Wellspring: inspiration and guidance for a spiritual journey

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.

What Nourishes Me, by Mary Lyubomirsky

I wonder at the full, satisfied feeling in my stomach and my heart:
What has so nourished me?
To whom or what do I owe my deepest gratitude for sustenance of body and soul?

The miracle waiting inside a seed,
Water falling from heaven,
Leaves harvesting energy from the sun,
Labor applied to cultivation.

The careful selection of food from the harvest,
Eyes scanning thoughtfully through recipes,
Hands moving skillfully over cutting board, bowl, pot,
Love poured into preparation.

The soothing glow of candlelight,
Minds paused in blessed reflection,
Voices sharing poems, songs, and stories,
Souls gathered in celebration.

The smells of sumptuous dishes,
A table set to welcome the circle of sojourners,
A feast of flavors to delight the palate,
Thoughts woven into conversation.

The story of my nourishment begins long before the spoon reaches my lips,
I take in far more than what is contained in these tasty morsels.
Its sustenance far outlasts the journey home.

How rich is the ‘before’, ‘during’, and ‘after’ of this celebration!
A spiritual cornucopia that refills upon reflection!

A bum knee and Buddhism, by Joy Collins

I have been an avid runner for 37 of my 53 years. Whereas I was once speedy and competitive, for many years now I have been a slow jogger without a running watch. Running has been my most constant meditation practice.That has changed in the last six weeks. As oft happens to a post-50 year old body, my knee began acting up for no apparent reason. As a young, fierce runner, I would just continue running and my body would miraculously heal. Now, 6 weeks later, even a leisurely dog walk around the block causes me pain. I hope to get it correctly diagnosed by an orthopedic doc in mid-January. Meanwhile, my frustration mounts as my body fails me. No endorphins to elevate my mood. No aerobic exercise to burn off holiday chocolate. No anchor of my most constant and calming meditation practice. I find myself snippy, this morning even telling my partner I resented her being able to go to her water aerobics class. This is not very spiritual!

When I paused to check in with myself, I was reminded of a quote from one of the books for our upcoming Wellspring session on Buddhism. In Buddhism Without Beliefs, Stephen Batchelor asks the question: “Since death alone is certain and the time of death uncertain, what should I do?” How does this connect to my bum knee? My knee is a teeny reminder that eventually my whole self will fail. That is certain. When and how is unknown. But not the “if.” Given this truth, what shall I do? There are people I know who seem so gracious and serene at the end of their lives, let alone when they have something relatively minor like a knee problem. And there are those who seem to go kicking and screaming. I think Batchelor is suggesting that while I might not have a choice about my injured knee, I DO have a choice about my attitude. And that Buddhist ideas and practices can help me move away from snippy, a bit more towards gracious. Since I’m not getting any younger, and more ailments and injuries are certain to appear, why not cultivate a bit of graciousness today with my knee? As Batchelor says, “it requires that I examine my attachments to physical health…for they are ultimately lost.” He believes it is simply the ability to keep pondering the illusion of permanence and to stay in THIS moment that will get me through.

Maybe on this gray December day, I’ll go sit for a few minutes in front of the fire with my snoozing dog, and contemplate all that I in fact am grateful for in this very day.

Finding Light in the Darkness, by Rev. Jen Crow

With the winter solstice upon us, many of us in Wellspring groups have been asking the question – what sustains you in times of darkness? As a recent attendee at a solstice gathering I found myself wrestling with the question again this year – and this year the answer came quickly. Remembering, I said. Remembering sustains me. When I remember that every situation and every one is a mix of light and dark - when I remember that I have friends and family all around me to hold me up when I cannot stand alone- that is what sustains me in the dark.

This week I heard the news of our fellow Unitarian Universalists in Clearwater, Florida. I heard the terrible story of a father who killed his two children, his ex-wife, and her partner – and then finally turned the gun on himself.

As I read the articles and heard the words of my colleagues who are trying their best to bring comfort to a devastating situation – I cried and felt as if the darkness was surrounding me. This kind of evil is so hard to accept – so hard to explain or comprehend. And then add to it the reality that the attacker was not outside of our circle – but within it – and the story gets even closer to home. Small children, women in love, and a man who threw away all that he once held dear – all lost to the undertow of evil – of homophobia and violence.

