Wellspring: inspiration and guidance for a spiritual journey

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.

A Circle of Trust, by Libby Moore

It's the end of September already, the time for coming together again in community after a lazy summer of long walks and swimming and other isolated pursuits. For me, even though I no longer work or teach, September is still a time of new beginnings. One of the most joyful for me is our new Wellspring community – three full groups this year – which met for the first time at a Saturday retreat a week and a half ago. Last night our small group met for the first regular gathering, nine of us together around the chalice, embarking on the journey of getting to know one another and our own souls.

The reading for our first session was A Hidden Wholeness, by Parker Palmer, a book full of understanding and compassion for the soul and the conditions under which the soul can emerge. After reading and re-reading this book for several years now, I find something new and meaningful to think about every time. This year, it's Palmer's chapter on "Spiritual DNA" that grabs me. Here's a quote: "We are born with a seed of selfhood that contains the spiritual DNA of our uniqueness – an encoded birthright knowledge of who we are, why we are here, and how we are related to others." He describes his granddaughter's unique qualities that were evident from the time of her birth and continued to develop as she grew. My youngest granddaughter has always been exactly herself, intent and active, from the time she was born. Now twenty months old, she runs and climbs but can also sit with her mother and look at books for a long time. She is her own person, independent and loving, and it's a joy to watch her unfolding, becoming a larger and more capable version of this unique person she's always been.

For me, the beginning of our Wellspring group has that same feeling of anticipation, of watching what will unfold. We come together as a unique set of people, at a time in each one's life that holds its own joy and suffering. Each of us brings gifts and perspectives that contribute to the whole in ways that can never be replicated exactly in any other group. The group itself has a unique "seed of selfhood" that will emerge over the course of the year. The joy for me is in watching this group take shape as we move forward on our spiritual journey together. Becoming a circle of trust is complicated and requires attentiveness to our way of being together, but I know we can do it.

Here's what Parker Palmer says:

A circle of trust consists of relationships that are neither invasive nor evasive. In this space, we neither invade the mystery of another's true self nor evade another's struggles. We stay present to each other without wavering, while stifling any impulse to fix each other up. We offer each other support in going where each needs to go, and learning what each needs to learn, at each one's pace and depth.

I have faith that we have within this group all the resources we need to create a safe space for our souls to emerge. It is a great gift.

 

Seeking the Sacred, by Rev. Jen Crow

This summer we asked our congregation to go out in search of the holy. Find where the holy speaks to you, we suggested, and when the summer ends, come back to church with some symbol of where and how you found (or were found by) the sacred. At our homecoming service on Sunday the sanctuary was filled with sunflowers. Hundreds of them – tall and strong green stems and bright yellow and brown faces peering out over and above one another. You couldn’t help but smile as we remembered that as Unitarian Universalists we, too, are like sunflowers, turning our face to the light of the sacred wherever we find it.

Partway through the service we all brought our symbols of the holy forward. Water bottles and baby pictures, rainbows over lakes, lists of music, plant clippings, a tiny piece of brick found in a tidal pool in Maine – the symbols spanned possibility and together they formed an altar that reflects who we are - people who search for and find the sacred in every day life – people for whom revelation is never sealed, but ever being revealed.

This summer I encountered the holy in an unexpected time and place. Driving along a busy street in the city, traffic paused at a stop light. In front of me a homeless man was crossing the street. Weaving and bobbing as he went, I assumed he had been drinking. But as he walked in front of my car, I saw that he carried a dead pigeon in his hands. I wondered if he had killed it. Spooked, I turned away for a moment, but curiosity got the better of me and I soon turned back.

The man held the pigeon tenderly, walked slowly, and stroked the bird’s head with incredible kindness. As the man crossed the threshold of the opposing curb his gait slowed and he began to cry. And not small silent tears, but big, gut racking sobs. He collapsed there on the curb, stroking the head of this dead city pigeon, waves of grief overtaking him.

