What About Tomorrow?

What about tomorrow? No need to worry; it's not here yet.

Six-year-olds who are sniffing gasoline don't worry about kidney damage tomorrow or fifteen years from now. Smokers are told that the "coffin nail" they are smoking will shave 15 minutes from their life, but they figure that those are the last 15 minutes of their lives, not worth living anyway. People who live on junk food and don't exercise have some vague idea that they are damaging their health, but they can deal with that tomorrow, when symptoms actually emerge.

We all want the good life -- satisfying career, good cash flow, supportive mate, adorable children, beautiful house and pets that don't scratch the paint off the doors. There are no guarantees that life will bring us these blessings. However, if we invest in the future -- getting an education, safeguarding our health, building nourishing relationships with others, applying for jobs that we are interested in, giving a day's work for a day's pay -- our chances of getting something worth having are greatly increased.

Every journey, no matter how long, begins with the first step. Every mountain, no matter how high, is climbed one step at a time. Every new skill has to be learned, one attempt at a time, with many failures and setbacks. Every structure, from a tiny log cabin to a great skyscraper, is put together one piece at a time. The law of cause and effect has not been repealed. We can dream big, but we have to start small.

It is useless to worry obsessively about tomorrow, or anything that we can't control. We are wiser to turn our attention to what is happening here and now, enjoying the gifts the day brings, while rising to the challenges in front of us.

No matter how good today is, it will not last forever. No matter how bad today is, there is something we can do to improve it, if not for ourselves, then for someone else.

What about tomorrow? For better or worse, we are building it now.

Mastering fear

"Don't try to make the butterflies in your stomach go away. Teach them to fly in formation."

-- Bob Carr, street performer and juggler extraordinaire

The Granite Life-preserver

A friendship based on guilt may look like a life-preserver, but it's really a millstone. Guilt leaves us feeling exploited and unsure. If we behave lovingly out of guilt, that gift will come wrapped in resentment. The more we give, the more we hate, until everything falls apart.

Without Hope of Return

Once upon a time, in my more idealistic days, I decided to befriend Lil B., notorious drunk and part-time AA member. The friendlier we got, the more she asked me for.

When I took her to the doctor and sat in the waiting room until she was ready to go home, I reminded myself that I was to be a servant.

When I prayed through the night for her daughter who was in critical condition with a drug overdose, I rejoiced with Lil when the tide turned and her child's life was spared. I thought we would be friends forever after that.

When Lil asked to borrow my brand-new upperclass vacuum cleaner (which I loved dearly), I reminded myself of the saying recorded by Luke: "Lend without hope of return." The vacuum eventually came back with a permanently damaged motor. The dust bag had broken, and Lil blamed me for inconveniencing her with a substandard vacuum cleaner. (I eventually invested in a new motor, but the machine was never the same.)

Lil's self-serving attitude gave me the backbone I needed. When she phoned the next time, she wanted me to transport a TV set to her cousin's place. "Lil," I said kindly, "I have decided not to do any more things for you. I want to be your friend, but I get the impression that you don't want that -- you are just interested in what I can do for you."

"Well," huffed Lil, "IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU FEEL ABOUT IT--" She slammed down the receiver and I never heard from her again.

Afterwards, I thought ruefully. "Jesus was lucky. He didn't have a car, or a TV set, or a vacuum cleaner." That's when the penny dropped. The admonition to divest ourselves of property is not a command – it’s a call.

Perhaps the call to material poverty is selective, like the call to celibacy. Jesus didn't seem to mind dropping in at his affluent friends' places for free meals. He never told Mary & Martha & Lazarus to sell their house and go on the road with him.

Like all calls, the call to poverty is an invitation to a fuller life. We serve best out of our poverty -- material, emotional, spiritual, sometimes even when our bodies are being eaten away by painful disease. Only a few choose to follow that call. Their lives may become easier or more difficult as a result. That doesn’t matter. What matters is the choice they have made and why they made it.

I don’t have to hang onto my achievements any more than I have to hang onto my property. I don’t have to hang onto my deeds of mercy and service either. I am free to do what I want. That is enough, if I am willing to admit it and embrace it.

SYNERGY

It is much easier to function synergistically as a part, rather than struggling futilely to be the whole. Many problems we are unable to solve on our own will find unexpected solutions in a collaboration, especially if we let go of our pre-judgements and bring ourselves to the table with an open mind, ambiguities and all. In any effective group, the solutions come not from us, but from God. That works best when everyone is actively seeking God's will, but God is sneaky and will work for good even through those who think they don't need Him. Most problems are solved in process, not definitively. It is important to be patient and learn from what is unfolding.

God's Shalom

Peace be with you.

It sounds so easy, so comfortable, so politically correct.
But there is a price.
How can we be at peace
with God, our neighbours, and ourselves?
Aren't those conflicting priorities?
How do we judge their relative importance?
How do we begin to have peace,
make peace,
be peace?
It's all so personal!

If we claim to have good news to share,
we must also be good news
to those we want to share with.

That may cost us something --
everything.
Save your life and lose it;
lose your life and save it.

God's economy is strange and paradoxical.
The only thing we cannot forfeit
is the love of God.
Our souls are not for sale.
We give what we do not own;
we receive what we have not earned.

How is healing possible in such a world as this?
We have no control; we can only ask.
God will not be manipulated.

The Tyranny of STUFF

It takes time and energy to take care of stuff. Physical stuff, intellectual property, outdated issues, unresolved traumas and conflicts, even memories. I have a choice: caretake my past or build my future.

I want to live. I don't know exactly what it takes to make me feel alive, but I have only a limited time to find out what it is. I realize now that the experience of abundant life is a continuum, not an on/off thing, and my dreams of perfection were unrealistic. I will never get everything I want, but I can work towards getting more of it.

I can't grab the right stuff if my hands (and heart, and mind) are already full of wrong stuff, obsolete stuff, broken stuff, and even OK stuff that isn't as important as I thought it was.

Facing Truth

Rev. Dr. Ursa proclaims: Our most fervent prayers are born of guilt, fear, and resentment. The most effective ones are the fruit of love.


Ursa's evil twin counters: So -- before I presume to pray for others, I should divest myself of my own guilt, fear, and resentment? You've got to be kidding! That's how I legitimize those nasty feelings!! "Dear Lord, Joe is a jerk, but I'm OK because I'm praying for him. When I get finished being holy, I expect you to hand over my lollypop! I've earned it!"

We need honesty in our recovery tool kit just as much as we need faith, hope and love. Honesty with God is difficult, because God is huge and scary and all-powerful and may retaliate if we fail to please. Honesty with others is difficult, because we risk being cast into outer darkess, with weeping and gnashing of teeth. Honesty with ourselves is most difficult of all -- we cling to our shredded self-image, the delusion of self-sufficiency, the filthy rags of our self-righteousness, praying desperately to believe that if we just faith hard enough, the world will re-arrange itself in the glorious patterns we dreamed before we lost our innocence.

When the All-Powerful and All-Knowing comes to us in the garment of unconditional love, we howl and weep because we have nowhere to hide. It is not an easy matter to acknowledge who we really are. But until we do, our deepest hurts remain unhealed and festering.

The Desperate Dog

If the shoe fits, wear it. if the dog barks, feed it. If it bites -- you have a problem.

The Parable

of the Desperate Dog

A fearful woman decided to protect herself by getting a large dog. Whenever something or someone threatened her, she would scream for help. The dog would rush to save her, growling, barking, sometimes nipping. She would act horrified and punish the dog for being so aggressive. "Bad dog! Bad dog! How could you act like that?"

After a while, the dog got the message that he should not be so aggressive. He stopped responding to her screams. This was even worse. "Bad dog! Bad dog!" she would scream. "Why didn't you defend me?"

One day, while the woman was beating her dog, he turned into a handsome prince who said, "I love you dearly, but I can't go on like this. We need help."

They sent a letter to Dr. Phil, who invited them to appear on his show. He was sympathetic to their cause, and offered to pay for a session with the world's greatest therapist.

After six hours of waiting, they were finally ushered into the consultation room. The therapist heard them out for as long as he could stand. Finally, he interrupted them. "I'd like to help, but it's a waste of time. You aren't interested in constructive change. You're looking to use my advice as a baseball bat against each other."

"Forget the advice," the lady snapped. "Just tell me how to turn this cretin back into a dog."

Impression Addiction

(October, 2006)
It has recently come to my painful attention that I sacrificed most of my life to fantasies. I wanted to be the best, the most beloved in all things, and I needed people to tell me that I was this mythical person. Impression management was more important than the experience of living.

The price for my unwillingness to accept reality was a chronic sense of failure. Failure as a student (because I couldn't score 100% all the time); failure as a teacher (because some of my students refused to comply to my unrealistic visions of them); failure as a mother (because my children weren't perfect); failure as a wife (because my husband wasn't God); failure as a woman (because I was not a sex goddess and did not particularly enjoy the company of children); failure as a Christian (because I had doubts and could not invoke God's power on demand). The universe would not conform to my dreams, so I was a mistake.

Last Good Friday, I drew pictures of the failure monsters, the success idol, and other evils. I renounced them and burned my artwork before God's altar.

Now I need the help of my friends to see myself realistically: to acknowledge both my strengths and weaknesses, to be comfortable with my limitations, to absolve myself of responsibility for things which I cannot control.

