Part of a Miracle

Me & Anne Marie
Me (seated) and my sister

I am praying to be part of a miracle. As a light-hearted 6-year-old, full of joy, imagination, spontaneity, and unbridled love, I trusted in miracles.

By the time I was 7 or 8, my world of innocence was changing drastically. The abusive authority present in my life, on many levels, taught me to be cautious, protective, stifled. I began to write stories to entertain myself, to create safe spaces that I could control. When I turned 9, my world fell apart. I became more distrustful, disillusioned, disenchanted. Less inclined to believe in miracles, confining them to Bible stories.

It took me many years and lots of challenging inner work to recognize and release those internalized abusive voices and unnecessary fears. Little by little I reconnected with that creative, expressive, imaginative, life-giving spirit. As I allowed myself to be more vulnerable, I began to trust. As I opened my heart, I became more willing to feel, more willing to be present to the pain – my own and that of others.

I could envision something new rather than believe the images and illusions I’d been taught. And I began to “see” the miracles again.

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Through accompanying immigrant families at our southern border, I’ve realized that it’s possible for me to be part of the miracle. By offering compassion, love, mercy, kindness, forgiveness into a situation that may appear overwhelming, I become part of a positive movement in which all things are possible. In a more open-hearted, more life-giving response, the abundance of a loving God is tangible.

It’s true! I’ve witnessed it for myself here in El Paso.

And now we face such a moment in our nation. Something new, more beautiful and unifying, more life-giving for all people is possible. Whether or not this miracle comes into being depends on our response. Mine and yours.

The other day I watched a short video that Insight Meditation Teacher Tara Brach had recommended on Van Jones’ response to racism. Mr. Jones has been entering my radar quite a bit lately, and I’m glad. He’s impressed me with his thoughtful, compassionate, well-balanced, and wise words regarding the divisions in our country and how and why it’s important we come together. This from a man who clearly has experienced and witnessed racism and, from what he’s shared, had to work through much rage during his younger years.

But it was the end of this video that really got to me. A moment when he couldn’t hold it together as he tried to express what this moment unfolding before us means to him. He called it “a great awakening” in which “much more is possible than we dared to hope for,” because something has happened that never happened before: people of all skin colors, all backgrounds, are coming together to speak out against racial injustice. To show they care. Van Jones, this professional, emotionally-mature man, cried as he said, “Somebody killed a black man, and everybody cares. It’s a miracle.”

He wept and I was deeply moved. Moved because I felt the pain of how much he’s been carrying as a black man living in this country trying to work through this maze. Yet I could only feel the fringes of this pain, because as a white woman of privilege, I have not experienced it.

Still, I am certain that my personal experiences of authorities wielding injustices and cruelties, oppressing the vulnerable and victimized, have sensitized me to the oppression of others. What strikes me about Van Jones’ story, and the reality for many others, is that the abusive authorities over black and brown lives are real. Unlike my reality, they’re not part of the past or of someone’s childhood.

They still exist.

Imagining and creating something new, more beautiful and loving, more open-hearted than what we have now requires that we be willing to “see” with new eyes rather than believe the images and myths we’ve been taught. It requires being grounded in the Love that brought us here, sustains us in everything, and exists in all of us.

It also requires letting go of the outcome. Trusting that creating a space imbued with compassion, love, mercy, kindness, forgiveness, and peace will manifest into the miracle that is needed.

I am praying to be part of that miracle.

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A Friend Such as Rob, #LegacyofLove

Reunion Sept 2019
Rob, surrounded by some of the many women who loved him

Why are we here? Ever ponder that question? My dear friend Rob lived the answer.

It’s hard for me to write about someone so special to me who’s not yet been gone two weeks from this life.

But Rob’s legacy deserves to be shared. And his legacy as my friend and “brother” is something I need to write, to honor one of the most important men in my life. That’s not an exaggerated statement. Although Rob wasn’t my blood brother, he couldn’t have been closer to me if we had been born of the same mother. He knew me so well, and understood and accepted me better than any sibling.

And he taught us all so much.

Of course, if Rob were alive, he’d be reading this rolling his eyes and leaving some sarcastic comment. And he most certainly would be reading it, because Rob read and commented on nearly every post I’ve written since I started this blog 6 1/2 years ago! He only missed in the past couple of months as his beleaguered breathing made even getting up out of bed a chore.

So, why read this post if you didn’t know Rob? Because you’ll learn something about what it means to live with courage and humility, to live your life to its fullest expression, even, and especially, in the face of a disease that you know will take you too soon. Maybe you’ll understand a little more about the true meaning of the words “surrender,” “acceptance,” and “loving presence.”

And if you’re lucky, you’ll encounter someone like Rob whose unique expression of love for you will arrive exactly when you need it. And it will forever impact how you love others going forward.

I met Rob late summer 2008, less than a year before my beloved David died. We’d met at Sevenoaks, months before we were to start the Pathwork program together. Yet, without hesitation, Rob hopped in the car for the 4-hour drive from Raleigh to attend David’s memorial service.

