Spirituality: Journey II
SPIRITUALITY: JOURNEY II
About the Author—Elizabeth De Sa was born in England of Indian descent. She was a teacher for 7 years. Her spiritual seeking has taken her to Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Pendle Hill, and California. She lives in intentional community at Woolman, a school for peace, justice, and sustainability in rural northern California. She is teaching high school students how to let their lives speak.
[Introduction]—My ministry is to call people to communion with the Divine through the sharing of my own story. I believe that communion is the quest of our lives—the natural momentum of the soul to move toward the state of inner peace. People often take non-spiritual routes through life in the hope of attaining inner peace—alcohol, drugs, career advancement, social status, even violence. It is when we miss the mark of letting our lives speak in alignment with our inner promptings that we experience a lack of inner peace.
I often use the word “Godde” because associations with the words “god” & “God” are inconsistent with my understanding of Godde as [a gender neutral] paradox & mystery. Whether we speak of life centered in Godde, pure happiness & contentment, the high of being utterly fulfilled, or the inner resonance of knowing we count, I [see] all this as living in integrity. I believe there is that of Godde in all beings. [When] in concert with Godde, I experience the peace of Godde. Articulation of spiritual journeys can help us be conscious of what we seek, to notice when we experience communion with Godde, & when we feel disconnected. We can learn practices that help us to meet the Divine whenever we remember our purpose, as well as in our renewed intention when we forget.
Presence/ Loss/ Seeking—When I was a child, I felt a natural, effortless connection to Godde. Godde and my guardian angel were constant companions with whom I chatted and share my deepest dreams. When I left home to go to university, I unknowingly rejected Godde by attempting to conform to the standards of societally condoned behavior. I am disturbed that the messages we receive from society can so easily undermine the value of [childhood connections with Godde]. I still have nightmares about my unhappiness, wanting to quit but terrified of how to make it in the world without a higher education. I kept on seeking [for community]; I graduated with 3 degrees from 3 separate universities without finding the type of education that I sought.
At 24, I [began] teaching in a rural part of Japan for 3 years. I knew instinctively that exploring my spirituality was to be an integral part of my life in Japan, I was unaware of the form it would take. I tried attending Mass. It did not offer me a language to articulate what was burgeoning within. A friend introduced me to an American missionary family affiliated with the Assemblies of God They welcomed me warmly and understood a gaijin’s feeling of isolation. I had grown up where talk of the inner life was discouraged. The Martins were open in discussing the nexus where spirituality meets life.
Sarah said: “You’ve got a God-sized hole in your heart. Nothing but God is going to fill it.” I said I was ready to “invite God into my heart,” & then we prayed. I felt the presence of Godde enter me & recognized all the childhood signs of communion. The Martins’ faith community undoubtedly spoke to my condition—a vast spiritual hunger. [I wasn’t comfortable with the church services, but I enjoyed the open sharing of our inner spiritual lives. I became increasingly uncomfortable with the Martins’ language & I couldn’t understand the bigotry of rejoicing when one false religion destroyed Afghanistan’s Buddhas, idols of another false religion; we parted on good terms. They accepted the overlap in our beliefs. I moved to Australia & shopped around briefly for a community, but I soon became tired of religion shopping, so I became a regular attender at the local Quaker meeting.
Quakerism—For a long time Quakerism didn’t inspire me. I became depressed, spirituality became superficial, & I started relying on alcohol & marijuana to dampen my constant emotional pain. [I was dissatisfied, but] I stayed because I was tired of sampling religions. 8 months after I 1st started attending, my life was changed by a weekend retreat, where we explored prayer, discernment, & Quaker contemplation; I felt a sense of coming home. At Quaker gatherings, I reveled in communities who talked openly about spiritual lives & seeking guidance in aligning their inner and outer selves. [My local meeting seemed unable to talk to me in these terms].
I wanted grassroots Quakerism to inspire me to open my heart to the Light and live from a place of integrity in all I did. I applied to Pendle Hill’s Resident Study Program and was accepted. [9 months at Pendle Hill enabled me to start living the authentic life for which I had been longing]. I took Rex Ambler’s course, “Experiment with Light.” From the practices of early Quakers, who by paying attention to the promptings of the Spirit, could experience a transformation of their lives and hearts, Ambler extrapolated this meditation.
In my practice & experience of Light meditations & in another meditation called “Focusing,” I learned to submit to the Light, to: raise to consciousness the live issues; find the root of the most pertinent issue & seek awareness of the pain, knowing it could bring healing & wisdom; be more present with bodily sensations; trust that with awareness comes divine guidance. I define pain as anything that separates from the wholeness of being at one with the love of Godde. I became aware that there was greater pain in resisting being present with what was alive for me than the actual pain that I was trying to avoid. My experiences during meeting for worship moved to a new level. I received guidance from a source that felt beyond me & my intellectualization.
Buddhism—While at Pendle Hill, I sat a 7-day silent meditation retreat in the Buddhist Vipassana (i.e. “insight” or “mindfulness”). By repeatedly bringing the attention back to the breath, we notice how often we live in the past or the future rather than in the present; we cultivate the habit of returning to the present moment. From 6 am until 9:30 pm, there are sitting and walking meditations, meal meditations, work meditations and an evening dharma talk. The purpose of the retreat is to learn to practice mindfulness constantly.
When the retreat ended, I adopted Vipassana meditation as my personal spiritual practice. I began to experience Godde in my daily life with increasing frequency. I felt bliss, union, & an utter connectedness with that of Godde in all things, & entirely present in the moment. I met Godde in prayer, meditation, worship, creative expression, & the wilderness of the earth and my soul. There were times when I felt a vast separation from Godde, when I missed the mark and fell into a vortex of self-criticism and despair. I realized that feelings are often reflections of the Truth but not necessarily the Truth itself. My practice seemed as though I were waiting for the mediocre and unpleasant experiences of life to end so I could move back to the highs and bliss of mystical union.
Pain—Oneness with Godde is a practice of being utterly present in the moment, especially if it means being entirely present with our pain; that is when we heal, surrender our old selves, are reborn, & live more fully into our divinity. During my retreats, I have seen with alarming clarity the internal noise that clouds my vision. During a walking meditation, I felt aggression & resistance bubbling up as people approached. As I went inside my body in prayer & sat with the feelings & sensation, I came to a deeper understanding of what was motivating me. I remembered a moment of racial bigotry when I was 7, & of class bigotry when I was 19. I ceased my walking meditation, sat down, and wept. I wondered how much more pain I would cause until I healed my own.
Through the practice of mindfulness, as we peel back the layers of our experience, we begin to notice the distractions and the pain beneath. In recognizing pain as an experience and not identifying with them, I discover my power to choose my response, to move toward wholeness through presence and healing. The alternative is to become the pain and react unconsciously in a futile bid to ease the pain.
In every meditation retreat I have done, such issues have arisen. The pain can often be released & healed through presence & breathing. I am learning to recognize the deepest, [most difficult] pain as woundedness in-stead of absolute truth & to hold myself with tenderness & compassion. Every day of the 2nd retreat, I sent metta (loving-kindness) to myself by tapping into a fountain of loving energy within me, learning internal cues that got the juice flowing, & repeating: “May I be safe. May I be at peace. May I be healthy. May I live life with ease."
I did not always find the fountain of loving-kindness, and my practice was often dry. I am sure that I have irritated a few people at retreats by my mere presence, just as others have irritated me. Vipassana and metta are twin practices because without mindfulness, metta feels fake; without metta, my heart stays closed. [I patrol my thoughts with the “Vipassana police].” The physical sensations [of staying with my negative thoughts] were unpleasant, yet I also felt an immediate and surprising sense of peace. I met Godde in my pain.
For 32 years I had judged myself with incredible harshness. Now I could see that all are pure at heart; layers of pain surround our core divinity. I felt Divine Love flow through me as I held my pain with compassion. Whenever I was present with what was alive in me, my heart opened with compassion & I would stay in the moment & breathe. Awareness & breath alone were often enough to heal the pain. I learned how to take responsibility for my issues & be present with my own pain. I am so much more than my pain. I am who I am. I may never attain “enlightenment” in this lifetime; I may never become the person I would like to be, & that’s okay.
I don’t exist in reality; reality exists in my mind, complete with all my subjective perceptions & pain & all the subsequent distortions & interference. I came to believe that who I am is wrong. I learned to deny who I am. I identified with my oppressors, I internalized my oppression, and I grew to hate myself. Yet these experiences are all opportunities to meet Godde: opportunities for presence, healing, self-knowledge, compassion, & love.
Forgiveness—I began to explore forgiveness. It is important for those trying to forgive to identify just what they are trying to do. My definition of forgiveness is: the release & healing of pain incurred from past offenses; moving toward wholeness; living in integrity, aligning inner pain & outer action, holding my & the other’s pain with compassion; protecting myself from further pain with compassionate intention from a place of divine love. Forgiveness doesn’t condone negative action; it doesn’t remove the need for boundaries to prevent recurrence; it doesn’t necessitate receiving an apology before I forgive. I don’t suggest forcing a premature forgiveness. The issue isn’t so much external causation as internal effect. We meet Godde in the intention to forgive.
A friend with a mental illness repeatedly hurt me. He saw the world & related to people from a place of prejudiced perception; his perception was an exaggerated experience of how we all see the world. I removed myself from further interaction with him; the pain persisted. I couldn’t think of him without anger & animosity; bitterness was poisoning me. At my next meditation retreat, I tried sending metta to him, but I had to give up. I started sending metta to myself. I reached a place of deep stillness. My hurt was revealed under crusty layers of resentment, fear, & my desire to forgive. I breathed & felt the pain; eventually it subsided. Forgiveness is a process. In being present with the pain, I met Godde in my intention to forgive, & moved into a natural state of forgiveness.
