Invisibility

It seems to me that in recent months, a single theme has dominated almost every conversation I've had with my 60-something women friends: we feel invisible. This goes way beyond wanting to look nice and get noticed on the street (to the extent to which any of us ever really wanted that in the first place). This is about the utter frustration (and at times, depression) of simply not being listened to, not being heard, not being seen, not feeling that anyone sees us as relevant. This is about there being immediate pushback or contradiction when we are heard. And this is about feeling like we have no control over the direction our world is taking. Increasingly, I feel like I've landed on a foreign planet, and am looking out on a landscape that reflects virtually none of my values. None. I don't "get"  business or the profit motive. I don't "get" corruption or crime. I don't "get" skyscrapers and artificial intelligence and constant growth. I don't "get" war and violence and fracking. I don't "get" not treating every human being, animal and corner of the earth with some basic measure of decency. I don't "get" shoddiness and cutting corners and some people being obscenely rich and others obscenely poor. But that's the whole point, isn't it? Even my own wording reflects how I still buy into the self-sabotage of assuming there's a norm in place, and something is wrong with my inability to fit into it. I think I've said all this before; forgive me. Every day brings even more to "not get."

Having said that, 61 is great, because from time to time, I have the courage to say, "Wait one second here. I have a genius IQ. The problem isn't that I don't 'get' certain things. It's that I do 'get' them. I 'get' them all right, and see right through them."

Maybe it's because I finally do "get it," that I just don't seem to be able to do it any more, hold up my potentially impressive 21st century resume, and nervously approach an institution and say, "Please, sir, please may I humbly ask you to consider using my skills. May I have my little morsel of attention or pay or benefits?" It's time for the world to come to us, to women, and respectfully. To see us and seek out our extraordinary wisdom. Most of us have been consistently out here exemplifying values of life-giving beauty and integrity and healing and kindness and sharing and restraint. Lordy, we have done so little harm. We haven't been "gotten," that's for sure; we've been invisible and trampled underfoot, but we are still here. And Mother Earth needs us now more than ever. Every day that I allow myself slightly more visibility is a successful one for me -- and for her. 

Yeah, I'm sure I've said most of this before, but I couldn't find where, so it bears repeating...

Blue Skies

On Saturday, a friend and I took a short day trip to a small New England town, one of those picture-perfect, surprisingly vibrant downtowns with quaint antique shops, an independent bookstore, an art gallery, and a number of interesting restaurants. The sky was a brilliant blue, with occasional puffy white clouds wafting by. The farmer's market was in full swing with white tents and people getting hotter by the minute, a jazz guitarist at the corner, and lots of children running around. We sat for a while at a picnic table under the trees watching "tweens" (lovely to see them off their phones!) playing on the magnificent green lawn with huge soap bubble wands; the occasional bubble floated by, vibrant with rainbow colors and magic. An American flag flew in the light breeze. It was one of those snapshot moments of America at its best, free, happy, sunny, warm. I did everything I could for these few hours to stay in the moment.

It just wasn't completely possible. I think the image from last week that I have not been able to un-see, the bell I haven't been able to un-ring, was the picture of wheelchair-bound men and women being hauled out of the U.S. Capitol. The symbolism of this was just so painful. I've always thought that the Achilles heel of our pursuit of "life, liberty and happiness" is its focus on individual, not community, fulfilment, our focus on individual, not community, "wealth" (the commonwealth or common "weal"). Many of us are watching with jaw-dropping incredulity as norms of decency and "do unto others" seem to erode before our very eyes.

When you believe in the law of attraction, you know that the only pipeline to "manifestation" that you can control is your own. So it's a bit of a tricky thing. That very law can appear to bring enormous "success" to those who can't love, those who just simply cannot care what happens to anyone else. Indeed, I suspect their success sometimes comes more easily because they may not factor others into their equations. Those of us who come to the law of attraction from a place of love (or try our best to) dearly want each human to experience peace, health and happiness, but we understand it is impossible for us to directly create others' realities. I guess it boils down to the simple question I have asked before: where is the love? When I experience "blue skies," do I genuinely wish those blue skies for the rest of humanity? Am I on this journey to love more and create a more love-filled world? Or would I be willing to haul anyone out to the curb, for any reason, and drop them there? (It's easy to say the answer is "no" to that last question. But perhaps it is one of those questions we need to ask ourselves every single day.) Are others sharing their love?