Two weeks later, I was in this terribly painful place. If you’ve experienced the sudden death of a spouse, you know what I’m talking about. All your family and friends have gone home and the shock of what happened sets in. The going to bed every night and waking up every morning alone seems unbearable. You wonder if you’ll get swallowed up in this grief. That’s where I was. So, I picked up the phone early Saturday morning and called Rob, not knowing he wasn’t at home in Raleigh, but visiting friends off the coast of Seattle, where it was 3 hours earlier. Not yet dawn.

It didn’t matter. He got out of bed and stepped outside so as to not disturb anyone else in the house. He listened. He cried with me. And he let his heart stretch as he both stayed with me in my suffering and witnessed an amazing sunrise over Mt. Rainier. Wanting to share that precious moment, he described the beauty unfolding before him, and he helped me recognize that beauty and joy could exist simultaneously with pain and sorrow. That all of it was moving and flowing, and held by a loving God.

dawn at mt Rainier
Dawn at Mt. Rainier

Rob, being the poet that he was, wrote a beautiful poem about that experience – a powerful moment that solidified our heart connection.

From then on, Rob became my #1 supporter, thoroughly trusted friend, and personal cheerleader.

I grieved. He listened.

I wrote. He read and encouraged me to publish my writing.

I loved to dance. He introduced me to InterPlay – improvisational movement, because he knew I needed this freedom of expression in my life.

I questioned my decisions as a single mother handling a teenage son. He offered his wisdom and experience from raising three sons.

I anguished over what to do with David’s many and varied collections. He helped wherever he could, including hauling shopping bags full of David’s tee shirts – collected from every place we’d visited – to his quilter friend in Raleigh. She made two gorgeous quilts: one for me and one for Davis. And when Rob delivered them, he sat with me as I fingered the material and cried over the memories.

I became passionate about immigration and human rights abuses and moved to El Paso. He sent me links to related articles, financially supported my causes, and connected me to a teacher friend offering a segment on immigration at a private middle school, who then invited me to do a presentation for her classes.

I wondered, with David gone, who would remember my birthday and special dates? Rob kept a record and sent greetings on that morning, letting me know he was thinking of me. Even this April, in the midst of tough nights and sometimes rougher mornings, he sent me a message on the anniversary of David’s death.

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My exquisite quilt of David’s tee shirts

All these gifts – and so much more – Rob gave me. I’ve been considering what I possibly gave him in return. Except my love. I hope that was enough.

Rob didn’t need much else. He had an ever-widening circle of friends as his heart opened further and further. He had a devoted and fulfilling relationship with his wife Maureen. She was his confidante, his support, his first and only love for more than 47 years.

All this Rob did while balancing his own journey with death as cancer arrived in his body less than two years after we’d met. Then I, along with Maureen and all his friends, received the gift of watching a transformation happen, as Rob walked, and sometimes crawled, along the spiritual path cancer took him on. Not easy for a man who was used to being in control.

In this “divine dance,” as he called it, he learned to let go of his ego’s attachment to self-importance and self-reliance. He slowly put down his roles as a knowledgeable physician and “fixer.”

And he let the Divine teach him to be astonished by the sacredness of life. To be present to whomever was standing in front of him, from a much softer, vulnerable place. To risk fully expressing all his gifts, with spontaneity and joy.

It was a beautiful dance to observe. Although painful, because we knew the outcome.

Still, as Rob demonstrated, no one can grow or be transformed living in a bubble of comfort. He struggled with painful challenges, with wanting to be alive for his newly arrived grandchildren.

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Rob with first grandchild, Nina

But he also recognized graces, small miracles “happening all around us if our eyes are open enough to see and our hearts are soft enough to feel.”

 

To me, this expresses how Rob came to terms with his “powerlessness”:

“Transformation is not about great spiritual experiences but coming to terms with our own human weakness as we experience it. … [P]owerlessness is the greatest power there is because it enables one to simply be more and more a channel of God’s power and love.” (Thomas Keating, Reflections on the Unknowable)

If our purpose here is to care for one another, to become fuller expressions of God’s power and love, then, Rob, you definitely accomplished that mission. Yes, my dear friend, I am amazed and grateful for having you in my life. What a gift it’s been to have such a friend!

“To be human

Is to become visible

While carrying

What is hidden

As a gift to others.”

 (From David Whyte’s: “What to Remember When Waking”)

 

 

The Miraculous Mole Maker

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It’s Friday night. And I’m indulging in chicken smothered in a spicy chocolate sauce while a Fandango dancer clicks her heels on a small wooden block in the middle of the room.

I can’t say I’m a big fan of mole. It’s not something I would order in a Mexican restaurant. Not something that leaves me with a healthy feeling in my stomach.

And the Fandango dancing is basically one enthusiastic woman and two instrumentalists.

But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

I’m surrounded by good friends, lots of like-minded folks who want to support a good cause, and an awareness of what is possible when one person takes positive action.

