Tag: Discernment

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Flying with Owen

Rocketing down the runway a few days ago, I suddenly remembered another flight home from the West Coast many years ago.

I was sitting at my gate, listening to music and absorbed in a book that had been waiting far too long in my “to read” pile. I had several uninterrupted hours ahead of me and intended to enjoy every one of them.

My attention was interrupted only once, when I heard a young boy urging his much younger brother to hurry.

“We’re going to miss the plane!”

Both boys were pulling their own small suitcases and weaving somewhat precariously through the crowd while their mother followed, gently assuring them that they had plenty of time.

I smiled and returned to my reading.

When I boarded the plane, I discovered that the older boy was sitting beside my window seat, engrossed in arranging his book and snacks. I greeted the mom and boy and settled quite contentedly inside the private world I had created with my music and book.

“Excuse me,” the boy said. “Can we switch seats, please?” He wanted the window.

I understood. The window was part of the magic of flying. I agreed to switch, even as my anticipated cocoon of privacy quietly disappeared. The middle seat isn’t my favorite, but I was young once and I do love a good view from the plane.

His mom was genuine in her thanks and I met Owen before his nose was pressed up against the oval window.

Once he was settled beside the window with his seat belt fastened, I returned to my music and book. I was remarkably good at narrowing my attention and tuning out everything around me.

Until a small, persistent movement at the edge of my vision entered my awareness.

Owen’s legs were bouncing.

Sitting cross-legged in his seat, he was practically quivering.

I couldn’t yet tell whether he was anxious or delighted, but he had captured my attention. There is something wonderfully contagious about a child who can barely contain his excitement.

We had begun moving toward the runway. I leaned toward him. “Do you like to fly?”
“I love to fly, especially when we take off.”

Now, here was a boy after my own heart. I immediately became grateful for those bouncing legs. They had reminded me that I was about to fly through the sky inside an enormous metal machine, a marvel in itself. And I had nearly missed it because I was absorbed in someone else’s story.

As the plane taxied, Owen and I discussed where we might be going and how we would know when we had reached the runway.

When we finally arrived, his legs began moving with even greater enthusiasm. A piece of gum suddenly flew through the air and landed in Owen’s lap, surprising both of us. His mother had apparently decided that the moment called for gum. Owen nodded his thanks, began chewing, and turned his full attention back to the window.

“Here we go,” I said as the engines grew louder and the plane began moving down the runway.
“That was the nose lifting off,” Owen declared.
“You think?”
“Yep.”
“Look at the terminal. Is it still there?”
“Oh, it’s still there.”

The plane gathered speed. “Now that was the nose lifting off,” he announced with great authority. Then he noticed that the terminal was still level with the window. “Hmmmn.”

“Tell me when you feel yourself pushed back in your seat and the terminal disappears,” I suggested. A moment later, the plane lifted from the runway and pressed us both back into our seats.

Owen turned to me. “THAT was the nose of the plane lifting up.”
“Yes, Owen. THAT was lift off!”

Together, we leaned toward that little oval and watched the terminal disappear and the landscape grow smaller beneath us. Then Owen returned to his book and I returned to mine.

Throughout the flight, he surfaced only occasionally to share something funny he had read or ask his mother for a snack. By then, I was attuned enough to enjoy him without leaving the world of my book entirely.

I remember feeling grateful that, of all the possible people who might have occupied the seat beside me, I was flying with Owen.

His joyful, jiggling legs had brought me back to the moment I was actually living.

I still love disappearing into a good book. I definitely appreciate a quiet flight and the rare pleasure of uninterrupted time. But sometimes Life arrives at the edge of your carefully narrowed attention and asks you to look up.

Sometimes it even sits beside you, asks for the window seat, and begins to quiver.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Ecological Belonging

Everything belongs. Everything has its place in the grand web of Life.

I was thinking about this recently as I wandered through the forest and stopped by a lake to chat with an old turtle hosting a flowing forest of algae upon his shell. I watched the long strands lift from his shell to dance in the water as he nibbled on balls of algae, pausing occasionally to gaze at me.

Nothing in nature exists by itself.

Every tree is in relationship with the soil, fungi, underground waterways, rain, wind, sunlight, insects, birds, and creatures sheltering beneath its branches.

That which is visible and microscopic engages in a relational dance of nourishment, consumption, and destruction. Life competes and cooperates. It grows and decays. Some of what you encounter is astonishingly beautiful and some decidedly less so. Yet everything has a place within the ecosystem.

Everywhere I move, I witness this ecological belonging.

In the Andean path, you experience the world as Living Energy.