The blue skies seem to be "hanging in there" on this Monday morning. May they do so where you are too.

A Right Place

I read the most comforting sentence the other day, in the most unlikely place: one of the Brother Cadfael mysteries by Ellis Peters (nom de plume of Edith Mary Pargeter.) Here it is: "There is a right place for every soul under the sun" (The Devil's Novice, p. 84).

Again, "There is a right place for every soul under the sun." For someone like me, this phrase is like honey, a calming, cooling balm. Yes, sometimes we are in the right place, sometimes not. In that particular mystery, I guess it's giving away the plot just a tad to say that the monastery's new novice was not, in fact, demonic, but he was also not in his right place in the world. Things, fortunately, work out in the end. I've become ridiculously narrow in my reading recently, as I continue the medieval mystery theme: Peter Tremayne's "Sister Fidelma" novels and the Kate Sedley "Roger Chapman" mysteries such as The Brothers of Glastonbury. Between that and insatiably devouring old Time Team episodes, I guess I am about as transparent as glass. Give me a simple living space, the English countryside, medieval architecture, spirituality, scholarship and music, and even abbey or church ruins, and I'm a happy woman in her right place. Modern American life, for me, has always been the real mystery...

But thanks to a friend's suggestion, and my continuing trouble "meditating," I have been trying instead to spend a few minutes here and there focusing on my senses. I'm nearly always barefoot when I can be, so what do I feel underfoot? Carpeting? Wood floors? Grass? Are my fingers feeling glass, plastic, or cotton? What is that I smell? Coffee brewing? Sweet flowers? How many sounds am I hearing? (The fridge, a passing fire truck, a kid going by on a skateboard, a bird, distant rock music.) Meditating has never grounded me, but this does. My right place for this second is right here, where my feet are on the ground. If I can just be present to the sensations, it's "right" for right now.

Harrowing

When I started this blog, nearly two years and three hundred posts ago, I would write a draft, and then enter the draft into my blog. I did most of the conceptualizing, fiddling and editing beforehand. I guess it is a sign of this new era that, not only am I writing most of these essays on the blog site itself, but in addition to that, there are some mornings when I literally do not know what I will write about until I start to type. This is one of those mornings.

The only thing I had planned to say was that the last few days have been "harrowing," both personally and on the world scene. But I wanted to double-check the word's definition, which is, as I thought, "acutely distressing." That led to the niggling thought that there is a farming meaning to the word, which, of course there is: a harrow is a tool usually used after plowing to further break up or refine the soil before planting. And then there's a theological reference, the old Christian belief that Jesus descended to the underworld after his death and before the resurrection (the "Harrowing of Hell").

Hmm...

These are all linked, aren't they? I mean, we are all being thrust, with each new event, "downward," face to face with humanity's most tragic and destructive sides, and with our own personal tragedies and traumas. We are being broken up -- and certainly refined, if we can somehow hold onto the thread of love and stay intact. What a challenge, to genuinely feel the truly harrowing nature of this time, to feel the pain of having our rigid "clumps" torn to bits, and not to let go of love (which many around us will do). There is the potential here for extraordinary new human beauty. Yes there is. It's a harrowing time all right.

Trauma. Grief.

It's kind of strange. For several days, I had been agonizing over a blog post that would follow up last Saturday's, where I mulled over the instantaneity of things these days. Many of us, conscious of law of attraction, have perhaps been too quick too avoid acknowledging and fully feeling our life's genuinely traumatic experiences, not wishing to re-create or re-attract them. As I peel away even more layers of my own heart's padding, I see that in fact we may have to do just that -- paradoxically, we may be more likely to re-create trauma if we don't fully address or feel it. And trying to articulate this clearly was proving quite challenging.