It's a hard road, but it's a whole lot better than hating myself.

Time wasted or time redeemed?

From one of my e-mails, October '06. I think I was lecturing myself.

I DON'T NEED ANYBODY'S PERMISSION TO BE HAPPY AND PRODUCTIVE. A MINUTE OF PLEASURE IS BETTER THAN NO PLEASURE AT ALL. THE ONLY WASTED TIME IS TIME SPENT MAKING BAD MEMORIES.

Healthy, nurturing relationships are essential. We all need people who like us for us, and want to share themselves and their resources "just because". When I encounter people like that, I tend to be just a little leery -- is this too good to be true? Time is the test. There is no need to offer trust to anyone who hasn't earned it.

Mother Theresa said that our society has a famine of love. I am agreeing with that more and more. Simple friendship is a very scarce commodity. Everyone has better things to do -- working, networking, climbing the ladder. "Just because" is not acceptable any more -- everything has to have a purpose. In my book, there is nothing to compare with the feeling of heading out to meet a friend, to "kill" some time together. But what we are actually doing is redeeming it, finding ourselves in each other's pleasure, and laying foundations for a future we might actually want to show up for.

Whose Mistake is it, Anyway?

I recognized myself in this story, told by Sheila Fabricant Linn in the book Belonging, and pray that I have made as much progress as she has. She commissioned a jeweler to recast her mother's ring for her own wedding. The first version was unsatisfactory, so she sent it back. The second version, which arrived two days before the wedding, was even worse -- not only did Sheila dislike it, but the stones kept digging into the side of her fingers.

"So, the day after the wedding we returned it once more. From then on, I noticed that every time the phone rang, I was afraid the jeweler was calling to yell at me for bothering her again. I was acting as if it were my fault that she had not made the ring correctly.

"Finally she did call to tell me they were ready to mail the ring. She spoke to me in a very loving way, and apologized for not having made the ring as I wanted it the first or second time. I realized what I had been doing. We had hired her, we were paying for her work, she had made a mistake . . . and I was acting as if I needed to make amends to her.

"Years ago, I would not even have sent that ring back. I would have taken the consequences of another's mistake and worn something for the rest of my life that I did not like. So, even asking the jeweler to redo the ring was a step toward making aments to myself for all the times in the past when I took the consequences of other people's mistakes. Realizing how I had been blaming myself for the jeweler's mistake, I tried to make further amends to myself by appreciating the way I had held out for what I really wanted. I do that again each time I look at my ring and let myself enjoy how it feels exactly right for me."

While I was typing this, I remembered an incident from early motherhood. Andy -- still a pre-schooler -- bought a box of plastic pre-historic figurines. They weren't expensive from an adult point of view, but they represented a substantial investment for him. As soon as he got into the car, he tore open his purchase and discovered that one package of figurines was missing.

As he grieved over the loss, I sat in the car with the engine running, clutching the steering wheel. All I wanted to do was put my vehicle in gear and get the hell out of there. Then I said to myself,

I'LL BE DAMNED IF I LET HIM TURN OUT LIKE ME!

I shut off the engine and explained to my son that when we buy something in a store and there is something wrong with it, we can take it back and ask the people who sold it to us to fix the mistake. He was surprised and happy to hear that. We marched back into the store together. I let him handle the transaction himself because I was sure he could do it better than I could. He trusted that justice would be done, and I didn't. His explanation was so charming that he got not only what he asked for, but an additional package of figurines.

It would have been so easy for me to tell my son to stop whining and appreciate what he got. But that was a message I had heard too often as a child. I was still, at age thirty-something, absorbing the consequences of other people's mistakes instead of holding them accountable.

The good people of the Christian church tend to support unassertive behaviour, labelling it "forgiveness". But it is not loving to support other people's mistakes, unintentional or otherwise. We each need to own our deficiencies before we can experience grace and grow through it. Forgiveness is a divine act of grace, but we can't honestly offer it to others unless we first admit that we were wronged.

Preach, Teach, and Leave Literature

You know you're recovering when you can go to a family reunion and you don't have to preach, teach, or leave literature.
--"Karen" (from Anne Schaef's Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much)

Preach, teach, and leave literature -- the style of evangelism we love to hate. Yet we all do it. When we get on a bandwagon -- the latest diet, the hot new book or movie, the game to end all games -- we want company. Once our enthusiasm wanes, we redouble our proselytization, hoping that the new converts will help us to re-live the first hyperflush of insane hope that this time, we would get things right and everything would be fine forever.

If I can't control my life, I try to control others' lives. Now there's a bit of twisted logic! Somehow, someone else's backyard jungle is more exciting, more worthy of attention, than my own weedy flower beds.

Dr. Shaef: "How much easier it is to work with people instead of trying to overpower them with the righteousness of our rightness. CONTROL IS DEADLY FOR EVERYONE."

So, Doctor -- even if I succeed, I fail?

Ouch.

My Elegant Four-Point Plan

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, because they encourage rebellion and feelings of failure. In November '06, however, I had a lot of ideas about how I wanted my life to change.

My FOUR-POINT PLAN for 2007:
LIGHTEN UP
LET GO
EMBRACE SURPRISES
COMMUNICATE MY NEEDS/ASK FOR HELP

This replaced my former agenda of
SAVE THE UNIVERSE
NEVER GIVE UP
STRIVE FOR PERFECTION
DO FOR OTHERS

This was followed by a budget (no more impulse buying, except with designated "mad money"), 10 goals, and a list of strategies for achieving said goals. No implementation date -- I started right away.

I have destroyed part of the paper record and am planning to destroy the rest, so I won't have anything to feel guilty about when I fail to produce a perfect performance on all points. It's clear to me which direction I want to go. Forget the GPS and navigational charts -- all I need is a compass.

It's been tough so far. I keep screaming that I want freedom, but I agonize when I have to make choices.

My elegant seven-point plan for 2008:
1. Take one day at a time.
2. Love myself so I can love others.
3. Trust my own judgement.
4. Believe in the future, but don't try to live there.
5. Avoid trying to change others.
6. Explore new avenues.
7. Learn to play.

I really want to publish one of my novels in 2008. But I'm afraid. What am I afraid of? Failure? Success? A fantasy-reality collision?

Desperatedly Seeking Inner Autonomy

When children are told what to see, what to think, and what to feel, they become conditioned to suppress their own perceptions, thoughts and feelings. Their real self becomes more and more separated from their illusionary self -- I think the shrinks call that "personality disassociation"? The road to authentic seeing, thinking and feeling is long and hard, but there is a road. God can be a big help as long as we are willing to be absolutely honest. If we believe that our honesty would threaten God as it threatens the powerful people in our lives, our faith becomes a stumbling block rather than a channel of grace.

My grandmother's favourite non-violent correction was, "You make me sad!" This may have seemed enlightened when compared to abusive name-calling and hitting, but it took its toll. It is a heavy burden for a child to imagine that s/he is responsible for the emotions of others.

Adults are directly responsible for their own emotional states. Circumstances and other people can influence us, but they do not have the power to control what we think and feel. When I first heard that at a support group meeting, it seemed ludicrous. Even now, decades of struggle later, it seems an impossible challenge to master my own inner dialogue and the feelings that are generated by it.

Avoiding or Embracing? Let me Count the Ways

(January 31/07)

Ten Ways I Avoid Feeling Potentially Overwhelming Emotions:

1. Tackle something on my "shit list" (things I SHOULD do, but don't want to).

2. Ponder theoretical cosmic issues.

3. Engage in process addiction.

4. Shop.

5. Criticize or advise others.

6. Write essays.

7. Do good deeds.

8. Read or watch TV.

9. Cook and/or eat.

10. Worry.


Ten Ways I Ground Myself in Preparation for Releasing Potentially Overwhelming Emotions:

1. Knit.

2. Make music or listen to music.

3. Write poetry or songs.

4. Sing.

5. Daydream/fantasize/imagine stories.

6. Take a bath.

7. Walk a dog.

8. Ride my bike.

9. Talk to a close friend who is in the mood to listen.

10. Pray/meditate.


Why I do my Therapeutic Work in a Public Place

1. I feel safer. When I imagine someone reading this, I feel that somebody cares. I blog, therefore I am.

2. Except for one instance, I have never achieved a sufficient level of dysfunction to warrant therapy and the personal attention it implies.

3. Non-intrusive self-disclosure may help others who are struggling with similar issues.

4. Blogging spares people who don't want to know what's really going on with me.

5. If somebody says, "How's it going?" I can answer, "Read my blog."

6. Sometimes I meet new people.

7. It feels more creative and significant this way.

8. Maybe a famous author will use me as material for a novel and give me second-hand fame.

9. I am forced to be clear and specific to avoid confusing my potential audience.

10. I keep hoping that everything I've suffered and learned will go on to benefit the world, even after I'm gone.

Incident on Quadra Street

When I am in Victoria, I like to attend church at Christ Church cathedral to reconnect with my Inner Anglican, experience superbly-crafted liturgy, and be deafened by the new pipe organ. Afterwards, I like to stroll down Quadra to my favourite market square, which features a grocery store, London Drugs, and a fast-food Japanese restaurant which offers free barley tea to customers.

One Sunday in June 2006, I wandered into London Drugs after church to take my blood pressure. I picked up some stuff to justify my presence, and made my way to the grocery store.