Faith in Practice/ Integrity—When I tell Quakers I practice Buddhist meditation, some are interested; some are affronted. I believe rigid segregation is contrary to a central Quaker tenet. I seek wholeness, I seek healing, I seek union with Godde, I seek to be the Light within me. All the different spiritual vehicles I use enable me to do the same thing. Whatever practice I & other Friends follow, we are on parallel journeys. Through worship, Godde’s guidance & presence, we are transformed & inspired. Through attending to that of God, we are guided toward a living ministry of love & compassionate action. Quaker testimonies are outward expressions of an internal connectedness with Godde. In my journey, I have moved to a new understanding of testimonies.
Integrity is at the root of all other testimonies. I have exposed myself to the Light & illuminated my pain so I can discern whether my motivation is that of Godde or woundedness. In my journey toward integrity, I attend to daily nudges, notice & respond to: deeper issues behind unfulfilled desires; when I am reacting to old pain by wanting to impress people; when I react differently to the same request from different people; how my perception is subjective & guided by old wounds; when I love with boundaries or conditions instead of with open heart.
I also notice & respond to: when I am attached to judgments about myself & others; how such judgments limit authenticity & are rooted in a place of pain; when I am guided by ego; when I am limited by insecurities; my reluctance to be truly present to positive states such as joy because of my fear joy will pass; whenever my heart is closed & separated from Godde; how conditioned thought patterns lead me into a downward spiral of separation & pain; being present with thoughts, emotions, & bodily sensations at random points in my day. Through self-awareness, I have become conscious of buried layers of pain that keep me from being who I am.
Equality/ Peace/ Community—Before birth and after death, there is, I believe, a collective rejoining of all the divine energy. As Quakers we believe that if all have a measure of Godde within, all should be treated equally. However, we carry unequal burdens. We are beholden to aspire to hold each other with compassion. We meet Godde and take responsibility for healing the world.
I appreciated aikido’s spiritual foundations and its reliance on the redirection of energy to resolve conflict peacefully, rather than brute forces clashing. But I never learned the practice of peace that stems from a place of divine connectedness. It is only in bringing peace to the numerous daily trials of conflict through the practice of being present that we can hope to be transformed.
In community we learn, through the practice of presence, how to love that of Godde within each other. Through conflict, community offers us the opportunity to hold each other in our pain and to help each other move toward wholeness. It is easy to placate the ego, to believe our own truth is right; this does not offer peace. In community, we practice being present to what is alive in the moment, and we seek to move our inner and outer selves into increased alignment. By being mindfully present with our pain and the pain of another, we affirm our desire to stand together in our collective pain and to heal.
Simplicity/ Conclusion—When we simplify our lives in terms of speech, material possessions, and our use of time, we make space for Godde. When we invite the Divine into every moment, we seek the presence inherent in the simplicity testimony. Through Quaker witness to that of Godde within us, the world sees a powerful witness to love. As we strip away the superfluous noise and the distraction in our lives, we have the space to be present with what is truly alive in us. Past pain is healed and we experience inner peace. In all my emotions, there is an opportunity to be present and learn more about myself.
I have learned to slow down & be present with the deluge of emotions inside of me. I have become conscious of which of my voices is speaking. In teaching my daughter, I notice whether my agenda for her learning in a certain way restricts her freedom to pursue what is alive for her. In all the decisions of life, I have learned a lot about who I am & my conditioning. I have been able to question my values as experiences, not fixed truths. When our actions stem from the promptings of the Spirit, they are more likely to be effective. As we allow our- Self to live with authenticity in the world, we invariably act in right order from a place of love & compassion.
In aspiring to meet Godde in every moment, my heart has opened. I experience the peace of being my true self. I experience the peace of Godde in my intention to be present, including during times of fear and violence when I am reliving past pain. When all the layers of the human condition have been peeled back, I have been left with a peace in accepting whatever is, an experience of union, an expansion that is everything and nothing.
Through presence, we become aware that we don't see clearly, that all is laden with remnants of our past. When we begin to see the immensity of pain in this world, when we submit to Godde, our hearts open & we can rest in the peace that comes from living in [the present with integrity]. We marry our humanity with our divinity, our shadows are illuminated, and we are transformed and able to live out our unique calling. We will always err. We may never heal of all our pain, though we will experience its inherent beauty in being present. Through Divine communion, we can be all that we are capable of being, and have infinite opportunities to meet Godde.
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457. A Natural Unfolding (by Donna Eder; 2019)
About the Author—In 1988 Donna Eder began attending Bloomington Friends Meeting in Indiana, where she became a member. She was a founding member of Mt. Gilead Friends Retreat in Bloomington, and a sociology professor at Indiana University—Bloomington. She wrote on storytelling practices, one showing how children can benefit from reflecting on the teaching stories of many cultures. Her other interests include hiking, Chinese calligraphy and brush painting, and creative nonfiction.
Introduction—My first life-changing turning point occurred during the final months of my mother's struggle with ALS; she became my spiritual guide, and our family became deeply loving and able to express our love for each other. Shortly after she died, I had an experience of unbounded love and joy that further changed my life. I then decided to unconditionally allow this spiritual healing and love to unfold in my life. Returning to my intellectual job as sociology professor was a great challenge.
As months went by, I felt my life increasingly divided, pulled apart between work & spirit when what I most desired was more wholeness. Parker Palmer writes: "Divided life is a wounded life, & the soul keeps calling us to heal the wound [&] move closer to the truth living within us." As growth experiences came in my life, I came to realize wholeness isn't one thing, but many. I was seeking to make the Divine part of daily life. Douglas Christie writes: "To open oneself to such practice means learning to live in the Divine & in & for the world as a single continuous gesture ... & to see oneself ... as participating in & responsible for the whole." [In sharing my story, I hope] readers who feel detached or alienated from aspects of their own lives might gain hope for healing.
The Diagnosis—I felt relief after months of uncertainty, knowing that Mom had ALS. Then I found out that there is no cure and most people only live 2 to 7 years. Paddy Reid provided a positive image from his visits with a man choosing to deal with his illness in a peaceful fashion. We went to an ALS support group, which provided practical help, but whose main tone was one of bitterness. [I said to my mother], "[We can] treat this as a Zen-like experience of letting go or become as bitter as some of those families in the group."
I suggested several books on Zen, like Thich Nhat Hanh's Peace is Every Step. Reading it was the first stage in what was to become a powerful journey. It would change her life and mine forever. Joining hospice and the hospice chaplain strengthened her faith in God, which had been weaker than mine. Chaplain Bruce Turner not only brought peace to Mom with his powerful belief that our spirits can strengthened even as our bodies fail, he also helped bring an abundance of love into our whole family. We focused on the beautiful light-filled soul of Natalie's spirit by not judging experiences good or bad. Bruce saw "the family come closer together ... and a great feeling of tenderness as they shared the experience." Through the pain something beautiful was growing.
Mom as My Teacher/ Mom's Final Weeks/ Living a Double Life—I wrote: [After visiting Mom], it is clearer to me which things last through eternity & which don't. It seems we will always be growing & learning—developing our consciousness & using it to transform reality ... I also see how suffering can be transformed to prayer—spiritual growth for all who experience or witness it ... It seems like the best way to live life is to focus on those things that will be with us always and give less attention to those that won't, [like emotional games and struggles, striving for success, fame, material possessions, and competition]... I'm living an experience that brings out pity in others, so I am learning how it feels to be pitied and be unable to let people know about all the gifts we've received unless they can see this for themselves ... Compassion without a full awareness of another has a patronizing side—I can only take in in your suffering if I remain in control, if I can be of help to you."
Mom could no longer walk or talk, but her consciousness was rapidly expanding. Mom & Dad's rooms were filled with love; love flowed freely between mom & those who visited her. Perhaps their love remained after they left. Feeling the pain of being only partially seen, I vowed to seek wholeness everywhere in my life. In her final weeks, Mom was fully immersed in the present joyful moment. She chose not to have a stomach tube because she no longer feared dying. She waited for her son David's visit. After David's visit, I sensed that Mom felt her life was complete. She died peacefully the following day, 3 months before her 72nd birthday.
It is powerful to closely watch the doors of life open and close—to know first hand that we are both vulnerable and everlasting. It shakes your world up to have this knowledge—the deepest knowledge of humanity. On a weekend retreat I took, during a walk, I felt completely connected with all people and all things—it is the least lonely state I've ever been in, [and the most loving]. Thomas Kelly wrote: "We are beings whose home is both here and yonder, and we must learn the secret of being at home in both places."
"The Human Edge of the Holy—After my return from retreat, my dreams became an invaluable means of seeing how Spirit was unfolding in my life. Some provided clarity about my work. Reflecting on dreams led me to see a life of conformity where people follow rules at every step. I managed to avoid less important involvements & thus over-commitment. Others indicated that I was beginning to be seen & to see myself as a source of love & nurture as well as of knowledge & that I was unlikely to leave my job. I journaled: My dreams tell me there is another way to live; I want to brave enough to try ... That will mean constantly standing up to limited views of who we are at work ... My dreams feel like my surest knowledge when so much else seems to be confused & shifting. What I dream of I tend to trust as true for me. The big transformation ... was one of leaving behind a mode of living that was distant, unexpressive, & [unauthentic] for one that was deeply loving, expressive, & authentic. I was open to receiving wisdom in my dreams from an inner source that resides in each of us.
A Natural Unfolding—Linda Hogan compares dreams to the blue light "emanating from the deep cracks & openings" in a glacier. ["Dream"] light is given-off light of our [overpowering] mystery, comedy, & catastrophe. I had a dream which portrayed my journey—how I bloomed & filled with love as a natural unfolding from being around the love in Mom's life. Seeing old-fashioned people move outdoors was like ancestors leaving so they could make room for family yet to come. I shared it as vocal ministry & someone said: "We as a meeting face loss of loved ones from death & people leaving but ... we are still connected by our love for each other."
I take trips to my home of origin as opportunities to reconnect with animals and with a familiar landscape. I dreamed of a raft trip downriver to the horse spirit. There are animal spirits in the car on the way home telling me not to overpack since the animal wisdom will be there to rely on in times of need. By dreaming of animal spirits as opposed to animals, I was expressing my desire to connect spiritually with animals and especially with the divine presence in animals. [From another dream, I perceived that]: New consciousness is based on knowing we don't need to struggle so hard in life ... If we seek [only] the basis for our communal and individual security, we can have so much ease and fulfillment now ... The more one believes, the more all benefit. I began reading animal teaching stories and with inspiration from [others], I designed a study about how storytelling is used by some cultures to help children become stronger community members.
Seeking Wholeness Within/ ... Community—3 of my dreams were like sacred poems & were my comfort zone; they continued to guide me [throughout my inner & outer life]. I had a period of dizziness and realized that I was still spinning from all these new shifts in consciousness. On a retreat at Bethany Springs in Kentucky a story called "Toe Woman" was read, about a woman with ALS, who communicated using only her big toe, and moved the heart of one of her helpers. I journal: Danielle, the retreat house director, had not remembered this was the illness my mother had, but chose this story for some reason too important for me to miss ... I was denying the powerful transformation Mom's illness made in my life because of its very power ... How much more powerful might it be to a daughter than to a complete stranger? I am here on this retreat to accept and acknowledge this transformation in my own life ... [In a dream], I was with strangers struggling to get through really deep snow ... Then I realized I could swim through it—if I immersed myself in it, movement was possible. My only hope was to fully immerse myself in spiritual transformation in order to move forward through major changes in my life. Here was a new, more complete commitment to being in a process of transformation.
[My then future husband asked me what my dreams for the future were & I couldn't answer. My life had been more about surviving the present than about dreaming the future. After the dream I just mentioned above], a dream for the future began to emerge—perhaps I might help establish a retreat center near Bloomington, IN. I felt a strong prompting to follow it through. Danielle, the director, felt that the changes I had gone through might be preparing me for this calling. Back home other Quakers were drawn to this vision & soon some began loo-king for land. The shared set of Quaker practices, decision-making, & values provided for a strong working community. I journaled: This [retreat] community is a compromise admittedly between solitude & a love affair with all humanity, which is what I've sought at times. [This community could] connect me more closely with others.
A Rapidly Flowing Stream—In one dream I saw a rapidly running creek as representing the flow of life in all its freshness as we embarked on this shared journey of developing a retreat center: The water is sparkling with the light from the sun—a sense of the Divine in the world—reflecting back our spiritual natures. The spring-like countryside ... represents the coming forth of new life and new beauty. Bruce Birchard writes: "I experience the Spirit as a stream of love, beauty, and power ... I believe that this living stream ... courses through all creation." I took a semester of unpaid leave and did not seek extra summer pay. I found support for my decision to keep limits on my work in John Woolman's example, when he chose to work only as many hours as he needed in order to have time for spiritual work in his life.
In August 1996, David and I got married and moved to the property adjoining the land that was to become Mt. Gilead Friends Retreat. It was founded as a nonprofit organization. It received informal, ongoing, spiritual, material and financial support from my monthly meeting. Help came also from Pendle Hill, Quaker Hill, as well as from Mennonite and Catholic retreat directors; many non-Quaker joined our growing group of volunteers. We relied on Quaker testimonies of simplicity, harmony, and community.
Each year a group of volunteers met to reflect on values, progress, & goals for the month ahead. The retreat had become a haven for renewal & serenity, and a project that allowed us to experience wholeness. [Dreams were shared anonymously] One dream was particularly striking: "We are milling around each other, each of us cupping our hands together, one on top of the other, in front of us. We are each holding something different, something unknown to us, but very precious ... We don't know what we are giving away; we don't know what we are receiving ... There is no need to know; it is the sharing that seems to matter. I felt deep peace & contentment." What connected us as one was indescribable, which is so often the case with experiencing wholeness.
Seeking Wholeness within Work—Elsewhere, I was continuing my search for greater wholeness at work. The dream images of prison may seem to be an extreme one, but they captured the restricted feeling I had at the time. I had some building blocks at my disposal that perhaps represented my courses' components, which I was trying to make more creative. I felt true liberation, that I was still in the river current. The insights from prison images kept them from being nightmarish. Even at the time Mom was physically imprisoned by her failing body and I was feeling restricted by my work environment, I could see that the source of our liberation lies within us.
I was beginning to challenge my students in a very kind & gentle manner, & to use teaching to point out particular social trends that take us away from our deeper sense of meaning & purpose. I tried to help students grasp their ability to change & influence meaning by how they responded to others. I believe I was able to bring some of my own spiritual liveliness to the classroom. As new ways of teaching & working with groups came in-to my life, I lost interest in some of my old roles. I was moving into a new phase of work as a teacher & mentor. My spiritual mentoring affected my academic mentoring, & I gained respect and appreciation for my students.
Uniting Heart & Mind/ Forms of Wholeness—I taught a service-learning & story-telling course, where students learned to tell teaching stories from different cultures & then guide children in telling their own stories, in exploring complex moral dilemmas & developing their own ethical views. This course felt like having a new job—one much better suited for me than work focused on research & issues of the mind rather than the heart. My teaching's content now reflected my greater inner wholeness, as did new relationships with my students.
As I reflect on the wholeness sought through work vs. wholeness found in retreat community, I can better see the diverse forms wholeness might take in our lives. The goal for me was not to turn my classroom into a spiritual experience, but to unite Spirit with academic work as well as to unite heart and mind, to bring 2 halves into one whole. My retreat community experience was about bringing all parts together in a seamless manner. The wholeness of Earth is a smooth seamless connection, the state of union in all of life. Douglas Christie writes: "It requires us to relinquish our imaginative attachment to boundaries and hierarchies that keep things distinct and separate and to reimagine a world that is fluid, relational, organic."
Queries—How have you had a experience of being immersed in Divine love? How have dreams played a part in spiritual your journey? What methods have you found to tap into your "inner source of knowing? How have you had a bitter or opening experience stemming from grief? What are your dreams for the future? How have you had a leading and then discerned what to do? What does wholeness mean to you? How will you seek to live in both the Divine and the world "as a single continuous gesture?"
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349. The Radiance and Risks of Mythmaking (by Gilbert H. Kilpack; 2000)
About the Author—Gilbert Kilpack was born & raised in Portland, OR. He attended the University of OR, & received his M.A. degree at Oberlin College in the Philosophy of Christianity. He was executive secretary of Stoney Run Friends Meeting in Baltimore. He joined the Pendle Hill staff in 1948, & was appointed Director of Studies in 1954. He wrote PHP #32 (1946), Our Hearts Are Restless and #63 (1951), Ninth Hour. Gilbert Kilpack died in the fall of 1999 before he knew his pamphlet would be published for PH's 70th Anniversary.
A Brief Introduction to Mythmaking—Once upon a time, before there was time, the Almighty was bored. He felt a need for otherness. So he created man; a creature with a word in his mouth. I need a storyteller to bring repose and enchantment into the dark of night. I could create woman as a counterpoint to man, and listen all night to their conversations. They will tell themselves stories made from all the [crazy] questions they have stored up. [The freedom I must grant them] opens up a whole new can of devil and angel worms. After storytellers came translators, teachers, prophets, record keepers and law courts.
Children learned laws, creeds & dogmas—standards [& providers] of order & control. [Rules] couldn't win hearts. We live by ongoing conversations of myths, [lying] on the feather-edge between fact & imagination. Every person is a special kind of dreamer & mythmaker, [just waiting to hear]: let me tell you a story. The 1st marking of durable myth is that it renders, [creates], at the expense of stating. The mythmaker trusts the story's patience to catch conscience unaware. Accusation freezes; delight of the story liberates. "We have art lest we die of the truth" [Nietzsche]. Didn't Jesus' inner child laugh at the rich man, the camel, & the eye of the needle.
The 2nd marking is that the sterling myth may not be an "easy read." It's formed out of an outflow of wholeness & directed to [resonate with the whole reader in an unexpected way]. Having finished the epic myth, Moby Dick, Herman Melville confessed that he had "written a wicked book & felt spotless as a lamb." The 3rd marking is that myth speaks not only to centuries and generations, but to each meager moment within our life span. [In my junior year, I learned about the 1660 book Don Quixote from Professor S. S. Smith]. I hung on his every word, but I wasn't ready for the professor's abrupt announcement that we need not read the last chapters, because Cervantes had "gone off track & the ending was all wrong." I had a gut feeling the professor was all wrong.
By the time I was a professor, I had known many conflicts, doubts & implosions & was ready to challenge Professor Smith's ghost. [Don Quixote renounced his dreams of adventure, but he also passed into slow-learning Sancho Panza, who begged dying man to continue their search for glorious adventure. Professor Smith's wrongness "pushed me into the everlasting flow of myth." What finer honor can be ours than to breathe life into myth.
A Quaker Story on its Way to Myth—In 1943 I was invited to become Executive Secretary of Park Avenue Friends Meeting in Baltimore. In college I served as pastor for rural churches, with a once-a-month counting of collection plate proceeds. This deadly ceremony seem to say: This is your worth as carrier of our spiritual burden. [I felt rebellion in me] against religion as a profession. I still sounded like a preacher or religious in my later writing. Park Avenue Friends community wanted someone as weeklong connection to wider community, [not weekly preacher]. [Meetinghouse] could have passed as grimy stone army fortress. My dingy office wasn't a shrine to draw seekers off the street. Meetinghouse was designated air raid shelter, with iron cots & army blankets in storage.