Tonight, that would be my friend Cristina.

She totally planned and organized this evening’s fundraiser to rebuild a migrant center in Oaxaca. A safe haven for refugees passing through Mexico that was severely damaged by the recent earthquake. She’s volunteered there, as have others here tonight, and she wanted to help. She’s made all the food for the evening, from the Mexican hot chocolate, to the cheese and bean quesadillas, to her famous mole. She even found the Fandango dancers.

Earlier in the day, Cristina, who lives in Juarez, crossed the bridge to begin preparing. Arms loaded with Mexican chocolate, fresh Oaxaca cheese, freshly made tortillas, and gallons of milk, she wanted this to be an authentic Oaxacan meal.

Yet she had no idea how many people would show up. How many plates to prepare.

There she stands in the kitchen all night long – her smile bright, her energy unlimited, as she loads up plate after plate.

No sign of slowing down from the cancer that has invaded her body. She says nothing about it, speaks only of God’s goodness. Her face shines.

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To me, Cristina is “full of the Spirit.” She sees what is needed and responds. And she does it with grace.

Like the center she opened for abused and traumatized teens in Anapra. Through games and dance and art, she teaches them body, mind, and spirit practices to help them heal.

Like the volunteering she does at the clinic for disabled children where she patiently teaches children who can’t speak how to mouth letters.

 

Cristina has chosen to fully live. No matter what is attacking her body.

And she reminds me of the good that one person can do.

I see so much of that. So much good in humanity. Not just in Cristina.

It’s true, we all know the tragedy one person can inflict. We’ve seen it again this week in Las Vegas. But I see so much more out of that tragedy. I see the people who responded with goodness. Those who risked their own lives to rescue others. Those who lined up and waited 8 hours to give blood. Those who responded to the “Go Fund Me” site set up for the victims. Another example of an event planned without knowing how many would respond. Who could have anticipated that they’d raised $1M in 7 hours?

Time and again I witness the good in humanity.

And it’s worth repeating. Miracles can happen through the actions of one person. It’s amazing.

I may even become a fan of mole.

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Spring Is Stirring Everywhere

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Memorial Park in El Paso

 

I’ve been missing Virginia’s spring. Luckily, I’m about to experience it once again when I drive back to Virginia next week to attend my niece’s graduation from George Mason University. Soon my senses will be filled with sweet-smelling blossoms, blasted with the color of azaleas, irises, dogwoods, and lilacs. And, of course, stuffed with pollen.

I imagine Davis is missing it, too. Up there in Nome where the earth is just beginning to thaw and show sprigs of green.

Like him, I’ve been having a different kind of spring.

As in Nome, spring’s arrival in the desert is slow and subtle. You have to really look for it.

So lately I’d been paying attention to the stirrings of the earth. Seeking changes in the landscape. Looking and listening. Trying to find what I thought I was missing.

Turns out, I found something. Something within myself.

One day I ventured out to a park located not far from my apartment. So close, I’d wondered why I hadn’t been there before. Sinking my feet into the grass – real grass – I strolled across the lawn and finally settled down under a tree. A wide-trunked tree. Placed my back up against it and took in the energy of one of my favorite forms of life. Right away I started missing the greenery of Virginia. The red cardinals and indigo buntings. Even the squirrels.

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Roses at El Paso park

Suddenly a slight breeze stirred the leaves above me, as if to say, “Hey, we’re here. Can’t you see us?”

And then – I’m not kidding – a squirrel scampered across the hillside. The first I’ve seen since arriving in El Paso. He was quickly followed by another chasing after him. All along I’d thought squirrels didn’t exist here!

In the silence I sensed God saying, “Everything you need is here.”

I smiled as I was shown once again that I have everything I need. That “everything is everywhere” – to use a title of a lovely Carrie Newcomer song I recently came across. That I am never separated from my Source.

And I remembered why I am here.

In this desert, at the border, I am finding my heart, my compassion, my voice. What was planted in me is thriving. And I’m discovering that the changes I seek in the landscape are happening within me.

Just as Davis discovered something stirring within himself in the dark of winter. Something that called him to remain in Alaska and be a voice for the people there.

It’s part of the sacred pattern of life. This rhythm to the cycle of the seasons. A sacred rhythm that’s playing out within us, too. If we can only have patience to allow it to unfold.

Whether it’s under the deep, dark, frozen earth or the dusty, dry landscape, life is stirring within. Seeds have been planted. Seeds that will miraculously burst forth at the appropriate time.

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It’s all part of the cycle. A cycle you can trust.

And you can trust the Source that’s fulfilling what has been planted within you.

Whether you’re at the Bering Sea, the Arabian Sea, or a place like El Paso that’s never seen the sea.

Because, as Carrie sings, “Miracles are everywhere. Love is love; it’s here and there. Everything is everywhere.”  (from “Everything Is Everywhere”)

It’s a message we need to remember. No matter what season we’re in.

To listen to this beautiful song by Carrie Newcomer, find it at

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WuCb8EwApQM