or dress to impress and attract boys, like a lot of girls did, and I didn't feel like I should have to change who I was or how I presented myself just to get them to notice me. One girl in my gym class told me that I walked like a guy. She "taught" me how to "walk like a woman", swinging her hips from side to side. I thought she looked ridiculous, and thought "But I am a woman! So how I walk is how a woman walks!" I was just hopeless at enhancing my "beauty", whatever that was.
I watched my friends as many of them lost themselves in their attempts to fit the mold of what they thought would make them noticed, worthy, valued, and beautiful. I watched as playful, tree-climbing, pranksters turned to doe-eyed, self-conscious, hair-combing fembots, batting their eyes for male looks, selling their souls for dates and kisses. Although I don't think I ever became a fembot, I certainly engaged in my own self-deprecating behavior in the search for validation. We were all in pursuit of the beauty within ourselves, that elusive state of being that seemed just out of reach when we looked at magazines or watched MTv.
For a long time, I did believe that beauty was truth, and truth, beauty. But then again, the doubt lingered at the back of my mind - what about how all the boys seemed gaga over certain girls? What was it that they were responding to? And why didn't I have it? Or did I have it after all? I remember watching a documentary a long time ago, and I don't remember what it was about, but in it, they talked about universal beauty. And how in every culture, and every civilization throughout history, there are certain standards of beauty that hold true. Babies and children even respond better to certain features in people that are perceived as beautiful. I remember they said it has a lot to do with facial symmetry, the proportion of waist to hips on a woman, health and fertility. So outer beauty wasn't just arbitrary - it wasn't just in the eye of the beholder - it was a real, true concept. It turned out that life was unfair. It turns out there is a reason why we admire the looks of Audrey Hepburn, Angelina Jolie, and Ashwarya Rai over average beauties, plain Janes, or homely Harriets.
So there we have it: two theoretical concepts of the definition of beauty, (beauty is truth, or beauty is associated with certain characteristics indicative of health and superior genetics) and a confusion as to how these concepts translate into practical terms (the question every woman asks: "Am I beautiful?"). Where do we go from here? What is beautiful? Is a rose more beautiful than a fern? A praying mantis more so than a cockroach? And why? I think it's worth exploring the ideas of "inner" and "outer" beauty here. Many women cringe when someone tells them "you're so beautiful, on the inside". Every woman wants instinctively to be seen as beautiful on the outside, for people to see plainly, clearly, and simply the beauty that we intuitively know is inside of us. But, really and truly, what always matters in life is the heart of things. The "outside", or the surface of life, is simply a projection of what is on the inside. The trouble here is that all of creation is inter-connected, and so when a person is born with good looks, it has to do not with that person's choices as an individual or her character, but rather with the full health (including spiritual health, indicative of character) of her ancestors. If that person maintains strong and healthy character, her inner beauty will match her outer beauty, but if she doesn't, her outer beauty will be deceiving. It is elusive; it will fade and decay. Eventually the inner character will be projected in the surface look of the person, but if one doesn't look past the surface, he will be temporarily seduced by a fading glimmer.
A few days after the conversation among my girlfriends on beauty, I shared my reflections with one of them. I told her that I wasn't sure if I was beautiful or not, as a rose is beautiful. All humans respond to a rose's beauty, automatically, instinctively - there is a human attraction to such outer beauty. And I don't know if there is such a human attraction to the way I look. Sometimes there is, but not always. I suggested to my friend that perhaps I'm beautiful as a fern is beautiful, but not as a rose. There have been people throughout my life who have told me that they find me beautiful - my husband, lots of friends, people I've met here and there, and random men calling out on the street - people say I have shiny hair, or beautiful skin tone, nice legs, a strong profile, etc; there have been people who have told me I'm not - that I have strange shoulders, animal hands, that my nose is too wide, my face too round, or my everything too big; and society tells me every day that I don't quite fit the mold that many women try to squeeze into, all of them unsuccessful because it is a mold created to be unattainable for the purpose of generating consumeristic drive. I don't know how "surface beautiful" I am (or am not), but I think it's a waste of time to ask the question, because how much does it really matter? It is so cliche to say, but so profound to recognize that outer beauty is fleeting. Outer beauty is truly only skin deep. A rose may bloom, but it quickly fades. As I look in the mirror, and ask it the age-old question: "Mirror, who is fairest of them all?" I watch as the reflection looking back at me changes with every tick of the clock. It is especially fitting that I should address these issues as I celebrate my 30th birthday, and just three months after I've given birth. My body is changing and aging, and I'm facing questions of what is beautiful with a new urgency during this time in my life. I have spent much of my self-reflectively conscious life attempting to cultivate my inner beauty (of course not without distraction), and I can say at this point in my life, that I'm glad for every moment that I have been successful at it. Investing in something that lasts and holds, rather than a glimmering image, tenuous as the ripples in a pond, is ultimately fulfilling and brings a deep and quiet joy. So many women waste their lives away, fretting and fussing, prodding themselves in front of their mirrors. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?", distracting themselves from truly living. What they really want to know is: Am I beautiful? Do you see me? Can you see the great and captivating beauty that I feel I could be, deep down inside? If only our mirrors could show us what's beyond the surface, a picture of our inner selves, a drop of the glory of God marred by wounds and streaked with doubt. Then we would primp and groom those parts of ourselves that really matter, and our true, deep, full and healthy selves would shine out through our skin, each of us a unique aspect of the beauty of Creation which encompasses all qualities.
The answer to our question is YES. We are all beautiful, underneath the surface. We are all drops of God, each piece of Creation unique and necessary, with a true name and an important purpose. The more we excel at allowing our true light to shine, the more our beauty will captivate the world on the outside. Genetics reflects the legacy of our ancestors' attempts at doing this. But genetic beauty, the attractiveness of our features, is such a small piece of what beauty really is. The only thing that isn't beautiful in the whole universe is the projection of our brokenness, where we try to cover over our wounds and fight the grace that the Divine sheds on us. Even our brokenness is beautiful, because it's through these cracks in the surface of our lives that the light really breaks through as we are forgiven and redeemed.