And then there was yesterday. The London apartment fire coverage started the day, and emotionally I never really moved on to the other shocks. Maybe it's my England thing. Maybe it's the fact that I have deepened, spiritually, since 2001. (I don't think I ever fully "felt" 911.) Initially, I got stuck in the fixation that the building would fall, and that not enough was being done to remove people from the perimeter. I wanted to be there, shepherding people away from the site, making sure local leaders knew (which I am sure they did!) the dangers to first responders and the health effects of the smoke and falling debris. I wanted to get people safely away before the collapse which, as of this writing, hasn't happened yet. I wanted, gosh, now that I think about it, to lead. Not being able to lead, I spun my heels. It wasn't until evening when I saw a particularly graphic news report that I really started to feel the horror of one of the worst traumas humans could possibly ever experience.

And that's it, isn't it? We have chosen to come to this earth at an unprecedented moment; not only do we have access to the technology that puts our voices and images and actions "out there" immediately, but the world's traumas come instantaneously to us, both in real time and in countless replays. (In my childhood, an event like that might have been illustrated on the nightly news by a single photograph. Black-and-white TVs and the printed word allowed a measure of emotional distance.) We have chosen the opportunity to really feel not only our own pain but that of others. No other human beings in history have had to make so many moment-by-moment choices about what to engage in, how to engage, and when to turn away. It's not a figment of your imagination; it is genuinely overwhelming. We are in uncharted waters here. My newly opening heart is reeling and it would be tempting to close up again. But no. Today, I am going to try to move through the emotions that come up, not around them. I am going to grieve, and if I can, embrace and even be, those people in the windows.

In an Instant

The other day, I was asked whether there was a historical figure I would like to have an opportunity to speak with. Usually these kinds of exercises intrigue me, but it's hard to imagine anyone from the past -- even the most enlightened spiritual figure -- being able to understand where we are "at" right now. Our instantaneous communications alone (cable news, social media, old-fashioned email) would be unthinkable to anyone born before about 1900, and even I (born in the 1950s) continue to find it all futuristic if the truth be known. If I were a guru from an earlier time trying to grasp and comment on this era, the only thing I would be able to say to the 21st century world is, "Don't forget, what you put out there comes back to you." That, arguably, hasn't changed. It's just the speed with which it may happen. In an instant.

I think that's the reason that this is the most exquisitely perfect moment for spiritual growth the world has ever seen. If we can step back far just far enough, we can see how perfectly what we "put out there" boomerangs back to us; we see it happening in real time to prominent figures and institutions. Everything that's happening in the present is the energetic echo of something someone did or said in the near or distant past. We cannot change the past. We cannot change other people. And right this minute, we may not have the energy to change the imperfect "signal" that we're personally sending out to the future. But at least remembering that our only work is with our own signal is a step in the right direction. That's enough for this instant. In fact, it's a tall order, isn't it? Especially on a weekend...

Fantasy

It is quite fascinating how so many matters that have been strange, confusing or unclear for a lifetime have finally come clear over the last year or two. Yesterday I nailed down a tiny but persistent mystery.

For years, a small, simple tune has run through my head. Sometimes I hummed it aloud, but for the most part, it was just one of those snippets of music that seemed to surface within me at stressful moments. I couldn't identify it, and assumed that it was just something my musical imagination had "made up." Yesterday, at my job, I was listening to a classical music station and sat up with a sudden lurch when, in the midst of a huge orchestral/piano concerto-y piece, there was "my" tune! Clearly it was from the 19th century (when your main musical interests are evensong canticles and Anglican chant, you are lucky to come even this close to identifying unfamiliar music!) but that's all I could tell about the piece, so I kept my ear glued to the radio until the end when the announcer identified it: Franz Liszt's Fantasy on Hungarian Folk Tunes (better known, apparently, as the Hungarian Fantasy).

Now, my parents' record collection ran mostly to Broadway musicals like "Oklahoma" and "My Fair Lady," and humor like Bob Newhart. They rarely listened to classical music. Mom and Dad were not musicians, and did not take us to symphony concerts. So I don't think it is likely I heard Liszt's Fantasy in its proper context as a child. The only thing I can think is that possibly one of my elementary piano books included an extremely simplified version of the piece, and the eleven-note theme stayed in my head, out of context, a musical phantasm.

Life. A fantasy finally becomes a reality, and it is a "Fantasy." You can't make these things up.

