It’s Epiphany morning. Here’s what I wrote at earliest light, following my purest intentions and my personal tradition of defining Epiphany as a time-out-of-time. Just before a tiny techno glitch grabbed me and shook me by the heels:
I love this liminal time. The time between dark and light. I resist electricity and grope my way by candlelight before meditating each morning. The light grows gradually as I sit, then pick up my pen and journal and stumble my way back to waking awareness, writing all the while to remind myself of the intersection between the external world and my own voice, between the group heart and my own. The upheaval of the holidays is behind and what’s left is to live into the tender newness.
My morning practice of early January is resolution-free. I listen to the stirrings of newness, without acting or even making a “priority list.” My only goal is to find my own deepest commitments. It’s a time to clear the mind, a time of waiting and listening. Allowing the tumult to settle so my inner life can open into the deepest sea of kindness.
What I’ve learned is that Jan. 1st is just too soon after the holiday for me to hear my deeper promptings. So for many years, Epiphany, which happens to be today, has felt like my own personal, quiet holiday. Some years I’ve spent the day in silence. Others I’ve dedicated the day to challenging myself to live in mindfulness (and forgiveness when I forget). Whatever I do, it’s a propitious date for settling once again into myself.
What arrives from the transitional, liminal time, feels deeply grounded in kindness, rather than ego.
But what if whatever arrives comes from the ethers of technology? I hadn’t allowed for that . . .
At a pause in the writing/being state, I took just a little peek “to keep up with email.” Why not? I thought. I answered a couple of crucial ones and smiled as I glanced over the blogs and newsletters of a couple of friends. Peace. Kindness.
And the next moment I realized that I’d lost everything that had been patiently waiting for my response in my inbox. One of my soft resolutions this year has been to refrain from reacting to problems immediately, unless there’s a crisis.
And this. Was. A. Crisis. I was convinced, even as I saw it was not.
Technology has a way of interfering with my purest of intentions, just as it supports them. The proverbial horns of a dilemma. Do I disrupt the quietness of the morning by solving the email problem, which means asking for help from my loyal spouse, who is blessedly helpful and gifted at tech support? (I know. I’m a very lucky woman.) Or do I continue savoring the silence and deal with it later? And, if I decide on the latter, will I truly let it be until then, or will concerns about the problem leak into this perfect clean slate of a day?
A sigh slipped out as I asked for help. Then a pause for gratefulness that I could ask and probably receive it. Followed by a deep realization: this was not an either/or proposition. In the moment I could see the opportunity to do this one thing, deal with the missing email, in exactly the same way I would approach a day of silent meditation or dedicated writing time. With peace. Equanimity.
Freedom. And that is what I chose.
Where in your life could you choose to treat a hassle with a little more kindness? What triggers the reactive compulsion for you? Just notice. Make a list and choose one. Check it out. Where do you have a choice to do something different?
“Candle Light Balcony Session” by Sven, CC by 2.0
What’s the difference between major surgery and minor surgery? I’m at a special pre-op session led by the hospital physical therapist. I had no idea. Didn’t care. Hospitals aren’t my thing. I just wanted to get this knee replacement over with without breaking stride in my full life. I know. I missed the irony at that moment, but I get it now. I get the punch line to the joke, too. Minor surgery is someone else’s. Major surgery is mine.
My Major Surgery was three weeks ago. By every account it was a success. I’m no longer a short-term resident of La La Land because of the pain medications. Friends and health care folks comment on how well I’m doing. My walker sits on the sidelines, no longer needed. I find it possible to track a thought long enough to tease it into a paragraph.
Now that I’m not quite so immersed in my Major drama, there’s room for a much bigger vantage point, I’m more deeply moved by all the generosity around me: the well-wishers, the cards, the visits and chocolate. I’ve made room within for the life force spun close around me, and I’m blessed by it. Now that my body is recovering and beginning to believe that it can trust the Universe again, I’m able to embrace “minor” events that occurred while I was absorbed in my “major” one. I’m less overwhelmed by my surroundings and way more interested in the world around me. There’s room inside for everything from sobering world events to holiday merriment.