Oregon's coastline is stunning, in a powerful, intimidating way. Its foliage unique and varied, its rains energetic with reckless abandon, its haunting moss dripping off wind-whipped birches and sea lions barking in their perpetual wrestling with the relentless waves. It is shocking in its beauty, awe-inspiring in its unapologetic expression of itself. I pray that I can be that unapologetic in the expression of myself - uncensored and uncovered, without self-conscious doubting and wondering - am I beautiful? Perhaps all of creation is meant to shine this way, the way that the Oregon coast does. I think it is true that our biggest fear is our own greatness. It is more unfortunate than I can express here how the image-driven consumer-machine by which global society has become defined has stripped women, especially, of all unique expression, as womens' images are commodified more than anything else in its grip. When I was pregnant with my son, the weekend that I first began to notice stretch marks growing over the until-then smooth skin of my belly, my husband and I went walking among the Sequoias of southern California. These are enormous and mystical trees, very old, and if you are intuitive like me, you can feel the great wisdom echoing in their auras. My husband commented on the beauty of one particular tree, wrinkled and stretched with uneven growth, the story of its life mapped out on its bark. I compared it to another tree next to it, comparatively young - stark, thin, and straight. Although I appreciated the perfect parallels of those straight lines it traced, there wasn't much to appreciate about the young tree. It was the older tree that seemed to have a story to tell; the older tree that was compelling, wise, and endlessly interesting. As I traced its story with my fingers, I thought of the story that was being written in my life, on my stomach. And I realized that my stretch marks were profoundly beautiful. Now I wear them like a map of the time when life grew inside of me. I am remembering through motherhood, and life in general, what we should all recall - that the beauty of each one of us is shockingly powerful, captivating. If we could fully comprehend it, we would be completely awe-struck. Fretting over the length of a nose, the curve of a leg, or the softness of a belly seems so silly when compared with true beauty, and it is scandalously tragic when we dream of changing ourselves or even go under the knife to change ourselves when we feel into the beauty that we know we embody.
In an attempt to get in touch with my inner self, and to focus on the belief that the energies that make up "me" are, in this unique combination, lovely, and, yes, beautiful, even in all my quirky glory, I am attempting to conjure up and invoke in my life the spirits of women who inspire me, who I find to be beautiful in their own ways, so that I can have the confidence to let my light shine, in a society where youth, glitter, and one-dimensionality are the primary virtues that define surface beauty, and the primary things that distract us and steal away our attention from its rightful owner, which is the light of the Divine. If you are struggling to believe that you're beautiful, perhaps you, too, should find figures whose beauty inspires you, so that you can get in touch with your true self and find the courage to unleash its radiance into a world that desperately needs it for its own inspiration.
Here is the beginning of the circle of beautiful women that I am drawing on for inspiration:
my mother
Katherine Mansfield
pilot lady from the cover of the Women Who Dare 2009 Engagement Calendar (wish I could remember her name!)
Rosie the Riveter
Frida Kahlo
Joan Baez
I've been thinking a lot about beauty recently. The topic came up with some girlfriends at a party, which is always a sensitive topic to broach with young women, and there were some tender feelings prickled as we discussed the idea of the "truly beautiful woman" and touched on whether any of us qualified. The question arose: What does beautiful mean? What is beautiful?
My mother, a very beautiful woman in every way, was careful to raise me in an environment where I would strive to develop as a whole person - strong, intelligent and confident. Some people might call this feminist - I just call it healthy. My sister, brother, and I were not allowed to watch the Miss America pageant that came on television once a year because it encouraged limited notions of the value of a woman. And so I grew up with a very open view of what a beautiful woman was. In fact, I didn't give much thought to what a beautiful woman was, because there was so much more to women than just what they looked like, in my mind. My mother had this mug, or bookmark or something in the kitchen that had a quote printed on it: "Beauty is truth; and truth, beauty" and this always resonated with me, and I believed it. But when I encountered adolescence, of course new challenges arose. Thank God I endured those years with the solid foundation of where to find my value (in all of my identity) underneath the raging storms of emotion and self-doubt, but on the surface, it suddenly became important to me (as it does for many girls) what boys thought of me. My awakening sexuality was at first expressed in terms of: Who sees me? Who wants me? Am I captivating? Am I worthy of attention? And most importantly, Am I beautiful?
"Am I beautiful?": This is the question that rings through each and every woman's mind in one form or another, and it is unfortunate that we often seek the answer to this question in the response of others (men, women, all) to our presence, especially when we do not feel empowered to define our interpretation of reality for ourselves. Because I had the confidence in my teenage years to know that my value did not just come from outer beauty, I was able to excel at many things. I was the MVP for the basketball team (my one year of athletic glory), I played piano, flute, French horn, and guitar, I was the flag captain in the marching band, I was on a competitive math team, a competitive trivia team, and had lots of friends. I knew I wasn't worthless, but I never knew if I was beautiful. Boys seemed to respond to a certain kind of pretty that I just couldn't figure out. I had no concept of graceful, refined, or elegant. I didn't know how to walk, talk, or dress to impress and attract boys, like a lot of girls did, and I didn't feel like I should have to change who I was or how I presented myself just to get them to notice me. One girl in my gym class told me that I walked like a guy. She "taught" me how to "walk like a woman", swinging her hips from side to side. I thought she looked ridiculous, and thought "But I am a woman! So how I walk is how a woman walks!" I was just hopeless at enhancing my "beauty", whatever that was.
I watched my friends as many of them lost themselves in their attempts to fit the mold of what they thought would make them noticed, worthy, valued, and beautiful. I watched as playful, tree-climbing, pranksters turned to doe-eyed, self-conscious, hair-combing fembots, batting their eyes for male looks, selling their souls for dates and kisses. Although I don't think I ever became a fembot, I certainly engaged in my own self-deprecating behavior in the search for validation. We were all in pursuit of the beauty within ourselves, that elusive state of being that seemed just out of reach when we looked at magazines or watched MTv.
For a long time, I did believe that beauty was truth, and truth, beauty. But then again, the doubt lingered at the back of my mind - what about how all the boys seemed gaga over certain girls? What was it that they were responding to? And why didn't I have it? Or did I have it after all? I remember watching a documentary a long time ago, and I don't remember what it was about, but in it, they talked about universal beauty. And how in every culture, and every civilization throughout history, there are certain standards of beauty that hold true. Babies and children even respond better to certain features in people that are perceived as beautiful. I remember they said it has a lot to do with facial symmetry, the proportion of waist to hips on a woman, health and fertility. So outer beauty wasn't just arbitrary - it wasn't just in the eye of the beholder - it was a real, true concept. It turned out that life was unfair. It turns out there is a reason why we admire the looks of Audrey Hepburn, Angelina Jolie, and Ashwarya Rai over average beauties, plain Janes, or homely Harriets.
