Wellspring: inspiration and guidance for a spiritual journey

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.

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!

Why I love Rochester, by Libby Moore

I was supposed to have coffee this afternoon with my friend Joy, a chance to talk about my worries about Bob and this unexplained blood count drop. But she called about fifteen minutes before we were supposed to meet and suggested that with the heavy snow coming down, we might postpone our date. I looked out the window and saw nothing but a little gray to the north and west – but as we were talking, it started to snow at our house, faster and heavier, large flakes drifting down, settling on the trees and ground. We cancelled our date. Another Rochester weather event.

But that's not why I love Rochester. It's the people who have surrounded us in this uncertain time, the people who visited in the hospital, who called and e-mailed and sent their love in so many ways. It's the early choir singing "The Storm Is Passing Over" to Bob on my cell phone, since he couldn't come to choir rehearsal Tuesday night. It's the offers of food and someone to sit with me while we wait for procedures to be finished. It's knowing that we're not alone in this.

The good news is that Bob doesn't have cancer and the bone marrow biopsy doesn't show anything horrible. We're in a period of watchful waiting now, monitoring his blood count and watching for unusual events, but I know we'll be okay. We have this caring community in Rochester, and beyond.

At the start of every Sunday worship service, one of our ministers reminds us all about why we come to church, that we need community with other loving souls. This past week has reinforced that need for us. In this time of uncertainty and fear, Bob and I treasure the friends and family who are with us, no matter what. We have a community that cares about what happens to us, and that's why I love Rochester. It's not Rochester's peaceful, quiet snow, it's not the glorious lilac-filled spring, not the uncongested traffic and cheap housing prices – it's the people we know, the church community and the choir and the golfers and the Bi-Fri guys, the friends who bring us cake and flowers and blackberries in January. I know from experience that ours is a caring community – I hope that others find this kind of love and caring in their times of need. I know that this community has blessed us and that we are grateful.

Just Breathe, by Libby Moore

Friday night my husband Bob and I were getting ready to go to a friend's house for dinner when Bob's cardiologist called. I answered the phone and called downstairs to Bob to pick up. He had been experiencing some shortness of breath and had seen his cardiologist that morning, after having passed a nuclear stress test earlier in the week with flying colors. Concerned, I came downstairs and caught Bob's end of the conversation, "Emergency, now, transfusion, okay." Low blood counts, he said, low enough that he had to be admitted to the hospital for a transfusion that night. My heart raced as I started gathering the things we would need to take with us.

Frantic and tearful, I called our friends to cancel dinner. But once we got to the emergency department, the crisis seemed more manageable. Our friends came to visit and we chatted in the hallway, just as though we were six friends around the dinner table. They left to go eat their wonderful dinner, and Bob and I got a sandwich from the Subway counter conveniently located right there in the waiting room. We hoped we'd have enough time to eat the sandwiches, and we did. We ate, we waited, we read, we waited, we talked with other people waiting – a young woman who had had an allergic reaction to the cheese in a Big Mac, a waitress from Bob's favorite diner.

We waited, and I thought about breathing and staying in the moment. I had seen Julie, my spiritual adviser, the day before and we had talked about breath, about Bob's shortness of breath, about my learning to breathe in my singing lessons, about just breathing when there was nothing else you could do and it was too scary to think about what might come. Just breathe, Julie said. Sometimes that's all I can tell people.

So I breathed, and read, and held Bob's hand. And I tried to stay in the present moment, where we were safe and warm on a cold January night, and where Bob was telling me that he hadn't really wanted me to go away that weekend anyway, and we both laughed.

He got his blood transfusion, he moved up to a bed on the oncology floor – how scary is that? – and we waited. Over the weekend we kept singing a wonderfully upbeat song we'd been rehearsing in choir practice, "The Storm Is Passing Over." We waited for the bone marrow biopsy on Monday morning and then for results. We breathed and sang. What else could we do?

We spent three days in the hospital, eventually, and still don't know what's causing the low blood counts. With luck, we'll know something this afternoon and it won't be as horrible as the possibilities that sent him to the emergency room. But we're fine. We're together, we're breathing, we're in this moment with the sun setting across the creek and the deer coming into the yard to eat the yucca plants, and we're breathing. Just breathe, Julie said. Sometimes it's all you can do.