Category Archives: love
I needed to be held.
Difficult feelings had been arising in me well before I landed in Hawaii for a much-needed vacation last Sunday afternoon.
The previous day – Saturday, August 12 – I was driving back from Albuquerque, having spent the last four days at the Center for Action and Contemplation’s Living School. This was the beginning of my two-year journey under Richard Rohr, Cynthia Bourgeault, and Jim Finley. Master spiritual teachers, all of them. I was feeling excited and grateful.
I had slept fitfully every night since arriving.
Encountering what was showing up in me in the lessons and meditations had not been easy.
And as I drove the four hours back home to El Paso, something else was on my mind. Charlottesville – my former home, my community, my friends.
Keenly aware of the anxiety and trepidation that had been building in that city for weeks, even months, in anticipation of the alt right march planned to descend there on that day, I knew prayers were needed.
And I had been praying. Praying for love to prevail in the face of such hate and violence.
You could say I had a lot on my mind and heart.
But in the midst of my prayer, something else arose. The violence and hatred I was praying to heal out there was also in me. I suddenly recognized the violence I was perpetrating towards myself in response to what had been showing up in me.
It may have been subtle, but it was definitely present. The self-judgment. The self-rejection. The ways I was hurting myself through my erroneous thoughts and beliefs.
In that moment, I realized that it was only in acting with nonviolence towards myself that I could even begin to help heal the violence out there.
I needed to be with that painful realization. And to hold it with compassion.
But early the next morning I flew off to Hawaii without having the opportunity to venture into that painful place.
Yet I knew I would have to go there. One of the key teachings I’ve learned from Pathwork is that any difficult feeling must be fully felt before it can be transformed. Whether it’s hate, fear, grief, pain….
So, one morning I sit with that hate in my meditation.
As the feelings of hate increase, I feel my body grow tense and tighten up. I hear myself ask God, where were you? Where are you in this pain and hate?
And I believe that I must tense up to care for and protect myself. The hate feels too big.
I am deep in the middle of this growing, threatening force when suddenly the image of a beautiful, white Hibiscus emerges. Its delicate blossoms are surrounded by a sea of soft, green leaves that seem to expand as they enfold all the misery and pain and hatred that had surfaced.
And now everything is enfolded and held tenderly in the arms of this Source. A sea of Love.
Allowing this Love to hold my own hate softens my heart and, in turn, allows me to hold my darkest and most painful places with love, mercy, and compassion.
This is the place I needed to come to.
And I will need to return to again and again.
Because before I can stand against the darkness – and not come from a place of self-righteous certitude – I must be grounded in this love, vulnerable and aware of my own woundedness.
The darkness of the kind of hate we experienced in Charlottesville is, I believe, the pain of separation from this Love. Separation from the unconditional love of our Source.
As Rohr teaches, “The great illusion that we must all overcome is that of separateness.”
“Sin” is a symptom of separation, he says.
And yet the paradox is that we can never really be separated from God.
Here’s another paradox:
We are already whole and yet each of us is in need of healing.
And darkness must be revealed before it can be transformed by the light.
Before I left Hawaii, a hike at Volcanoes National Park gave me a great metaphor for what can emerge when what is percolating underground rises to the surface. Volcanic eruptions have created the most beautiful black sand beaches.
It’s just one example in nature.
All of this gives me hope that healing from the painful darkness we are seeing now is possible.
Because I know that love is trustworthy.
It is trustworthy. And it will prevail.
Imagine someone gives you a precious gift and you never open it.
Most of us, I believe, are living with such an unopened gift. We have forgotten who we are. We have forgotten that we are “the beloved.”
Maybe we are afraid to acknowledge and claim our “belovedness.” Maybe we can’t believe it’s true.
Somehow it’s easier to claim what we perceive as “wrong” with us. The places where we fall short. Where we don’t measure up or haven’t succeeded enough. So we walk around with these interior wounds and scars. And much of the time our inner pain gets projected “out there.”
But what if we could be retaught and remember that we are the beloved? What if we could open ourselves to claim the gift that we truly are?
If each of us could hold ourselves with such acceptance and compassion, no matter what shows up in us, what then?