A Washington DC Friends Meeting asked me to visit one of their terminally ill members at nearby John Hopkins Hospital. [From the beginning], Clara's design was to lead me away from "boring talk of her affliction." [I spoke of where I lived, the parkway where families would go to escape the heat of their brick homes. The park had an outsized Martin Luther statue, with fortress-sized Bible and outstretched arm. My 3-year-old daughter took the book for Tales of Peter Rabbit and the outstretched arm as a wave; she greeted the statue every morning. 3 carpenters greet Clara with "Gruse Got, Gruse Got." The next time I sat on her bed as she shared her story.
She left her home in Germany to seek the superior nurses training in London. The reserved, polite English people were the enemy. Where does one direct fear of the enemy and anger? She received notice to report to a British Intelligence Office. She was trembling as she climbed the stairs, her heart seeming to pound out enemy, enemy, enemy. Who is the enemy—me or them? She was led to a small chamber where a man in uniform sat, head bowed over a spread of documents. The young man looked up and asked her to "please tell me about yourself—just anything that comes to mind—and take your time."
Under the spell of this young officer's composure, Clara disclosed experiences & ideas she had never thought to share with anyone. When she finished, the officer asked, "Have you ever read Antigone?" [It was about a young woman like Clara], who was caught up in contrary forces of loyalties war throws at us. 2 lines from the play [stayed with him]: "My home is in trouble" & "I am made for love & not for hate." The officer told her to go about her work & if she were ever tripped up in a town called Trouble, she was to turn to him for help.
[Finding a Quaker Meeting & "the Eternal Shivers"]—She found new courage in her nursing routine; her Sunday alien loneliness remained. [One Sunday], she came to plain brick building with a sign: Friends Meeting, Worship 11 a.m. All welcome. [She went in] & found herself in crowded room where the people sat in complete silence. There were no prayer books, hymnals, choir loft, choir, organ, and no pulpit with a minister in it.
An old Quaker's voice was raised, like an impulse from within the silence: "A wily lawyer decided to put Jesus to the test ... It would be a great service if the wise teacher would declare which law was most important ... Jesus lifted the question above legalism: 'you shall love your God with all your heart, your soul, your mind ... You shall love your neighbor as yourself' ... How do you prove with legal satisfaction that John Doe has 1st failed honestly, wisely to love himself? The old Quaker concluded Jesus leaves it for people to realize there's in every person spiritual court which is called conscience; it is a school of learning, & it is at all hours in session." In what seemed to be a brief connecting time, a woman stood & spoke, seemingly at a cost: "I feel moved to ... words we all of us know by heart—or do we? It may be we have heard them but weren't ready to know them ... From a war-torn heart Jesus cried out: 'You who have ears hear—love your enemies & do good to those who hate you & even bless those who curse you.' The ancient words have come home to us & there's no escape." [At the time of those words] she got "eternal shivers." Now at the close of life she was still subject to "eternal shivers." Clara concluded, "Another war the whole world over ... in one lifetime ... who could have thought."
[Sojourns to Civilian Public Service Units (CPS)/ Clara's Empty Room]—When I came again, [I did the talking]. I told of my sojourn to CPS units, where conscientious objectors (COs) to armed combat were doing alternative service. Most recently, I had gone to a state mental health hospital CPS unit. [I met with a recent CO acquaintance who worked as a hospital attendant there, in the locked ward]. I couldn't distinguish my healthy friend in the congestion of troubled souls. One of the patients asked if I cared to see the baby; the patients were gathered around an actual infant and crib, lavishing attention on the babe, perhaps a tribute to their own lost beginnings. My CO friend had an ordinary person's face, one for whom killing was a violation of his inner light. I went on to describe a CO unit that volunteered for a research study on human starvation. How are people brought back from the brink of starvation without injury? A step by step plan must be in place. [COs must be gradually starved], & then under medical & dietary scrutiny monitored, with all intake weighed and analyzed.
I spoke of CO retreats St. Martin's House, which included Martin Buber's The Knowledge of Man & the anonymous Way of a Pilgrim, labor, & occasional trips to the tool shed [for a sip of Sacramental Wine]. But the next morning several men had awakened to the itch of poison ivy, including Maurice Friedman, a future Martin Buber translator & biographer. Next, I told the story of the CO reading library. One prolific Quaker sent all his achievements in print, all of them autographed. There were even autographed Bibles. One CO affirmed the autograph read "For those in the wilderness doing good work." Your sincere admirer – Yahweh."
I escorted Quaker school children to a nearby US agriculture experiment station, where COs studied the region's birds, soils, grasses and bugs. [One CO confessed that when future grandchildren ask "what did you do during the great war,' I would have to say, 'Oh, my dears, I spent all days my asphyxiating and glueing lovely butterflies." Clara began to speak of "the dear CO boys"—how she wished to do something for them. She offered a bolt of hand-woven wool to one of the CO's wives. She gave me a framed poster-print of Durer—The Hare. I was working for a week with men cutting wood. When I came back, I was directed to a different room. The emptiness of Clara's room became a devastating metaphor. All flowers were gone, even the petals were swept and the floors glistening clean. No water pitcher and glass, no stack of get-well cards. Sterile light fell on the smooth white sheet folded neatly at Clara's chin. Her hair another shade of white lay tucked under the sheet. It was white on white like a museum painting, or the white of eternity that defies all makers of myth.
A Greek Myth Revisited—I was teaching in the Humanities Department at the Eastman School of Music. Danny was in my course on Greek Myth. He had a certain carelessness—the consequence of an imagination which was trigger-quick in response to the moment; he could be shy. Danny was a flute player, and was invited to France for master classes with Jean Pierre Rampal, at his estate. Danny's penchant was to turn every moment into an opportunity for drama. The students were asked to gather one morning, flute in hand and ready to play the Gluck Dance of the Blessed Spirits [from memory].
Rampal said: "We go to rescue [Orphesus'] Euridice, and for this we have no weapons, no persuasion but these [flutes]. All of us are to be Orpheus to the rescue; he was poet [and musician] ... [Euridice] in her haste to escape [a wicked philanderer] stepped on a serpent which bit her; she died instantly ... She is now awaiting rescue [in the underworld]. There in yonder dark coppice is the entrance to the underworld ... It is Persephone, Queen of punishment [and monotony] we must please ... we must know our audience ... "
"I [will] enter the dark entrance to Hades ... because I have been there on the Carnegie Hall stage ... [when I] see the gleaming eyes of the critics; Persephone is the severest of critics for she herself was abducted [to Hades] ... I will give the signal and with all eyes closed, we will turn uphill ... Failure here is looking back ... Trust your gift no matter what. Live in your song." Rampal led them ... down the grassy glade ... made his way into the dark wood ... [and on returning said,] "She comes! Dare not look back ... [later on top of the hill he said,] "We have lost her. Your teacher has failed ... Fame is the slippery distraction, dulling attention to the moment. Some small but vital part has fallen out of the grand sense of fullness."
"I had an appointment with my agent—important things to talk about, like my American tour ... I was working my way through the underground crowd when I heard unexpected sounds ... [With a] sharp jolt of recognition ... [I realized] it was the Rodrigo concerto for guitar ... [with a flute-like] instrument carrying the melodic line ... [Soon] I was standing before the source of the sound ... Our underground performer, [a young, blind man], was whistling the melody and improvising a continuo on his guitar. He was a blind performer whistling a concerto of a blind composer for a treadmill audience.
As soon as Rampal was out of hearing, Danny told them he had an idea, a kind of gift to the maestro. They would reenact the rescue of Euridice—only this time they would succeed. There was a tall willow-like woman named Cleo, a university student on the household staff. Danny approached her, not with a request, but with instructions of how she was to be their real Euridice. She need only find a black veil she could see through, wait in the coppice out of sight, & follow the players up the hill. Rampal was awakened at dawn by the familiar sounds of Gluck. [He watched as the reenactment proceeded as Danny planned]. [Euridice's] tread was a hesitant glide, her feet barely touching the earth. Danny's extravagant motion to lift her veil [was brushed aside by Euridice].
[Euridice]: Why have you brought me back—away from my underworld home.
[Danny]: We thought you wanted it. Surely you wanted to escape all that dark and to live free!
[Euridice]: I heard your melody ... it lured me. But now after the music what is there to hold me ... Below was peace and quiet. Think, I dare you—no war, no carnage, no toil, no fret. All order and agreement.
[Danny]: Could anything be worse; peace but no guts to celebrate it; quiet but no reason to sing it.
[Euridice]: You are sly in your answers, philosopher. All I ask is a clear and simple reason to stay.
[Danny playfully, yet cruelly offered to lead her back] "in a return to endless peace." [She countered with a speech in] "remembrance of Hades—not a vengeful pit, but a glowing metaphor—an image of the brutal world we have built of forgetfulness ... In Hades there is no death, no poet, to herald death, itself the first mystery, starting us [in] search of all other mysteries ..." Rampal, with hair uncombed & feet bare said, "Danny, she has bested you. That is as it must be. You are journeyman musician & she a poet. For the sake of harmony, I call it a draw." Danny laughed a deep inward laugh; he had seen the legendary Rampal's feet. They were part god-like, [ Hermes' feet], elegant feet; part beast-like, ugly, useful & unexpected. The myth has the scarf either burned in a fiery flash in the sun, or carried off by an eagle, dropped in a well, & finding its way down to Persephone.
