Sacred Journey

Check out the December issue of ImagiNews Journal to see a piece I wrote (page 6). Published by Imagery International, a professional organization of Guided Imagery Practitioners.

 Sacred Journey

I am the boatman
ferrying my selves
to the distant shore.
I am the grief for that
which is left behind.
I am the eager anticipation
of a child’s heart.
I am the thoughts
that stand before me like sentinels
and obscure my view.
I am that
upon which I rest.
I am the farthest shore.
I am the opportunity
awaiting my arrival.

Longing for Home

When I was eight years old I spent four weeks at a summer camp for girls in West Virginia. My mother grew up in this camp, and I imagine she hoped I would grow to love it as she did. Nestled in a corner of the Shenandoah valley, surrounded by mountains, the camp provided wide-ranging activities. Best of all, it had horses, and we rode several times a week. Four weeks, however, was a very long time for a little girl's first adventure away from home. Every day I received a warm, newsy letter from mom or dad, and every day I wrote the same thing... "I miss you. I am homesick. I want to come home." This was followed by a list of all of the activities and adventures that had taken place in the last day or two. Looking back on this time it is clear that I was generally recognized by camp staff as the most homesick camper that season. Special attention was given to me in many ways, such as being chosen to be the Indian princess for one of the camp tribes.

When the last day of camp and my parents arrived, I ran and threw myself at my mother in relief. There were a number of Parent's Day activities to be endured. After a humiliating showing in the horse show (I was given Haymaker, and he made some hay) I insisted that we leave right now. And we did. I still remember sitting in the back seat of the car wheeling out of the camp. On some level that experience had been a trial and a burden to me and I was relieved to be headed for home and safety.

That said, it may be a surprise to learn that I spent the next twenty summers at camp. Closer to home initially, for shorter periods of time. As I got older I was a counselor-in-training, then a counselor, then a camp director. And as I got older I longed for camp as I had once longed for home. Longed for the outdoor living, the meaningful relationships, and the freedom to be a different "me" at camp. It has been many years now since I have been at camp, but every spring I start thinking about heading off on another adventure, and camp songs haunt me throughout the summer.

Today, at 62, I again hear myself repeating the same refrain: "I want to go home. I want to go home." In this voice I recognize the longing for relief, comfort and safety. A longing for something beyond my daily life. A spiritual yearning for those still and exultant magical moments that I most often experience in the out-of-doors. This longing often takes me out of the present moment. I don't want to be here, I want to be there. And yet, as I finally came to recognize camp as home, it seems as if the little girl longing for home might have been at home all along. Perhaps our fears and insecurities, our uncertainties and worries, drop a veil in front of our eyes and keep us from seeing that we are always home, always held in a loving heart.

Leaving camp early that day more than fifty years ago meant that I missed the final council fire. Seasoned campers cherish the memories of the ceremony that brings closure to the camp experience. It is one of the few places where the ritual of saying goodbye, of remembering and honoring our time together, is enacted. Next year I will be returning to my mother's and my camp to attend the closing council fire and finally complete the summer of my eighth year. I am going home.

This blog post was picked up by the American Camp Association for their "Parent's Place" blog dated November 18, 2013.  

Honoring Our Wounded

While most people today are remembering the soldiers who have given their lives for their country, I would like to take a moment to recognize and honor people the world over who are carrying the wounds and scars of daily living. The men, women, and children who have been victims of abuse or violence.Those who suffer from any one of hundreds of life's traumas. The agonized souls who drop to their knees in the dark night, wailing their pain and grief in an empty room. Those who could no longer stand the pain and took their lives, and those who are left behind with holes in their hearts.

Who among us does not bear the burden of such experiences? On this day I ask for the grace to forgive those who have caused us pain, and the kindness to embrace ourselves with love and gentleness. May our souls be soothed and rest in peace.

In the Presence of the Other

Nothing is more important to me than being heard. Reflecting on what enhances communication and what hinders it, I have recently become aware of the presence of the "Other", that uncomfortable and unseen thing that sometimes creeps into conversations. This shows up in many ways, and I suspect that each of us has a slightly different perspective. Let me offer you some examples to give you an idea of what I'm talking about. Many years ago I approached a friend and shared with her that my grandmother had just died. She said "oh, I'm so sorry", and promptly changed the subject. The Other is often a taboo subject of some sort that causes someone to shut down and turn away. There is a much more subtle example on the other end of the spectrum.On occasion I have shared an opinion or belief, and heard in response something like this: "I wonder if this isn't a better word to describe what you're feeling (offering a word that changes the intent of what I said)... I totally understand what you're saying, we're so much alike." In this instance the response to the perceived sense of otherness is to adjust it to better reflect the listener's experience so there can be a bonding experience.

I have my own powerful and  personal reactions to the presence of the Other. Growing up in a reserved household, I experience great shock and dismay when confronted with a dramatic emotional blast. I may be similarly stunned when someone says or does something that confronts me with the reality of how unlike me they are. In both these instances I am simply struck dumb, in such a state of shock that I can barely move, let alone speak.

Given these everyday conversational hits and misses, and our likely very normal reactions when we experience the Other, it is perhaps not surprising that we find churches banning interracial couples from membership, states creating restrictive laws about immigration, and a Congress that is so polarized they can't be civil to one another, let alone get any work done.

As we move into the holiday season, I wonder what might happen if each of us sat in the presence of the Other, with all of our differences and disagreements, armed only with a sense of curiosity and a desire to understand? Earlier today I found myself humming "Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me". Perhaps if we could all endure the unknown, the differences, just a moment longer, a bit more light could, and would, come into the world.

A Rain of Leaves

The falling leaves of autumn teach me about letting go and passing away. I like to stand in the deep woods and watch the leaves rain down. Some seem to fall gladly and willingly, while others need to be shaken free by the wind. What I especially notice as I watch the leaves is just how easy it seems. One second the leaf is attached to the branch… the next second it is falling. The letting go seems effortless, and the descent is often slow and gentle. Watching this fills me with a sense of peace. I am quite sure that this is how I want to die. So I watch, and pay attention, every year. Trying to absorb the ease with which this happens and trying to take in just how easy letting go can be.

A friend recently asked “what do you do when things are hopeless?” (As a life coach people imagine I have the answer to questions like this). After some hemming and hawing I asked “what advice does your higher self have?” The response: Let go. Immediately followed by the question… but how do I do that? This is why I watch the rain of leaves every year.

While people typically connect the return of the light to the winter solstice, for me the light returns when the leaves fall. Living surrounded by woods, I see the light streaming through the branches as the canopy empties. The sun, sky, clouds and stars become visible in places they were hidden all summer. If you are contemplating letting go, look around to see where the light is streaming in. What is being illuminated? What is revealed that was once hidden?

My feet are crunching the leaves now when I walk through the woods. A thick layer of leaves is being laid down, providing a blanket of protection against the cold of winter and nourishment for next spring’s growth. This is the cycle of living and of dying. I imagine the leaves falling with a sense of relief and excitement… relieved that this part of their journey has come to an end and now they can rest. Excited about the transformation that will allow them to support the growth of the forest in a new and different way. In what ways do your experiences fertilize the ground for your next project or job, or just for tomorrow?