Most days I like to believe that we are beyond this as a society – and certainly as Unitarian Universalists. But the truth of the matter is that this capacity for evil lives in each one of us – and the real question for me then becomes not only how do I sustain myself in the darkness, but how do I and do we ward off the shadows of evil that can seduce us and lead us away from connection with all that is holy and good? As I rage and question and cry – I hear the voice of a colleague knocking at the door of my mind – lean in to the love, she tells me, lean in to the love and the darkness at your door will be bearable. This is where your hope lies. So this winter as the darkness deepens and the light returns I find myself searching for the new connections that arise from this tragedy, grasping for the hope I hear in others voices, and leaning in close to my friends and family as they hold me up one more time.

Gifts of the Season, by Libby Moore

It's that time of year again when we feel the pressure of too much to do, too many plans. I'm looking forward to all of it – it's just that there's so much happening at once. There's our Wellspring solstice celebration on Thursday, which will be quiet and lovely, and then a church caroling party here on Friday, which will be noisy and boisterous. And then we have company coming at the weekend and into next week. I made a comprehensive list yesterday. Seven pages, including menus, shopping lists, schedules. So much for being in the present moment.

But in the midst of all the plans and seasonal hoopla, I know that it's the simple gifts that matter most. The beauty of the snow drifting down in our backyard, the peace of a quiet day blanketed in white. The strings of colored lights going on all by themselves during my morning meditation – a miracle of modern technology, these timer things. The sweetness of hot water flowing over my body from a new shower head that my husband installed without even being asked. The luxury of quiet time at breakfast, reading the newspaper which is delivered by a kind and gentle woman who makes it through any amount of snow, every single day. The joy of singing in the church choir, raising our voices together in praise and gratitude.

With all this beauty and joy, the greatest gift for me this season is that my youngest granddaughter, Evelyn, is coming to visit (with her parents, of course). She's alert, curious, intent on finding out about the world, active and mobile, and just old enough to participate in all the Christmas commotion. (She'll be a year old in January. The day she turns two, a new president will be inaugurated.) I remember her father at that age, his beautiful open face tilted toward the tree, a little finger pointing upward, whispering "hot," which he understood meant not to touch. There was magic in the lights and the sparkling tinsel, but most of all in his shining eyes. Evelyn is another such a gift to the world, and I'm delighted and grateful that her parents are able to bring her to share Christmas at our house. But it's also true that every child is a holy child, Sophia Lyons Fahs reminds us, and that every night a child is born is a holy night. This season calls us to celebrate the birth of every new life in families around the world. I am so grateful for the simple joys of this season, for the sharing of time and love. May it be so for all of us.

Peace on Earth Good Will Toward Men…by Tina Simson

My son is applying to become a naturalized German citizen. He is my wandering son and is more of a world citizen than an American. He has an open perspective of respect and possibility that seems so necessary today. He is eligible to do this because his grand parents were deprived of their citizenship as German Jews in the 1930’s. The German government reaches out across nations to make amends and to reclaim it’s lost countrymen.

I asked my husband how he felt about this and he hesitated and said, “ok, I guess.” His parents escaped Nazi Germany in 1939, coming to the US in hope of freedom and sanctuary. We have documents and records that chronicle the loss of family members in concentration camps. The surviving family is dispersed throughout the world from South America to Hong Kong to South Africa to the US. They escaped to any country that would take them and many didn’t escape at all.

A student in the town his parents lived in before the war contacted my husband about 20 years ago. She was writing a dissertation on what happened to the Jews of Gerlachsheim a small town near Frankfurt. She invited him to travel to Germany to meet with her. It was the beginning of a long process of peace making that culminated with my in-laws visiting there too; the trip was offered and paid for by the German government. They were in their eighties, eager and cautious and a bit frightened. I remember the stories of visiting the store their family had owned and going into the apartments where they had lived. They were positive and pleased to go back and talked about the cruise on the Rhine. They felt at home again.

In the days before my mother-in-law passed away she often slipped into her native tongue, which I didn’t understand, but in the darkest hours she seemed to relive the horror of the Nazis. I wondered then how a soul could hold such love and atrocity. But I see now, seventy years after the terror, that the healing is complete. Over the holiday break, my youngest son and his dad will go through the fading papers, gathering the documents to prove the lineage. They will come full circle and my son will become a German and an American.