Still smarting at being called a journeyman, Danny was off to Paris, intent on finding the blind whistler. He waited until the blind man established the melody, and then courteously began weaving in his flute variations. He introduced a Telemann sonata, and soon they were happily competing in baroque improvising. One report has commuters jigging their way up out of the underworld. Some have Persephone herself dancing to their song.
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390. Special Education as Spiritual Journey (by Michael Resman; 2007)
About the Author—Michael Resman is an occupational therapist who has served children and adults with developmental disabilities for 30 years. He provides support for the annual gathering of Friends General Conference and leads workshops at Pendle Hill.
Introduction—A girl I worked with went from a healthy, gifted student to someone with stroke-like symptoms, impaired vision & limited speech. It was my task to support her independence & return to school. She found out about the arrangements I had made & wrote "bless you." I knew that I had been blessed by an angel.
I have always been drawn to children with the most severe disabilities. Grace led me to these children. Having been a parentally-abused child, I entered adulthood wounded and afraid. But I could give myself totally to these children without fear of being hurt and rejected. These children, whom many regarded as hopelessly retarded, became my teachers. Some lessons took a lifetime to learn and required countless repetitions.
Patience/ Gentleness—[Most people think I have a lot of patience]. I suggest instead that I have appropriate expectations. Working 1-on-1, free from other distractions, we were able to attend to each other. In our little corner the child & I can do things her way, & celebrate each tiny accomplishment. I once spent 3 years leading a team teaching a young man to feed himself. I count my work with that team as a high point of my career.
I wrote the following poem in 1982, when I still invested too much self-worth in my ability to produce improvement in my students condition: PITY [for other and self]—Are you well enough/ to smile at me today?/ ... [Even with] the tube that's in your nose./ Your soft cheeks dimple,/ and emotions rush/ to crowd behind my eyes./ I wish, how I wish./ But that won't bring a change./ ... What good am I/ I can't help you.
Part of my job was to prevent muscle contractures that render joints and limbs useless, and reverse them if possible by restoring movement. [I learned] the hard way in my early years that stretching of such muscles had to be done with gentleness, otherwise I would defeat the purpose of the stretching or even make an emergency room visit necessary]. Eventually, I stopped using any force to accomplish my goals. [I was not always successful]. I tried everything I could think of to awaken, strengthen, and position the muscles of their upper trunks to help the diaphragm with breathing. I never found anything that would help very much. I often had to tune out the noise of the busy, noisy classrooms and focus for long periods on the child I was holding. The joyful, awe-inspiring discovery process of learning to read their physical status and later their moods with my hands went on for years until it became part of who I am professionally.
TAMMY—I remember sunlight on fine golden hair,/ freckles sprinkled on nose and cheeks, ... [sparkling eyes, room-warming smile], / So many things I got from you;/ did I give back in equal measure?/ The things you taught will stay with me/ to use with others;/ ... I'm going to miss your gentle sigh ... God speed, little angel.
Love—I found that I had moved from a professional concern to a deep love for each child, and that I could still remain objective, making even more appropriate judgments, because I looked deeper into the life circum-stances of the children and those closest to them. [There is often enjoyment for both participants of the sessions]. There was an unspoken conspiracy formed with other staff who had bonded closely with the children.
How could a loving God allow obviously innocent children to suffer? Where was God in the lives of the children I served? For years I chewed on my questions without reaching any understanding. My childhood beliefs changed; I questioned original sin and the need for baptism. On average a student of mine has died each year. The non-answer, "God's purposes are unknowable," of different denominations was unacceptable.
I found my spiritual home with the Quakers, and I slowly learned to make use of silence. When a spiritually mature Quaker woman was injured in a car accident, I demanded an answer as to why God allowed this terrible injustice to happen. All childhood pain and frustration, and the lives of the children I served was heaped on. In response, I was lifted to heaven, and was fully in God's presence for the next 6 months. God''s love, like the love of every mother for her children throughout history and the world, overwhelmed me. 2 truths came: God is perfect. Heaven is forever. I had to rethink everything I had believed from this new viewpoint—heaven's perspective. I struggled with my interior life in silence for about 6 months.
[Acceptance by Meeting/ Different Knowings]—I shared the opening I had received and the ongoing process I experienced with my soon-to-be meeting; they responded with warm acceptance and the assurance that my unusual experience and differing beliefs among members were in keeping with Quaker tradition and practice. As I developed understandings I shared them with my spiritual nurture group. I found that deeper than intellect or emotions, there is a spiritual awareness capable of consuming huge truths and arriving at new Truth in an instant. Whipsawed between humility at my poor condition and spiritual ecstasy, I stumbled forward.
At the same time I was practicing a slower method of learning—holding up an issue and examining it from the new perspectives I had been given. My [visions] were given to me whole. My task was to take them in and [slowly] remember them. I applied this process to the questions about suffering and the children I served. It came to me that we all agree to the circumstances of our lives before we are born. We have freedom to live as we wish within our circumstances. The challenge for those of us who have much is to give to those who have little.
STONE TRAVEL—If you would know the universe/ travel through a stone./ Feel its borders from within/ taste its minerals./ Inventory atoms, recalling where each has been./ Then you will find/ outside the bounds,/ the center./ & you will know/ we are one/ have been/ ... & shall be ... again after we account for where we've been.
[What would the world be like if no one were in need?]—If each of us were self-sufficient, [and no one needed help, helpful friends or professional helpers], what a self-centered, limited existence that would be. For there to be a meaningful life of service, there must be people who before their lives begin choose to be in need. Where is the justice for those who live in great need? There is only justice in the next world. Those who live in need provide opportunities for those around them to grow in holiness. This is an answer for why God allows the innocent to suffer. What can't be understood or answered in this world is transformed into joy in the next.
Believing that people "must have done something to deserve their circumstances" excuses one from extending or sacrificing one's self to provide meaningful service, or to interfere at all. [It is easier to believe that we are superior to those in poorer circumstances, than to accept] the consequences of considering the disabled, mentally ill, impoverished, or deprived as our peers in worthiness. They provide opportunities for others to grow in holiness, and be leading lives more in tune with God's will than are we.
Kindness—I was assigned to assist a kindergartner in transitioning from a mental health day treatment program into public schools. He was a small, disordered, extraordinarily fearful child. In working with him, I frequently asked him for help in figuring out how games worked. This together with focusing on him in a quiet, calm manner, seemed to make him comfortable with me. I left the school he was to be attending for another, but had to go back for something I had forgotten. I found him standing at the wrong door where he had been dropped off. I led him to his classroom. God had made use of my mistake to carry out an act of mercy.
I struggled with obedience and trust in God. God could make use of me, faults and all. I thought I would be asked to serve. But instead opportunities to serve simply emerged in my path. I sat outside the dining hall at FGC gathering with a boom box I was using later in a workshop. Someone walked up and asked if she could use it in her workshop later. God had moved me to sit on the bench and her to walk by while I was there; God's voice let me know when I could get up. When seemingly random coincidences occur, I remind myself to stop and seek out whether God is at work. Often, I have to be content with not knowing.
DANCE—I could want nothing more/ than to dance in the palm of God./ Surrounded by Friends whose tender concern/ lifts me./ To go forth in Love-lit mist/ seeing dimly, but forever./ My ear turned/ inward/ out-ward/ and I know/ and knowing leap ... Yes. Dazed by the touch of forgiveness/ I wander through the world.
Generosity [Home Visits]—The 1st time I to went to a child's home [to help with home-related problems], I asked the parents to describe the problem, viewed the environment and developed initial plans. The 1st plans rarely worked satisfactorily, so we would make improvements to our approach. I noticed that not accepting payment [disrupted the usual client-provider relationship]. [They did not want to bother me with questions, and plans were not followed, perhaps because my free suggestions were not valued]. [I often had to accept compensation from those I helped, in order to create client-provider roles & complete a successful interaction]. Whether it is intended or not, an inherent part of providing help is putting the recipient in a subordinate position.
With God's gift of serenity, I began to develop a sense of [life-wide] calm. I could see over the continuing stream of problems and disappointments. They had no claim on my emotions; I could acknowledge them and let go. Later, I developed the discipline of giving thanks for whatever was in front of me, striving to see God's hand in my opportunities, [including what I once saw as obstacles]. [After several weeks of seeking and expressing gratitude], I was surprised that joy—an awareness that all was well with the world and I had nothing to fear—was growing deep in my heart. These gifts were given in response to my tenuous and imperfect reaching toward God. VIS—If invisible,/ I could serve as a window/ to the other side./ With nonbeing,/ a door.
Peace—During a young student's funeral—she died in her sleep—I centered, watched, & was awed as her soul went to heaven. I hugged close the fact that these children are wondrously watched & loved from heaven. At other funerals I saw other children joyfully go to heaven. While a special ed director was very hard to deal with, I saw during prayers one of my recent [child-souls] in heaven praying for me & all who had cared for him, including his parents. I understood I would spend eternity with those whom I had helped, hurt, hated, & loved.
Everyone on earth is connected spiritually. I would spend eternity with ignored & neglected souls. God as perfect love gives mercy not justice. In eternity we need to fear our own judgment. We will see full effects of our behavior & be stunned by the far-reaching consequences we have set into motion. A simple smile & its blessing will be seen in contrast to the suffering from an unkind remark. We will face thousands of missed opportunities. Heaven is our soul's full exposure to God. Only those who never chose wrongly will live in undiluted joy.
DOVE—Sacred Dove,/ come,/ drink from my soul./ I would be a pool,/ still,/ pure enough for you to bathe./ Letting failures,/ all outcomes sink,/ what can I rise up/ for your splashing?/ My gifts,/ You gave./ I am,/ was Yours,/ Let us share sunbeams,/ a single graceful note,/ baby's soft caress./ Alone/ unmoving/ my life's task ful-filled/ if You can bathe and rest.
Faithfulness/ Self-control—One afternoon I laid a small boy on his back for a relaxation session; I made him comfortable. As I bent over and gazed at him, I was suddenly looking in to the face of Jesus. I was fully alert and had my eyes open. By the world's standards, he was unimportant, [unknown in the working, walking, talking, self-caring world]. In heaven's terms, he was a much beloved son.
During worship, I saw that my fellow worshipers had wings. We all have wings; we can serve as angels—agents of God's mercy. My students were angels and agents too, by choosing in heaven to lead lives in need, and providing opportunities for others to grow. Wings diminish on those who choose to accumulate wealth power, and status for personal ends. Wings grow on those who choose to pick up the tasks God lays before them.
END OF MY SLEEVES—I looked at the end of my/ sleeves/ and there I saw God's hands ... I see these hands came equipped/ with arms and eyes and mind and heart [and will, to] ... yet again bring God to Earth.
Despite all blessings, I remain deeply wounded from my dysfunctional childhood. The 1st years with autistic children were difficult, as we struggled to develop helpful techniques. On daily occasions when 5- & 6-year old children hit, kicked, bit, or scratched me, an emotional response ignited. [I had to not lose my temper, & I needed to respond in a sophisticated manner]. After 2 years, I laid it before God, acknowledging that I couldn't leave behind this situation. I was led to look deeper within myself. I saw the huge well of anger I was carrying.
I was so tired of having to stifle my anger. I had worked at forgiveness in the past, but hadn't accomplished much. I sat, clinging to God's arms, & looked at my mother's circumstances with an open heart. Understanding & accepting her circumstances, her own childhood abuse, allowed me to let go of my anger. [After this, I asked], "Had I really forgiven her, & was the anger truly gone?" In the sessions right after, I responded in much the same way as before. After a year of practicing new habits, I discovered the children's aggression no longer triggered anger within me; I could respond in a measured, thoughtful manner. I am grateful for the children's behavior that led to me laying this deep part of myself in God's lap & to being open to seeing my abuser's condition.
ALL OF ME—Come/ come on, come on, come on, come on,/ I would gather you under my arms;/ good and evil,/ life and death,/ love and hatred./ I love thee, I am thee.
Joy—I want to live a life as prayer. Perhaps only for moments at a time, but still a worthy goal. Rather than doing one magnificent thing, I was led instead to focus on the task in front of me. I came to see my work with students as my vocation, in the religious sense. [I was once faced with designing and building equipment for a mobile but very tiny person]. Using all my skills as a woodworker and therapist. I felt deeply centered and engaged. Heaven on earth is found by accepting and transcending whatever we face.
Success isn't guaranteed or required. True happiness lies in learning, being fully engaged in what God wants us to do. Obedience is a term rarely considered in daily life, but it is at the heart of living a spiritual life. [Obedience & being in God's service] elevates life to its most fulfilling level. If our deepest, wordless self is empty, we won't be fulfilled by this world's things. It is possible to reach through fear, suffering, & loss to grab hold of the hem of God's robe. Then our lives are suffused with mercy & we see the loving context of all that is. [The gaps left by ripping out all of the unholy in our lives], purely for the love of God, is filled with bliss. A life applied to seeking God's love, would be met with a flood of grace. A life attuned to that flood vibrates with joy.
[Queries]—How has my work influenced my spiritual journey? How do I see God playing a role in bringing me difficulties or in resolving them? How have children or receivers of care been teachers to me? How can "appropriate expectations be useful in my life or my meeting's life? Why is there so much suffering by innocent children? How would I describe my religious experience? How do I understand heaven? How do I respond [to the idea that some are called to] have great needs and those who have much are called to give to those who have little? How does the statement "There is only justice in the next world" trouble me? How has God moved me here or there in order to make use of me? How have I struggled to forgive someone who has harmed me? What experiences have I had of deep spiritual joy, and what have I understood its source to be?
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283. Sink Down to The Seed (by Charlotte Fardelmann; 1988)
About the Author—Charlotte Lyman Fardelmann, a professional journalist and photographer, was a major contributor to Living Simply, 1981, and wrote Islands Down East: A Visitor’s Guide, 1984. She is a member of Dover Friends Meeting in Dover, NH. While working on Islands Down East, Charlotte experienced a leading to explore her own inward landscape. This pamphlet shares a 4-year journey, including her year at Pendle Hill, a Quaker center for study and contemplation, and how it affected her afterwards.
Give over thine own willing, give over thine own running, give over thine own desiring to know or be anything, and sink down to the seed which God sows in thy heart and let that be in thee, and grow in thee, and breathe in thee, and act in thee, and thou shalt find by sweet experience that the Lord knows that and loves that and owns that, and will bring to the inheritance of life, which is his portion. Isaac Penington
Desperation—This journey begins in trouble. Perhaps all journeys emerge out of the pain and chaos of troubled times when one is thrown off balance enough to be open to something new. [I had Islands Down East to write] when writer’s block hit me. Canceling family plans and [skipping committee meetings] only freed up more time to accomplish nothing. I put myself [under pressure and could not find God]. My feeling is that this is precisely the point God likes to see. We are ready to let something die. Only then can something else be born.
I stood up in my Meeting for Worship and told God and the assembled group about my condition. My answer came in the silence. I was to slog along on my book until it was finished, and then “do something else.” My writer’s block was broken and words flowed from my finger tips. I took a 4-month sabbatical to figure out what the “something else” was. [The time in between one lifestyle and the next is] an uncomfortable time. [During this time I found metaphors in the events of my life that seem to indicate a new vehicle for my way forward, training for a new lifestyle, and other changes to bring out a new me.
At first I signed up for a week at Pendle Hill. I wrote in my journal: “I am feeling nervous about my week at Pendle Hill, sort of like I made an appointment with God.” Sometimes the anxiety grows so large that people may believe they are going to die. What is dying is a part of themselves, a way of life that they do not need any longer. There were humbling experiences where I had strong ego involvement. There was a teacher who heard my inward journey and reflected it back to me in a way I knew was authentic. She said: “Trust you are being led. You don’t have to choose everything. In fact you may find it’s hard to get away from being led.”
[After getting home from my week’s sojourn], I found two levels of inner knowledge. [One level said]: “one term (3 months) is my limit.” But one journal entry (my deeper wisdom) says, “I am going to Pendle Hill for 9 months.” I had a vision of a corridor with many windows and a large round room. Outside the windows and inside the room was filled with white light. The message came: “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give unto you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” (John 14:27)
God Grabs me by the Gut—The big beautiful trees at Pendle Hill were golden, orange, & raspberry as we arrived for Fall Term. It was a show, a final display of brilliance before the season of “letting go.” [The whole atmosphere was very welcoming]. People of all ages from many countries gather [at mealtimes], all seekers on the path joking & laughing one minute & switching to intense conversation with ease. [At the same time that I felt warmed & welcomed] I also felt disoriented. It was unsettling not to have one’s usual underpinnings available. [Disinterest in my photographs & articles led me to muse]: “Íf I’m not a journalist/ Photographer, who am I?”
Into that void, bits of myself began to be uncovered and emerge. Pendle Hill offered students a place of safety, a place of acceptance, a place where one could become vulnerable. At Pendle Hill one was held in prayer. Difficult times [e.g. accepting love, discarding old, inner tapes, job transition, divorce, abuse] were seen as lessons from which we grow. The Meeting room was simplicity itself, with benches facing in on four sides. The quality of the Spirit there could be very nourishing; most attended meeting, although only half were Quaker. For me meeting for worship was a time of being melted, of sitting in the Spirit and being worked on deep down. [A central message at this time was]: “Rest in the Lord; you are my Child.”
Work is an integral part of Pendle Hill’s life; [physical labor] helped keep people grounded in reality. There is also pain, anger, hurt, guilt, and every other feeling. It’s all grist for the mill, the grindstone of community, where peoples’ rough places are made smooth. [Of the many classes offered], I did not intend to take “Traveling in Ministry,” yet something moved deep inside me during the introductory class; little did I know I would be traveling in the ministry a year later. My superficial mind didn’t know that but my deeper wisdom guided me. In the classes, which opened with silent worship, the highest authority is not the teacher, but corporate revelation.
Students met with a [spiritual] consultant once a week for an hour; I also kept, & still keep, a journal. [It wasn’t all seriousness; there was also lighthearted fun]. I kept getting intuitive glimpses that something was coming. [I had a spiritual, mystical initiation that took place over a 2-week period, & included a 2-day retreat at a little campus hermitage]. I wrote down the important experiences of my life & the lessons they had taught me. “I feel my gut is like a magnet & God is a big magnet … the force is so strong I will never be able to pull away.”
I began to get “assignments in the night.” 7 times I got up and went to the pottery shed to make a sculpture. There were 7: “God Grabbing Me by the Gut”; “Dark Night of the Soul”; “The Pillory”; “Facing My Monster”; “Rebirth”; “Stripping”; [“Baby in God’s Arms]. I put them in a circle with the Baby in the middle. Another thing I noticed as “baby kicks.” One teacher explained this could be symbolic of giving birth to a new part of myself. “Mystical experiences are a sign of reality; it is the reality that is important, not the mystical experience.” It was the safety net of being companioned by people with spiritual wisdom that allowed me to risk the perilous journey into the dark and uncharted waters of my inward landscape.