On the way, I sat down beside a lady who was selling The Victoria Street Newz (a surprisingly professional publication by and for street people, which airs their issues and allows their vendors to earn a few dollars), and we talked briefly while I hunted through my change.

This particular grocery store is my favourite food store in the world. It has a coffee machine right inside the door, and a bar with stools to sit and enjoy a break. There are also little round tables and chairs outside for snacking and people-watching. Besides the deli counter and any number of ready-to-eat food items, there is a separate fish counter at least twenty feet long. The floral section is a kaleidosopic jungle of cut and potted flowers, notably enormous roses.

Outside the door, a bare-chested man was lurching back and forth, trying to bum a smoke, becoming more frustrated by the moment.

"Here," a woman sitting on one of the chairs called out. "I'll give you a smoke."

He approached her, hardly able to believe his luck.

"Sure I'll give you a smoke," the woman said. "Somebody just gave me five bucks." The two of them started chatting affably.

I reflected on the fact that down-and-out people seem to be more generous about sharing their good luck than my own social circle. As I passed them, I got another look at the man, and realized that he was a pretty fair specimen of manhood and would clean up well. Perhaps this lady had motives other than generosity.

My Glass Ceiling

My maternal grandmother insisted that we were superior to normal mortals -- practically a new mutation. She blamed all her problems and ours on one thing: JEALOUSY by the little people who surrounded us. She also neutralized many of my protests against injustice with, "You're just jealous."

I had no way of testing her premises, so I internalized them. Jealousy became a dark, vindictive power that must be avoided at all costs. There is some truth in that, of course -- jealous people can do horrible things -- but I deified jealousy, attributed it with supermagical powers that disrupted all aspects of life. Hence, my reluctance to face success or admit that I am good at anything. When I get to a certain rung on any ladder, I sabotage myself.

Is it too late to change a life that has been trapped in a narrow crack between the fear of failure and the fear of success?

I've put the success thing on hold by declaring that success and failure are an illusion. I'm not satisfied with that conclusion, but it will have to do for now. The pertinent question is not: How do I control other people's perception of me and my perception of myself? but What do I want to do with this moment of life and the moments to follow? What is really important to me?

How Sick is Sick Enough?

During a flight from Victoria to Regina in 2005, my seat-mate Miranda lived up to her name. (Miranda is a classical Latin word which means "to be marvelled at".) She had the worst case of nausea I have ever seen. She had discovered her gift for medication-resistant airsickness on a previous flight, but she could not afford the time for land travel. I kept handing her fresh airsickness bags and a damp towel while she told me her story between heaving sessions. It came naturally to me because she was the same age as my daughter.

Miranda was celebrating her 27th birthday by travelling to her grandfather's funeral. That night, she was going to be carrying the cross for a midnight ritual in honour of the deceased -- a job reserved for the oldest grandchild, but said grandchild had just had part of her arm amputated and was unequal to the task. There had been a storm the night before, knocking down power lines & trees, so Miranda had been forced to travel to the airport (in the dark at 5AM from a house with no electricity) via a convoluted detour, pulling trees off the road with the truck & chain along the way. This woman is a construction contractor who breeds mastiffs in her spare time. A couple of weeks before, her husband rolled her SUV with her entire crew in it. No one was killed, but everyone went off on medical disability at the same time.

When she started to shake after a particularly tough session of trying to vomit up bile, she said, "This is normal . . ." She said that the shaking had started a couple of years ago, and the MRI showed a brain lesion. I asked if she seizured, and she said no. I said no problem, shaking would not freak me out. I told her that in her place, I would be shaking from stress, with no need for a brain lesion.

Miranda was not a whiner -- she just found herself telling me more and more because I was sympathetic. I thought that she might feel less awful if she talked through her stress. At least, conversation would provide some distraction from her misery while we were on the ground waiting to go up for another nauseating ride. The flight from Victoria to Edmonton did not require a plane change, but there were two touchdowns.

Periodically, she would wail, "I'm SORRY!" and ask why I was being so nice to her. She felt overwhelmingly guilty for being sick, and doubly guilty because I was being inconvenienced by her presence. I tried to convince her that I understood that she wasn't vomiting uncontrollably for the express purpose of annoying me, but it was a hard sell.

Miranda represents one extreme of the spectrum of reactions to personal illness. She was ashamed because she could not control her body, ashamed that she needed assistance, and she expected to be punished. Those at the other end of the spectrum love their organ recitals and games of "I'm sicker than you," and expect the universe to revolve around their medical abnormalities. Anyone who refuses to participate in the expected manner is immediately convicted of selfishness.

What I learned from Miranda on the airplane is that sickness is an opportunity to experience grace and also an opportunity to experence rejection. Our experience shapes the way we handle our illnesses. A few days after I was Miranda's seat mate, I walked out of a Christian concert five minutes before it started and was unable to go back in because I could not face the thought of having to squeeze by people again if the urge to pee became overwhelming. I sat on the steps outside and listened as the MC went through the various stages of the sales pitch. I got more and more frustrated, and finally told God I couldn't listen to other people any more and wanted -- nay, needed -- to follow whatever path he showed me. One person -- an insurance salesman who was once a psychiatric nurse -- came and talked to me for a while in a non-invasive way, and left me feeling a lot better. I decided not to apologize for my behaviour, or plead for understanding. When I am sick, physically or mentally, I will remain sick until I am well. That's it.

My mother and I are both of the Miranda variety. No matter how sick we are, we accuse ourselves of malingering. Even though we would not dream of refusing to tend any and all sick people who cross our path, we worry that we are not sick enough to deserve tending. How crazy is that?

I secretly long to be a medical megalomaniac, suffering theatrically from some dreaded, exotic but painless disease, which requires dozens of specially-trained people to tend me like a wilting orchid. What would happen if I threw myself on the floor, weeping, and refused to get up under my own power?

I'd lose control of my life, that's what. Aye -- therein lies the rub.

Knowing what I want

Once upon a time (probably in the late 80s), I happened to be in Regina by myself at supper time, and discovered that I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WANTED TO EAT OR WHERE I WANTED TO EAT IT!!!! I knew the preferences of every family member, and kept trying to juggle them, becoming more and more resentful because nobody seemed to care what my needs were . . .

BUT HOW COULD I GET WHAT I WANTED IF I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT WAS???????? I was so out of touch with myself that I didn't even know what I wanted to eat.

I still have to work at this. Hard. It can take a long time to overcome performance panic long enough to became aware of what I want. I have to relax, let go of the various layers of delusion, and find ME. The really cool thing is -- it generally turns out that what I want at the core is what God wants for me too. It is always true that what I need (as opposed to what I am conditioned to think I need) is what God wants for me. That great struggle between what God wants and what I want -- that's a MYTH. The real struggle is between what I want/need and what I think I should want/need.

Dethronement Syndrome

When the second child is born, the first child experiences a devastating dethronement. S/he can no longer imagine that s/he is the focus of the parents' world.

My mother experienced the birth of a sibling when she was five, and concluded that her parents no longer wanted her. She went down the street to a nice-looking house, rang the doorbell, and asked the maid if the owners would be interested in adopting her. Her mother countered by telling her that she was needed to look after the baby -- a burden that haunted her life. Every time my grandmother staged one of her deathbed scenes, it included a promise to look after the baby brother. That weighty sense of responsibility, coupled with the repressed desire that something horrible would happen to the little monster, created a conflict which was still alive and well when the "baby" was seventy-five years old.

Love never seems to be enough for the dethroned child. He craves uninterrupted, unqualified admiration -- what he got when he was that miraculous first child. To me (a non-dethroned only child), being the "good child" means being the child who contributes the most; to the dethroned child, it means being the child who is adored the most.

Why therapy often misfires

Nothing will help you if you don't have the motivation to act. You can't be like the person who lies in bed shivering, but won't get up to get another blanket because he tells himself he's too tired. Most of us seek help from experts when we haven't begun to do the things we know we need to do for ourselves.

Then there's that small matter of discipline. Just about anything really worth doing requires motivation, courage, and the willingness to practice.

-- Harriet Lerner, The Dance of Fear

Christine's commentary: There are no magic formulas. We are the only ones who can bring about lasting change. Therapists can help us see things differently and help us plan strategies, but the hard work -- and the suffering -- is something we must do ourselves.

Working through the lessons

November 27, 2005
A perfectly controlled, trouble-free life will not make anyone happy. Happiness comes from taking ownership of the life we have and working through the lessons it holds for us.

I've always felt like a failure, and was worrying about the fact that I am running out of time to become rich and/or famous, confident, untroubled, and Incredibly Wise and Important. Sort of a Superwoman/Mary Poppins combo -- practically perfect in every way, and able to leap tall buildings at a single bound with a creative flourish that would distinguish me from all other building-leapers.
But today -- I thought maybe I could stop driving myself. I've always tried to do my personal development homework, thinking it would make me more efficient in achieving my goals of perfection. It never occurred to me that what I was doing as a sideline could be the main event.

This could change everything! Maybe I've discovered my personal cure for chronic restlessness & misery.

If it works . . . . . . who knows, I might become rich & famous and all those other things and run happiness workshops all over the world. Everybody wants to be happy, right? They should be willing to pay big bucks for the secret.

Ooops -- am I on the treadmill again?