Pachamama and heavens. Mountains, oceans, rivers, clouds. Elements, animals, ancestors and humans. Past and future. Seen and unseen. Nothing exists outside the living fabric. Relationship moves in every direction.

A central practice in this wisdom tradition is Ayni, the way of reciprocity. You recognize yourself as both steward and relative within this living weave. And the message comes forth.

You are welcome here.

You belong within the weave of Living Energy.

You are essential in this garden.

After listening to the Angelic realm for over twenty years, I recognize the same messages of welcome and belonging.

You are wanted here.
We delight in your presence.
You are precious and your existence matters.

You are already woven in the cosmic light.

And within Via Sophia, the Way of Living Wisdom, I find it again.

The Mystical Mothers do not ask you to prove that you deserve entrance to the garden. The Great Mother reminds you that you were born within it.

You belong here.
You belong to Life.
You are part of this garden.

You are a precious blossom already planted here.

Different traditions. Different languages. Different ways of understanding existence.

Beneath them, I hear the same message.

You already have a place. This is ecological belonging.

It isn’t belonging as a feeling you achieve when the right people finally love you in the right way.

Ecological belonging is more fundamental than that.

It doesn’t require achievement or fitting yourself into an acceptable way of being.

From the moment you enter this life, you are already woven into relationships that extend in every direction.

You have a place within the family and lineage you came through, even when those relationships are difficult or you choose not to remain in contact. You have a place in the human family, among the other creatures with whom you share this planet, within the history that preceded you and the future that will continue after you.

Relationships change. Communities come and go. You lose people, leave places, become estranged, feel lonely, or long for relationships that do not yet exist.

Belonging does not erase any of this. Belonging is foundational.

You belong when surrounded by those you love. You belong when isolated and feeling lost. You belong when uncertain of your place in the world.

You are a creature of this Earth, breathing air, drinking water, soaking up light and walking upon ground that has held life for billions of years.

Perhaps one of the great misunderstandings of belonging is imagining that someone else has the authority to grant it to you or exclude you.

The natural world suggests otherwise. Nothing has to demonstrate value to earn a place in nature.

The bird doesn’t confer belonging upon the tree.
The tree doesn’t grant membership to the moss.
The water doesn’t award the right to swim to the turtle.

They are already participants in the same living world. As are you.

Perhaps the invitation isn’t to seek those places where you belong. Perhaps it is to remember the place you have never actually left. And to choose how to live as a human who belongs in the garden where you are planted.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Seeking Treasure

When I was young, the neighborhood kids and I would spend an entire day playing a game we called Seeking Treasure.

Ranging in age from seven to eleven, we’d split into two teams and retreat to separate houses, where we sprawled across the floor mapping out a plan to outwit the other team. We’d write and decorate clever clues on slips of paper. Each team had a designated area of the neighborhood and a firm no spying rule.

We hid clues in trees, on porches, in birdhouses, and mailboxes.

Every game brought a new challenge as we searched for hiding places that would thwart the opposing team. One clue led to another. You didn’t know where you were going when you started, and you couldn’t gauge how far along the other team was in their quest.

That was the fun of it.

At the agreed-upon time, the teams met at a central location. Once the first clues were formally exchanged, the race began. I honestly can’t recall a single clue or whether there was even a treasure to be found.

Yet I have a visceral memory of packs of children running madly through the neighborhood. Putting our heads together to decipher a clue. Climbing trees, sticking our hands into small places, getting really dirty, and screaming wildly for everyone to hurry and keep up.

It was exhilarating fun.

I remember the pleasure of creating, the camaraderie, and a keen feeling of aliveness. Strangely, I have absolutely no memory of winning or losing.

Eventually, both teams ended up at the designated house where somebody’s mom had snacks waiting.

Apparently that’s when we learned that every good quest should end with celebration and plenty of food, no matter who won.

Somewhere along the way, we grew up and stopped seeking treasure.

Even if you never played a game like this, I imagine you left behind at least some of that childhood creativity, freedom of movement, playful exploration, and trust that one clue would somehow lead to another.

Instead, you probably became very good at figuring things out.

You make lists, research decisions, compare possibilities, and ask other people what they think. You may even try to understand what something means before you’ve had a chance to experience it and see what emerges.

There’s nothing wrong with thinking. Your intelligent mind serves you beautifully. But some things are discovered differently. Not by trying harder to find an answer, but by becoming receptive enough to notice what meets you.

I think we need to play again.

That’s the spirit behind Awaken Your Inner Oracle, a day of Oracle Card Readings and Treasure Mapping at Soul Sanctuary.