The royal "we"

In 1999, I returned to my parents' house to help out when my mom nearly died of an aneurysm. The doctors had said she would only live for a matter of days, but she rallied and defied all expectations for a year and a half. I am grateful for this time with her. What an intelligent, well-spoken woman. She was never, ever boring. But the aspect I will always remember most is that it brought out her inner queen. During much of this time, she was confined to the house (or taken on well-organized and orchestrated car trips.) Her gold upholstered wing chair, old but not antique, was her throne. She had access to the television remote and the portable phone. Their small living room was her court, and I suppose you could say I was her courtier. While I did not do everything for her (I had outside paid work during these eighteen months), I arranged the timing of home health nurses, doctors' appointments, respiratory therapists and cleaning lady. I helped Mom keep on top of medications. I did shopping or compiled lists for my dad. I cooked. And I helped her arrange visits by friends. No dressing gowns or bathrobes here. Janet was always immaculately dressed in a pair of trousers, button-down shirt and sweater. She wore lipstick and her engagement ring, but was otherwise unadorned. She had a commanding presence, and friends who visited even right up to the end probably barely grasped how limited her movements were and how hard it was for her to breathe. All they experienced was that they came into her presence, she graciously invited them to sit, and she was as interesting and mentally alert as ever.

However, behind the scenes, Mom was the queen of the royal "we" (or, as it is also called, the "majestic plural"). She did not use this construct the same way as Queen Elizabeth, however. It was, "Why don't we vacuum the living room?" Or, "why don't we make spaghetti for supper tonight?" I would as gently as possible call her on it. "Mom, are you asking me to vacuum? Are you asking me to cook?" I mean, there was no way she was going to get up and push a heavy vacuum around the house, much less carry it upstairs. And I totally expected to do these things. It was just so odd to be "asked" so indirectly and left out of the equation. I think this kind of back-door manipulation was such second nature to her, she didn't even know she was doing it. Perhaps it was a way of denying that she could no longer do these chores, or discomfort in asking others to help. But as time went on, I also realized that it was part of a larger life of disempowerment, of never having really been an agent of her own considerable intellectual and leadership powers. At this last gasp, literally, she was trying to govern, and also finally to be "waited on," but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it openly.

I have noticed that these kinds of strange, almost strangled, efforts at expressing power seem to be common in the earlier generations of women I have known. I'm not quite sure what to say about my generation -- goodness, Angela Merkel and I are just about the same age. Clearly, it has been a mixed bag. Some of us found ways to be genuinely powerful, and some of us haven't...yet. I know I have my squirrelly, indirect moments, and I work every day to clear up the tangle. On a day like today, in a world going mad, why is this relevant?

Because it is a moment that cries out for women to find their authentic and considerable power as quickly as possible, and to align with it and act gently and lovingly -- and visibly -- out of that place. Honoring our moms who absolutely did the best they could in their era, let's use our royal "we" to declare our intentions for global peace and understanding and compassion. ("Why don't we live in peace?" "Why don't we act from our hearts?") And then, if we need help with the vacuuming and cooking, may we simply come out and ask for it. It's OK to do that. Yeah, Mom, it really is.

Dawn

I don't usually write at dawn, but I am this morning. It's hard to see the sunrise through the grey skies and drizzle, but it's there. It would have made more sense to go back to sleep, but I'm thinking too much. As usual.

"Enough with the metaphors!" you're going to say. But oddly enough, for the first time in months, I feel like light is breaking on what has been a really long, dark night. However imperfectly, the vast majority of countries, institutions and people on the planet have an impulse toward life and toward the survival of this beautiful planet, and it looks like we are simply going to bypass the roadblocks and move forward. That's really all it takes, isn't it? You drive around the boulder in the road. You pull back the curtain on the "great and powerful Wizard of Oz." You release or raise your anchor and allow your boat to head downstream. It doesn't have to be a big and dramatic action, although sometimes it will be. It doesn't require superhuman strength. In the end, it's just a simple turning of the steering wheel, or a simple pulling back of the curtain, or a simple pulling up of the anchor. A simple, gentle swipe of the hand through space, and you are free and moving and alive again. 

Yeah, a new day is dawning. There is more reason for optimism than you might think.