It was hard to watch such sadness. But I’d seen it before. Beside graves with young parents saying a final goodbye to their children, in chapels with couples married 62 years and one of them now gone, at the bedsides of loved ones slipping away too soon or right on time. I know that gut racking grief and I saw it again that Saturday morning, surprised by a man I almost dismissed. Surprised by the depth of feeling someone could hold for the smallest creature on this earth – surprised at the way that love transcends boundaries - reminded again that we are all connected and that the holy so often sneaks up and surprises us when we least expect it.

The summer in the belly of the fish, by Tina Simson

In early June my teacher, and spiritual director said to me, “Tina why do you run from God?”

Well, I looked her straight in the eye and I said, “that’s easy, it’s because I’m Unitarian.” But she didn’t crack a smile. And she said once again, this time more softly, “Tina, why do you run from God?”

And so I tried again to explain that we UU’s don’t have burning bushes, or tablets on the mount. I explained that we were rational and skeptical and that God didn’t regularly talk to us. But then she asked, “How do you know?”

With those four words she pinned me to the wall. Because you see, I don’t know, because I don’t listen.

So right then and there I made a commitment to spend the summer in the “belly of the fish.” In case you didn’t catch the reference, I’m talking about Jonah, my new favorite biblical story. It seems Jonah too ignored the voice of God. When God asked Jonah to travel to Nineveh to tell the people that there was a better way to live, he not only ignored God but he actually got on a ship going in the opposite direction. I’m convinced Jonah was Unitarian.

As the story continues, God sends a great storm to get his attention and when Jonah leaps into the churning sea, trying to appease his angry god, a mammoth fish swallows him up.

Now most people see the great fish as the danger, but it was in the belly of the fish that Jonah’s transformation took place. The way I read it, God’s was saying; “hold on a second Jonah, pay attention to me.”

So I made the commitment to take this summer as my time in the belly of the fish. I would commit to care for my soul, walk in the woods and listen for the voice of God.

But then the belly of the fish got crowded, life happened as it always does, and the only voices I heard were those around me needing attention, pulling at me, taking away my precious focus. My family, my friends, even colleagues at work all demanding time. I had days that lasted for weeks.

I wondered where the voice of God was in this messy life of mine. And then I began to whine and complain and fuss, not out loud of course only to myself. Until the only voice I heard at all was my own and it was then that I realized…
I was drowning out the voice of God.

I understood, then that this life is the belly of the fish, it’s the place God speaks to me, coaxing my soul out of it’s dark corners, calling me to hear the voice.

So I listened…

My husband, his hand badly burned and in pain… says softly over the phone “ no, Tina stay where you are. I’m really ok. I’ll call Richard and Jo to help me, this retreat means too much to you, don’t come home”

My son Josh sends a note from Iraq, “it’s quieter here this time, the hospital is empty and there are fewer mortars coming into the base, we haven’t had to drop to the ground very often at all and I can’t wait to come home.”

My granddaughter, who is two, squeals in delight as Josh comes off the plane… “Daddy” she screams and she breaks through the crowd to be scooped up in his capable arms.

My brand new grandson coos and murmurs his newborn sounds nestled against my chest fitting perfectly next to my heart.

My father sits quietly as I cut his nails and rub hand cream into his dry hands, he is 83, he is blind and his hearing is going and he asks that I write a list for him, which he cannot read but must have…music he must hear before he hears nothing at all and we write Tchaikovsky’s Concerto Number One and Pathatique, and Tannhäuser and Shaharazade and I write the list and promise to bring the music and in the quiet of the summer afternoon, I hear the voice of god.

And this time, I pay attention.

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.

Inspired by Thursday's ENJOY JULY concert, by Carolyn Coit Dancy

this haiku is dedicated to Mary Lyubomirsky

riffs at dusk
jazz quintet
and katydids

Empty Nest, by Libby Moore

My husband and I were gone for a long weekend back in June, and when we got home, we found that a robin had come back to nest for a second year in the hanging planter just outside our garden room. She was shocked to discover us moving around on the other side of the glass, I think, lights going on at night, eyes peering through the glass. But she went ahead and laid her eggs anyway, one a day for four days, and then proceeded to sit on them faithfully through rain and heat and hunger.