Henri Nouwen, a spiritual teacher and writer, said a lot about this in his book Life of the Beloved: Spiritual Living in a Secular World.
“To be chosen as the Beloved of God is something radically different. Instead of excluding others, it includes others. Instead of rejecting others as less valuable, it accepts others in their own uniqueness. It is not a competitive, but a compassionate choice.”
I know when I claim the gift of my belovedness, I can’t help but open myself up to love. Love for myself and love for those around me. If more of us were able to do that, I don’t think we could possibly treat one another with hateful comments or hurtful actions. We would feel so incredibly graced, we would want nothing more than to give that love out to others. Because we would know the truth.
But, as Nouwen said, the real work of prayer is to become silent enough to hear the voice that calls us the beloved.
The God whom I love dwells within and never ceases to remind me that I am the “beloved.” But I admit that most days I am hard-pressed to really take that in. And to understand the depth of that love.
But there are moments.
Like Monday morning.
For some reason, I awaken around 3 a.m., with a dream half-remembered. And the word “Beloved” on my lips. I breathe into it and feel myself smile with joy. Because even in my half-awake state, I “know” the truth. This is not something I can explain. But I “know” it.
And I know that this gift has been given to me in the early morning hours when I am too sleepy to fight it, to discount or disbelieve it. I simply take it in.
And I pray.
Teach me to come back to You again and again, and lose my “self” in You so that I may recognize the true treasure I possess – life in You, with You, for You, of You. This is my belovedness.
There is no other gift I need.
There is nothing more.
May each of us come to know and live from this truth. The gift of being the beloved.
Davis’s hair is thinning.
We were sitting across from each other in a restaurant in Nome when I first noticed it. The hair draping his forehead wasn’t really covering his forehead.
“Are you losing your hair?” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” he said disgustedly. “And I’m only 23, Mom!”
But Davis knew, just as I did, the sad reality. He’s inherited his dad’s hair genes.
When I met David, he was 28 and already balding. It made him appear way too serious for me. Only 21, just out of college, I wasn’t ready for someone who looked like he could have three kids, a dog, and a minivan! And it didn’t help that he smoked cigars and liked expensive wine.
But luckily, we stayed connected. It took me a while, but I finally realized what a treasure David was.
Fortunately, bad hair genes isn’t the only thing Davis has inherited from his dad. He’s also got David’s level of maturity and generosity of spirit. His compassion. His ability to thoughtfully weigh a situation before he speaks.
And, observing him in Nome, I noticed something else.
Faced with an unusual and challenging environment, Davis adapted. Very well.
Better than I would have to such a harsh, frigid climate in an isolated place that gets down to as little as 3 ½ hours of daylight in December.
I certainly admired him for that. I probably would have hibernated in my room and slunk into a depression.
But not Davis. He immersed himself in the culture and the community. Joined their indoor sports teams. Helped out at community functions. Accepted invitations for traditional outdoor activities.
And he got to know the people. To pay attention to their customs and their culture. To their traditions. Their way of living.
While interviewing me for his audio blog, he shared that what had most impacted him about Alaska wasn’t the difficulty of living in the darkness. Or living without his active social life and cable TV.
It was the people. The folks in the communities and villages he’s visited.
Many live with very limited income. In the outlying villages, many are poor. They live without even basic infrastructure. Some have difficulty finding potable water. Yet they share with him whatever they have.
He says that, going forward, it’s the generosity of the people and their simple way of living that have inspired him to do something meaningful with his life. To live more simply and appreciate the little things. To recognize that consumption at the expense of others is not the answer.
Of course, Davis is my son, too. And a lot of what he described sounded like words that came out of my mouth not that long ago in describing the poor I’d met at the U.S-Mexico border.
The generosity and simplicity of people who have so little. Their faith and joy of living.
Oftentimes they are people living in the shadows. The poor. The undocumented. Those living on the margins of society. Or in tiny villages in western Alaska.
Already, Davis knows that life isn’t just about him and his needs or wants. He has an ability to see “the other” and be open to those who are different from himself. To open his mind and heart to understand their lives. And to want to use his gifts and talents to make a positive contribution.
What more could a mother ask for her child?
