Posts Tagged ‘religion and spirituality’
Cindy on March 13th, 2011
“Lent is the time for trimming the soul and scraping the sludge off a life turned slipshod. It is about taking stock of time….Lent is the time to make new efforts to be what we say we want to be.” — Joan Chittister
Variations on the theme of rebirth and transformation — waiting for spring and learning to overcome impatience — have always fascinated me. Today I’m running an excerpt from a column that was first published on April 4, 2004, in the Daily Tribune of Royal Oak. The complete piece is reprinted in Writing Home. As the Lenten season begins, what are your challenges? Are you letting go of grudges or foolish expectations? Surrendering an old habit? Using the season to take stock of your life?
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Being Still
One of my favorite traditions at First Congregational Church of Royal Oak is the silent meditation service held the week prior to Easter. The midweek candlelit service is led by parishioners, and this year it’s my turn to help open it. The service is offered during Lent because it is, as T.S. Eliot wrote in his poem, Ash Wednesday, “a time of tension between dying and birth.” It is the perfect opportunity for reflection; a time to meditate on the fearsome darkness of the tomb and the pending miracle of Easter.
While a silent service is simple enough to plan, it isn’t as easy to carry out. Few of us are comfortable “being still” in a sanctuary with other people sitting near us. We expect to be enlightened, educated, entertained, preached to, or otherwise distracted from the white noise in our heads. Meditation makes us fidgety. We fear what might be revealed in the pauses and blank spaces.
As Sue Monk Kidd notes in her midlife memoir, When the Heart Waits, one of the guiding principles of American culture is “All lines must keep moving.” Even when we’re home alone, we rush to fill the void with mindless activity or television. Kidd says we resist getting quiet because we’re afraid to confront our own darkness.
Yet real miracles occur during moments of being still – and waiting in the dark. Spring bulbs do their hardest labor underground before blooming. Likewise, the work of spiritual growth and healing is done in silence.
The time I woke up alone in a dark hospital room, two years ago, immediately comes to mind.
It was just past midnight, a few hours after my second hip surgery. Barely conscious, I awoke to discover my legs were strapped to a large foam wedge to keep me from moving. While I realized this was essential to my recovery, I still felt trapped and terrified. Equally scary was the sensation of waking up alone in a strange room. (I didn’t recall being wheeled in after surgery, of course.) And while most hospitals are buzzing with activity during the day and evening, the earliest hours of the morning are eerily quiet.
Breaking the silence, I shouted for help and pushed every button within reach. It was the first time I’d experienced a full-blown panic attack. When my nurse arrived, she explained that my panic was probably triggered by withdrawal from the anesthesia. She promised to check back periodically. Meanwhile, I kept a light on above my bed. Afraid to fall asleep, I kept vigil for daybreak.
By the time the sun rose, I’d finally calmed down and accepted my temporary state of immobility. And in a luminous moment of grace, I suddenly knew I’d been given a second chance. I knew that I would heal and walk again. It would take time, but everything would be okay. And it was. Three days later, I was released early from the hospital to recover in bed at home.
A week before that last surgery, my friend Jenny had sent me a note of encouragement, which included a quote from Patrick Overton. Here’s how it begins:
“When you come to the edge of all the light you have and must take a step into the darkness of the unknown, believe that one of two things will happen to you: Either there will be something solid for you to stand on, or, you will be taught how to fly.”
I’ve posted that quote where I can see it on my desk every day. It’s the one I like to remember when I’m stumbling in the dark or feeling stuck — or waiting impatiently for a new season to begin. – Cindy La Ferle
–Top photo: Detail from a mixed-media collage: “Birthing a Soul” by Cindy La Ferle. Please click on the image for a larger view. –
Cindy on December 15th, 2009
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more? — Dr. Seuss
A few years ago, one of my editors challenged me to write an essay for the front page of the Christmas Eve edition. He said he wanted a piece as moving and memorable as Francis Church’s famous New York Sun editorial, “Is There A Santa Claus?”
Talk about pressure. I was going through a rough time and had nothing original or inspiring to say about Christmas. But I forged on as best I could. Today I can’t recall much of what I wrote for that assignment, and I’m guessing nobody else does either.