Imagine arriving among friends, new and old, with a few questions that are alive in your life and absolutely no requirement to know the answers. We’ll play with Oracle cards, share lunch together, and spend the afternoon seeking treasure throughout Soul Sanctuary.

You’ll have an opportunity to relax, play, follow your curiosity, and discover how much more you perceive when you’re not trying so hard to be intuitive.

I’ve enjoyed so many days like this with others at Soul Sanctuary, sitting around playing with Oracle cards, seeking clues, and having no idea what we’ll find.

My favorite part is watching the doubt disappear as people discover how easily they can perceive the wisdom hidden in plain sight.

When I was running around the neighborhood all those years ago, I trusted that something would catch my attention and lead me toward the next clue. I didn’t need to know where I was going or how things would turn out before I began.

I just played.

On Saturday, September 26, I’d love to invite you to come play with me. Bring your curiosity and whatever questions are alive in your life. Let’s have some fun and see what finds you.

Come for one workshop or make a day of it. And I’ll definitely have snacks waiting for you. Some traditions are worth keeping.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Living Your Convictions

I recently found myself thinking about activism. About the many ways we show up for what matters to us.

As I considered this, three memories arrived. Rapidly, as if they were part of my contemplation.

The first was a conversation I had with a woman in my town. She was giving me an update on her recent gathering with other mothers protesting against gun violence. I was interested as we had explored what mattered to her as she approached retirement. Protecting children in schools and on street corners mattered, so she joined with other moms who cared about the same.

She described the experience standing at a busy street corner in a local town.

I could see it. Lots of mamas showing up with hand made signs, chanting together, and hoping to make a difference. Some passing drivers honked in support. Others rolled down their windows, shouted insults, or flashed rude gestures. She couldn’t believe the hostility. Neither could the other mothers.

So the women shouted back. Righteous in their indignation.

“So you’re an angry activist?” I asked.

She stopped speaking. There was a long pause. Then she laughed. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “I am an angry activist!”

It wasn’t a criticism. It was just something to notice. How easy it is for our nervous system to become shaped by the very energy we’re trying to change. This led to a rich discussion of how to stand for what truly mattered without giving way to dysregulation and anger, regardless of how others in her group or those passing by reacted.

The second scene also took place on a busy street.

I recalled walking past a Tesla showroom in Washington, D.C. last fall. The sidewalk outside the storefront was filled with dancing people. At first, I thought there was a grand opening or something to be celebrated. As we joined the other pedestrians in single file to walk slowly past the dancers, I took in the scene.

Music filled the street. The DJ broadcasted uplifting music as the happy protesters danced with signs.

Some just busted a move and exuded a joyful countenance. After reading the signs, I looked around me. Some people smiled. Others scowled. A few applauded or shimmied a bit, while some muttered their disagreement as they walked by.

The dancers kept dancing. Whether people agreed or disagreed didn't seem to determine their state.

 

No one seemed dysregulated except for the dude who was clearly dancing to his own rhythm.

These activists expressed what they believed without becoming entangled in every passing reaction. That was interesting.

The third memory was of a recent visit I had with a family friend.

This beautiful soul is in her late eighties and has spent much of her life standing up for what she believed was just. I grew up on stories of her protests, occasional arrests, and dogged determination.

When I visited her assisted living community, I noticed a small sign attached to her walker. Every Vote Matters.

“Still at it,” I observed and we shared a smile.

I noted that it was a quiet statement. Later she showed me the larger sign that now hung in her room. It had once been displayed on her walker, but the community had asked residents not to display overt political messages in shared spaces. Let’s just say that wasn’t so quiet as her message was clear, in all caps, and brightly decorated.

But she adapted. Not because her convictions had changed, but because her wisdom had.

I later saw a photo of her at a family party. There she was, rolling around with that bright sign visible for all to read. It struck me that she understood that there is a difference between abandoning your values and expressing them skillfully within the environment you inhabit.

As I thought about these three scenes, I realized they weren’t simply different activists.

They represented three different ways of inhabiting what they cared about.

One became caught in the reactivity around her. And was open to shifting her approach.
The dancers expressed their convictions without becoming pulled into every response.
And one displayed that wisdom sometimes means changing the form without changing the heart.

Whether the moment calls you into protest, parenting, teaching, voting, caring for a friend, or simply having a difficult conversation, how you live your convictions matters.

As I drove home, I found myself less interested in activism than in how I live my convictions.

Not what I stood against. But how I stand.
Not whether I cared. But how I carry what I care about.
And how I meet those who see the world differently than I do.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions.