Wellspring: inspiration and guidance for a spiritual journey

God as verb, by Joy Collins

Previously I wrote about the gift of my 81 year old mother. Today I write about the unlikely teaching of my elderly dad.

I was raised Catholic during the 1960s and totally bought into “God the Father” as the white bearded guy with a staff, and “God the Son” being Jesus of the Sacred Heart. My teenage religious rebellion turned me toward the God of Rationality. Later, in my mid-30s I enthusiastically embraced the God of Psychotherapy. I will admit, I am an unabashed fan of therapy, having had many years of it. It truly awakened my emotional and compassionate side.

Yet at some point, it too, became not enough. My therapist, a most transformative person in my life, encouraged me as I experimented in the mid-90s with Unitarian Universalism. But I still felt caught. It seemed I had only two options: reject God altogether, as our humanist-oriented minister at the time indirectly advocated, or embrace my childhood image of a conscious, directive potentate who saw fit to allow child abuse and starvation. Neither route was appealing.

Enter Process Theology in the guise of my dad. 8 years ago, at age 76, he showed early signs of dementia. As their executor and eldest local child, I needed to delicately get more involved in his and my mom’s finances. Managing their money had been the center of, not only his retirement years, but his entire adulthood. I began spending hours sitting with him in their spare bedroom as he and I would go over investments, gifting, and bill paying. He had a brilliant financial mind that gradually was slowing to a crawl. During those in between years I had many minutes where we sat, him struggling and usually eventually succeeding, in grasping the work and conveying his ideas. All I could heartbreakingly do was practice patience, breathing, compassion and the fine line between taking over and sitting back. In an odd way, these were beautiful moments.

During these months, I was also nearing the end of my time in therapy. Our sessions had moved from dissecting my childhood to more forward-looking spiritual concerns. In one session in particular, I remember bemoaning my lack of connection to a personal God, the one my conservative Christian sisters took such comfort in. Because a just and loving God would not slowly destroy the part of my dad he most treasured.

And my therapist, in one of those simple, yet brilliant remarks, said, “God is in those conversations with you dad.” I probably stared at her blankly. She continued, “God is not a separate being. God is created in you each time you choose compassion with your dad. God is the love you are showing by letting him do what he can, and gently, with face-saving respect, offering to do what he can’t. God is the loving interaction.”

In a flash, I got it. Ten years before I ever heard of process theology, I got the concept. Rev. Gary Kowalski talks of the world/god “as composed of verbs rather than nouns.” Rebecca Parker says “we make God, as much as God makes us.” While this is still intellectually difficult to understand or articulate, I totally get the experience of God as Process. It has liberated me into being as “godlike” as I can in all my interactions. Thanks, Dad, for providing such an unusual but life changing gift.

Stars on the carpet, by Tina Simson

Do you think it’s true that all people let go of things slowly? Does everyone struggle to release the good as well as the bad aspects of life? Well, I sure do. I think my son was twelve years old before I stopped telling people the extra pounds I was carrying were because I just had a baby! So letting go is hard, when things end or change we sometimes grip tighter to what we are losing. I sometimes think there’s profound spiritual learning in letting go; sometimes I think it just hurts.

I started changing my son’s room into a guest room about 18 months ago. I cleaned out the closet…in stages, putting all his stuffed animals in a bin to take to the basement. Well maybe not all, I left a few in case he needed them. He’s 24 and well, you never know.
I packed away Game Boys and martial arts belts, space ship models and Mickey Mouse pictures. Then I waited. I left the posters of Dave Matthews and Bob Marley. I left the Sushi Calendar, the UU Con pictures… and the stars.

You see this son was a space dreamer. He always had his feet on the ground and his heart in the stars. He dreamed of space adventures and even at three dressed up as a “space ship guy” for Halloween. When he was six or so we filled the walls with glow-in-the-dark star stickers. Invisible until the lights went out, this room expanded beyond all fantasy into a galaxy of wonder.

In the years since he left for college, I sleep in his room sometimes. When I’m restless or struggling with a cold or a snoring husband, I stumble into the waiting solitude. I turn on the light for a few moments, long enough to ignite the stars and then flip the switch to whimsy. I am surrounded by infinity and memory and that luscious combination helps me sleep.