So there we have it: two theoretical concepts of the definition of beauty, (beauty is truth, or beauty is associated with certain characteristics indicative of health and superior genetics) and a confusion as to how these concepts translate into practical terms (the question every woman asks: "Am I beautiful?"). Where do we go from here? What is beautiful? Is a rose more beautiful than a fern? A praying mantis more so than a cockroach? And why? I think it's worth exploring the ideas of "inner" and "outer" beauty here. Many women cringe when someone tells them "you're so beautiful, on the inside". Every woman wants instinctively to be seen as beautiful on the outside, for people to see plainly, clearly, and simply the beauty that we intuitively know is inside of us. But, really and truly, what always matters in life is the heart of things. The "outside", or the surface of life, is simply a projection of what is on the inside. The trouble here is that all of creation is inter-connected, and so when a person is born with good looks, it has to do not with that person's choices as an individual or her character, but rather with the full health (including spiritual health, indicative of character) of her ancestors. If that person maintains strong and healthy character, her inner beauty will match her outer beauty, but if she doesn't, her outer beauty will be deceiving. It is elusive; it will fade and decay. Eventually the inner character will be projected in the surface look of the person, but if one doesn't look past the surface, he will be temporarily seduced by a fading glimmer.
A few days after the conversation among my girlfriends on beauty, I shared my reflections with one of them. I told her that I wasn't sure if I was beautiful or not, as a rose is beautiful. All humans respond to a rose's beauty, automatically, instinctively - there is a human attraction to such outer beauty. And I don't know if there is such a human attraction to the way I look. Sometimes there is, but not always. I suggested to my friend that perhaps I'm beautiful as a fern is beautiful, but not as a rose. There have been people throughout my life who have told me that they find me beautiful - my husband, lots of friends, people I've met here and there, and random men calling out on the street - people say I have shiny hair, or beautiful skin tone, nice legs, a strong profile, etc; there have been people who have told me I'm not - that I have strange shoulders, animal hands, that my nose is too wide, my face too round, or my everything too big; and society tells me every day that I don't quite fit the mold that many women try to squeeze into, all of them unsuccessful because it is a mold created to be unattainable for the purpose of generating consumeristic drive. I don't know how "surface beautiful" I am (or am not), but I think it's a waste of time to ask the question, because how much does it really matter? It is so cliche to say, but so profound to recognize that outer beauty is fleeting. Outer beauty is truly only skin deep. A rose may bloom, but it quickly fades. As I look in the mirror, and ask it the age-old question: "Mirror, who is fairest of them all?" I watch as the reflection looking back at me changes with every tick of the clock. It is especially fitting that I should address these issues as I celebrate my 30th birthday, and just three months after I've given birth. My body is changing and aging, and I'm facing questions of what is beautiful with a new urgency during this time in my life. I have spent much of my self-reflectively conscious life attempting to cultivate my inner beauty (of course not without distraction), and I can say at this point in my life, that I'm glad for every moment that I have been successful at it. Investing in something that lasts and holds, rather than a glimmering image, tenuous as the ripples in a pond, is ultimately fulfilling and brings a deep and quiet joy. So many women waste their lives away, fretting and fussing, prodding themselves in front of their mirrors. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?", distracting themselves from truly living. What they really want to know is: Am I beautiful? Do you see me? Can you see the great and captivating beauty that I feel I could be, deep down inside? If only our mirrors could show us what's beyond the surface, a picture of our inner selves, a drop of the glory of God marred by wounds and streaked with doubt. Then we would primp and groom those parts of ourselves that really matter, and our true, deep, full and healthy selves would shine out through our skin, each of us a unique aspect of the beauty of Creation which encompasses all qualities.
The answer to our question is YES. We are all beautiful, underneath the surface. We are all drops of God, each piece of Creation unique and necessary, with a true name and an important purpose. The more we excel at allowing our true light to shine, the more our beauty will captivate the world on the outside. Genetics reflects the legacy of our ancestors' attempts at doing this. But genetic beauty, the attractiveness of our features, is such a small piece of what beauty really is. The only thing that isn't beautiful in the whole universe is the projection of our brokenness, where we try to cover over our wounds and fight the grace that the Divine sheds on us. Even our brokenness is beautiful, because it's through these cracks in the surface of our lives that the light really breaks through as we are forgiven and redeemed.
Oregon's coastline is stunning, in a powerful, intimidating way. Its foliage unique and varied, its rains energetic with reckless abandon, its haunting moss dripping off wind-whipped birches and sea lions barking in their perpetual wrestling with the relentless waves. It is shocking in its beauty, awe-inspiring in its unapologetic expression of itself. I pray that I can be that unapologetic in the expression of myself - uncensored and uncovered, without self-conscious doubting and wondering - am I beautiful? Perhaps all of creation is meant to shine this way, the way that the Oregon coast does. I think it is true that our biggest fear is our own greatness. It is more unfortunate than I can express here how the image-driven consumer-machine by which global society has become defined has stripped women, especially, of all unique expression, as womens' images are commodified more than anything else in its grip. When I was pregnant with my son, the weekend that I first began to notice stretch marks growing over the until-then smooth skin of my belly, my husband and I went walking among the Sequoias of southern California. These are enormous and mystical trees, very old, and if you are intuitive like me, you can feel the great wisdom echoing in their auras. My husband commented on the beauty of one particular tree, wrinkled and stretched with uneven growth, the story of its life mapped out on its bark. I compared it to another tree next to it, comparatively young - stark, thin, and straight. Although I appreciated the perfect parallels of those straight lines it traced, there wasn't much to appreciate about the young tree. It was the older tree that seemed to have a story to tell; the older tree that was compelling, wise, and endlessly interesting. As I traced its story with my fingers, I thought of the story that was being written in my life, on my stomach. And I realized that my stretch marks were profoundly beautiful. Now I wear them like a map of the time when life grew inside of me. I am remembering through motherhood, and life in general, what we should all recall - that the beauty of each one of us is shockingly powerful, captivating. If we could fully comprehend it, we would be completely awe-struck. Fretting over the length of a nose, the curve of a leg, or the softness of a belly seems so silly when compared with true beauty, and it is scandalously tragic when we dream of changing ourselves or even go under the knife to change ourselves when we feel into the beauty that we know we embody.
