Kindred Spirits: Barbara Brown Taylor

“From where I stood, I could not see a sign of human occupation. Like a child who has not yet dodged a blow, the river in front of me was innocent of what lay ahead. The water was so clear I could see a lazy carp paddling below me. The only debris was a high-water mark made of small sticks and leaves. There were raccoon tracks in the sand where the rock met the riverbank and white splats on the stone where some big water bird had stopped to fish for a spell…

If I softened my gaze and stopped holding myself apart from all that surrounded me, I became part of something so old and so powerfully alive that I lost track of my self. The river ran through me. Trees breathed for me. My feet grew from rock. The only thing wrong with any of these sentences is that there was for that moment no ‘me’ or ‘my.’ I lost my ‘me’ altogether, which of course was not apparent until I came back to my self, recovering one sense of reality at the price of the other.”

-Barbara Brown Taylor, Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith

Reverend Taylor’s description of this divine moment reminded me of a similar moment of my own from 17 years ago.

It was a freezing cold night in the first winter of the new millennium, and I was a 22 year-old about to leave the United States to live in Central Asia in the Peace Corps.

Though I still had no experience of god or spirit at that time (that would come much later), I distinctly remember a moment of awareness just as Reverend Taylor described so eloquently above.

I remember I was standing on my mother’s front porch, and I had just finished shoveling her very long driveway.  But rather than go back into the house to warm up, for no apparent reason, I decided to stand in the night air a little longer.

I remember I was tired and breathing heavy, and I remember the quiet.

In New England, when there is a thick coat of snow on the trees and ground, there can be a kind of silence like no other silence I am aware of.  It has an intensity to it that feels ancient and holy.

I don’t know what led me to enter into the stillness, except to say I felt a very crisp, fine-tuning of my senses in that moment, and a sensation of the moment itself pressing hard against my skin.

The moment did not last long of course—a fraction of time I’m sure—but for just that instant, I had a sense of fluidity in which the edges of my self blurred into a whole I never knew existed.

After the moment passed, I just silently turned and walked back inside because I had no words for what I had just gone through- no framework to help me understand it in any sort of meaningful way.  It simply became one of those experiences that I tucked away inside of me for another time in the future when greater insight might help me clarify the glorious (and at times confusing)  nature of reality.

This possibility for an unfolding at a later time is for me part of the beauty and mystery of reality though;  when the words of a kindred spirit can mine those dormant gems out from the deep caverns of our internal landscape so that we may finally integrate those experiences in an elegant, new way.

Inhabiting Darkness & Contradiction

In New England, where i live, early January is a time of darkness.

We wake up in the dark. Drive home from work in the dark. And yes, meditate, you guessed it, in the dark.

This is quite a contrast to, say, the summertime, when I frequently meditate on my deck, in the morning sun, with all kinds of bird song serenading each in-breath I take.

I try to not think of either seasonal landscape as "good" or "bad" per se, just quite different.

And in the past year, I've tried to come to value the spiritual practices and lessons that may be more available or accessible during one particular seasonal landscape versus another.

Of course this idea is not mine- what is only "mine" is how I'm actually aspiring to bring it to my own life.

As I wrote in my post last week "Inhabiting Myth as Spiritual Practice," ancient myths have been encouraging women and men to explore darkness in the subterranean underworld for millennia.

In Saki Santorelli's book Heal Thyself he recounts a myth called "The Devil's Sooty Brother" in which a soilder returning from war spends many years in the underworld.

And what is interesting, and maybe even counterintuitive to some of us more linear thinkers, is the soldier's fate to live in the shadows for a period of time is presented as a necessary course of action for healing and growth, as opposed to being a cautionary tale of something to avoid.

20th and 21st century Jungian analysts formalized this ancient idea into a theory by submitting that there is value and healing to be had in the shadows of our psychic underworld, the unconscious.

Thomas Moore, who describes himself as a "lecturer and writer in archetypal psychology and mythology," took this idea a step further in his book Care of the Soul when he declared:

"Some feelings and thoughts seem to emerge only in a dark mood. Suppress the mood, and you will suppress those ideas and reflections...Melancholy gives the soul an opportunity to express a side of its nature that is as valid as any other, but is hidden out of our distaste for its darkness and bitterness."

Moving out of the metaphorical and back into the literal, in an interview I watched with author, professor and Episcopal Priest Barbara Brown Taylor, she spoke about her physical encounter with darkness when she moved from urban Atlanta, Georgia to the rural countryside with quite literally, fewer lights.

This prompted the author to in fact write a book called "Learning to Walk in the Dark" in which she persuasively explored the beauty of darkness on a spiritual level.

Lately for me, as I sit here in the  "really real" darkness of winter as I write these very words, I've been contemplating darkness in relationship to paradox, or what Irish author, theologian and poet John O'Donohue called "Contradictions as Treasures" in his book Anam Cara which means "Soul Friend" in Gaelic.

According to Mr. O'Donohue in his always poetically elegant writing:

"Contradiction is the complex force of growth that disavows mere linear progress in order to awaken all the aggregate energies of an experience.  It is the turbulance and conflict of their inner conversation that brings an integrity of transfiguration and not the mere replacement of one image, surface, or system by another, which so often passes for change. This perspective makes for a more complex notion of truth. It demands an ethic of authenticity that incorporates and goes beyond the simplistic intentions of mere sincerity.

We need to have greater patience with our sense of inner contradiction in order to allow its different dimensions to come into conversation with us. There is a secret light and vital energy in contradiction. Where there is energy there is life and growth...If you remain faithful to this energy, you will gradually come to participate in a harmony that lies deeper than any contradiction. This will give you new courage to engage the depth, danger, and darkness of your life." Pages 114-115.

I've now read that passage at least a dozen times, yet it continues to reveal "a more complex notion of truth."

I think what I find so meaningful is his idea to actually invite, allow and rest with that which may feel difficult or conflictual, while maintaining a faith that there is "a harmony that lies deeper than any contradiction."

And for some reason, darkness, whether as metaphor or that literal seasonal landscape, seems to be the perfect setting for such a spiritual practice, or what Mr O'Donohue might have called a "conversation" with the self.

How can you too explore darkness and internal contradiction this winter season? What fruits might it bear?

Inhabiting Myth as Spiritual Practice

During the holidays and the dark hours of winter I can often get the blues. 

Since this is something that I already know about myself, I try to engage in a series of spiritual practices during this time to allow my soul work to carry some of the heavy weight.

This year, I've been inhabiting myth as one of my spiritual practices.

The idea came from the spiritual exercises I learned about in Ignatian Spirituality, and from what I understand, these are contemplative practices that may be led  by Jesuit priests to help a Christian man or woman pray by imagining themselves as part of a scene from the Gospels- literally inhabiting the gospels.

According to the website ignatianspirituality.com, in these spiritual exercises:

"Contemplation is more about feeling than thinking. Contemplation often stirs the emotions and enkindles deep desires. In contemplation, we rely on our imaginations to place ourselves in a setting from the Gospels or in a scene proposed by Ignatius. We pray with Scripture. We do not study it."

I was actually reminded of these Ignatian spiritual exercises when on a meditation retreat at the Insight Meditation Society (IMS) in Barre, Massachusetts where traditionally Buddhist spiritual practices are taught.

It was the third day of the retreat, and I decided to do my walking meditation in a part of the retreat center where gorgeous large stain glass windows of Jesus stood on either side of the room.

I believe the windows were a relic from a time well before IMS when the retreat center housed Christian monastics, and as someone who does not carry any complicated baggage from the Judeo-Christian traditions as many of my friends and family do, I quite enjoyed these windows from an aesthetic standpoint.

I also was unexpectedly, and pleasantly, reminded of the spiritual exercises I had learned about in Ignatian Spirituality.

Since that time, 7 months ago now, I have periodically practiced encountering spirit and god through the power of myth as a different kind of take on the spiritual exercises.

Of course Buddhism is jam packed with stories and tales of individuals who learn tough lessons from a master teacher- and I tend to enjoy them all.

But these last few weeks, during the big Americana holidays, I have been inhabiting the myth "The Handless Maiden" as told in the 1992 book Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D.

Possibly similar to all those folks who find solace in the stories of Mother Mary during Christmas, I tend to turn to the feminine side of god and the universe when my winter blues set in, and it seems to act as a soothing salve on an old wound.

In the book Dr. Estes recommends you read the myth slowly, over several days, to let it settle into your bones.  This year I followed her recommendation.  This allowed me to internalize each bite-size moment of the story, and marvel at the ways the tale manifested itself in my life and psyche.

I will let you encounter the myth in your own time and on your own terms if you so choose, but one particular scene which was deeply meaningful for me this year, is what I will close with.

At this point in the story, as Dr. Estes tells it, the handless maiden is deep into what she calls "La Selva Subterranea" or the Underground Forest.  Now wandering through the underworld without her two hands, "a ghostly spirit in white" is accompanying the young woman to assist her with important tasks like crossing a moat to enter an orchard for food to eat.

But then (and this is the part of the story that I really love), after the maiden and the guardian spirit enter the orchard, it is still unclear how the young woman will actually be able to eat the fruit as she has no hands? 

So what happens you ask?

Grace.

"The bough [of the tree] bent itself low so she could reach it, its branch creaking. She put her lips to the golden skin of a pear and ate while standing there in the moonlight, her arms bound in gauze, her hair affright, appearing like a mud woman, the handless maiden."

After I read this part of the myth, I decided to keep my eyes and heart open for moments of grace despite the feeling of winter darkness.  I decided to pay attention in order to not miss any "pears" that I might be fed from the fruit trees around me.

This contemplative practice, or spiritual exercise as the Jesuits  might say, has been a beautiful way for me to encounter reality more fully in times  when my mind seems to act with a filter of darkness.

Perhaps you might find this practice to be helpful too, and maybe you too will notice more "pears" than you anticipated.

May it be so.

Poetry 108: Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice

Darkness envelops me

most hours of the day.
Yet, sweetness lies
in the moments.

This curious package
has always been.

Two sides of a coin
that cohabitate within me.

I do not fear the darkness,
or the light.
Both have brought blessings-
albeit disguised at times
in paupers clothing.

God's mysterious design
has often left me puzzled.

Transitioning to darkness in
the light of day?
Bringing back light
under a blackened blue sky?

How perfect.

To never allow us
to fully inhabit one world;
To force paradox
as to avoid simple conclusions;
To bring contradiction
right into the very center of balance;
To allow darkness
with an open heart...

Perhaps, this is god's version
of the right medicine
for our suffering human soul.

I know not.

Still,
my faith tells me
to close my eyes,
and allow the dark light

to work its magic

under the blanket of stars.

-Me