So, yes, Davis did get his dad’s genes. He’ll have to deal with the premature hair loss. But he’s gotten so much more out of the deal. I believe he’s gotten the best of both of us.
NOTE: You can catch Davis’s interview of me on his audio blog at: http://www.knom.org/wp/blog/2017/03/03/impressions-of-nome-from-a-visitor-a-majestic-place-pauline-hovey-says/
Hope. Love. Commitment.
I’ve settled on these three qualities. They’re what I will be carrying with me as we go forward into the next four years. Along with a promise, which I’ll get to in a minute.
Throughout the day following the election, I felt unable to completely focus. My heart laden, my mind racing with legitimate concerns.
For the vulnerable, for the marginalized. For the migrants and refugees whom I serve and for those who will be denied a much-needed haven here. For Muslims, especially Muslim Americans. For African-Americans. For the LGBT community. For women. For Mother Earth. For those who already face lives more difficult and painful than most of us will ever experience – in this country and far beyond.
Did I leave anyone out?
I prayed to be able to say yes. To all that I was feeling. To all that I was fearing.
The only prayers I could get out were, “Help.” And “Not my will but thine be done.”
Then I found myself remembering someone else who’d surrendered with those words.
I imagined the fear and helplessness Jesus must have felt.
And I realized I was looking at this from a smaller lens. Like a child fearing the next wave while missing the grandeur and beauty of an entire ocean that could lift her up.
And I began to hope.
Not the kind of hope that wants to believe everything will turn out the way I think it should.
The kind of hope I remembered insight meditation teacher Tara Brach describing in one of her wonderful talks. The kind revealed to 14th century Christian mystic Julian of Norwich who asked for an understanding of the suffering in this world.
There’s no mistaking. Donald Trump has brought to light the dark shadow of this country. A shadow that has been lurking under the surface all along. He did not cause it. He certainly triggered it and capitalized on it. And he seems to live unaware of its existence within himself.
But unless we bring what is hidden in darkness into the light, it cannot be healed and transformed.
I find hope in that possibility.
I also pray for its realization.
Last night I gathered with my newfound Mexican indigenous “sisters” for a “supermoon” full moon prayer ritual. We came together with a prayer intention of sending love and light to our president-elect Donald Trump, to his team, for our country, and our world. It truly was a light-filled ceremony of releasing and surrendering. Of opening to Spirit’s power and love.
That’s something we can all do going forward.
And I feel I must do more. Given the dangerous, divisive attitudes in our country and the groundswell of hate that has erupted.
So, I have made a post-election promise:
I will keep my heart and mind open.
I will be devoted and committed to self-introspection, to paying attention to my own shadow.
I will listen to those with different views and engage in nonviolent dialogue and behavior.
Yet, I will not stand idly by while someone of a different race, sexual orientation, or religion is insulted or threatened.
I will not be indifferent.
I will not be silent in the face of injustice, bigotry, or worse.
I will continue to serve those in need, to do the work I do for migrants and refugees, no matter the consequences.
I will be quiet enough to listen to God within me, and act from that wiser, contemplative place.
Most importantly, I will live by the law of love. The spiritual law of brotherhood.
Love God. Love neighbor. That will always come first. Before any law of the land.
As Richard Rohr said in his post-election message: “We who know about universal belonging and identity in God have a different form of power: Love (even of enemies) is our habitat, not the kingdoms of this world.
“Only a contemplative mind can hold our fear, confusion, vulnerability, and anger and guide us toward love. Let’s use this milestone moment to begin again with confidence and true inner freedom and to move out into the world with compassion.” (Rohr’s full article is available on the Center for Action and Contemplation website at cac.org)
I go forward with compassion, empowered in my true identity.
With hope in the One who loves us beyond our current understanding.
Committed to speak out and to stand by all my brothers and sisters.
Because we are One. And all lives matter.
Thursday I found myself praying in a mosque. For the first time. Hopefully, not my last.
Although a Christian woman, I chose to be here. To join my friend Rob, whom I am visiting in Raleigh, and his friend Steve – also Christians. Rob and Steve have been visiting this mosque every Thursday for months. An expression of solidarity.
It was Steve’s idea. As anti-Muslim rhetoric grew more vicious, and frightening, he felt the need to do something positive. So they come at 5:30. One of the five times daily that Muslims gather to pray.