But, after 18 years, this room needed painting. The scotch tape pulled off the drywall and the thumbtacks made holes. All our children are grown and we think about moving, so it makes sense to prepare, slowly. I hired a painter to do this chore, to patch the holes and remove the stars. I tried to pull them off myself, but I couldn’t. This painter has helped us before so I feel comfortable sharing my sadness and longing about the stars. I hear him scrape them off the walls and I see them fallen onto the edges of the carpet. I stand at the door and look back into my memories.

“Do you want me to pick them up?” he asks. “I can put them in a bag for you.”
“No,” I say bravely, “It’s time to let go.”

I hear the sound of the vacuum, so I take the dog for a walk.

The room is finished now, freshly painted and a bit bare. I haven’t slept in there yet, but I walk in often to touch the few knickknacks left from his childhood. And then I see them, two stars on the carpet. I pick them up tenderly and hold them under the lamp. I switch off the light and once again hold his universe in the palm of my hand.

Thank you Wellspring nominators

What a great surprise and a gift to be nominated for the UU Blog Awards. One of our regular bloggers, Libby, discovered we had been nominated in several categories; best UU themed blog, best lay blog, best new blog, and best religious writing on theological commentary. The voting is over now and we didn't win but what an honor. We'll have to tuck away our ‘red carpet’ outfits and acceptance speeches til next year. But most of all we are delighted that the spiritual musings of a group of seekers in Rochester, New York inspire others. So, thank-you. And...check out the winners they are truly top notch!

Is it OK to talk to you about this stuff? By Tina Simson

We UU’s are not too comfortable with the idea of having a Spiritual Director. We resist the concept of direction and often find other terms for them like Spiritual Partner, Guide, or Friend. Sometimes the only choices we have available are people trained in the Christian tradition and the sessions take on a type of translation, or searching for an agreeable language. So how do you navigate this new type of relationship?

Sometimes it helps to know first what Spiritual Direction is not. It’s not psychotherapy. Individuals should not be looking for help to change behavior patterns, or to understand the motivations for neurosis. It’s not to solve problems with relationships or intimacy or communication. And it’s not to treat depression or anxiety or any serious Mental Illness.

Spiritual Direction is a journey you take with another in search of the divine. A spiritual director is a person who walks by your side and observes the path through an extra set of eyes. She helps you understand your relationships as soul expanders and challenges the edges of your beliefs. A spiritual director helps you seek and listen to the small voice inside yourself and see your struggles as growth. She holds open a door you have found and gives you permission to walk in.

The confusing thing is that we often talk to a spiritual director about the same kinds of things you might talk to a counselor about. We have the same life after all. But it’s the focus that’s different. The objective is to enlarge our understanding of our life to include a spiritual perspective. We may struggle with a relationship and wonder, how do I see myself in this person, how do I see god? That’s different from, how to I improve my communication skills to make this better.

This year as a seminarian, I offered to meet with three Wellspring individuals as a Spiritual Partner or Friend. As long as they knew I was a student, I felt I could walk with them on this journey and offer support. These relationships have become so dear to me and have deeply enhanced my life and my own spiritual growth. I remember my Spiritual Director from last year saying the same things to me. He said he felt enriched each time he walked away from our discussions. So maybe that’s it after all, a friendship rooted in deep listening and spiritual searching that feeds the heart of both parties. What a gift.

Recyled Stardust, by Joy Collins

My mom is 81 years old. Yesterday, in our 9 degree (yes, I mean NINE degree!) weather, she went downhill skiing at the local resort, where she continues to ski the most difficult “black diamond” trails. Maybe not as aggressively as in the past, but she’s still tough to beat to the bottom. Part of her identity is that of a skier.  Me, on the other hand, on the 9 degree day, had out-patient surgery on my “bum knee” which turned out to have a meniscus tear (probably from my own years of skiing and running.) What a contrast between Mom and me!

The good news is my surgery went smoothly and I should be off crutches in a week. The bad news is they had to remove a significant chunk of the meniscus, and as the young doctor kindly put it, “You might want to consider cross training with a sport other than running.” Immediately I began wondering what this meant. Run only 3 times a week? Twice? Once? Not at all? What, not engage in my favorite physical and spiritual pastime for the last 37 years? I’m really going to have to think about all of this.