Christmas remains a forced and difficult season for me. Like the chains wrapped around Jacob Marley’s ghostly ankles, the secular pressures of the holiday are sometimes more than I can bear. I resent the marketeers who obligate me to buy gifts I wouldn’t otherwise consider. I resent the magazine editors who suggest that my yuletide performance — decorating, cooking, entertaining, baking — is never quite enough. And I dread the hot waves of guilt that wash over me when I can’t muster expressions of merriment or religiosity on cue.
But I wasn’t always such a Grinch.
Auld Lang Syne
As a kid, I bought into the Santa mythology, and for a short time I believed in magic. In those days, the lyrics to Christmas carols seemed fresh and stirring — partly because my parents never played them until after Thanksgiving. I was even more intrigued by the stories of elves and trolls. I was sure they assisted Santa on his midnight mission throughout the world. I’d stay awake all night on Christmas Eve, listening for them.
Even then, I knew the real wizards behind the Christmas magic were my paternal grandparents and a half-dozen eccentric great-aunts and uncles. Charles Dickens couldn’t top those folks when it came to holiday spirit. All were immigrants from Scotland’s Orkney Islands, and during the 1950s and ’60s, their generous Detroit neighborhood was a rich melting pot representing several nationalities and religious denominations.
My grandparents threw an annual Christmas Eve open house, inviting every relative, neighbor, and friend in the vicinity. The Goodmans, who lived across the street and celebrated Chanukah, always stopped by too. The whole house would expand with the aroma of my grandmother’s cooking and the clamor of jovial visitors — so much so that the windows of their modest brick-and-stone Colonial steamed up and I could print my name with a finger in the watery panes. At some point in the evening, my Aunt Annie, a chain smoker who outlived the other aunts and uncles, performed a Highland sword dance (using the fireplace tools) in the middle of the living room. Later, someone would pound out a chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” on the piano.
Christmas Eve at my grandparents’ house wasn’t about the presents or decorations. These were practical Scots who gifted each other with new underwear and wasted little money on trimmings. Their Christmas was all about community.
Stuffed with shortbread and happiness — and loaded down with boxes of new pj’s and underwear — I’d always return home late with my parents. And if our timing was just right, my dad and I watched the original A Christmas Carol on TV at midnight in black and white.
Holiday grief and loss
My Scottish grandparents — and crazy Aunt Annie — died many years ago. Since then, I married and had my own family, but as hard as I tried, I could never recreate the old-country Christmas festivities at my grandparents’ home.
And after my father’s fatal heart attack in 1992, the whole Christmas season felt like an emotional challenge. I couldn’t predict when a bittersweet line from a favorite carol, or another errant ghost of Christmas past, would bring tears. My family and I continued to celebrate our holidays with my dad’s only brother and my cousins. But when my uncle lost his battle with pancreatic cancer over two years ago, we faced yet another empty chair at our holiday table.
Thankfully, I’ve arrived at a quiet harbor of acceptance. But I still hold a special place in my heart for every soul who’s suffering a recent loss at holiday time. For the grieving or the newly divorced, those festive commercials highlighting family togetherness can seem downright cruel. Not to mention all the ads that suggest everyone in town is throwing a party and you’re not invited.
Regardless, like most women of my vintage, I’ve always understood that one of my duties as a wife and mother was to make the holiday bright for my own family. In retrospect, I think I did a fairly good job of it, and, yes, there were many sparks of genuine Christmas spirit when my son was small. The video my husband recorded of our toddler and me making sugar cookies reminds me that holiday traditions needn’t be over-the-top; that the truly sacred moments are the ordinary moments when we are, to borrow from C.S. Lewis, “surprised by joy.”
And those are the moments I’ll hope to recall in years to come.
Watching my widowed mother this year, I wonder if this will be the last Christmas she’ll remember. Last month she was officially diagnosed with early stages of dementia, and already her memories are jumbled. She’s lucid most of the time — yet she knows something is terribly wrong. She’s losing her hearing and is often depressed or confused. And I know she still misses my dad. It is my job to see that she is cared for and loved, and that she is made as comfortable as possible as we navigate another Christmas.
Redefining tradition
My husband comes from a large family of good people, and for years he’s been lucky enough to rehash the same Christmas traditions and memories with most of them, although his own father was moved to a nursing home this summer.