Sept. 27, 2006
After a year of putting self-care first, I am trying to ease out of the slow lane. You know what? I've discovered that I don't want to work. Now yet, anyway.
I want to goof off. I like goofing off. I have experienced some genuine bliss while goofing off. Why do we strive to become rich and famous, anyway? So we can afford to goof off.

I want to take the short cut and goof off right away, without any further detours. I am tired.

My Voice says that it's OK to rest until something draws me irresistibly -- something I really REALLY want to do, more than I want to goof off. I can escape from Shouldville and run free.

Who is this Voice, anyway? God, who knows what is best for me and wants me to have it? Or my shadow side, composed of all the parts of myself I didn't want to acknowledge?

Either way, it might be worth while to give freedom a try.


December 10, 2006.
My restlessness is back. The peaceful bliss of simply being is eluding me. I am hurting -- hurting about all the awful things in life that I can't control. Part of the process -- or a signal to get my ass in gear?

I decided to stop living in the future and make 2007 the best possible year, focusing on what is available here and now. Sounds great -- but what if grieving is part of the work I have to do?

What would I tell someone else? Honour your pain, and take all the time you need to own it, feel it, share it, express it, release it to your Higher Power, whatever you conceive him or her to be. Is it time to take my own medicine?

Seeking Growth, not Perfection

It all seemed so noble, so generous, and if I say so myself, it even seemed so saintly. "Reach for the top. Give it your best. Don't settle for your second best." The very rhetoric of my zeal to do my best, to be my best, sent fire surging through my veins. But the rhetoric betrayed reality . . . Nothing is ever perfect. My best was always flawed . . . I am a mistake maker. The human condition of trial and error is my condition . . . under all my sham pretence, I knew all along that I could never match my dreams with my performance. . . .

Perfectionism always has a downward spiral. It leaves us room only for failure. Nothing ever comes off exactly as we planned it. And the end result of such failure is discouragement. Very often our frustrated hopes degenerate gradually into a disappointed anger. We act out our discouragement or anger in obnoxious ways, but they are always buried in pretense. Others would never suspect . . .
The only real failure is the one from which we learn nothing.
-- S.J. Powell, "Happiness is an Inside Job

Christine's commentary: The most toxic aspect of equating performance with personal worth and loveability is what how it affects our relationship with God. Instead of perceiving God's love for us as absolute and unconditional, we try to hide our true selves from God and turn ourselves inside out striving to reach new heights of worthiness. Fear of failure becomes our obsession. We cannot take pleasure in our achievements because there is always another mountain to climb. If we do more than is expected of us, we experience a momentary thrill, followed by dismay because now more will be expected of us. We put out 110%, wonder whether we should be trying for 120%, and worry how long we can keep it up before everything falls apart.

Many people cannot begin to open themselves to God's love until they have crashed spectacularly.

Why We Need our Heretics

In order to see clearly, we must see as insects see -- in multifaceted images, each bearing the stamp of truth, yet never pretending to encompass all of it. Our disparate visions are the key to a healthy community, because they invite us to continue seeking more and more truth, order, and harmony. A perfectly homogeneous community, trapped in its own delusions, can neither grow nor heal itself. It can only take up more and more space, like a cancer. Inevitably, it is doomed to rot under its shiny facade, and collapse under its own weight.

APOCRYPHAL SAYINGS by Ursula the Heretic

THE MOST BROKEN AMONG US SEEK HEALING BY ATTEMPTING TO ORCHESTRATE THE HEALING OF OTHERS. We must always take care that ours is not a ministry of exploitation. When achieving the desired results is more important to us than our unconditional love for the person with whom we are walking, we have become wolves in sheep's clothing -- wolves with the best of intentions, but wolves nonetheless.

No matter what I say I believe or even think I believe, the way I live my life is my only authentic statement of faith.

Too often, the voice of the institutional church echoes the voice of the world, the flesh, and the devil. We are each responsible for reaching out to God, listening to the voice of the Holy Spirit, and discovering the truth for ourselves. Our personal pilgrimage is lonely, demanding, and often perilous, and may even lead us astray, but there is no danger greater than that of avoiding it altogether.

Clergy are our trusted servants. They are not God, nor do they always speak for God. Each baptized and confirmed Christian is responsible for his or her own spiritual welfare.

The more the Church uses the sales techniques of the world to promote itself, the more it will fail in the long run. The Spirit of God is not a commodity.

Not one of us knows . . .

Albert Schweitzer was probably the only person who was ever a professor of theology and a first-year medical student at the same university at the same time. When I started digging his books out of the public library in Weyburn, Saskatchewan, I discovered that they had not been taken out for decades. That's a pity.
http://home.pcisys.net/~jnf/

Quotes from Schweitzer's writings:
Not one of us knows what effect his life produces, and what he gives to others. That is hidden from us and must remain so, though we are often allowed to see some little fraction of it so that we may not lose courage.

The ways along which we have to struggle toward the goal may be veiled in darkness, yet the direction in which we must travel is clear.

The one essential thing is that we strive to have light in ourselves. Our strivings will be recognized by others, and when people have light in themselves, it will shine out from them. Then we get to know each other as we walk together in the darkness.

The power of ideals is incalculable. We see no power in a drop of water. But let it get into a crack in the rock and be turned to ice, and it splits the rock; turned into steam, it drives the piston of the most powerful engines. Something has happened to it which makes active and effective the power hidden in it.

Prayer

In its simplest sense, prayer is the soul's communication with God, often completely unverbalized conversation with the ground or core of all being. Prayer, above all, is not magic -- the polite coercion of an unwilling God into doing our will. Nor is it the attempt, by wheedling, pleading, and cajoling, to get God to change his mind, as though he were some capricious tyrant in need of obsequious courtiers. Prayer makes changes in us, not in God. It's a little like tuning the radio or TV dial in order to open the right channel to the infilling of his Spirit. Nor is prayer for others an attempt to alter God's actions. Rather, it unleashes an unseen but very real energy towards others. The power of the mind, tuned to God and directed to the good of others, is a dynamic that may be as yet little understood, but it is undeniably active in our world.
-- Tom Harpur

UNKNOWN AND FEARFUL TERRITORY

Times of trouble discover the true worth of a man; they do not weaken him, but show his true nature.
-- Thomas a Kempis

Hope prevents us from clinging to what we have and frees us to move away from the safe place and enter unknown and fearful territory.
-- Henri Nouwen (The Wounded Healer)

Unless our questions, problems and concerns are tested and matured in solitude, it is not realistic to expect answers that are really our own.
-- Henri Nouwen (Reaching Out)

In many ways God is "unfathomable" . . . . If you can know everything about him, then he is no longer God; you are.
-- Henry Cloud (Changes that Heal)

Oranges

Many of my more vivid memories are brief encounters. I don't keep my shields up very well, and people talk to me.

I was picking up fruit in the supermarket when an elderly lady asked me a question about the oranges. The conversation quickly moved to more personal matters, face to face across a bin of oranges.

Suddenly she burst out, "How come a complete stranger cares more for me than my own family?"

I don't know what I said in response. I hope I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

Alpha Chick Pilgrimage

September 24, 2007
MacLean's Magazine arrived today. News is not what it used to be. It seems to be on the light-weight, sensational and biased side, with heavy emphasis on the quirks and shenanigans of celebrities. After a few minutes of browsing, my generation gap starts showing and I feel like a backwater dinosaur.

I learned that, according to Statistics Canada, in 2006, 43.5 percent of adults aged 20 to 29 either never left their parents' house, or moved baack after a short stint away from the nest. In a growing number of these cases, the kids are bringing spouses with them. Yikes!! What is going on here? Parents need to sell their houses, buy tiny condos, travel a lot, and stop cooking with cheese.

My favourite story so far in an interview with Jane Christmas after her 800-kilometer Camino pilgrimage through Spain. She wanted to get away from her children, and expected her experience to be a modern version of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales -- relaxation, companionship and story-telling.

Alas! Female bonding was not what she expected. "We're trained to believe we're inclusive and bridge-building, but particularly in group situations, that just doesn't happen. 'Bonding' is really code for 'the need to know another woman's secrets, so you can render her defenceless'. That sort of knowledge is power for women, and they use it to exclude others . . . .We call men on their bad behavior, but not each other, because we're afraid of other women, of what they could say about us or how they could exclude us." Our budding pilgrim found herself trapped in a "consciousness-raising Oprah orgy", where alpha chicks fluffed their feathers until Jane wanted to slug them all. The experience was Lord of the Flies on estrogen.

"Sometimes it takes someone else's really bad behaviour to shift you onto a different path and make you walk alone."

Not that she was ever alone. There were always other pilgrims on the route. At night, in the refugios (pilgrims' hostels), they were crammed together in bunk beds, with no privacy whatsoever. Even when she was completely exhausted, the snoring of strangers kept her awake.

She said everybody she knew took taxis sooner or later rather than continue the hike.

Final question: Would you ever go on holiday with a group of women again?
Answer: NO! NO WAY.

I found this interview refreshing because it admits that hiking 800 km is not all glamour. It also admits that women aren't perfect. I generally find men easier to talk to. They have a wider range of interests, are more likely to say what they think, and take criticism more easily. If a problem develops, it is usually solved within a reasonable time, and if it can't, the relationship is allowed to die a natural death. Conflicts with women go on endlessly, keep taking new forms, and never seem to be forgiven or forgotten. The punishment of exclusion never ends, until some major incentive is offered. A lot of women never seem to outgrow the grade four playground. Men aren't perfect either, of course, and can be very annoying, but I find their imperfections easier to forgive.