They sit among Muslim men in folding chairs spread out on bright green prayer rugs. And they pray. Silently. Respectfully.
The people have noticed their presence. And welcomed them. It doesn’t matter that Rob and Steve clearly are not Muslim.
On this particular night, I take a seat in the back, where the women gather. A shawl draped over my head covers my shoulders and bare arms. As I sit, I become aware that this might be risky. Associating with Muslims these days can be dangerous. Innocent people have been killed. Simply for being near a mosque. Or appearing to be Muslim.
A smiling man walks over to hand me literature entitled “What Is Islam?” I leaf through the pages as the women wander in with their children.
I read things I did not know. For instance, Islam means to be at peace with God and His creatures. “Being at peace with His creatures implies living in peace within one’s self, with other people, and with the environment.”
I consider this statement – that one of the aims of Islam is “to emphasize the oneness of humanity as a whole and the Oneness of the Creator….”
Hmm. The Oneness of all. That’s the reason I am here.
I pray silently for that Oneness to be realized. For unity. For compassion. For peace.
I watch the women demonstrate their own prayer to this Oneness.
They stand, arms stretched out before them, palms raised in worship. They utter words I don’t understand. They kneel, bend forward, forehead to the floor.
An act of surrender. A humbling expression of devotion.
Present. Open. Surrendered.
That is what I see. That is what I experience. And I mirror it back to them.
I remain in contemplative silence for awhile. A passage from the gospel of John surfaces: “God is love. And he/she who abides in love, abides in God, and God in him/her.”
In this space, I recognize our connection to the One whose power surpasses all.
That connection is Love.
I like to think that this choice that Steve and Rob have made, and I along with them on this Thursday night, delights God. That in choosing to be in love and solidarity with our Muslim brothers and sisters, we are co-creating a world of love, beauty, and truth. For more years than I can remember I have prayed to co-create such a world. Thanks to Rob and Steve, I am being shown how.
Gerald May once commented while sitting in a prayer circle on a winter retreat when the electricity went out, “Here in this darkened room we are saving the world.”
A bold statement? Maybe.
But on that Thursday night, in a brightly lit room, with green prayer mats, I, too, experienced that possibility. Abiding in love with one another, we are saving the world.
One sacred moment at a time.
It’s the early morning hours. The day before the memorial service for the Dallas police officers.
I awaken in a hotel room just outside the city. Photos of the five officers and two African-American young men who were killed appear in my mind. And tear at my heart.
I think of their families. The ones who’ve loved them and are left behind to grieve.
My heart breaks for the pain we cause each other, for the violence we resort to so easily to resolve our differences, to make our voices heard.
There is another choice.
But it’s harder. Because it involves letting go of our own agenda.
It means putting aside our pride and our judgments. And our preconceived notions about who is “right” and who is “wrong.”
It means being willing to see and listen to the other person.
And letting Christ’s love guide our steps.
That option seems so far away. Especially in the midst of the ongoing onslaught of hate-filled insults, of angry words and demeaning lies raging over social media and throughout this political campaign.
So I do the only thing I can do. I offer prayer. And ask where God is in this.
A familiar question pops up.
“Have you been with me all this time and still do not know me?”
It’s a question Jesus asked of his disciples along their journey together.
And this is the response that comes.
I am African-American. I am Mexican American. I am Native American. I am Muslim. I am Christian. I am Buddhist.
I am the police officer who risks his life every time he protects yours.
I am the youth calling for peaceful protests after his father is killed.
I am the man with knotted hair standing at the stoplight with his cardboard sign asking for help.
I am the undocumented little Guatemalan girl languishing with her mother in a Texas family detention center.
I am the young mother in Bolivia who abandoned her baby because she could not feed yet another child.
I am the 10-year-old boy stolen from his family and forced to become a soldier.
I am the Syrian who fled his home with his young son after their lives were threatened.
I am the family in sub-Saharan Africa unable to eat tonight because there is no food.
I am in you. I am in the neighbor next to you. And in the neighbor across the ocean whom you have yet to meet.
All lives matter to me. Because I am all life.
I am compassion. I am understanding. I am love without borders.
