Wellspring: inspiration and guidance for a spiritual journey

For the Interim Time, by Joy Collins

Three weeks ago we euthanized our beloved chocolate lab. He was only seven but had ruptured a spinal disc, and despite surgery and rehab, he remained paralyzed and incontinent. There was only one loving choice.

I thought about writing of the outpouring of love and support during a long six weeks of attempted rehab. That in all our despair, exhaustion and grief there was this amazing alive connection all around us. Neighbors who knew us from years of dog walking rang the doorbell. Family members who rarely spoke to us came over with a hug. Church members brought food and dog biscuits. Even the postman who refused to carry treats for that bundle of wagging love left us a card. We were touched by the motley community who held us during our siege and subsequent grief.

But instead, what feels important to me now is the spiritual practice of hanging in there during the grayness of recovery. What John O’Donohue in his book To Bless the Space Between Us calls the Interim Time. When we are still occasionally “ambushed by grief”, where “no place looks like itself”, where “everything seems withheld” and “The path you took here is washed out; the way forward is still concealed from you.” Much of the raw grieving for our baby is past, but the tide turning back to a world of color hasn’t happened. In our culture it’s ok to feel this way for a week – but THREE weeks? For a DOG?

And worse, because Toby was only seven, and we had put our older border collie down just four months earlier, the easy path seems to be a slow slide into cynicism. I don’t believe Toby is up in heaven catching Frisbees with all our past pets. I don’t believe I’m going to see him again when I die. He’s dust in a tin on my bookshelf. Life is a series of losses and then you die. So my skeptical story line goes. And how true is this for other UUs?

And yet. And yet. As a person dedicated to a spiritual life, I refuse to let myself fall into total pessimism. I sort of recognize that in its extreme, it’s no more valid than my friends’ enviable Frisbee beliefs. But without this afterlife perspective, what do I DO? Hence my current meditation (and life) practice of hanging out in the grayness. The Interim Time. Believing things will eventually shift, but not on my schedule. Not judging myself for the feelings of flatness, and lack of delighting in the world. Maybe even being curious about them. Realizing this is a counter-cultural radicalism of having no answer but also not yet moving on.

And so I move, in fits, starts and slides.

Playing god with a Border Collie, by Joy Collins

Our Border Collie, Buddy, is almost 16 years old. I know every dog owner believes his or her dog is the most special, but really, Buddy IS one of the best dogs ever.  And he’s slowly fading due to an inoperable tumor. Buddy also has other issues, like cataracts that keep him from seeing well and because he startles easily, we think he’s also half deaf. But he still prances down the street, and herds us all to bed at night, so he has some good life quality remaining.

Buddy has given me the chance to play God. Because he sees especially poorly in the dark, and it’s now pitch black when I get up, we have a new routine. He and I head out together with me in the lead with one of those big Mag-lite flashlights bought just for this purpose. I shine the light on the stairs so he can get off the deck and into the yard. He waits for me to shine the light on his well-worn path to the bushes. Early on, maybe like between God, and Adam and Eve, I could guide him back by where I shined the light. I’d get him in the outer part of the beam and slowly move it towards the house. He would obediently follow. I was quite pleased with outsmarting a Border Collie.

But lately he’s been exerting his independence by wandering into other parts of the yard, further from the house, into the dark. A rabbit smell? A ground hog whiff? Like Eve, with the apple, curiosity is tempting old Buddy.  As the rigid old God of my childhood, I stubbornly kept the light where I wanted it, waiting impatiently in the cold dark for Buddy to “see the light” and come back. But one recent morning he wandered into my neighbor’s yard, and I had a panicked few minutes where I couldn’t find him. He was clearly scared and disoriented once I discovered him in my neighbor’s garden. I was filled with such love and tenderness as I crouched to soothe him in my pajamas in the dark. I felt such responsibility and softness as I slowly guided him back with the light, my voice, and a gentle hand on his back. I was no longer the judgmental, righteous, I’m-in-charge-God, rather the one full of enormous love, patience and coaxing. Like many Unitarian Universalists, I struggle with whether or not there is a personal god or universally positive force that guides me. But my experience with Buddy has reminded me that regardless of my beliefs, I have a choice. I can live my life exemplifying a conditional, judgmental, flashlight-stubborn god. Or I can strive to be a loving divine presence that has an open heart for all of us flawed, blind creatures who wander in the dark. Can I find the tenderness I felt for Buddy in my interactions with annoyingly imperfect people? Is the awareness that brings this choice part of what we are cultivating in Wellspring?