I'm talking about friendship here, not mating. That's a whole different scene, which I don't understand and never expect to. Mating seems to bring out the best and worst in people.

If I were going to walk 800 km with a group, I would like it to be an assortment of men and women of different ages, including children. I would like the alpha wolves and chicks to stay home, so we could all feel free to be ourselves and do whatever seemed good to us, within reasonable limits.

Oh yes, one more thing. I would like to spend my nights in four-star hotels with whirlpools and fluffy bath robes and people who don't snore.

Not Good in Bed

Certainty is the hallmark of stagnation.
-- Rev. Dr. Ursa

Rainbows are the gift of unsettled weather.
-- Dancing Bear

Before we can change a relationship,
we must become willing to risk the relationship.
-- Dr. Ursa

If you hitch your wagon to a star,
don't expect to control the destination.
-- Dancing Bear

Some birds won't leave their cage even if the door is left open.
They need a closed door behind them before they can move on.
-- Dancing Bear

Love that demands something in return is not love at all.
-- Rev. Dr. Ursa

There are two kinds of learners who are difficult to coach --
the ones who are perpetually upset about their mistakes,
and the ones who don't believe that they are capable of making
any.
-- Professor Ursa

If no one objects to what I am doing,
maybe I should be doing something else.
-- Dr. Ursa

Hope prevents us from clinging to what we have
and frees us to move away from the safe place
and enter unknown and fearful territory. -- Henri Nouwen

When someone tells me, in one way or another, that I have
disappointed her (or him) by not living up to her fantasy, the
fault lies not with me, but with the fantasy. I will serve my
critic best by allowing her to sort out the debris of the
inevitable fantasy-reality collision for herself instead of trying
to alleviate her distress by twisting myself out of shape.
-- Ursula Maxima

No matter what I say I believe or even think I believe, the way
I live my life is my only authentic statement of faith.
-- Ursula the Heretic

Before embarking on any kind of self-improvement program,
shop for a hard hat. People will be unkind if you fail. They will
be even more unkind if you succeed.
-- Dr. Ursa

I once had a rose named after me, and I was very flattered.
But, I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue,
"No good in a bed, but fine against a wall." ~Eleanor Roosevelt

The secret of a good sermon is to have a good beginning and a
good ending; and to have the two as close together as possible.
~George Burns

Santa Claus has the right idea ... Visit people only once a year.
~Victor Borge

By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you'll become
happy; if you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher.
~Socrates

Only Irish coffee provides in a single glass all four essential
food groups: alcohol, caffeine, sugar and fat. ~Alex Levine

Money can't buy you happiness, but it does bring you a more
pleasant form of misery ~Spike Milligan

Youth would be an ideal state if it came a little later in life.
~Herbert Henry Asquith

Don't worry about avoiding temptation ... As you grow older, it
will avoid you. ~Winston Churchill

The cardiologist's diet: If it tastes good, spit it out. ~Unknown

By the time a man is wise enough to watch his step, he's too
old to go anywhere. ~Billy Crystal

Eastmain and Beyond

July 20, 2005
Tomorrow morning, Doug and I are going to set out on a 1,000 km journey to East Main, Quebec. We have been invited to participate in a diocesan aboriginal gathering. We'll be collaborating on a workshop on healing. If it is good, it will be very, VERY good, but if it is bad -- hey, let's not go there.

July 26, 2005 (after driving 2500 km and spending three days with fellow travellers in search of hope and healing)
1. Eastmain is one word, not two. The community is named after the Eastmain River, which empties into James Bay. The aboriginal price for gasoline there is $1.06 per litre.
2. The James Bay highway is 620km long. It is intersected by the transtaiga highway, a gravel road which is 688km long. We didn't see the latter because we turned off the JB hwy at kilmeter 350.
3. Archbishop Douglas Hambidge (our keynote speaker) sleeps in his mitre, but he never wears it to breakfast. (That's what he told me, anyway! This amazing man spent two years in Tanzania as principal of a theological seminary after he retired from his ecclesiastical career in British Columbia -- that was his way of getting away from it all. He now mentors rookie bishops in Africa. They call him gamaliel, which is Swahili for "great leader." He can't read Cree syllabics yet, but he can read Anglican liturgy in Swahili.)

December 17, 2005.
I planned to write more about our Eastmain trek once I had time to catch up on my sleep and reflect on my experience, but I didn't get around to it until now. The memories are faint now, but the imprints of the experience are on my soul.
This was the first time I have ever had the opportunity to do any kind of teaching about inner healing. I've been practising it for 25 years or so, but no one seemed particularly interested in what I was doing. Healing emotional wounds through prayer is even more suspect than healing physical problems. 1. It doesn't work. ("You're a nice lady and you mean well, but there is nothing you can do to help.") 2. It's not necessary. ("Once you accept Jesus/get baptized in the Holy Spirit, you are perfectly healed at all levels and are showing a lack of faith if you look further." 3. It's evil. ("Psychology is of the devil and Agnes Sanford was a New Age witch.")

So how did I get this job? I volunteered. Doug had a three-hour slot to fill, so he welcomed a little extra input. He put lots of fences around me, though. I was to speak for one hour and one hour only, after he had introduced the topic. That would give him an hour to clean up any misconceptions I might have spread.
I decided I was not going to spend that precious time making speeches which nobody could recall afterwards. I wrote down the basics, as simply as possible, because English is not the first language of my intended audience. I decided to leave my actual presentation under the direct guidance of the Holy Spirit in real time. That's the way I usually work. One advantage to that method is that I never know what's coming next, so I don't get bored.

Soon after my arrival, I started hearing, "We hurt. What can we do to help ourselves?" That was marvellously refreshing -- no denial, no fancy footwork, no blaming of Whitey or the Evil Federal Government. Just the question: WHAT CAN WE DO? These people were ready for anything positive we could give them. The intimidating question for me was, "What makes me think I have anything to offer?" These people have a painful history, a difficult present, and an uncertain future. I didn't know if I would be strong enough to cope with what they face every day. I had no answers to catapult them into a new sunrise of peace and good will and prosperity. If anybody should be teaching anybody, they should be teaching me. I realized that I was completely inadequate to the task I had so confidently undertaken. I had nothing to offer but myself.

Our first workshop went smoothly. There was a little bit of interchange, and most of the people stayed awake for most of the time. I did a lot of storytelling and a couple of spiritual exercises. In the evening, I walked out to the sweat lodge and had some conversation along the way, but I chose not to participate in the ritual.

Despite the fact they they use holy water in this traditional ceremony of purification, it's still too much of a stretch for me. A non-aboriginal lady who underwent it for the first time that week-end said she was glad she did. Next time I'll bring along a long skirt (the obligatory attire for women in sweat lodge), just in case.

The next morning, I woke up in a fog of tears. I could feel pain everywhere. People were allowing themselves to open up. I got into a deep conversation over breakfast and started praying for people as the opportunity presented itself. As we were gathering for our opening session, I felt I had to speak publicly and encourage everyone not to hold back the process that was unfolding. As so often happens in these occasions, I didn't know what I was going to say, other than the first sentence.

I asked Archbishop Hambidge to give up some of his time at the mic to allow me to speak. After some consultation with the organizers, my presumptuous request was granted. I said something like: "I feel tears in the air this morning. Don't hold them back. Share them. If we can freely share who we are -- share our experience, strength and hope as well as our tears and regrets and bitterness -- then the answers will come, not from us, but from God." The translation that followed was so extensive that I suspect some commentary was added. I took that as a good sign. I had been heard. I had also heard myself. If I can be who I am, without masks or weapons or clever ideas, and share that without trying to create any kind of impression, then the answers will come. Not from me, not from my fellow travellers, but from God. That simple insight was enough to demolish my entire ministry model.

At our second workshop, one of the presenters came in early and flopped down on the couch. I can't remember exacly what he said, but the intent was, "I'm beat. Sock it to me." I laid hands on him and told him to breathe deeply. He floated off somewhere, then floated back, opened his eyes, and smiled. "That feels wonderful."

When my turn came in the workshop, I talked for about ten minutes, and then asked the group to lay hands on me. They did a great job. I asked, "Who's next?" This unleashed a joyful and powerful session of healing prayer that involved all of us. When we finally wound down, we were too tired to do anything more, but nobody wanted to leave. We knew God had been in the room with us, and we wanted to savour the moment.

From then on, everything went by too quickly. I wanted to stay forever. Our time together was precious -- a sharing of strength and courage and laughter and pain. We were family. We belonged to each other. Nothing was more important than that.

Archbishop Douglas Hambidge spoke about identity and empowerment. "When we know who God is, who our brothers and sisters are, and who we are, that is empowerment." His ideas were not revolutionary or slickly packaged, but they hit home. He believed what he said because he said nothing that he did not believe. In Africa, they call him "Gamaliel". Great leader. He deserves the title, although he would be the last to admit it. This is a man who has achieved much more than could reasonably be expected. I usually envy such people, but I fell madly in love with him instead. He lifted me up and showed me new possibilities for living. When I finished praying with my healing team at the final eucharist, I went over to his team and asked them to pray for my ministry -- that it would truly follow God's path.