In an attempt to get in touch with my inner self, and to focus on the belief that the energies that make up "me" are, in this unique combination, lovely, and, yes, beautiful, even in all my quirky glory, I am attempting to conjure up and invoke in my life the spirits of women who inspire me, who I find to be beautiful in their own ways, so that I can have the confidence to let my light shine, in a society where youth, glitter, and one-dimensionality are the primary virtues that define surface beauty, and the primary things that distract us and steal away our attention from its rightful owner, which is the light of the Divine. If you are struggling to believe that you're beautiful, perhaps you, too, should find figures whose beauty inspires you, so that you can get in touch with your true self and find the courage to unleash its radiance into a world that desperately needs it for its own inspiration.
Here is the beginning of the circle of beautiful women that I am drawing on for inspiration:
my mother
Katherine Mansfield
pilot lady from the cover of the Women Who Dare 2009 Engagement Calendar (wish I could remember her name!)
Rosie the Riveter
Frida Kahlo
Joan Baez
October 28, 2010
Birth Pains
I'm officially a mother! My son came into the world late at night on September 29. He is absolutely beautiful! It's hard to describe what it's like to become a parent for the first time, to be around new life that is this fresh… I'm finding it difficult to reflect on my experience, I suppose because I'm so immersed in it. It's hard to get the distance required to comprehend what's really happening. I have what they call "baby brain"; I am functioning out of my body mostly - and I have felt that I'm constantly pouring my body out for this child. This is my life right now - a vessel focused solely on his proper nurturing and growth; this is the essence of my love right now – physical and raw, pouring myself out through my milk.
My son has a beautiful swirl on the top of his forehead – marked in the soft fuzz of the beginnings of his hair. It reminds me of the great red spot on Jupiter, the enormous storm that has been raging on that planet for at least 400 years. I tell the baby that he came into the world with the storm of Jupiter, as his birth ended up being quite a dramatic event.
My water broke early, and because of the risk of infection, my healthcare providers have a policy to induce labor if a mother doesn't spontaneously go into labor within a given time of her water breaking. My husband and I tried everything we could think of and more to induce labor without drugs – walking, nipple stimulation, prayer and driving to an acupuncture clinic for treatment meant to induce active labor. The midwives let us wait as long as they could, and I did go into labor, but progress was so slow that we finally gave into the strong recommendations of the midwives that we chemically induce.
I won't go into detail about the following 20 hours or so – needless to say, they were excruciatingly painful and exhausting – active labor. I finally reached full dilation, and the midwives, doula, and my husband could see the baby's head. I pushed for 3 hours. I can honestly say that I used up every last ounce of energy I had. I have never in all my life worked so hard for something. I danced on the knife-edge between conscious and unconscious worlds as I desperately tried to pass this baby all the way out from me with my own strength. He was face-up, and his head was cocked to one side. Specialists in turning babies were brought in. They coached me and tried to get his head straightened so he could pass underneath my pubic bone – but he wouldn't budge.
So I had a c-section. Lying on the operating table, exhausted beyond measure, paralyzed from the chest down, and again teetering on the edge of consciousness, I felt utterly helpless. The scene before me faded in and out of view. I tried to focus on my husband's eyes peering out, concerned, from above his mask, for reassurance. I felt, as the doctors cut me open and brought my son into the world under those harsh lights, that I was lying in the pit of hell.
The doctor who delivered my son found him positioned with his foot stuck up under his chin (which explains why his head was cocked and the need for the c-section) – she said she'd never seen that before in all her years of practicing. As I met my beautiful son, I struggled to stay conscious. I struggled to comprehend what was happening as I kissed his face fresh from my body. I felt lost and disconnected and struggled to recognize this person as the one I had grown and held and nurtured in my body for the last 9 months.
This story is so traumatic that I can hardly bear it. There is so much pain and disappointment to grapple with! The days recovering in the hospital following the birth were equally as dark. They dragged on, and I struggled to comprehend what was happening. It felt as if I had been thrust into a different realm of the universe, suddenly, and I was grasping in complete darkness to orient myself. It was as if, when I was split open, so was the space-time continuum and that there was a complete disconnect between worlds.
As the pain meds faded, and my mind gradually came back into focus, I was left with a lot of questions and immense grief that it takes courage to face in the midst of the joy surrounding me from family and friends. How could I cope with how my son's life had begun, and with how my journey as a mother had begun? How could I accept what had happened as real, with any kind of strength or grace? How could I go on in the visceral way I had to, as this child was depending on me for his very survival? How could I look into his bright and hopeful eyes and face my own feelings of loss, helplessness, and failure, as he looked to me for his own sense of orientation and reassurance?
Early in my pregnancy, I experienced some dark moods and was talking to a friend about it. I mentioned that I worried that my depression was affecting the baby's experience as he was taking shape, and he said “And vice versa. You're probably feeling what the baby's experiencing as well”. That concept blew my mind, and throughout the pregnancy, I continued to think of mine and the baby's journeys as intertwined, neither more dominant than the other – inextricably linked and directed by the complex and mysterious combination of combined destiny and will, both mine and his. It consoles and encourages me to think that, despite my not being fully “there” for my son's birth, perhaps we were more bonded than I felt at the time, by the fact that we were probably experiencing the birth very similarly. I can imagine that, for him, the feeling of being transported into another realm was felt quite literally. For him, the veil that had always sheltered him from the world to come was ripped away suddenly, and he had no idea what was behind it. He and I both were thrust into a new place, disoriented by bright lights, masked realities, exploded expectations, and stunning pain. We went to the place where life begins and ends together, to the River Styx, and we crossed it. We went there, holding hands, both in the thick of it, primally, not able to comprehend what was happening as it happened – there being only room for feeling, and none whatsoever for reflective thinking. Raw fear, searing pain, hard work, and the fire of transformation consumed us and devoured us, spitting us out upon the shore of the other side. If that's not bonding, then I don't know what is. I don't know if mothers often experience the birth of their children this way – perhaps some of the excruciating pain is there by design, perhaps we all go to the place where life begins and ends as mothers in order to retrieve our children - but I suppose it's not my place to question that. I've learned that something as primal, deep, and intimate as childbirth is like nothing else, and, similarly to birth, sex, or death, a person's experience with it is uniquely expressed in that person's soul and cannot be adequately explained or described.
This birth experience has taught me (as so much of the pain in life has) about acceptance, or as a Jain or Buddhist might call it, non-attachment. Ultimately, I've now realized, this birth story is not about me. As I alluded to in my blog entry about motherhood (which I wrote while pregnant), I was simply the vessel through which my son entered the world. This is my story in some sense, but it's also his, and, more wholly, this story is God's. I have been reminded that although my life is “mine” to choose how to live, my life is not mine alone. I am not only a vessel for my child, but, more than anything else, a vessel for God to act in the world. I live because God gives me breath. I live because God placed me in this life. I have a calling, and it is by God's grace alone that I can live it. The best I can hope for in this life is that I can find that “vein of gold” that allows me to live in the way that God would have me live, to learn the lessons that will shape me into the Self that God wants me to be, to find deep and ultimate fulfillment in that. In that spirit, frankly, I will not always get what I “want” in life. Sometimes, I simply have to accept, accept, accept things that are difficult, and allow God to write my story, no matter how painful. To live in the story He gives me with a spirit of non-attachment, a spirit that is able to live into it while transcending it; to feel it deeply but also to feel the stillness that is God at the center of it. I've been counting my blessings instead of focusing on the loss of the ideal, or the loss of what I wanted for this birth. Thank God for my healthy boy. Thank God that I made it through this delivery alive, and that I will recover (many women in the developing world cannot hope for the same). I get to continue to live and learn and grow through this life! What a blessing.
The most poignant part of this story, for me, is the date that my baby came into the world - September 29, 2010. This date is exactly 10 years after my other most transformative experience in life occurred, when I first enjoyed a mystical communion with God, “accepting Christ into my heart”. I wrote in my journal on Sept 29, 2000, “I experienced the effects of the Holy Spirit for the first time today...” It is remarkable that this baby chose to come into the world early and chose this exact special day (or that God chose it, or that I subconsciously chose it – or all of the above). I do not know what it means, but it speaks to me of profound themes, such as the tension between the ideal and the fallen, the hoped for and the settled for, and how the spirit of Christ represents the choice to live in that tension for me. Christ, arms spread on the cross - on one side the criminal who joins him in heaven, and the other, the one who goes to hell - is the reconciliation of heaven and earth, of the spiritual and the material, of God and humanity. He is the middle path, and it is this path, I believe, that allows us the friction required to move the Earth forward along its journey of transformation towards a state of heaven. “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven”. The middle path is not a path of the ideal. It is a path fraught with very real dangers; it is a path through the narrows. The Bible says “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it” (Matt. 7:13-14, New International Version). It is a path of constriction and the pain of transformation. This path is the path of humanity, and humanity alone. We are the beings in this universe who alone have the power of self-reflective consciousness, and it is we who are thus tasked with the deliberate transformation of the world. I think here of birth and human (imperfect, overly-mechanized) intervention versus the ideally-experienced“natural way”, and how my baby's birth walked the line between these ways. I so longed for the natural way. I so longed for the ideal. I left no room in my mind for anything other than that. But when my water broke on Sept 26, a chain of events was set in motion that reminded me indelibly that I don't live in an ideal world, and that neither will my son. That we are tasked with walking this middle path between spirit and flesh, “carrying our crosses”throughout our lives.
I remember that early on in labor after all other alternatives had been considered, I finally consented to the first intervention in the birth. It was a pill I had to take that would soften my cervix to make it ready to deliver. As I dropped the pill into my mouth, I sighed to the midwife and my husband and said, sarcastically, “the bitter pill of compromise”. This poignant phrase pretty much sums up the entire experience for me. It is a deep cosmic compromise to live somewhere between the ideal and the purely broken. Yet there is something so tragically beautiful about this compromise, something that feels grounded and real, earthy and so... human. With this reflection, then, I will “take up my cross” and accept this experience for what it has been, for myself, my husband, and my son, thank God that He exists, thank God that I exist, lift my eyes towards heaven, and continue walking this rocky path.
My son has a beautiful swirl on the top of his forehead – marked in the soft fuzz of the beginnings of his hair. It reminds me of the great red spot on Jupiter, the enormous storm that has been raging on that planet for at least 400 years. I tell the baby that he came into the world with the storm of Jupiter, as his birth ended up being quite a dramatic event.
My water broke early, and because of the risk of infection, my healthcare providers have a policy to induce labor if a mother doesn't spontaneously go into labor within a given time of her water breaking. My husband and I tried everything we could think of and more to induce labor without drugs – walking, nipple stimulation, prayer and driving to an acupuncture clinic for treatment meant to induce active labor. The midwives let us wait as long as they could, and I did go into labor, but progress was so slow that we finally gave into the strong recommendations of the midwives that we chemically induce.
I won't go into detail about the following 20 hours or so – needless to say, they were excruciatingly painful and exhausting – active labor. I finally reached full dilation, and the midwives, doula, and my husband could see the baby's head. I pushed for 3 hours. I can honestly say that I used up every last ounce of energy I had. I have never in all my life worked so hard for something. I danced on the knife-edge between conscious and unconscious worlds as I desperately tried to pass this baby all the way out from me with my own strength. He was face-up, and his head was cocked to one side. Specialists in turning babies were brought in. They coached me and tried to get his head straightened so he could pass underneath my pubic bone – but he wouldn't budge.
So I had a c-section. Lying on the operating table, exhausted beyond measure, paralyzed from the chest down, and again teetering on the edge of consciousness, I felt utterly helpless. The scene before me faded in and out of view. I tried to focus on my husband's eyes peering out, concerned, from above his mask, for reassurance. I felt, as the doctors cut me open and brought my son into the world under those harsh lights, that I was lying in the pit of hell.