I’m writing about this because there’s not much good will these days and peace is illusive and yet it’s what we celebrate and wish for during the darkest time of the year. This story brings hope to the tragedy of war, to the healing of time and to the willingness of humankind to reach out in peace.

Lead with your heart, by Tina Simson

My life just got much busier than I want it to be. As I posted recently, I added a new job to by very active schedule of going to seminary, being on the Board at our church and another Board for a local homeless shelter. Not to mention, I have relationships and family to tend to and of course the laundry. I’m out of breath some days even before I wake up. This is all my doing, my choices but somehow it overwhelms me.

So like all good UUs, I did what I thought would work, I thought about it, and thought about it and wrote out schedules and structured my life and had those serious conversations with my husband about how he needs to help more around the house. By the way he helps plenty already. But I wanted to find a rational organized way to solve my feelings of burden. This left part of my brain has served me well and yet it wasn’t working. I had a meltdown last weekend getting all weepy and whiney about what I had done to myself.

Then I talked with my Spiritual Mentor, a gift of the seminary I attend. First she confirmed what I knew, my life was too busy. But she didn’t suggest cutting things out or trying to schedule time for myself to meditate, exercise and eat right, all things that had gone out the window. She said something revolutionary. She said slow down and put your heart in control of your life. She suggested that although my well-ordered mind has served me well, this was a time for a different driver. She told me if I slowed down then I’d have more time! The moment she said these things to me, I felt a sigh of relief. You see I trust my heart I just don’t let it drive too often.

So I am one week in to leading with my heart and somehow I’m breathing easier. My life is still chock full but I walk slower everyplace I go and I drive the speed limit on the highway. Small things, I know, but I’m surprised at how much room I have found, room to watch the swirling clouds from my office window, room to listen deeply to my new colleagues, time to play with my dog and enjoy dinner with my honey. Maybe I’ve just replaced the constant chatter in my head that was saying, “Oh my God, how am I going to do all these things.” Replaced it with breathing, an important food for my soul. I also check in with my heart all the time, which allows me to trust my actions without question. I almost always second-guess my mind but I trust my heart. So one week in and I’m still busy but not whiney or weepy and sitting here watching the first real snow of the season, I feel blessed to have the life I lead.

Bees, by Amy Baker

I woke up this morning to the infernal buzzing of bees. In the shower, over breakfast. They began their attack even before I turned on my bedside light. It’s a racquet. A trial. An unholy comedy of accusations, explanations, judgments, denials. A neural drama of embarrassments, mistaken judgments, missed opportunities. ‘You should have.’ ‘You could have,’ ‘I would have except…’ What happened in the night?

Turning a deaf ear, I dress for work. When I’m ready, I get into the car, buckle my seat belt, and set my jaw. I have a plan. I’ll shoo these bees while I’m driving. And so, knees against the wheel, I enter into battle--flapping my arms, brandishing my swatter. But they don’t give up. The more I swat, the louder they buzz.

At the restaurant, I greet you with my failure. I’m under siege. It’s impossible to think. I want to back out of this parking lot, back down the hill, back all the way home. I want to start the day over. I want to go back to the place where your life is at least as important as mine.

But I don’t leave. I hunker down instead. I focus on your face, your words, and concentrate on waiting for you to ask the questions before I produce the answers. I remind myself not to interrupt. You’re steady, welcoming, but I can’t take delight. I’m battle-weary. Battle-worn.

You leave the table for a moment. I sigh, put my feet up and slide down deeper into my collar and my chair. I write a few words, sigh again and write a few more. It’s quieter now, but I don’t notice—not until you’ve returned. I notice then, when I look up and discover you there—dense with life. The bees have gone! The air is thick with your presence and mine; the room is quiet except for the sound of waitress talk and dishes.

And now, sitting in this busy parking lot, the air is thick too. It’s the sound of hammers and the whine of a saw--or perhaps it’s two. Another time, I’d crank up the windows or run for cover, but today it’s like music. Crisp clean sound traveling the airwaves with me here to receive it. I tilt the seat and settle back, content to listen to the world going about its business. There’s no place else I’d rather be.