Holy Micro-Moments for Sanity
Now that the Thanksgiving leftovers are gone and all the toasts and blessings have been offered, Iām left with a familiar feeling of letdown. Although I savored the time with family and friends, the Holiday of Gratitude doesnāt find much of a footing in my heart, especially during the challenging time of division and fear that has followed the election here in my country.
Regardless of the external circumstances, Iāve never been a big fan of generic gratitude lists. My mind just doesnāt seem to settle on vague concepts. The kindness of people seems way different than the very specific memory of watching a hurried person slow down and hold the door at the gym patiently for someone struggling to get his walker out of the rain.
To save my sanity this month, I launched my own personal Holy Micro-Moments project. Iāve been stalking the little magical details hiding in plain site as I take daily walks or run errands. A certain slant of light, the children at the bus stop, the cashier at the grocery store. Early on it was the mushrooms in a neighborās yard.
What Iāve noticed, without a big investment of time, is that nature seems to conspire to get our attention. Ā As does human kindness, when we see it, when we let it in.
Even in the midst of all the hubbub in the world right now, holiday or otherwise, thereās that moment of perspective, a deepening of breath.
Join me in exploring the art (and the relief) of finding holy moments in ordinary time.
Take two or three minutes each day to stop, breathe, and savor a moment. If you can, take a photo or jot a few lines in your journal to remind yourself. Share it with the world on Facebook or tuck it away for just you. Iāll do the same.
Gratefully,
Susan Grace
To Life as It Is
To life as it is!Ā Ā My Danish host offered. As a frequent traveler I had gathered toasts in dozens of languages. But at the moment I clicked goblets around the table this time I was speechless. This was a toast deep and wide enough to say all that couldnāt be said.
Years later one of my best friends drowned and two months later we hosted Thanksgiving dinner for friends and family at our place. These words and a song, “Waters of March,” by Susannah McCorkle, held us all in a time of grief and a hint of hope.
Iāve offered this toast many times since.
This year I keep thinking Iād like to qualify my toast. To life as it is (except for politics). To life as it is (except for my brotherās recent stroke).Ā But I notice even though I have other opinions about what life should do, it doesnāt seem to matter to It. I can honor its ways, even as I do my part to alleviate suffering or change what can be changed. Itās a deal weāve struck, Life and I.
And so I offer these words to you. May you share them many times as you go into the season of gatherings and celebrations. To Life As It Is.
I bow to that.
āPerhapsā: the Power of the Long View
I just spent election week driving across the country, cutting a swath throughĀ red states to blue on my way. I was traveling with my daughter, with the plan to celebrate her birthday and the first woman president on the same day, Nov. 9th. You already know how that went. Ā Since that morning Iāve become painfully aware that my living in a blue bubble might have warped my vision a bit. But I spent most of the fall in the Midwest, and Iām just as aware of people there I care about who have their own reasons to be celebrating.
The oddest inner whisper has been haunting me all the way:Ā A simple word, perhaps, repeating in my head like a mantra.
An image of white smoke comes to mind, and a memory:Ā Sitting with my spiritual ama or mother, at a Benedictine monastery where I was studying interfaith spiritual mentoring. Before this I had never paid much attention to popes, having somehow concluded as a child that they were similar to the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan.Ā Sister Antoinette was one of the most transparent, illuminated, and open-minded people Iāve ever met. She was also a ācradle to graveā Democrat, by her own description, and a strong progressive by mine. In her mid-seventies at the time, she glowed with Life. When I was a pre-teen in a Southern Baptist camp, I had been warned of the Catholic plot to take over the world.Ā In the company of Sister Antoinette, I could see how this could happen.
The news was full of updates on the process of selecting a new pope, which included white smoke from a chimney. This was the second day of a process that could last weeks. While I was sitting with Sister Antoinette, the silence was pierced by the chapel bells right outside our window. A phone down the hall rang, and Sister Dorothy, her slightly irreverent friend, tapped on the door.