Transformation—Things began to build during the 2-week period between the new moon & the full moon. During this period my heart had a lot of generalized fear, a vague anxiety. From my room I could hear the train whistle every hour as the train started over the trestle that bridged the Crum Creek. The train’s rumbling scared me to the core of my being. The night of the full moon, one of my classes scheduled a sleep-out under the moon. This full moon was called “Moon of the Deer’s Sorrow”; it was a time of letting go. [After listening to the train whistle nearly all night long] I’d had enough. I decided to face my monster. I headed toward the train trestle.
(Looking back at this night, I realize my judgment was not sound because I was in a deeply-inward state of mind. I walked down to the trestle and out onto a little platform halfway across where I could stand; it was the twilight hour before dawn. I recited “The Lord is my Shepherd” and “Amazing Grace” while I waited. Finally I spotted the train light at Wallingford Station. The noise was deafening and the Light became brighter and brighter as the train approached. I knew my job was to keep my eyes on the Light and not flinch or turn away; this took enormous determination, but I managed to “stare down the Light until the train passed. The light penetrated my being through my eyes and connected with a light deep within myself. In that holy instant I was transformed.
Looking back after several years, I have come to the realization that train was a symbol for me of the power of God while the train light symbolized the Light of Christ, the eternal living Christ. All that changed was my recognition & acceptance of this love & life & truth & power that is God & an acknowledgment that I would forever after live my life out of that recognition. I had crossed over to a new country; a new Charlotte was born.
Time Management & Inner Peace—I asked God, “What’s different now?” The answer came: “You’re mine.” I [now] was part of a larger whole in which my role was asking God where I might best fit into [God’s] overall design. The work was fundamental, as in changing my use of time. Winter Term I received the inward message that I should not take too many courses because I was to have an “Inner Course,” called “Time Management & Inner Peace”; it would involve obedience. The idea that I might be led to inner peace was appealing, as it was inner anxiety and chaos that led me to Pendle Hill. [Even now I had inner pressure from my “inner driver.”]
I became sick with a long-term flu. It was evident that God and I could use this time for prayer. When we refuse to listen to the still small voice and to our friends, we have to listen to our bodies. [My] inward message was: “Slow down. I’ll help you slow down. Just ask me before you make any appointments or take on any new task.” I objected, but friends thought it was a good idea. [“Centering breaks” became an important part of my day.] Isaac Penington wrote: “Be not hasty, be not forward in judgment, keep back to the life. A few steps fetched in the life and power of God are much safer and sweeter than a hasty progress in the hasty forward spirit.” [I took “Quiet Days” with God]. I do my most important chores the day before and let the rest go until the day after. I continued this discipline back in New Hampshire; it is always rewarding. Almost all my creative ideas come on my quiet day; the efficiency afterwards makes up for the “lost time.” There is a sense of right priorities and clear focus, something to which I am being led.
Coming Home—When it came time to leave Pendle Hill I did not want to go home. My fear was that as soon as I went home, I would spring back to my old ways like a rubber band that had been stretched. While my inner “seedling” felt fragile, I don’t think it really was. The question is how to stay open to God’s Spirit, how to connect once more with that life and power that one has experienced.
I listen with more trust to the inward guide. The nudges & pulls are a little clearer. My attempts to follow the leadings are more frequent & often more daring. [I direct my skills of journalist and photographer inward rather than outward. One can’t research spiritual realms and stay in the observer role. Recognizing, understanding, and responding to other people doing a process like mine eventually led me into become a teacher.
I’m less competitive and more cooperative since my time at Pendle Hill. I’ve discovered that who I am does not depend on what I produce; that is not how I am valued. The projects on which I now work tend to be cooperative ventures shared with other people. I met a woman and asked her if she would like to be my “spiritual friend”; we meet and share our spiritual journeys and our lives as a whole. My journal is my companion, a place to cry, to heal, to pray, to record inspiring bits of reading or ideas. Most important is prayer, meeting for worship, my Quiet Day, and occasional longer personal retreats.
I developed a slide show: “Stand Still in the Light: A Spiritual Journey at Pendle Hill.” With my “traveling ministry,” I became part of a broad interconnecting network among Friends. My leading was putting me out where I felt most uncomfortable. When God leads us along perilous roads, God also provides us with support, often in the form of love and help from real live people.
On hindsight I have figured out that God leads us into our weakness in order to bring us to wholeness. The surprise is that after I face my monster, I find myself riding my monster; the energy that worked against me is the energy that works for me; my monster has become my ally, and my vehicle of joy. The surprise gift was that my fear was taken away. I suspect that it was by the grace of God because it was not a gradual process. The risk [of following a leading] no longer held me back because I have learned my only real safety lies in following my Inward Guide. What helps me go through the hard times is the knowledge that deep in my soul, I rest in God. At the core of my being, where I used to have anxiety, there is inner peace.
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437. Metaphors of Meaning (by Linda Wilson; 2016).
About the Author/ Some Things About Me—Greetings: [My homeplace, mountain, river, and sea] are Waiwhetū, Tararu, Heretaunga, and Wellington Harbor, respectively. I now live in the Waikato, sheltered by the Waikato Tainui. [My descent is from]: the Scottish clan Gunn; Ellen Peterson & Rosalie Williams (grandmothers); Henry Fox & Gavin Wilson (grandfathers); Margery Fox & Donald Wilson (parents), now twinkling stars. My name is Linda Wilson. I have a foster daughter and my husband is Robert.
[Editor's note: The above is a slightly condensed version of a traditional Maori mihimihi, a formal introduction, which included a passage in Maori]. To locate a person geographically and ancestrally is common practice in Aoteartoa New Zealand. Naming your place by land and water, your tribe, the bones [you came from], & your immediate ancestors, comes before you name yourself. How does who you are and where your people are from shape you or influence your spirituality? It locates you in relation to others and enables people to place you and know your connections. For Maori, where and who you are from is intrinsic to who you are. These ideas have shaped the understandings of more recent, 4th-generation New Zealanders like myself. Natural features of the land and the waters are of great significance; they shape who you are, where you stand, and what you do.
Much of my work has been in occupational therapy. Therefore I am used to thinking about the importance of daily routines, and the ordinariness of day-to-day living. It is the ordinary daily activities that actually occupy the major part of our lives. Peak and special moments we like to remember are the exceptions. I am used to thinking about who & where I am, what I am doing, and the part that each plays in my life. [I once hiked across Stewart Island]. As I felt so alone and disconnected, a small gecko ran across the path, climbing over the toe of my boot to continue on its way. For it, I was just a part of its world. Which places have been important in your spiritual experiences? How has place contributed to your spirituality?
2004-05 Pendle Hill—Many of my understandings from my Pendle Hill residential year remain with me 10 years later. They formed a continuing spiritual practice & much of my life's joy. It took almost 16 weeks of being away from my work & daily responsibilities till I [recovered from] depression & bone-deep fatigue. For 2 weeks in January, I snuggled down in my bed, feeling great joy & happiness. I was warm, I was safe, & I was happy.
When I talked about these joyful feelings, Mariah said she thought that everyone could experience similar feelings but used very different words to describe them. This led me to [work] with different images & words for my nocturnal feelings of joy; none of them truly felt right. I began to pay attention to spiritual metaphors. I will use the term spiritual metaphor to include all images, phrases, & analogies used to talk or write about spiritual things. This essay reflects on metaphors or ways people may see their spiritual experiences. It invites testing of common & uncommon metaphors to see what feels familiar, useful, or irrelevant. I will explore a meaningful metaphor for how we live our spirituality, a way of thinking about & attending to my spirituality on a daily basis.
Spiritual Metaphors—I spent 9 months at Pendle Hill. That time [half a world] away from home helped me to see my spirituality in new and different ways. I thought about myself in relation to my experience of and concepts of "god" (capitalizing god suggests a hierarchical [relationship] rather than god as spirit moving between and among us). I explored my childhood memories of prayer and realized that all these are prayers where humans do the talking. I am not personally keen on [these kinds of prayer]. I came to see centering prayer as the other side of conversation. I had to think about what my concept of god actually was.
I have long felt uncomfortable with male divinity words: "he; King; Lord; Father." Exploring feminist theology exposed me to: "she; goddess; and mother god." They still denoted a supreme being. I explored "water," "vibration," and "light." One way of finding metaphors that do have individual meaning is to examine in depth the images that don't work for you. [Take shepherding for instance. Some can view it as a loving, profession, as it is presented in the Bible. In my Maori/ New Zealand culture, it is seen in the light of European mismanagement of the land, and currently as a heartless industry]. Metaphors are so culturally shaped by their original context that transporting them across time and place can make them meaningless. Carol Lee Flinders argues that many deeply spiritual traditions have features mainly related to men's lives. What represented sacrifices in men's lives [were an established part of] women's lives. Women need to find and create understandings and spiritual practices that are linked to the realities of women's lives to sustain us.
I saw that I had resistance to the metaphor of spiritual journey, of being elsewhere than where you are, an external "other place" in the future; it involves traveling with baggage, and doesn't work for me. I needed a different sort of metaphor that reflected my experience of personal spirituality as up close and internal rather than external & supreme. It needed to help connect and integrate my spirituality into other parts of my life. Is the "spiritual journey" metaphor useful for you? What do you like or dislike about it? What other metaphors resonate for you? It seemed to me that notions of spirit and light don't personify, but rather carry ideas of power and forces. To see god as the source of spirit and light felt as though it fitted in both my head and heart.
Connectedness—During Rex Ambler's "Experiment with Light, I heard within "the sense of connectedness." I have discovered that this sense of connectedness is a common way to describe one's experience of the holy. David James and Jillian Wychel say: "The spirituality that is real to us finds its inner strength in the mystical experience of connectedness with each other and with ... creation ... [One can then] turn outward and work in one's own available and chosen action spaces to manifest the harmony already known."