Aside from the fact that my mother-in-law bakes the best pies in the Midwest, it should go without saying that we need to spend some holiday time on that side of the family tree. My son needs the unconditional love of grandparents and extended family — just as I did years ago. My in-laws, bless them all, also invite my mother to their holiday celebrations. Their tables are always expanding to include new partners, nieces, nephews, stepchildren, and grandkids, and I know that my mom and I are always counted as family in their crowd.
And yet. Whenever I’m toasting Christmas with my in-laws, I can’t quite shake the sense that I’m an orphan looking through a window at someone else’s feast; or an obligatory guest at a cocktail party. These people have holiday memories and histories of their own, and I enjoy hearing them. But their nostalgia is not my nostalgia.
My dear husband reminds me that we do honor our own traditions here at our house — and that we have the power to turn off the Christmas Machine.
A few years ago, we started keeping a (mostly) gift-less Christmas, donating money to our favorite charities in honor of loved ones. And now that our son is grown and living out of state, the highlight of our holiday is his return visit. When he’s back in Detroit, his old friends inevitably wind up at our house, so we also get the chance to reconnect with the kids from the neighborhood.
At some point during the holiday rush, we’ll uncork a bottle of wine or two by the fire with other cherished friends who’ve weathered life’s trials and turning points — not just the holidays — with us. That’s when I’ll remember, as my Scottish grandparents taught me, that a real clan includes dear friends and neighbors, not just the people we’re related to. I’ll take a deep breath and it will hit me that everything is just as it should be, even the imperfect and the undone. Or, as Garrison Keillor once said, “A lovely thing about Christmas is that it’s compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.” – Cindy La Ferle
–The Grinch in top photo is a gift from my friend Shirley, who adores Christmas just the same. –
Cindy on May 12th, 2009
“What I really hungered for, more than any of the qualities these esteemed women represented, was a spiritual life that was real and authentic.” — Janice Lynne Lundy, from Your Truest Self
Janice Lynne Lundy and I first “met” eight years ago when she was co-publisher and editor of Healing Garden Journal, and I was a regular contributor to her magazine. Over the years, I’ve gotten to know Jan even better through her books, her Awake is Good blog, and her articles exploring women’s spirituality. I’ve always been uplifted and informed by her work.
Jan’s newest book, Your Truest Self: Embracing the Woman You Are Meant to Be (Ave Maria Press; $17.95) empowers every woman who’s on a spiritual path to personal discovery. The guide is crafted around twelve principles drawn from Jan’s personal encounters and interviews with twelve spiritual teachers, writers, and social activists whose names will strike a chord of recognition, including Joan Borysenko, Sue Patton Thoele, Iyanla Vanzant, and Naomi Judd — just for starters. As Jan points out, living as “our truest self” is a lifelong process and it helps to have mentors to light the way.
Since so many of my writing students have expressed interest in spiritual memoir and inspirational writing, I asked Jan if she’d share some thoughts about her book and how she became a successful writer in this genre.
CL: In Your Truest Self, you outline twelve “Transformational Truths” to help women lead more satisfying, peaceful lives. Each truth is exemplified by a well-known spiritual leader or inspirational teacher. How did you choose the women who inspired these truths for the book?
JL: In my career as a speaker and writer, I have been blessed to cross paths with many gifted women over the years. The twelve women I chose to feature in my book are those who had a profound and lasting impact on my life journeyâso far, that is! For example, I discovered Joyce Rupp at a time when I was struggling with my faithâor lack of it. As a burgeoning feminist, I was angry about a patriarchal notion of God (sourced in the Christian tradition). Her book, A
Star in My Heart, literally, leapt off the shelf at me. I was not consciously looking for it; it found me. Joyce’s words gave me permission to begin a search for a âGodâ of my own understanding. She represents the first Transformational Truth: âI Am Free to Live a Spiritual Life of My Own Making.â
The twelve spiritual mentors I present are: Joyce Rupp, OSM, Jan Phillips, Iyanla Vanzant, Dudley Evenson, Sue Patton Thoele, Daphne Rose Kingma, Doreen Virtue, Naomi Judd, Michelle Tsosie Sisneros, Joan Borysenko, Frances Moore Lappé, Mari Gayatri Stein. These remarkable mentors (their words, lifework, or actual presence) were gifts of the Spirit just when I needed them most. For that, I will be eternally grateful. I would not be who I am today without their guidance. I wanted to share these ladies with the world in a larger way, thus my book.