The doctor who delivered my son found him positioned with his foot stuck up under his chin (which explains why his head was cocked and the need for the c-section) – she said she'd never seen that before in all her years of practicing. As I met my beautiful son, I struggled to stay conscious. I struggled to comprehend what was happening as I kissed his face fresh from my body. I felt lost and disconnected and struggled to recognize this person as the one I had grown and held and nurtured in my body for the last 9 months.
This story is so traumatic that I can hardly bear it. There is so much pain and disappointment to grapple with! The days recovering in the hospital following the birth were equally as dark. They dragged on, and I struggled to comprehend what was happening. It felt as if I had been thrust into a different realm of the universe, suddenly, and I was grasping in complete darkness to orient myself. It was as if, when I was split open, so was the space-time continuum and that there was a complete disconnect between worlds.
As the pain meds faded, and my mind gradually came back into focus, I was left with a lot of questions and immense grief that it takes courage to face in the midst of the joy surrounding me from family and friends. How could I cope with how my son's life had begun, and with how my journey as a mother had begun? How could I accept what had happened as real, with any kind of strength or grace? How could I go on in the visceral way I had to, as this child was depending on me for his very survival? How could I look into his bright and hopeful eyes and face my own feelings of loss, helplessness, and failure, as he looked to me for his own sense of orientation and reassurance?
Early in my pregnancy, I experienced some dark moods and was talking to a friend about it. I mentioned that I worried that my depression was affecting the baby's experience as he was taking shape, and he said “And vice versa. You're probably feeling what the baby's experiencing as well”. That concept blew my mind, and throughout the pregnancy, I continued to think of mine and the baby's journeys as intertwined, neither more dominant than the other – inextricably linked and directed by the complex and mysterious combination of combined destiny and will, both mine and his. It consoles and encourages me to think that, despite my not being fully “there” for my son's birth, perhaps we were more bonded than I felt at the time, by the fact that we were probably experiencing the birth very similarly. I can imagine that, for him, the feeling of being transported into another realm was felt quite literally. For him, the veil that had always sheltered him from the world to come was ripped away suddenly, and he had no idea what was behind it. He and I both were thrust into a new place, disoriented by bright lights, masked realities, exploded expectations, and stunning pain. We went to the place where life begins and ends together, to the River Styx, and we crossed it. We went there, holding hands, both in the thick of it, primally, not able to comprehend what was happening as it happened – there being only room for feeling, and none whatsoever for reflective thinking. Raw fear, searing pain, hard work, and the fire of transformation consumed us and devoured us, spitting us out upon the shore of the other side. If that's not bonding, then I don't know what is. I don't know if mothers often experience the birth of their children this way – perhaps some of the excruciating pain is there by design, perhaps we all go to the place where life begins and ends as mothers in order to retrieve our children - but I suppose it's not my place to question that. I've learned that something as primal, deep, and intimate as childbirth is like nothing else, and, similarly to birth, sex, or death, a person's experience with it is uniquely expressed in that person's soul and cannot be adequately explained or described.
This birth experience has taught me (as so much of the pain in life has) about acceptance, or as a Jain or Buddhist might call it, non-attachment. Ultimately, I've now realized, this birth story is not about me. As I alluded to in my blog entry about motherhood (which I wrote while pregnant), I was simply the vessel through which my son entered the world. This is my story in some sense, but it's also his, and, more wholly, this story is God's. I have been reminded that although my life is “mine” to choose how to live, my life is not mine alone. I am not only a vessel for my child, but, more than anything else, a vessel for God to act in the world. I live because God gives me breath. I live because God placed me in this life. I have a calling, and it is by God's grace alone that I can live it. The best I can hope for in this life is that I can find that “vein of gold” that allows me to live in the way that God would have me live, to learn the lessons that will shape me into the Self that God wants me to be, to find deep and ultimate fulfillment in that. In that spirit, frankly, I will not always get what I “want” in life. Sometimes, I simply have to accept, accept, accept things that are difficult, and allow God to write my story, no matter how painful. To live in the story He gives me with a spirit of non-attachment, a spirit that is able to live into it while transcending it; to feel it deeply but also to feel the stillness that is God at the center of it. I've been counting my blessings instead of focusing on the loss of the ideal, or the loss of what I wanted for this birth. Thank God for my healthy boy. Thank God that I made it through this delivery alive, and that I will recover (many women in the developing world cannot hope for the same). I get to continue to live and learn and grow through this life! What a blessing.
The most poignant part of this story, for me, is the date that my baby came into the world - September 29, 2010. This date is exactly 10 years after my other most transformative experience in life occurred, when I first enjoyed a mystical communion with God, “accepting Christ into my heart”. I wrote in my journal on Sept 29, 2000, “I experienced the effects of the Holy Spirit for the first time today...” It is remarkable that this baby chose to come into the world early and chose this exact special day (or that God chose it, or that I subconsciously chose it – or all of the above). I do not know what it means, but it speaks to me of profound themes, such as the tension between the ideal and the fallen, the hoped for and the settled for, and how the spirit of Christ represents the choice to live in that tension for me. Christ, arms spread on the cross - on one side the criminal who joins him in heaven, and the other, the one who goes to hell - is the reconciliation of heaven and earth, of the spiritual and the material, of God and humanity. He is the middle path, and it is this path, I believe, that allows us the friction required to move the Earth forward along its journey of transformation towards a state of heaven. “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven”. The middle path is not a path of the ideal. It is a path fraught with very real dangers; it is a path through the narrows. The Bible says “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it” (Matt. 7:13-14, New International Version). It is a path of constriction and the pain of transformation. This path is the path of humanity, and humanity alone. We are the beings in this universe who alone have the power of self-reflective consciousness, and it is we who are thus tasked with the deliberate transformation of the world. I think here of birth and human (imperfect, overly-mechanized) intervention versus the ideally-experienced“natural way”, and how my baby's birth walked the line between these ways. I so longed for the natural way. I so longed for the ideal. I left no room in my mind for anything other than that. But when my water broke on Sept 26, a chain of events was set in motion that reminded me indelibly that I don't live in an ideal world, and that neither will my son. That we are tasked with walking this middle path between spirit and flesh, “carrying our crosses”throughout our lives.