I believe that our prayer is being answered at this very moment.


July 6, 2006.
Here I am, almost a year later. It's been a tough year for me. I decided that I was empty and needed to discover my identity as a child of God. I decided to give up the performance thing and learn how to look after myself as God longs to look after me. I've made progress, but not without physical symptoms and anxiety attacks. I've had days of living in the moment that were so beautiful that it seemed impossible that they would ever end. I've had days of living in fear and rage and a body that would not do what I want.

On August 15, I am going to Mistissini with my husband. All the churches in town will be invited to attend. Instead of the intimate circle, we will face a crowd and speak through a translator. I am starting to jot down some notes about belonging -- belonging to our community, our God, and our authentic selves. According to the Linns (Dennis, Matthew & Sheila), addictions are our misguided and often self-destructive attempts to phone home when we have lost our connection.

I didn't get far before I started asking myself what my addictions are and why I chose them over other addictions. #1 Worry -- an attempt to control the future. #2 Happy helping -- distracting myself from my own pain and needs by focusing on the needs of others. #3 Food, which helps me feel connected. It's not food I crave as much as fellowship, and the pleasure of the person who prepared it.
I don't have time to divest myself of those three compulsions by August 15, let alone my innumerable other defects of character. So I have a choice: don the Hallowe'en costume of perfection, or bring myself just as I am.
I have nothing to bring to the circle but myself. That is the hardest lesson I have learned this year.

February 10, 2007.
In Mistissini, we stayed in a three-star hotel by the lake, across from Elder's Point, the traditional teaching centre. The community looked more like an urban subdivision than an isolated First Nations reservation. Money is flowing in from the James Bay electrical power project, and the members of the band council are doing their best to make sure that the cash benefits the community. The rapid transition is generating some future shock.

There was no need to worry how I would perform before a big crowd. We had just the right number of people for a talking circle. The community was grieving some recent tragedies. Even with the filter of translation, we connected.
The Sunday service turn-out was no bigger than usual, but the Holy Spirit was there. We had two teams laying on hands. Doug and I worked together -- a rare occasion. That alone was worth the whole trip. We were doing something we both felt passionate about, something we hoped would make a positive difference in the universe, bring God into our human circle.

All the time that we were laying on hands, the members of the congregation were praying in the pews, some holding onto each other, some weeping. As we were finishing, the mood lifted. We shared communion with a sense of celebration.

After lunch, I was completely depleted. I went for a walk with our designated dog -- a young black lab who showed up on the deck in front of our hotel room about ten minutes after we checked in and hung around during our entire stay. I felt as if I was carrying a half-ton load of cement, but I kept putting one foot in front of the other. The dog amused himself by picking up various objects and carrying them, practising for a future career as a retriever.

I was told that we had made an impact on the community -- that we would leave something useful behind. I have always been ambiguous about the idea of non-aboriginal people invading First Nations space with teaching and advice. Now I'm re-thinking that. We are all absolutely equal in our need for God's grace, and we all carry the same spiritual power -- the power to bring God closer. Maybe we are meant to be part of each other's healing process.

Doug and I have been invited to the diocesan healing gathering in Chisasibi (another burgeoning community on the Quebec side of the James Bay coast) this coming July. "We want to learn more about spiritual healing."

It's a long drive through the wilderness, but I want to be there. I'm already rehearsing what I want to pass on from my own quarter-century journey of prayer. I could write an entire book, but I will have to keep it manageable. Write down, as simply as I can, what is burning in my heart, give it away, and then trust God to take care of the rest.

I long to let go of everything I count on for identity, self-importance, and self-esteem. I want to get it right. But I won't. I am fallible. No matter how much I prepare and pray and study and compile and sweat, I can't be all things to all people. I can't control the results of my efforts. If I can accept that, there is hope.


September 20, 2007.
The healing gathering in Chisasibi was cancelled at the last minute, leaving me without closure for the strong sense of call I had about this journey. Our attempt to use that time for R&R backfired when Doug was hospitalized with pneumonia in Sault Ste Marie.

I told Doug that I would not be available for any missions next summer, but I'm not sure that is the right decision. I guess I'll have to go with the flow if the opportunity comes up.

I am left with a work-in-progress on the topic of forgiveness. I am wondering -- should I write a book? Is that the meaning of my frustration -- that I need to communicate? I have often wanted to write a book about inner healing, but I was afraid that the time would come when I would be ashamed to be reminded of an earlier, less evolved phase of my development. I keep changing my mind, learning new things, becoming increasingly aware of what I don't know.

If I wait too long, I will realize that I know nothing at all, and will have no motivation to write anything down.

The Path of Love by Deepak Chopra

DC became a major guru of mine when I read Quantum Healing (I think that was a couple of decades ago). That was the first time I was really aware of a highly-trained scientific person freely admitting that he didn't know a lot of vitally important things. He had an attitude of wonder towards the universe in general and the human mind-body-spirit in particular. "WOW!!! That's too marvellous for me to comprehend!"

Since then, DC has wandered in many different directions and explored many fields of knowledge. I had a glimse of him on the Oprah show, and wasn't impressed at all. My personal fantasies don't respond well to the shock of the real thing.
The Path of Love was written in 1997. The photo on the back cover was taken in 1996. I gazed at it for a long time, and decided that I really like his eyes. DC has the same eyes as my friend Dr. M., who considered himself an enlightened being, and did me the honour of naming me one as well, despite the fact that he was a Moslem and I was not.

Those liquid brown eyes of Dr. M's once convinced me to undertake an impossible mission: to convince the husband of one of his patients to check himself into a psychiatric facility. He explained why this had to happen, and then said, "Will you do this for me?" It wasn't really a question, because he wasn't going to take not for an answer.

The weird thing is, I succeeded. It took about four hours of patient conversation with a person I barely knew, explaining the options and asking for a decision. The decision became action when I phoned the psychiatrist's office. The doctor answered the phone -- how weird is that? -- and we made the arrangements. The long-term result wasn't quite what any of us imagined, but it was positive.
Dr. M. sent the right person to complete his mission. He knew who to send because he cared about his patient and he knew I did too. I'd say that is a definite symptom of enlightenment.


Whenever you are tempted to react in the same old way, ask if you want to be a prisoner of the past or a pioneer of the future. The past is closed and limited; the future is open and free.
D.C.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I've seen this sentiment expressed in many ways, but the contrast between prisoner and pioneer resonates with me. Most of the time I feel like a prisoner; but when I am seized by passion for something or somebody, I forget that I'm afraid and forge ahead.
One idea that's intriguing is DC's insistence that the worst that can happen has already happened -- our fear of the unknown is simply a shadow from the past. It makes sense to me in a convoluted way -- how can I be afraid of something I haven't experienced? I've been addicted to fear all my life. I imagine the worst possibilities so I won't be caught off guard when disaster strikes. What a monumental waste of time! Most of the things I so carefully prepare myself for never happen.
My friend Weneen took swimming classes repeatedly, but, try as she might, she could never trust herself to the deep water. One day, while we were at the pool together, she had an "oh, what the hell" moment, jumped into the deep end, and swam across the pool with ease. Experiences like that are great to watch and even greater to live through. Tonight, I've been asking myself what deep water I long to brave. Being a pioneer of the future is vastly superior to being a prisoner of the past -- in theory.

Things I would like to try (or try again):
1. horseback riding
2. drawing
3. choir directing
4. acting
5. writing a play
6. publishing a book
7. line dancing
8. visiting New Zealand
9. visiting Greece
10. dog sledding
11. playing my father's fiddle
12. driving across Canada
13. using a potter's wheel
14. starting a seekers' support group
15. taking a university class
It costs nothing to dream! Our dreams rarely come true without some serious effort on our part, but all our actions necessarily start as an idea.

However good or bad you feel about your relationship, the person you are with at this moment is the "right" person, because he or she is a mirror of who you are inside. . . . When you struggle with your partner, you are struggling with yourself. Every fault you see in them touches a denied weakness in yourself. Every conflict you wage is an excuse not to face a conflict within. The path to love therefore clears up a monumental mistake that millions of people makke -- the mistake that someone "out there" is going to give (or take) something that is not already yours. When you truly find love, you find yourself.
-- Deepak Chopra, The Path to Love

I think this applies to all relationships, not just SO's. The warrior's greatest battles are waged in his (her) heart. We are attracted to people who are fighting the same battles as we are. We want to help them, and at the same time we want to crush them, change them, revise them to that they don't offend us any more. If we succeed, chances are we'll leave them and move on to renewed battles with someone else.

The GHG Spot

The GHG Spot, a blog sponsored by the Canadian Wildlife Federation, chronicles the struggles of a family trying to make a difference by reducing Green House Gas emissions. Maybe they can inspire me. What bugs me most is the amount of garbage our household creates. When I was living on the farm (1951 - 1962), we didn't use a land fill at all. Organic household waste was fed to animals or composted. Jars, sugarbags and such were re-used. Unwanted clothing was re-modelled or given away. Hand-knitted sweaters were unravelled and re-knitted. Burnables went into the stove and helped cook food or warm up the house. The only thing we threw out were tin cans. We didn't use a lot of tinned food because my mother did prodigious amounts of home canning. The tins were washed, flattened, and kept for a bi-annual trip to a quarry on our own land. Even though my father had been throwing cans in there for decades, there was still plenty of room.