More than ever before I’m bathed in deep respect for the suffering endured by loved ones and strangers, as they try to make the world around them a little kinder. My heart is cracked open when I think of those who step up and do what is theirs to do, whether it’s miss Christmas with family to fight Ebola or stand together during personal or community tragedy to keep Hope alive. Just today I learned that a loved one will be given the support he needs to find housing out of the rain and wind this winter. The faces of those who have made this possible for him are the ones I collect in my personal bundle of Major League Heroes. They find ways to give my brothers and sisters shelter from the storm. That is Major.
I’m traveling with my friend Siri, she who is the little sister of Garmin and the daughter of Mapquest, the maker of all directions. Sometimes when I believe her, we go straight from Point A to Point B in the most efficient manner. And sometimes I end up making three left turns when I wanted to go right…or entering a freeway to go to another exit altogether, only to get off and find that I was where I wanted to go just before I got on the freeway in the first place.
All I’m saying is that sometimes her logic is a bit circular. Much like my own.
And I’m reminded of all the trips I made with my co-author and business partner, Jeanne. I’ve always considered myself directionally challenged, and…let’s just say Jeanne was in the same tribe. And in the olden days, before GPS, this was sometimes a significant challenge.
We’d fly to new cities. Drive to PR gigs and workshops. And even with our stash of maps and one of us serving as a designated navigator, we were often lost more than we were found.
Our favorite navigational method was to circumambulate around the location, eventually zeroing in on our goal.
We called this the Sacred Spiral Path.
I’ve noticed that this process is similar for almost everyone I know who wants to live a life that is more and more satisfying. We set our GPS or identify a destination. We begin. There’s a sense of freedom and possibility. An open road and hope.
And then something happens. There’s a natural fear or discomfort that comes when you’re doing something new. This is a part of the process, something to lean into. But as you go on, another feeling may show up in your body. It may feel like a general heaviness or a tightness in the belly or a felt sense of stuckness.
When we get closer to what we thought we wanted, sometimes there’s a feeling that it’s not right for us. Or we may notice that the landscape is off and the Universe is giving us new signals. These bodily directions are as important to navigation as the first excitement or joy.
This is a good time to remember that we’re not lost. We’re getting closer and closer to our essence. Finding our unique way on the sacred spiral path.
What body signs tell you that you’re on the right path? What are your navigational signals that it’s time to recalibrate? How do you do that? Is your path straight, wiggly, circular or spiral? Or sometimes all of the above? Just notice….
Last week I made a lovely connection with a young woman by surprise. We were participating in an event where the leader requested my very least favorite group exercise: gazing in the eyes of a stranger.
I realized it would be far easier to drop my opinion and see what happened than to keep my story. As it turned out …(drum roll)…there was nothing to hate about it. In fact, it was quite sweet. Quiet. Present. Love. This was the groupie thingee that I’d been hating on for the last…oh…thirty years?
After five minutes or so, we talked.
“You have had many lifetimes as a wise woman,” she offered, adding that she had a gift for seeing past lives.
I’m an agnostic on the subject of past lives, but I was honored by the compliment.
“Right now I’m just working on this one,” I responded with more than a touch of irony.
She seemed to want to be helpful. “You should develop the confidence to go for it. Let people see your wisdom.”
I noticed that being willing and confident to share wisdom is no longer a problem for me. I’m comfortable now in that identity, as long as I’m not pretending to know more than I do or to “step up” to an image of being a Wise Woman.
Once I take on that identity, I’m in trouble. I have to pretend wisdom when sometimes I’m not feeling it so much.
On the other hand, I sometimes experience deep gratitude…and grounding, by the wisdom of my female ancestors, those wise women who came before, from my personal family tree as well as the human tree of life.
All of us come from many lives of Wise Women. No problem there. Just such a rich pool of deep connection with all that was, all that is.
And then, there’s this life. Where we (or I) are sometimes “off,” grouchy or irritable. Where I still sometimes fight with the reality right in front of me.
In the end, what’s worth remembering is that I AM still working on it. It this lifetime. And I’m glad.
What wisdom of the ancestors inspires you today? How do you find your way back to your Wise Person, in this life? Where are you challenged to be as wise as you know how to be? Turn it around: Where are you challenged to not be wise when you think you should be?