Now on these dark mornings, I have a new spiritual practice. I allow extra time as I follow Buddy with the light wherever he wants to go. Even though it’s gotten colder on my pajama-clad legs, and the grass has the crunch of frost, I tap into my love for our lumpy, yet wise old dog, and savor the imperfectly perfect time we have left. I practice being the tender god who is patient and willing to be surprised. And then, with a heart now opened wide, I try to carry that experience to every encounter of my day.

Asking for help, by Joy Collins

Recently Jen, one of our ministers at First Unitarian, sent me an email, inquiring if I’d like to get a cup of coffee or go for a walk. I was puzzled. As the mother of a year –old son and a fulltime minster, I know Jen spends her free time with her family. After I read it for the third time I realized she was offering me pastoral care. Me? I started to type my reply that I was doing fine, when I stopped. Wellspring has taught me to be a little less reactive. I stopped, took a couple of breaths, and deleted that first reply.

After all, here’s what is going on: In a ten-day period, we put my dad, with his long term dementia, on hospice care, our 15-year old Border Collie was found to have an inoperable tumor, and my older sister was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer. I was shell-shocked. But as a child I was labeled the “self-reliant” one, so I just kept on functioning.

The evening after I received Jen’s email I went to a monthly dinner with my 20+ year long women’s group. In my mid-50’s, I am ten years younger than the next person. I told them about my yet-unanswered email from Reverend Jen. What then proceeded truly surprised me. My high functioning women’s group – among them a psychotherapist, a Presbyterian minister, a Human Resource Manager and two small business owners – began to tell stories. Stories I had heard before but with a new twist. Each person spoke of devastating times in her life when, to a person, each said she responded to offers of support with, “No, really, I’m fine.” Stories of their dear friends and clergy who, despite the brave words, showed up on doorsteps and in hospital wards with much needed hugs and listening ears. Anne, the Presbyterian minister, talked of the difficulties ministers have with their heroic parishioners. How do you help people who are stoic no matter what? She continued that it is a gift to be helpful to those in need. And an act of humble acceptance of one’s humanity to graciously and gratefully open up to the care.

I think of our Wellspring groups as being “Circles of Care.” Libby mentioned in an earlier blog that Parker Palmer, in A Hidden Wholeness, teaches about groups being “Circles of Trust.” But into our fourth year of Wellspring, we find it’s also a chance to more actively help and be helped. The former is usually easy for us UUs, the latter, not so much. We now have dozens of small groups at First Unitarian. Full of those willing to be helpful, and ever so slowly filling with those tentatively willing to be helped.

So it took me a week to reply to Reverend Jen’s email. It was surprisingly hard to type that I would like to have a visit. The admission alone has caused me to let down my guard and feel some of the fear and loss. She’s coming over Thursday afternoon. I hope I can allow myself to be the vulnerable, unsure person that we all carry during these times of deep distress. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Then and Now, by Libby Moore

Watching the Democratic convention in Denver has brought back memories. Forty years ago this week I wound up in Chicago for the 1968 Democratic National Convention, the one where protesters came by the thousands to "confront the warmongers" in Chicago and were themselves confronted by angry police and National Guardsmen. I hadn't really planned to be there, but as seemed to happen during that period of my life, my personal world was in upheaval and I was swept along in the tide of events, finding myself in the midst of one of the major brouhahas of our generation.

It was a scary time, brutality and controversy swarming through and around delegates and protesters alike. But it was also a hopeful time, when we who were congregating in the parks and on the streets believed that our new way of relating to one another and to the world could change the course of our nation and of humanity. And it was a joyful time, singing and chanting and marching together, knowing that we were united in our opposition to the war. We were confident that we were doing the right thing.

I struggle now to connect my young self – the one who was willing to put her body on the line (although I never did get arrested or beaten) for what she believed – with my older, calmer, more peaceful self. Somewhere in this sixty-something person that I am now are threads that go back to that angry, hopeful twenty-three year old. I believed in justice and equality then, and still do. I believed in honesty and openness then, and I still do. I believed in the importance of living my values, and I still do.

But my understanding of what it means to live my values has changed. Where I used to feel that we had to change the world by confronting institutions and rejecting the people who believed in them, I now believe we change the world one person at a time, by finding love and personal connection. I believe there's more to be gained in listening and understanding than in confrontation and anger. I no longer believe that I know the only truth or have the only answer.