I am peace in a world that does not know peace because it does not know me.
I wait for you in the stillness. In the silence. There you will see me.
And know me for the first time.
A new baby arrived last week at the orphanage. When I got there on Wednesday, I found her sleeping in a crib — a tiny dark-haired bundle wrapped in a yellow blanket. She was less than one week old.
Her name was printed in black magic marker on the placard above her crib. The women who work at the Salomon Klein orphanage named her. Abandoned, she came with nothing. No first or last name. No birth date. They think she was born on Easter Sunday.
When I changed Adriana’s diaper, I noticed the brown remains of her umbilical cord. What a way for this precious new life to begin.
But the sad truth is, Adriana’s situation is not unusual. During the four weeks I volunteered, three new babies appeared. Either they’d been abandoned or removed from an unsafe home. Now their home is a room lined with cribs filled with babies and toddlers under 2. There aren’t enough arms to cradle these children. Not enough voices to coo their names and let them believe, even for a little while, that the world revolves around them.
That’s what I normally try to do. But, for whatever reason, this day was different.
I changed more diapers than usual. Rubbed ointment onto red, raw bottoms and wondered how many more little ones lay in their cribs or sat in the play yard with wet, coarse cloth wrapped around their behinds waiting for someone to discover their need. But I couldn’t keep up while tending to tears and keeping toddlers from crawling on top of each other.
The mood was anything but tranquilo.
Babies who normally lay quietly in their cribs cried uncontrollably. I picked them up, one after another, cooing, cradling, calling their names, but the crying didn’t stop. My friend and fellow volunteer noticed the reason first.
“Look at the time,” she said. “They’re hungry.”
It was nearly 5:30 p.m. Well past the time for their second bottle. We mentioned it to one of the staff and she said the bottles were coming. But not soon enough.
During the next 15 to 20 minutes, my friend and I tried to console inconsolable babies. We carried them around the room, rocked them, sang to them. Feeling helpless all the while. We both remarked that this must be what it’s like for migrant and refugee mothers who can’t feed their hungry children. The experience was short-lived, but very vivid. It has stayed with me.
And, it brought another insight. Something even more powerful.
As I held little Pablo, his tiny mouth quivered, he was crying so hard. He couldn’t hear my voice calling his name so sweetly. With his eyelids squeezed shut, his face tight with the pangs of hunger, he couldn’t possibly take in the love I was offering him. His hunger and pain were too great.
Now I understand.
This is how it must be for a loving God who is trying to get through to me when I am hurting. Because I was hurting and crying out in Cochabamba. I’d experienced some painful challenges, and I felt abandoned and alone. But like these children, my hunger and pain kept me from recognizing the presence of the love that’s been holding me through all of it. I couldn’t see it with my eyes squeezed shut.
And like I did for these children, the One who longs for me simply held me in my spiritual blindness.
This love is so patient. It is kind and compassionate. It is willing to wait with me. Until I finally take in what I need. What it’s been offering all along.
Davis arrived from France a little over a week ago. Looking more like a man than ever. If that’s possible.
On the long car ride home from Dulles Airport, he chatted away. About the friends he’d made. His love for the language. How he missed speaking French already. And the food. He went on and on about the food.
You’d think he’d be exhausted after traveling for two days. But he was on fire. I could hear the passion in his voice. Already he talked about going back. About the offers of places to stay whenever he chose to return.
He reminded me of myself and what I’ve been feeling after returning from my recent adventures in Bolivia and at the border. Like me he’s expanding his outlook on life. Opening his heart to more people. And making exciting choices that can be both painful and risky.
Recently a friend sent me a link to Parker Palmer’s May 2015 commencement address on the six pillars of the wholehearted life. So much of it resonated with me. But in these lines in particular, I recognized myself and Davis:
“The good news is that suffering can be transformed into something that brings life, not death. It happens every day. I’m 76 years old, I now know many people who have suffered the loss of the dearest person in their lives. At first they go into deep grief, certain that their lives will never again be worth living. But then they slowly awaken to the fact that not in spite of their loss, but because of it, they’ve become bigger, more compassionate people, with more capacity of heart to take in other people’s sorrows and joys. These are broken-hearted people, but their hearts have been broken open, rather than broken apart.”