CL: As a writer, have you always focused on spiritual topics? Or was there a point in your life when you changed your writing direction?
JL: First of all, Cindy, I never planned on becoming a writer, though I always enjoyed writing. I was a high school teacher of comparative religions. In the early 1990s, when my life became quite challenging, I was drawn to personal growth, then spiritual growth, through books and programs. In 1995, I began penning inspirational essays for newspapers and magazines (not unlike what you write so very well, I might add!). These reflections were based on my observations of life even as I was growing into a more genuine version of myself. I wrote my first book in 1996, Coming Home to Ourselves: A Woman’s Journey to Wholeness, a body, mind, spirit guide to women’s well-being. Journaling is a strong component in it, as that process is what actually opened me up to writing in a professional way.
And though I have engaged in many forms of freelance writing over the years, today I find myself writing primarily about personal and spiritual growth. This is my passion and, I believe, my purpose. My desire is deep to help people navigate their spiritual lives with greater equanimity and less suffering. That is also what I do as a Spiritual Director/Mentor. It’s a fine fit with writing. I have a particular passion for women’s life journeys, so most of what I do is in support of womenâbooks, magazine columns, retreats and wokshops, and individual spiritual mentoring.
CL: Please share a few books that you consider spiritual classics, or books that deeply influenced your writing.
JL: Oh, so many! For our purposes here, I’ll choose:
Black Elk Speaks, by John G. Niehardt
Gift from the Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Peace is Every Step, by Thich Nhat Hanh
Women Who Run with the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes
At the Root of This Longing: Reconciling a Spiritual Hunger and a Feminist Thirst, by Carol Lee Flinders
Circle of Stones, by Judith Duerk
Any poetry by Rumi, especially translated works by Coleman Barks.
CL: In your experience leading retreats and talking with women, what are some of the challenges women face today? And how will your book help us meet them?
JL: Self-care definitely. Taking good care of themselvesâbody, mind, and spiritâas the pace of life and its pressures intensify. The Fifth Transformational Truth, “I Cultivate Compassion for Myself,” is key. Many women do not know how to demonstrate lovingkindness toward themselves, to be as tender with themselves as they are to others. We are pretty tough on ourselves, pushing ourselves beyond normal limits, often exhausting ourselves in the process. We must learn to give ourselves permission to move beyond perfectionism, busyness, and self-negating behaviors. In the book, psychotherapist and author, Sue Patton Thoele, helps me present this Truth and how to navigate its potholes. She represents how we can âlive gently with our ourselves and others.â
Also, speaking our truth is a big challenge for women today. We are naturally peacekeepers, often overly focused on being nice, pleasing others, not rocking the boat, so to speak. It takes fortitude and healthy boundaries to live as our truest self publicly in the world. The Eleventh Transformational Truth: “I Courageously Speak and Live My Truths” is a tough one, but we can learn to move beyond fear, especially of what others might think of us. In this chapter, I elicit the help of activist, Frances Moore Lappé, and readers can begin to relinquish any fear that renders them powerless or ineffectual.
I’ve structured Your Truest Self to feature Reflection Questions after each chapter. It is very important that we take time to integrate the concepts, ponder, even journal a bit. I’ve also created Peaceful Pauses. These are meditations, prayerful practices based on each Truth, which allow us to go deeper and, ultimately, embody the precept in a powerful, new way.
From loving and trusting our body’s wisdom to keeping our hearts open to others, I am confident that this book provides inspiration, big doses of courage and support, and plenty of practical strategies for living as the women we all hope to be. No matter what our spiritual tradition, the Truths are the same. We all want to be healthy and happy. More peace-filled. And wise!
CL: Thanks so much, Jan, for sharing thoughts on your new book and process with us. I wish you continued success — and I encourage readers to visit Awakened Living, your Web site, to learn more about your work.
JL: Thanks for all these great questions, Cindy, and allowing me to speak about Your Truest Self. It’s been a pleasure. Abundant blessings to you all!
It was just past midnight, a few hours after my second hip surgery. Barely conscious, I awoke to discover my legs were strapped to a large foam wedge to keep me from moving. While I realized this was essential to my recovery, I still felt trapped and terrified. Equally scary was the sensation of waking up alone in a strange room. (I didn’t recall being wheeled in after surgery, of course.) And while most hospitals are buzzing with activity during the day and evening, the earliest hours of the morning are eerily quiet.