A couple of weeks ago the eggs hatched, leaving impossibly small bits of fluff in the nest, barely obvious as birds. A few days later they became all gaping beaks waiting for one of their weary parents to ferry in another worm or bug. The babies crowded each other in the nest as they grew, jockeying for position and ready for food all the time.

Then yesterday morning three of the babies left the nest. They went suddenly, almost falling out of the confined space and into the great world, where they hopped quickly toward the nearby undergrowth. One flew up to a tree branch, but the others remained out of sight. They had been stretching their wings for a while, though, getting ready for this moment, and they've been growing so fast they're probably out there pecking away at worms and looking just like the other robins.

Yesterday was a particularly auspicious time for these babies to leave the nest and find their wings. It was the morning when participants from last year's Wellspring groups led the Sunday morning worship service. Their topic was the theology of joy, one of our favorite sessions. With poetry and music and their own moving words, they tested their wings and flew, offering themselves and their wisdom to the congregation with grace and love. All year, we've been trying to nurture souls in the confined space of small groups, offering bits of wisdom and a safe place to grow in the company of like-minded seekers. This service yesterday was an expression of that growth, a gift to our congregation.

I am grateful for the many ways in which Wellspring participants have contributed to our congregation, and especially for the beauty they created yesterday. May they fly well, wherever they choose to go from here.

Marty stopped chasing bunnies, by Tina Simson

Something profound happened this morning; Marty stopped chasing bunnies. You remember Marty my sweet old dog and guru. Well this morning, we were walking and right in front of him, munching on some grass was a massive rabbit. Marty saw him and in a moment, when I’m sure they made eye contact, the bunny acknowledged Marty’s existence and Marty growled “Hrumpf” under his breath and kept walking.

Now, just so you know, since the very day we brought Marty home 14 years ago, every time we let him out the front door, he clears the field with barks and growls that light up the neighborhood. He announces his presence and lets everyone know that this is his territory and all should beware. We say he’s protecting us from the “evil doers” and we feel infinitely safe. Then he goes about perusing the property, sniffing and grumbling to himself. We call this, “Marty on Safari.” We’re not sure what that means, but we know it’s important business.

The other thing Marty does without fail is chase rabbits, it’s his job. And we have lots of rabbits. In all these years he has never caught one but he is intent in his effort. If he’s inside, he chases from window to window, barking in a fit of annoyance that they even consider coming into his yard.

So whatever should I make of his acceptance of this nemesis? I came inside and opened my book on Native American Animal Totems. Totems explain that the energy of various animals teach us about aspects of ourselves. It reads that Rabbits are our annoying fears, those niggling shadows that darken our paths and stop our progress. Here’s what I read.

“Rabbits are guides into the shadow world, where all of our personal fears lie. When the rabbit appears it is time to examine those deep reflexive fears that hold you back from growing. Do you keep dashing for the safety of your old patterns every time something new or challenging presents itself? If so the rabbit asks you to face your fears with compassion for yourself. Accept that it is part of human nature to feel fear at times, but also believe that our fears need not paralyze our growth and movement.”

Fear, like rabbits, is inevitable and fear is one of my least favorite emotions. Personally when fears rise in my life I attack with as much vigor as Marty chases the rabbits. We can avoid fear in so many ways, by isolating ourselves, and through addictions of all sorts. I hide from fears by tracking them down, looking for “information” thinking about solutions. This all seems so practical but in honesty it doesn’t work. I’m still scared.

So what was Marty telling me today? Is it time to stop fighting with that, which scares me? Is it possible that I can live with fear as a neighbor rather than an enemy? Was he showing me how to acknowledge the fears right in my path and stop trying to run them down? Was he telling me that at some point in life, it is better to make friends with all the things that scare me? I’m not sure I have any answers yet but I’m sure he is telling me that there is much to learn from that which scares me.

Leave it to my old dog to teach me new tricks.

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?