I knew enough about the candidates to surmise that one of the cardinals, Ratzinger, was strictly literal and a bastion of conservative forces. I had already formed a strong bias against him. I had shortened his name for memoryās sake to āRat.ā I was fairly certain that my friends would have a similar feeling about him being selected Holy Father.
So when Antoinette opened the door to get the news from Dorothy, I watched carefully.
āItās Ratzinger,ā Dorothy said softly.
The Sisters looked into each othersā eyes.
āPerhapsā¦.ā They said at the same moment, as each nodded gently.
This moment has stayed embedded in my memory ever since.
They were like visitors from another planet. I saw that their minds were wide open and deeply accepting, at the same time I was pretty sure they wouldnāt change their political activism.
This past week Iāve begun to understand the depth of surrender this takes. My mind and heart havenāt been able to sort through all that is happening. So many parts of the process just havenāt made sense in my world. Iāve been working through my fears and my preconceived opinions about the elected president. At the same time, Iām finding my own way to take effective action to protect people who are bullied or threatened. Ā In the meantime, Iāll practice putting my ultimate trust in the power of the long view.
Cardinal Ratzinger, or Pope Benedict II, was a less than perfect church father who was politely retired for complicated and disturbing choices he had made in his past. The eventual result was the selection of Pope Francis, a much-revered bringer of reform and change.Ā Perhaps it took the house-clearing and honesty that was required to confront priestly child abuse to allow a new leadership to surface. These developments could have never been predicted ten years ago. Who knows how things will continue to evolve? Not me.
Itās now a week after the news, and Iām back home. My mind settles a bit. I make a list of the issues close to my heart and begin to think about how I will support them with action and money. Iām feeling a strongly renewed commitment to stay awake and alert on behalf of justice for my fellow beings and for the earth I love.
And alwaysā¦I just keep thinkingā¦ Perhaps.
Fish, Fowl, and this Waiting Time
Iām not usually a political junkie, but this year seems more like a morality play than an election, and Iāve been hooked, finding my equanimity tossed around by the story line as well as the political implications. Itās a biting-your-nails kind of time for me and for so many others in the world.
Action usually helps, so the first thing I thought to doĀ was to vote. So I did. And mailed it in. Itās something we do here in Oregon without polling sites, voting booths and lines. But Iām still not done with this democratic ritual we call an election. First, thereās more to do. And second, a guilty admission: Iām a little too hooked on the dopamine of the Barnum & Bailey sideshow that has characterized this yearās election.
Thereās something familiar here, I think. Iāve always found the stories of ancient and universal human experience helpful in such times as these. So I wasnāt surprised when a couple of words pop through the fog: liminal time. These are the words Iāve often used to describe the state of being neither fish nor fowl, having left the old life behindĀ but not yet having arrived at the new one. In anthropology it describes āa threshold during the middle stage of a ritual when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the ritual is complete.ā Neither fish nor fowl.
So I gave my Inner Researcher a job, and she turned up a gem. āLiminal timeā is usuallyĀ characterized by a quality of ambiguity or disorientation.Ā During these times ācontinuity of tradition may become uncertain, and future outcomes once taken for granted may be thrown into doubt.ā Of course! Weāre all in liminal time!
My researcher went on: āThereās a lack of the usual order of life during this in-between time. However, with a more fluid situation, new institutions and customs are able to emerge.”
Now Iām back to a turf I know for real. Iāve seen so many times how important a time of not-knowing seems to be for personal transformation. And so here we are as a culture, not knowing the future for a couple more weeks. Preparing for something new to emerge. I have seen this process again and again. Enough that I trust it completely. Now I know the territory.
When I work with clients, I remind them that this state of waiting can seem excruciatingly long. But again and again my peeps have found that the results are worth the waiting and the not-knowing.
This seems to be always the case. Patience and trust are not necessarily my strongest character traits, but I know I can do this.
We can all do this. Together. Not fish. Not Fowl. But some seaworthy and airborne combination of patience and determination worthy of what is to come.