We were poor, but I didn't notice. Almost everybody I knew lived much the same way. People worked hard, helped each other out, and had low-tech fun when there was time for it. Those who dealt unfairly with others were considered losers. It wasn't paradise by any means, but I felt important because I was helping with the essential work of producing food for outselves and others. I never asked myself Why am I alive? I knew that I was needed.

Somewhere along the line, self-indulgence and personal fulfilment became synonymous in our society. That attitude is going to kill us.

When I hear that Sweden is going fully compostable/reusable/recyclable, I am envious. I know that it can be done. But we have to change the way we do things. We have to consider the welfare of the whole global community instead of our own momentary comfort and convenience.

I don't know what to do about it. Or maybe I do, but I am afraid to get started. Change begins in little ways, one choice at a time.

http://www.checkerspotmagazine.ca/ghgspot/checkerspot.asp

How I Spent 07/07/07

On July 6, 2007, Doug and I checked into our hotel in Sault Ste Marie. The next five days were totally unscheduled. We were going to relax and have fun, and rest when we were tired. Apparently, that concept was too much for Doug's immune system to handle.

On the morning of Saturday, July 7 -- the most numerically propitious day of the millennium -- he woke up feeling sick. Less than an hour later, he said he wanted an ambulance. The paramedics took him to the Sault Area hospital ER, where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. He was treated with IV antibiotics and released the following Wednesday, just in time to drive home the next day.
There is much to be grateful for. The paramedics arrived in about 10 minutes, and it took only another 10 minutes to get him to the hospital. Doug's chest pain was from his lungs, not his heart. We were in a fair-sized city, not in an isolated motel in Northern Quebec. I was able to find the medications which were not available in the hospital pharmacy. Doug responded to the antibiotics, and looked healthier each time I visited him. I knew exactly where my husband was at all times (he was in isolation, so he couldn't even roam the halls). I had a nice place to stay. The library provided free Internet access. I even did a bit of shopping.

I think Sault Ste Marie would be a nice place to retire. It's not too big, has a waterfront walk and a delightful article, and lots of cultural activities. Family doctors are not that easy to find there, but at least we know our way around the hospital.

Mission to Mistissini

August 15, 2006 -- Our Healing Mission to Mistissini, Quebec

It's been a long drive. 987 km each way, to be exact. We took it easy (by Northern Ontario standards) -- spent a night in Amos, PQ on our way north, and another night on our way south.

Mistissini was a shock. It looks like an Edmonton subdivision under construction. A lot of money from the James Bay power project is flowing into the community. They have a four-star hotel overlooking the lake -- honest! (The stars are not the world class kind -- they're awarded by the Province of Quebec hotel association, but even in that league I'm generally a two- or three-star person.) Each room is named after a family in the community, and plaques in the hall, complete with pictures, tell something of the history of each family. Across the street from the Mistissini Lodge, Elders' Point celebrates the old ways -- a place where the traditional culture is re-lived and passed on.

The groups we worked with were smaller than anticipated -- a manageable size for us. The overhead projector had double vision, but a small adjustment set everything right at the last minute. The translators were super and probably improved what we had to say. They even translated Old Testament scripture quotations for us. A number of people are carrying around the New Testament in Cree, but the Old is not available. Saturday ended with a three-hour talking circle that shattered stereotypes and temporarily closed the gap between native and non-native people and our respective languages and cultures.

Our Sunday morning service lasted for three hours. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to get away afterwards. After lunch, I wandered around the community in the company of a young black lab who had made us his personal project. I was so exhausted I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I started to question the sanity of travelling for a total of four days for a single week-end. At church, we had prayed that whatever good we brought to the community would continue after we had left. Someone told me that we had made an impact that would not be easily erased. If that is so, how come we are practically invisible in Hearst? What is it about imported talent that gets everyone excited?

It will take me a while to think this experience through. Again, I feel transformed, but I'm not sure what happened. My Voice said, "You are now complete." For many years, I thought I was looking for God, but I was really looking for lost parts of myself. Can it really be true that all my missing pieces have finally come together? If that is so, I received much more than I gave. Funny how that happens.

Since June 20th, I have stayed in the Travelodge in Kenora, a mystery house in Regina, Ross Place in Victoria, Sand Pebbles Inn at Qualicum Beach, West Harvest Inn in Lloydminster, L'Hotel Amosphere and L'Auberge Nouvelle Frontiere in Amos, and the Mistissini Lodge. I'm inclined to agree with Dorothy that there's no place like home.

No need to click my ruby slippers three times. My fuzzy pink ones are all I need.

Of Dads and Dandelions

Random thoughts on Father's Day, 2006

Don't poison your dandelions; eat them. The leaves are good salad greens. The blossoms can be made into jelly or wine. The only reason they have such a bad reputation is that they defy our attempts to exterminate them.

The same people who decry the brutality of hunting and fishing eat meat from animals whose quality of life is non-existent because they are treated like bio-factories instead of fellow creatures.

Whenever a flower blooms or a baby is born, it is a miracle. However, this miracle was several months in the making. If we never plant seeds or nurture them, we have no right to expect new life.

I would like to thank Celestial Air Traffic Control for keeping my planet in its orbit. Even if I had the power to do the job, I would surely become distracted, bored, tired, or annoyed after a millennium or so.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY! Thanks to my biological father, my adopted father, and my Father in Heaven who both created and adopted me. Fathers are neither expendable nor redundant. They are gifts from God, created to represent Him on earth.

Life is not a Dress Reheasal

August 22, 2007
Guideposts continues to be one of my favourite anti-depressants, even though there are way too many pages of pharmaceutical ads these days. Guidepost stories are just the right length to use as emergency sermons. It always seems to me that the congregation is more awake for Guideposts stories than for regular sermons. They are about real people struggling with real life.

From The Up Side -- inspirational quotations sent in by readers (December 2005)
Life is not a dress rehearsal. Stop practising what you're going to do and just do it. In one bold stroke you can transform today.
Marilyn Grey, psychologist & stress-management speaker

Every exit is an entry to somewhere else. Tom Stoppard, English playwright

The past is a place of reference, not a place of residency. Willie Jolley, radio host

The only real antidote to worry is purposeful action in the direction of your goals. Remind yourself that problems come not to obstruct, but to instruct. Brian Tracy, self-help author


Let's see -- what do I have to add to that today?
from my friend Dorothy: GET A GRIP! (that was on the three-handled mug she gave me for my 60th birthday).

from Dr. Ursa:
If you can't laugh at your problems, you'll never have fun solving them.

from me:
What I know is a building block. What I think I know is a stumbling block.

from anonymous sources: Dance like no one is watching!
Life is uncertain -- eat dessert first.
It wasn't raining when Noah built the ark.

And, of course, the Hogwarts motto: Never disturb a sleeping dragon!

The Dubious Dividends of Spontaneity

February 23, 2007
I was Officially Upset last night. Only three people showed up for the first World Day of Prayer rehearsal. Since next week's rehearsal conflicts with the music festival, it is unlikely that more people will show up then. That means that recruitment of participants must continue, perhaps until minutes before we actually start the service.

When we hosted this event three years ago, we wrote letters to all the churches, asking them to pre-recruit 2-4 people. Despite a number of logistical glitches and last-minute changes, we ended up with a team of a dozen, and most of them made it to both rehearsals. The rehearsals were fun -- in some ways, better than the service.

This year time was short (for reasons beyond my immediate control), and I agreed to the more laid-back approach of issuing an open invitation to anyone who was interested. I had nightmares as a result. They didn't come true (my dreams involved a LOT of people engaged in unpredictable crazyness), but the reality was just as upsetting. It doesn't help much to know that I will find solutions in real time, and even if the result is less than optimal, life will go on. People have their own concerns, and glitches in the WDP service are unlikely to hold their attention for long. If I am hit by a bus or the earth is hit by a meteor fragment, the whole matter of the WDP will be irrelevant anyway.

Nonetheless, I like to get things right, even if I'm the only one who cares. In order to function effectively, I need structure, commitment, and practice, practice, practice.

This morning, I could feel that I was starting to lose my grip, so I named today a Designated Day Off/Mental Health Day. No structure or commitment -- I just do whatever I feel like in real time. Some of those days turn out to be surprisingly productive. I am more creative outside Shouldville.

Soon after I got up, I decided to phone my mother. Her Topic of the Day was the infant Residents' Council at her independent living facility. She went to one meeting, read the minutes for the others, and decided to have nothing more to do with it. "I feel like somebody is trying to recruit me into the Nazi party." That is an extreme way of saying that she is tired of being structured, and certainly doesn't want to be committed. She wants to live in the Now and let things unfold. No more practice. No more taking orders. No more teamwork, co-operation, or deferment of desires. Unlimited opportunities for sleep. She was over-controlled for much of her life, and was overtly cheerful and compliant about it, but inside, she was always fighting back.

As I was listening to her, I realized how much of my own struggle is inherited. I automatically resist restrictions on my impulses, even while I recognize the value of structure. I want to be in charge, but I don't want the responsibility thereonto appertaining. I admire teamwork, but I hate that I can't control the rest of the team. I want to be spontaneous, but a lot of things I value can't happen on the spur of the moment. I want to be fettered by no one's stupidity but my own, but I get bored playing by myself.