So, have I "copped out," as I would have said of myself forty years ago, or have I become wiser? I know that I am certainly happier, more in touch with the deep meaning of my life, more committed to living deeply and well, with love and gratitude. And I know also that I couldn't be where I am now without having been that young woman marching with her friends in the streets of Chicago. I live in the present moment, or try to, but my present moment includes all the moments in my past, all the people I've known and loved along this amazing journey. I am grateful to have had those moments, and grateful for my life as it is now.

Be still and know, by Tina Simson

I was away last week at a year-end intensive for seminary. I attend One Spirit Interfaith Seminary and in addition to monthly sessions in New York City, we are required to attend an intensive session each year. Our time there is spent on several things, some academic, some purely fun and many introspective and spiritual. The setting is perfect, a Catholic retreat center on the Hudson river complete with rolling hills, an abundance of birds, and solitary places to sit and commune with god. I can honestly say I had moments when the awe that inspires me was in full bloom. And I had moments of gratitude so deep they brought me to my knees.

One such moment came while thinking about Wellspring, my personal springboard to this new life path. It was through my experience in the Wellspring Program that I finally understood the deep spiritual origins of our denomination. That’s when my future became clear. I felt called and knew that I could in fact live in a faith so dear to me and openly and honestly embrace my soul at the same time. That had always seemed the biggest challenge to me.

Then I wondered if other UUs had similar challenges. One of my deans told me I have a classic Jonah Complex, in that I seem to “run from God.” When I read the story of Jonah, you know the one about the big fish, I can see that’s she’s right. Jonah hears God’s voice and not only ignores it but runs the other way and boards a ship headed in the direction opposite to God’s request. I think I’ve done that my whole life. And when you think about it, God’s request is really so simple, take this message to the people of Nineveh and help them find a new way to live in peace.

But it’s easy for UUs to run from God, we are not typically a bunch that gets called. Many UUs have had rough experiences with traditional God centered religions so we are naturally a wary bunch. We don’t usually hear voices or find burning bushes. Or do we?

UUs live fiercely in this world and steer clear of looking for heavenly solutions. We work tirelessly to improve the world we live in and if we are willing to admit it, we take the commandments very seriously. Our own Rev. Dick Gilbert wrote The Prophetic Imperative that implored us to recognize our obligation to address the injustice in this world with vigor. But aside from the wise influence of our prophets, what voice do we hear when we embrace and mend this world? And can we call this voice God?

For me this voice is deep within, it is the core of who I am. It speaks only the truth and challenges me to see the world through the eyes of our most holy teachers, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammad, and Krishna. And the voice reminds me that God looks back at me through the eyes of our most vulnerable. The voice encourages me to pay attention equally to the sorrow of humankind and to the dancing fireflies in my yard. After many years of tending, this voice is my constant companion. This voice doesn’t chatter at me like the proverbial monkey mind; it is loudest when I am still.

There are some faith traditions that would call this the voice of God. And as such, can Unitarian Universalists listen and heed this call? Can we dispense with our debates over whether we are agnostic, or theist? Can we stop running from the Divine? Can we agree to kneel in the presence of this world and honor our callings? Can we be still and know that we are God?

The gift of noise, by Tina Simson

I scheduled a massage for myself last week. I wanted to let go of the strain and turmoil of my life and relax into the trusted hands of Michelle, my massage therapist. Not only is she skilled and generous of heart, but also her office is a perfect haven. Located in an old house with lots of worn wood, it has all the trimmings; candles, soft music, Zen like furnishings and a statue of the gentile goddess of compassion. I walk into a sanctuary for my soul when I’m there and I can’t help but relax. So last Friday’s session began as I expected. I settled into the moment and let the ambience wash over me. That is until the gardening crew arrived. Within a few minutes of my cherished hour, lawn mowers and leaf blowers were roaring outside the window. Not only were the crew members busy, they were ever so friendly and talkative, yelling to each other above the noise about the beautiful morning and aspects of their lives. Well, I couldn’t hear the soft music and I felt my whole being tense. Damn, this wasn’t what I needed.

But Michelle never missed a beat. She continued in her committed way to sooth the knots from my body and sorrow from my soul. I’m not one to miss a metaphor, so I thought about this. Life does this to us all the time doesn’t it? Turn up the noise that is. We create the setting, candles, music, poetry and we make a commitment to nourish our spirit and sure enough the leaf blowers show up. Sometimes they are loud and obnoxious, other times just a constant din that can’t be ignored. The noise of life is inevitable. If I wait for a quiet scripted moment to take care of my needy spirit, I’ll never get there. And if I let the noise sway my intentions, well then I miss out don’t I? And what of those hands that never missed a beat? Are there always such “hands” in the midst of the noise? Does this divine world offer such constant assurance? I believe it does, but it’s not necessary to block the noise in order to feel the promise. The trick really is to trust the promise smack-dab in the middle of the noise.