Hearts broken open. That’s what Davis and I have. Hearts broken when we lost the best husband and father we could have had. But hearts that remain open. Because we’ve chosen to keep them open. To not close ourselves off to the pain. To let ourselves be vulnerable and loving to those we don’t yet know. And that has made all the difference.
And there’s something else that Palmer said about brokenness. About being willing to go down into the tough, painful dark shadows within ourselves.
“Take everything that’s bright and beautiful in you and introduce it to the shadow side of yourself. Let your altruism meet your egotism, let your generosity meet your greed, let your joy meet your grief. Everyone has a shadow… But when you are able to say, “I am all of the above, my shadow as well as my light,” the shadow’s power is put in service of the good. Wholeness is the goal, but wholeness does not mean perfection, it means embracing brokenness as an integral part of your life.
Davis is learning to embrace his brokenness. So am I.
And in doing so, I’ll be better able to be present to someone else facing her own darkness.
As Joan Chittister explains:
Only the experience of our own darkness gives us the light we need to be of help to others whose journey into the dark spots of life is only just beginning. It’s then that our own taste of darkness qualifies us to be an illuminating part of the human expedition. Without that, we are only words, only false witnesses to the truth of what it means to be pressed to the ground and rise again.
So, on this eve of the winter solstice when we will face the longest night of the year, I celebrate my choice to embrace the darkness. With a heart broken open.
I’ve been wanting to write about love. It seemed like something I needed to do in response to the growing hateful, fear-filled outlandish messages bombarding the news. Especially from our political candidates.
My heart hurts as I hear entire groups of people being lambasted. For their religion. Or their race. Or the color of their skin. Based on misconceptions and downright lies.
I wonder where are the voices of reason and common sense? Where is the voice of love?
I’ve been thinking about Pope Francis and his visit to the U.S. It’s hard to believe he was here only months ago. Addressing Congress with words of tolerance, acceptance, mercy, and compassion. People seemed to embrace him and his message. Members of Congress were suddenly quoting him. Including my own Congressman Robert Hurt from Virginia.
Back in late September, Congressman Hurt was saying what an honor it was to meet the Pope and how his message, “reminded us of our obligation to help those who are in need, treat our fellow man with respect and dignity, and do our best to pass on the great blessings we have receive to future generations.”
Apparently my Congressman has forgotten his own words because these days he’s proposing anything but that. Maybe he thought Pope Francis was referring only to our obligation to care for American children and America’s future. That somehow closing off our borders to desperate refugee children and their parents is acceptable. That opening our hearts to those outside our borders escaping extreme violence and life-threatening situations — like the refugees from Syria and Central America — is not our obligation.
Many have joined him. Some voices have been shouting: “We have to take care of our own first.”
Well, I’m not getting on that bandwagon.
Because this is not about me and mine. This is about us. The human race. It’s about learning the lesson of meeting people where they are. With tolerance. Acceptance. An open mind. And love.
It’s not easy. But it’s why I’m here. To learn to love. And to follow the One who came to earth over 2,000 years ago to teach us about love. If I proclaim to follow him, then I have to be love in this world. As best as I can.
I came here to love. That is all. It is the hardest thing. And it is everything.
Funny thing. Pope Francis mentioned four famous Americans in his remarks to Congress. Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., Thomas Merton, and Dorothy Day. Each of them had something to say about love when they were alive. Their words speak to what’s happening now in our country. And to why it’s important that we speak out and be the voice of love in the world. Read some of their quotes below.
Then ask yourself, as we come upon this season of Christmas, what does the birth of Love Incarnate mean in my life?
It is only love that can overcome the fear that is at the root of all war.
“Love and ever more love is the only solution to every problem that comes up. If we love each other enough, we will bear with each other’s faults and burdens. If we love enough, we are going to light that fire in the hearts of others. And it is love that will burn out the sins and hatreds that sadden us. It is love that will make us want to do great things for each other. No sacrifice and no suffering will then seem too much.” (From Dorothy Day, Selected Writings)
“We must cry out against injustice or by our silence consent to it. If we keep silent, the very stones of the street will cry out.” –Dorothy Day