I can nurture both aspects of my personality. What I want to eliminate is the energy-draining inner battles. No matter what I do, some nasty, pleading, or choked voice inside insists that I should be doing something else.

Caveat emptor

Ann Landers and other advice mavens often recommend taking problems to clergy. It is assumed that those situations which are beyond human help can be resolved by those who are overtly in God's service. The good news is -- clergy work cheap, usually for nothing. The bad news is -- they are undereducated for dealing with mental health issues. Those without the aptitude for swift and effective on-the-job learning will be less competent counsellors than the average cleaning lady or bar tender.

Clergy have an agenda of helping people. To almost all of them, that means changing people rather than supporting them in the rhythms of their own process and letting the change evolve at its own pace. Far from being therapeutic, re-modelling people is a destructive use of personal influence to control. If it succeeds, the victim will be resentful and fearful of relapse; if it fails, the victim will be resentful and guilty for failing to perform as expected.

Teachers love students who make them feel like good teachers. Clergy love parishioners who make them feel like good representatives of the Celestial Head Office. If you know how to play the game correctly, you can manipulate them into almost anything. Those who refuse to play the game will end up in ourter darkness, weeping and gnashing their teeth.

Deformed (a short story)

DEFORMED

My last night at the hospital, I cried and cried. They had assured me that the pain-killer and the sleeping pill would give me the rest I needed; but what did they know about what it was like to be maimed?

I cried until my leg swelled inside the cast, making the pain unbearable. At three o'clock in the morning, they got my doctor out of bed to order more sedation.

I woke up hung-over, tired and empty. All the tears had not eased the pain even the tiniest bit.

Wear the seat belt, people told me over and over when I was learning to drive. But I hardly ever did. I always fumble when I'm undoing my seat belt, and I wonder if what would happen if the car were on fire. Every time I snap the buckle shut, I see myself trapped in the car, burning. Right away, I practise undoing it. But when the time comes to undo it, I still fumble.

I wasn't wearing a seat belt when I ran into the truck.

*

My sister Claire helped me manoeuvre my plaster-encased leg onto the back seat of her car. Mom wanted me to go home with her, but I told her that the doctor wanted me to start living independently right away. That was a lie, of course -- all we'd discussed was physio for my leg and reconstructive surgery for my face.

I was clutching my referral slip from the plastic surgeon. I would look fine afterwards, they assured me jovially. Hardly scarred at all.

Claire offered to stay with me overnight. I said no. I wanted to be alone.


*

I hobbled around my kitchen, taking charge of my territory again. I made some tea and sat on the sofa with my leg up, playing with the remote control of the TV. Being alone was turning out to much more difficult than I had expected. But I would have to get used to it.

The phone rang. It was out of my reach, so I let the answering machine take care of it.

Afterwards, I tottered over to the phone to see who had called. I had no intention of calling back, but I was curious.

While I was standing there, the phone rang.

It was Daniel. He sounded as he always sounded. Friendly and non-committal.

"You've been away," he said.

"I had a car accident," I said. "I lost my right eye."

I paused. He said nothing. I listened carefully for some quick intake of breath, some indication of a reaction.

"I look terrible," I said.

Another pause.

"Can I come over?" he asked. Just the same way he always did, in a take-it-or-leave-it tone.

"No," I snapped petulantly. "I told you. I look terrible. I need plastic surgery."

In the early days of our relationship, when I was desperately in love with him, his casual attitude cut deep, made me feel cheap and used. But now it was a relief. I didn't have to worry about hurting his feelings.

"From what you say, you're going to look that way for a while," he pointed out with maddening logic. "I might as well come over now."

"I told you -- NO!"

I slammed down the receiver and started to cry.

After I wiped the tears away, I went through my mental list of friends, hoping to think of someone who could cheer me up. Everyone I knew had loaded me with sympathy and made things worse. Everyone except Daniel. And I had just finished chewing his head off.

Daniel consistently declined to be my Prince Charming, but he was calm and reliable and accepting. He had tried love once, he said, and he hadn't enjoyed it, so he wasn't going to do it again. We talked about our mutual interests, went riding on his motorcycle, and slept together. Uncomplicated. For him.

I tried to bring guilt into it, but he just said, "If you weren't getting something out of it, you wouldn't be doing it."

No pressure. No passion.

"I'm a Taurus," he'd say when I wanted to talk about our relationship. "Enthusiastic and friendly."

I had been gone for three weeks and he didn't even care.

I sat alone on the sofa and wondered what to do. I never wanted to leave my apartment again. But there would be physio and doctor's appointments and grocery shopping. How in the hell was I ever going to cope with the stares and the pity?

They told me my artificial eye would perfectly match the real one. But it would just stare lifelessly, as obvious as the patch over my empty socket. Everyone would know. No matter how hard everyone tried to ignore it, I would never be normal again.

Beyond my balcony, the sky turned purple and pink and red, and the room slowly darkened. I didn't bother putting on the light.

*

The knocking on the door startled me. I must have dozed off. For a moment, I didn't remember the accident and the hospital. When I tried to jump to my feet and crash-landed half-on, half-off the couch, it all came back. "Just a minute!" I yelled, wrestling with the cast.

It was Daniel. With a bottle of wine.

I let him in.

"You look terrible," he said, with a small grin.

"I told you not to come!"

We drank the wine, and I started to feel better.

We talked about music, and literature, and role-playing games. I didn't tell him about the accident. He didn't ask. He kissed me and nibbled my ear, the way he always did when he was feeling friendly and enthusiastic, and he helped me haul my cast to the bedroom.

"I don't know if we can do this," I said. "I'm still pretty sore."

He hunted for unbruised parts of me to kiss. He was extraordinarily successful, and soon I was breathing hard and momentarily forgot all about my deformities.

He did not put his full weight on me, but supported himself on his elbows. It looked uncomfortable, but he came right on schedule.

I came too. I couldn't believe it.

We lay together for a while, relaxing. Then he got dressed and left. He had to work in the morning.

I went to sleep without any sleeping pills.

After the surgery, the scars were not bad at all. We drifted apart, and married other people. He never told me he loved me.

He didn't have to.

Stupidity is not a sin

"How could I be so stupid?" "I must look like a complete idiot!" "They must think I'm a real basket case!"

Even the best of us think thoughts like that sometimes. It's painful to realize that we are often unwise and often mistaken. Even when it is impossible for anyone to foresee the consequences of an action, we still expect to get it right and come out on top, smelling like roses. When we don't, we are ashamed. When push comes to shove, looking good often seems more important to us than being good.

In God's economy of grace, mistakes are accepted, along with the people who make them. We read in the Bible that Jesus was like us in every way, except that He was without sin. We are inclined to visualize Him as someone who floated through life with few everyday struggles -- someone who never put a piece of furniture together backwards, never wet his pants, never forgot his mother's birthday. The way I see it, his advantage was not one of superior performance, but the fact that he knew without a doubt that his heavenly Father accepted Him in His fallibility.

To God, the wisdom of a decision is less important than the love with which it is made. If I make an unwise decision out of love, God can draw something unexpectedly beautiful from it. Just as my gifts are judged not by size, but by love, so is my performance. If I could know everything, control everything, and do everything perfectly, I wouldn't need God or anyone else. I would be God.

Lavender

I've never had the classic nightmare of finding myself in a public place with no clothes on, but recently I had a real-life experience that came close.

Last June, I was visiting my mother at Ross Place (an independent living seniors' residence) in Victoria. I went to the monthly birthday party with my mother, since she is a June baby.

During the festivities, one of the activity workers, Chelsea, came over to chat. "So you're the one!" she said. "We were all crying, you know."

My favourite ministry is inner healing -- helping people re-visit their past with Jesus, who can transform our hurts into gifts. I've done a lot of work on myself as well, and found it fruitful.

About a month before my visit, I realized that I had never re-lived my birth. I had gone through my life in utero and my childhood, but never the actual birth, even though I had often heard about it and thought about it. The doctor had predicted a caesarian section because my mother's pelvis was so small, but the midwife was determined to prove him wrong. After a long labour, the actual delivery lasted for two hours. I was born blue and not breathing.

Re-living the experience gave me a new understanding of the term "fetal distress". However, when I passed out, something unexpected happened. I found myself in heaven with Jesus and my father. Jesus was holding me in his arms, and handed me to my delighted father to hold. The father-vacuum in my life was finally filled, and I no longer felt abandoned.

This experience makes no temporal sense. My father was still alive at the time -- as a matter of fact, he was stuck in a troop train in the same town, unaware that his wife was giving birth on his birthday. However, it made perfect sense emotionally. When I was little and knew nothing of the complications of ethical dilemmas and divine wrath, I proclaimed confidently, "I have two fathers in heaven." We always assumed that was the fruit of my grandmother's efforts to teach me the Lord's Prayer, but perhaps it went deeper than that.

The next time I phoned my mother on a Saturday morning, I told her what had happened. In the afternoon, she went on a bus outing with other residents, and told the story on the way. "I thought it was just a nice story," she said, "but all of a sudden I became really emotional." The emotion was contagious.

It had never occurred to me that my mother would mention this to anyone. I tried to shrug it off, and distracted Chelsea with an account of the healing properties of oil of lavender, with graphic descriptions of my fungal infections.

Later, I took a deep breath, went up to her, and said, "I guess we have to be friends now. You've seen into my crevices."

We hugged.