So with the massage over, I thank Michelle, make another appointment and wander out into the rest of my life. The lawn mowers are packing up their trucks and for a moment I laugh at the thought that they are going to follow me home. But I just return their friendly wave and silently thank them for the gift of noise.

Ben & Jerry & Joy, by Joy Collins

April 29th was pouring rain on Cape Cod. And only 46 degrees. And every single person walking out that door had a huge grin on his or her face. A “moment of joy.” The door was the exit from Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Shop in Eastham. And as all ice cream aficionados know, that’s Free Cone Day at most Ben and Jerry’s around the country. Sometimes the line extended out the door, with hoods and umbrellas up. We saw teenagers with pink hair, workers with stained overalls, elderly folks with canes, a couple in a pickup truck sharing their cones with their black lab. We aren’t sure what brought us more joy – savoring our own “Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz”, or watching, through windshield wipers, all those smiles.

How is it, all these people were free at 2 pm on a Tuesday afternoon? The only reason we were free, and willing to drive 30 minutes each way, was that we were on vacation. In my “real” life, I would never have made time for this. Life is jammed full of “important” stuff. Work, food shopping, home repair, meal preparation, church committees, dog walking, vacuuming, eldercare. Oh yes, and time for my spouse! So, I ask again, how is it, these other folks had free time for a “moment of joy”?

Through Wellspring, I don’t so much learn new ideas, as much as move the ideas from intellectual realization to experiential. And this year, one of my aha moments came in our new session on the “Theology of Joy.” I saw how easily I let productivity kill the spiritual sustenance of “Joy Moments.” If I’m frantically trying to jam more into my day, or worrying about all I need to get to, I miss the “moments of joy” that arise every minute. There is a false underlying belief I carry, that life will be wonderful once I get it all done. It’s my lifelong struggle to move beyond this belief. In a book we are considering for our following on course, “Wellspring 2”, Philip Simmons writes in Learning to Fall, “in our desire always to be elsewhere than here, we can lose what measure of heaven may be ours on earth…the present is the unfinished house in which we dwell.” All those people who went to Ben & Jerry’s for a free cone on Tuesday reminded me to let go of needing to “finish the house” before I savor a rainy day scoop of ice cream.

Make a Joyful Noise, by Libby Moore

Saturday was one of those days when all my good intentions were getting steam-rollered by my tendency to procrastinate and feel sorry for my overburdened self. We were having friends over to celebrate St. Patrick's Day that evening and I still hadn't washed the kitchen floor or finished setting the table, and I had to write a meditation for Sunday morning, and my dear husband was hogging the computer and then decided we should run to the hardware store on our way to a special choir rehearsal in the middle of the day. That kind of a day.

But we got to church on time for rehearsal, even with the hardware store glitch. The choir milled about for a while as people arrived and settled in. And then we started to sing. First two amazing pieces that we had been rehearsing – "E Oru O," an African welcoming song with drums and gorgeous rhythms and melodies, and "Sing for Peace," with bells and children's choir and a crescendo to a glorious finale of PEACE. We practiced with the drums and the children and the early and late choirs together for the first time, producing such rich and beautiful sounds together. And then, to top it all off, our guest musician Matt Meyer led us in singing without hymnals – but with gusto, in harmony, in beauty.

It transformed my whole day, this making music together. By the time we got home, washing the floor seemed easy. Having our friends break bread with us was a pleasure. And to top it all, we got to do it again during Sunday morning worship, when the singing at both services was even more remarkable with Matt leading hundreds of people in singing together.

In my Wellspring group, we're preparing for the session called "The Theology of Joy" by keeping a joy journal for two weeks. One of the questions we ask is whether joy has the power to transform us. This weekend it certainly did. The joy of singing together in community – when every part contributed to the beauty of the whole, when the whole couldn't be the same without all the parts – transformed me from being self-focused and slightly resentful to being full of love and peace – and rhythm. Singing, our hearts beat time with the drums, our hands clapped, our feet stomped, and we shared a common expression of joy.

There are always shadows, of course. We sang of peace because our country marks the fifth anniversary of a disastrous war. Poverty threatens the wellbeing of families and children everywhere. But making joyful music with other people raises up the hope that we can make a difference. It gives comfort in knowing that we are together in this struggle. It strengthens my will to stay the course. May we all have joyful moments that sustain us.

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.