Which brings me back to Mom. When is it the courageous, life giving path to push back on aging and get out there in the 9 degree weather? On the other hand, when is it the gracious spiritual path to say good-bye to an anchoring and life connecting sport that has sustained me through moves, job anxieties, divorce, coming out, re-marriage, deaths of loved ones….the list goes on. How can I feel connected in the universe without this beloved spiritual practice?

I’m getting some comfort from one of the readings in our recent Wellspring session on Humanism. In a speech, Rev. David Bumbaugh, Professor of Theology at Meadville Lombard, reminds me that, hard as I try, I am NOT separate from the universe, and that whether I jog or not, I am a manifestation of it:

“The history of the universe is our history; we are all of us recycled stardust…In a curious way, we carry with us in our bodies the very environment in which we evolved. The heat of our bodies is the heat of stars, tempered to the uses of life. The salt in our blood and in our tears is the salt of ancient oceans, encapsulated and carried with us, generation upon generation, into strange and distant places and circumstances. The past is not dead. It lives in us even now… It is a religious story in that it whispers of a larger meaning to our existence…If, as the Humanist Manifesto suggests, we are not separate from nature and we are a result of nature’s inherent processes, then our struggles with meaning and purpose, our endless search for insight and understanding can not be limited in their significance or consequence to the human enterprise alone, but must be part of the emergence of the universe itself.”

For a non-theistic agnostic such as myself, Bumbaugh offers me an honest, yet satisfying way to see the truth that I don’t need my daily run to feel connected. I am better than connected, I AM the universe!

Culinary Delights, by Tom Ryther

Preparing my dinner,
pouring hearty tomato soup,
into a stainless steel pot,
to heat.

Oh so carefully (obsessively?)
spooning the last remnants to that soup
into the pot (waste not, want not).

This act,
penetrates my consciousness
with my father's being.
He, his essence,
woven through me.

This pricking,
surfacing memories,
in recalling his frugality,
through mine.

His telling me of those times as a boy
in Northern Minnesota,
during the depression,
when the meaning of "hard"
was also woven through them.

Commonly,
lunch,
for the almost cheaper by the dozen siblings
(10 ultimately),
was,
cold oatmeal sandwiches.
cold... oatmeal... sandwiches...

This culinary delight,
for their times,
the creative efforts
of Edna, Dad's mother.

My god - how spoiled we are,
in our dominant popular culture,
in the good ole U.S. of A.

We, with our strawberries
from South America
in December,
and Alaskan Crab
flown special,
to Columbus, Ohio,
for a party of politicians.

How would Dad,
his farm family,
have viewed this
provision of such sustenance...?

How do those
who cannot indulge
in such pleasures,
view this, us...?

Marie Antoinette said,
"let them eat cake".,
allowing her to know a new meaning of "hard".

The Bureau of Indian Affairs representative said,
back in the late 1800's,
concerning the natives not having adequate,
frankly anything,
"let them eat grass".
He, found on that Minnesota prairie,
scalped,
his mouth stuffed with grass.

Pogo said,
"we have met the enemy
and it is us".

Admiral Stockwell said,
Who am I,
and why am I here"?

The envelope please...
The answer is...

The well is springing, by Melissa Blackstone

I am blessed to be part of several groups, where we explore our spiritual beliefs, review readings, poems, meditations, movies, and discuss and express responses. There is a current, a well, a reservoir of yearning that finds its voice through creative expressions of found art. There is a fountain of light within, around and in the eyes of others that becomes manifest as I’ve learned to become still, be, and listen.

Life continues to provide a tableau for lessons and opportunities, which sometimes I embrace, sometimes I turn my back on, and sometimes I don’t even see.

What I know now, is that a well is springing from me, and my new found vision and community of friends are sharing in this discovery, and recognition, that within the center, at every moment, is the knowing of the know.

In this, some parts of my life now don’t fit anymore, but the reasons aren’t frightening anymore. I know they keep me from, neigh. I keep myself from being in the light and power that is truly my gift and responsibility.

I cherish this learning, and exchange fear for welcome and trust for the grace that is ever present.