I remember that early on in labor after all other alternatives had been considered, I finally consented to the first intervention in the birth. It was a pill I had to take that would soften my cervix to make it ready to deliver. As I dropped the pill into my mouth, I sighed to the midwife and my husband and said, sarcastically, “the bitter pill of compromise”. This poignant phrase pretty much sums up the entire experience for me. It is a deep cosmic compromise to live somewhere between the ideal and the purely broken. Yet there is something so tragically beautiful about this compromise, something that feels grounded and real, earthy and so... human. With this reflection, then, I will “take up my cross” and accept this experience for what it has been, for myself, my husband, and my son, thank God that He exists, thank God that I exist, lift my eyes towards heaven, and continue walking this rocky path.
September 23, 2010
The Mother
I swam beneath a beautiful starry sky tonight, held together by the full moon, and felt a resonance with her fullness as I turned inward and felt my own fullness, my body rounded with fluid and child.
I thought, as I hovered in the water, about my mother, who left this world in 2006, and wished for the millionth time that she were here to share in this time of anticipation, joy, and initiation with me. I recalled that common sentiment from after she died - well meaning people telling me that she'll never leave me, she's still with me. And I wondered - is she really? In what form is it possible that my mother could still be around? And with what eyes does she look down upon me?
Of course I don't know the answers to these questions, and I haven't spent much time considering them, but my initial instinct is that my mother, as she was, no longer exists. Though of course I do hope that her spirit, holding its integrity, continues on its journey in some form, in mysterious realms beyond this one, the embodied bouquet of energies that made up her core consciousness has irreversibly changed form - it seems to me that these energies must re-orient themselves, that this energetic body "dissolves", just as the external body does. And yet I feel her motherly presence around me. I feel her in the way she's shaped me, in the qualities and character of my family. She is with me in some way. I don't know in what way this is, but I do know that where I feel her most of all is perhaps as a being related to the concept of "mother", who continues to nourish me and nurture me, just as she did in her embodied self before that self dissolved.
This got me thinking - what is "mother", in the general sense of the word? What is "mother" as a spiritual concept, being, or archetype? Who is Our Mother, really?
The doula that I'm working with for the upcoming birth of my son, which is due to happen any day, recently suggested to me that I prepare a collection of presences around me of strong women who inspire me - women who support me in my journey into motherhood - either literally or figuratively, directly or indirectly, physically, emotionally, or spiritually. It feels very important for me to be in touch with feminine strength at this time, and to draw on that collective spirit. And just as I can sense a collective feminine spirit, held together in some way and represented and centered in the concept of the Divine Feminine, and the being of the Goddess, I can also sense a "mother" being (archetype) within the cosmos, and it is She who I feel my mother in. It is She who holds me, supports me, believes in me, nurtures me, and beckons me now, as I stand on the threshold of initiation into the sacred role of motherhood.
I feel that this archetypal being, this spirit of mother, shudders now with anticipation, waits eagerly to enter my being, to become part of the energy that makes up my consciousness, to pour herself out through yet another "tap" into the material world, through me!
I see her in the moon and feel her in the waves, and she calls to me: "Kari - meld with me, embrace me, become one with me, and know what it is to be mother - nurturer, care-giver, guide, provider of sustenance, agape-lover, compassionate goddess, embracer of the world, vessel of life..."
In this way, I enter a tribe of women, I become my mother and every mother who has ever existed, and I come to know the Goddess in yet another way, entering gladly into her mystery, and into the Arms of the Universe and Life Itself.
September 6, 2010
The Essence of Faith
It's a familiar pattern
A familiar pain
I'm standing on the edge of hope once again
Are you taking my dreams, and burning them away?
So that I'll fall from
Illusion and follow your way?
Why does this walk require such a state
Of constant disillusionment, a doomed fate?
How can I move forward, and continue to grow
When all I can manage is to shrink back, eyes closed
To more and more of this cosmic flow
Are you sharpening my vision so that I know
How to see the world as more whole?
I don't want to give up and live a life that's not full
Oh God you're the only place I find hope
So as I fall off this edge
Of my illusion into this abyss
I'll re-dedicate myself to you
Breathe in deeply this elusive mist
Falling, falling – constant threat of pain
Learning, learning to let it drip off me like rain
I can't hold onto life
Attachment offers nothing real to gain
So despite my instinct to grab onto something new
I'll open myself up now to just You
And accept that life is learning how to die
To my ego, my passions, illusions, and lies
Teetering on the edge of where hope and despair meet
Standing but knowing the ground could shift beneath my feet
This instability requires dependence on grace
This perpetual falling is the essence of faith
August 30, 2010
The Spirit of Sacramento - 3: Taize Prayer Service - Saint Francis of Assisi Parish, downtown Sacramento
Taize is a small village in the heart of southern France, that has become known worldwide due to the presence of an ecumenical Christian monastery there, called simply "The Taize Community". This monastic community was founded by Frere Roger Schutz-Marsauche, a Swiss theologian, in 1944, just after World-War II. It has grown to a community of over 100 monks, and people flock there week after week to pray with them in their special mode of prayer, contemplative singing. I had the great privilege to spend 10 days at the Taize monastery in the summer of 2008, and it was an experience that reignited my faith in and relationship with God. The meditative singing took me deep into the recesses of my heart, where I felt that I was able to meet God in a deep and profound way, and commune with Him/Her in a way that was authentic and deep, rather than contrived or narrow, as attempts to describe or intellectualize often are.
Needless to say, I have a great respect for Taize-inspired prayer, and a soft spot in my heart for it. When I moved here to Sacramento, I was thrilled to find out that there was a weekly Taize prayer service at a local Catholic church. I go to it from time to time, when I find that I need to commune with God or when I need refreshment or re-centering. It's a wonderful way to do this, and also to bless others by adding myself to the numbers of those attempting to invoke the presence of the Holy Spirit in centered and deep worship.
Two Wednesdays ago, I attended the service at St. Francis of Assisi parish, which is a breathtakingly gorgeous older church with intricate carvings and inspiring stained glass surrounding a dark and intimate sanctuary. The Taize prayer service is on Wednesday evenings at 6:00, and lasts for an hour. I usually sit on the carpeted stairs at the front of the sanctuary. The place is dark and peaceful, and there are usually around 30-100 people there. We sit and sing Taize songs in English, Spanish, and Latin, the same line over and over again for each song, and go deeply into our hearts in prayer. The best way I can describe the nature of these gatherings is as deep, whole, mystical, silent, humble, authentic, and deeply centering. I feel that one cannot help but have a profound encounter with God's spirit in these gatherings, as it feels so present to me. As I discussed in the introductory post to this series, I believe that the Holy Spirit is marked by wholeness, a movement of all of the aspects of God, and I must say that Taize contemplative prayer is one of the most effective methods I've experienced in invoking this spirit in such a whole way. No words are necessary to describe or analyze God in an abstract way - it is simply a Divine encounter, in the hearts of those that truly seek one. It is simply contemplation, a rumination on, a soaking in, of what one finds when their heart connects with God's.
Spirit of Sacramento - 2: The City of the Dharma Realm
A few Sundays ago, on August 15, I went to a Buddhist scripture reading class at a Chinese Buddhist convent in West Sacramento. I had driven past the large complex of The City of the Dharma Realm several times over the past year, and have always been intrigued, so I was very excited to finally see what was behind the mysterious walls and palm trees that surround its border. It was beautiful - a peaceful series of buildings separated by gardens and courtyards spread out throughout the entire campus. The class is held in a small classroom, and is led by 2 nuns, in this case it was one older Chinese nun, and one younger Argentine nun. There were 4 students. We spent the first 20 minutes or so in silent meditation in a small meditation hall where there sat 3 beautiful statues at the front of it. After the sounding of a small bell which marked the end of the meditation time, we went back to the classroom, where we spent the next hour and a half reading through parts of an English translation of the Shurangama sutra with commentary - according to the nuns, this is the most important sutra in Chinese Mahayana Buddhism. It was very detailed reading regarding the importance of the sutra, and how it can keep away evil spirits, etc. My general impression of this gathering is that it was academic in nature, detailed, and open/friendly. The participants seemed to genuinely care about learning and respecting truth from the Chinese Buddhist perspective, and were persistent in their efforts, no matter how tedious or laborious.
August 19, 2010
Birthing, and Motherhood as an Oracle
I'm not exactly sure of who out there in the blogosphere is reading this blog regularly, but for those who may not know, I am expecting my first child in just about 7 weeks. I've slowly but surely been transforming from a conscientious and spiritual young woman who values and attempts to define true femininity, into a fresh and new mother, sprouting life from her womb as mysteriously as the soil sprouts plants from its rich hands. I have definitely felt this new identity creeping up inside myself so slowly as to not even be noticed, and so deeply as to not be able to be articulated just yet, except for perhaps with poetry (which I'm hoping to do more of before my son is born). Anyway, I'm very much "with child" these days, and as I'm reaching the end of my pregnancy, my thoughts are turning away from diapers and nursery decor, and towards preparing for the moment of birth.
Birth seems to be a pretty daunting thing. It's a major transitional moment, a very real gateway of life, like death, only the gateway is really for my child - it's not really for me. My role in the whole process is a little more undefined. Yes, I will "officially" become a mother the moment his little body comes passing through me, but haven't I already entered into that role? I certainly feel that my role as a mother began the instant I conceived this child, and that I have taken on more of a nurturing role as he has grown inside of me and needed more and more care-taking. But it will be a dramatic and triumphant moment for him, won't it, when he flashes into the world from the dark transitional state of having incubated in my nebulous and peaceful womb? He will be born! So the question remains - just what is my role in this process? I am simply, but profoundly, the vessel through which he is passing, the gate itself, like the oracle in "The Never-ending Story" (if you haven't seen the movie, you must!).
How to be the most supportive, wise, and nurturing gate I can possibly be is something that has been brewing in the back of my mind for the past few months, and is starting to pop into the front of my mind more recently. Practically, in order to prepare for his birthing time, I've been using an at-home study program called "Hypnobabies". It's a program in self-hypnosis and deep relaxation to help this moment to naturally (ie no drugs) be a joyful and peaceful time with minimal pain. Although I found the cd recordings to be a little bit cheesy at first, I've gradually been really enjoying it. Yesterday, I listened to a recording about having a positive birthing experience, and I found myself experiencing ecstatic feelings as I felt that I was preparing the way for my baby to come through me, allowing energy to flow through me unimpeded by fear and tension. And I realized how important this skill is. It is a distinctly feminine quality, to allow life to pass through us and to hold it in a nurturing way - to play a receptive, supportive role with all of life. However, it occurs to me how important it is to allow God's spirit, the Holy Spirit, the "whole" spirit of life to flow through us all unimpeded at all times. This is the goal of religious life in virtually all cases, is it not? To walk with God, to worship and serve this Spirit at all times? To not become attached to "passions", fears, ego-built illusions, and instead to live in a more full reality? To allow this full reality to pass through us, as vessels and gateways from the spirit realm to the material world? To transform the material world in this way? What an important lesson this is! And what a joy that I get to experience this lesson in such a tangible way!
An oracle is defined in wikipedia (the ever illustrious and dependable source) as a "portal through which the gods [speak] directly to man". As a mother, I suppose it is my role to act as an oracle, allowing God's spirit, in both a Holy Spirit sense, and in a tangible sense as in the spirit and flesh of my son, to pass through me from spirit world to material world, to "allow the gods to speak directly" to humankind, to allow spirit to interact directly with flesh. I feel truly blessed to have the opportunity to serve this quiet and stoic role - to be the gate through which this new person will pass as he is initiated into human-hood, takes his first breath of this air that behaves so like spirit, yet is so ubiquitous in the material world.
What an honor to become more and more a mother. I can only pray and abandon myself to the mysterious and deep, full spirit, allowing it to flow through me as I learn how to serve in this role more accurately, more lovingly. I am sure that being a mother will be filled with these opportunities - not to grasp, control, fear for, and use, but instead to hold and guide this child with a deep, abiding, unconditional, all-embracing, and firm love as he grows and moves through the world, just as I am learning to do as he moves through my body. I pray for the wisdom and faith to do this sacred job that I've been tasked with, and that as I do it, that I would engage more deeply with God's strong, feminine spirit, and bless the world with it. Praise to mothers everywhere! And praise to our mother God, who gathers all Her children under her wings as a mother hen shelters her chicks.
"How often I have longed to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings" (Luke 13:34)
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