Personal or internal connectedness is about integrity & congruity, past & present. Connectedness includes deliberate attending to my internal workings—feelings & responses, awareness of behavior, insights, awareness of inner teacher [& advocate] [John 14: 16-17 cited]. This advocate is the light within. Together my internal knowings present as my intuition. My internal connectedness is informed by synchronicities, deep honest contact or conversations with friends. Who or what connects you spiritually, internally, externally, & to the world?
From my Quaker community and the occupational therapy community, I have opportunities to connect with people on a daily basis, in celebration and crisis over extended periods of time. We make connections with this world & the spirit which lies within all creation when we attend to and focus on it. When we are connected, we attend to the actions of humans that compromise its future. I think of the universal spirit as a sense of the potential for connectedness. The spirit is activated by connections, little impulses of energy along the invisible cables that connect us to each other and the world. Maybe the little impulses, or the spirit web itself is love. Impulses can be sent or received, initiated, or attended. Accumulated, they become the light within, the illuminated connection. When I am in a negative space, I disconnect, I withdraw from offers to connect; I resist such opportunities. Consciously looking for and reducing barriers or disruptions to connection and retrieving memories of being captured by the spirit helps maintain my equilibrium and keeps my spirit flowing.
Cape Reinga at the North Island's northern tip is where the dead's spirits leap from the headland, climb down the roots of the pohuthukawa tree there, & descend into the underworld, to return to their traditional homeland, Hawaii-iki. This venerated tree is reputed to be 800 years old & flares into a crimson display from late October into late December. It is acknowledged as the New Zealand Christmas tree. I remember sitting there, captured by the feeling of the place & filled with awe at the massive forces [displayed] in the convergence of the Tasman & Pacific seas. This is a time when I was truly connected with the world & filled with an abundance of spirit.
I have come to see Quaker testimonies as ways we can facilitate connectedness within & between each being in the human & nonhuman environments we are part of. Throughout, the integrity of diversity, community, nonviolence, simplicity, connectedness, & continuing revelation testimonies with each other provides guidance to my integrity, the internal & external connectedness of my actions. That sense of connectedness is me feeling in tune with the spirit, at one with the universe, with the "that of god" in me, the spirit of me flowing with & into the light within the other person or the world. Spirituality is the basis of connectedness to other & to the planet.
Different Spiritualities, Experiences, & Metaphors—I have long been aware that some other people seem to have stronger spirituality than I. For me there has been no personal experience of a shoulder tap, a calling, a road-to-Damascus experience that has brought me to my knees. My spirituality is present & real for me even if it hasn't been in the form of major, dramatic life experiences. I have [reconceived] my spirituality & now realize I have had spiritual experiences. I have a spiritual connectedness to decision-making that I can depend on.
Some of my peak spiritual experiences have happened when I have been in extraordinary settings, and/or away from ordinary life's pressures. I have swam with the dusky dolphins at Kaikoura on the east coast of South Island. They dived around us, swimming alongside before cutting & twisting around in front of us & making eye contact. I grinned for the next 3 days, & the memory of it still brings joy to my heart & makes my spirit sing. What spiritual experiences have been important in your life? Did they involve just you, other people, or the natural world? What do you know experimentally that may help others find & appreciate that of god in themselves or others? I have had experiences of equally profound satisfaction & acute awareness of connectedness in the very common places of daily life. Some of these experiences are in the moment, & others develop over time.
I joined the prayer shawl ministry group near Pendle Hill. I remember completing a shawl for a friend that was "just what she needed," and "was the same shade of reddish-purple" as the healing blanket the friend had imagined. Being wrapped in a blanket is both physically and emotionally warming. I understand how people like the idea of being wrapped in god's blanket of peace. People find different metaphors meaningful, both to make sense of and to communicate their experiences. I need to focus on where I am from, that within, connecting outward from myself, rather than trying to experience an external god connecting inward to me.
My Metaphor: Tending One's Spiritual Home—The metaphor I developed for my spiritual practice is: to tend one's spiritual home. It portrays spirituality as the internal "place" that protects, restores, & energizes a person's capacity for interaction. Our spiritual home needs tending, care & attention. Home is "a valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin" & "the place where something is discovered, founded, developed, or promoted; a source." This metaphor can help focus spirituality in the present, where we are & as part of our daily life.
At Pendle Hill, I did spiritual spring house cleaning. I sorted and tidied and relabeled. I found some important treasures that needed to come back out into daily use; I found antiques and rubbish. I also recognized that some important resources were lacking. The way some people have used the term "spiritual housekeeping" is for the clearing out of unhealthy episodes of thought and deed and the modifying of patterns damaging to self and others. Much of the day-to-day tending or housekeeping carries more of an idea of keeping things in order with overtones unappreciated labor and loving, continuing service. Daily prayer sustains us as the bread of life, ensuring that we are sustained and have the energy to live our spiritual lives.
Sometimes this work is immediately inconvenient, but it ensures a valuable resource for later. What do you invest in, spiritually, in times of plenty, so it will be there in leaner times? [In our spiritual home], we hold close our stories of significant spiritual experiences to sustain us when our spiritual life feels more distant. We clothe ourselves from this home, ensuring that how we present ourselves to the world is an adequate representation of who we are. The way we see ourselves changes over time, & so we need to change how we present ourselves to others. When we have tended to our spiritual homes, we will recognize and welcome the visiting spirit.
We take our spirituality with us wherever we go, even though the form and process of it may change over time. Those without experience of a happy home (physical or spiritual) adopt new habitats, sometimes with unrealistic fervor. What appeals or doesn't appeal to you about tending one's spiritual home as a metaphor? Do you understand either your liking it, or your resistance to it? When physical and spiritual home is well-tended, both materially and relationally, there is no safer place to be who you are. The way we see our home changes as we change the meaning and senses we make of our lives. What is special about your home? What do you do there that you do nowhere else? We may invest in activities now that we know will only come to fruition later.
Our habits and practices permit us to get through some parts of life with minimal attention so that we can concentrate on that which is new or challenging; we also need to interrupt routine with celebrations, & with creativity. Tending our homes has as much to do with maintaining the relationships that support and affirm us as it has to do with tending to the physical environments. We need a sense of home in our heads, hearts, and bodies. What is the nature of spiritual homelessness and what are we called to do to address it?
Ways of Tending—How can we tend our spiritual home? The process might include: establishing a regular spirituality pattern; effecting spiritual "home repairs" as needed; connecting with support communities; forming community support networks; connect with those who share our home; being open to new experiences; plan time to have fun, create and play; spring cleaning periodically; keep a commonplace book (record of places and activities important to you); lay in resources for times of scarcity; take time to notice spiritual moments.
Further Considerations—The metaphor of tending one's spiritual home implies being & doing & emphasizes place over pursuit. I had some reservations about homemaking analogies because of gender role stereotyping. But I think most metaphors cross genders; some women have told me that the journey metaphor works well for them. The home-tending metaphor carries a sense of a central core around & from which connections "radiate out" or "emanate from." How do you tend your spiritual home? Are there other ways in which you might tend your spiritual home? Attending to one's spirituality is framed without reference to a supreme being.
The home-tending metaphor is grounded in place, locates the spiritual process internally rather than externally, & is concerned with life in the present rather than the future. This metaphor legitimizes daily self-care, service, & work as significant spiritual activities. The notions of nurturing where I am now, acknowledging where I have come from, & spiritually investing today to create places for the spirit, feels useful, for now & tomorrow.
3 particularly appealing metaphors emerged from an Aoteara New Zealand workshop: spiritual landscape; tree; and mirror. [When they are formed, as though] by a volcano, spiritual upheavals are a long time in the making and are often immediately distressing and apparently damaging, they transform the land, providing rich resources that support later growth. A tree may look dormant, but if appropriate nourishment continues, it will bear fruit and flower, and grow deeper roots to ensure more nourishment over time. The mirror is a perfect surface that can reflect back to us who we are. We can all develop metaphors that help us make sense of and communicate our spiritual experiences and practices. I encourage Friends, individually and collectively, to find metaphors of meaning for themselves, share them now, and leave them for future Friends.
Conclusions—The metaphor presented here grew out of my year at Pendle Hill. The space it created gave me time to learn and think. I learned to attend to myself, to recognize how important connectedness was to me. I found ways to stay connected internally, externally, & to the world. I negotiated a different role for myself at work that suits the daily tending of my spiritual home. There are major renovations on myself going on designed to keep me healthy, safe, & active; I keep a time for sabbath more often than not. I have found room in my head & heart for another & have since married. We are setting up an "our" home in a new community.
Connectedness—During Rex Ambler's "Experiment with Light, I heard within "the sense of connectedness." I have discovered that this sense of connectedness is a common way to describe one's experience of the holy. David James and Jillian Wychel say: "The spirituality that is real to us finds its inner strength in the mystical experience of connectedness with each other and with ... creation ... [One can then] turn outward and work in one's own available and chosen action spaces to manifest the harmony already known."
Personal or internal connectedness is about integrity & congruity, past & present. Connectedness includes deliberate attending to my internal workings—feelings & responses, awareness of behavior, insights, awareness of inner teacher [& advocate] [John 14: 16-17 cited]. This advocate is the light within. Together my internal knowings present as my intuition. My internal connectedness is informed by synchronicities, deep honest contact or conversations with friends. Who or what connects you spiritually, internally, externally, & to the world?
From my Quaker community and the occupational therapy community, I have opportunities to connect with people on a daily basis, in celebration and crisis over extended periods of time. We make connections with this world & the spirit which lies within all creation when we attend to and focus on it. When we are connected, we attend to the actions of humans that compromise its future. I think of the universal spirit as a sense of the potential for connectedness. The spirit is activated by connections, little impulses of energy along the invisible cables that connect us to each other and the world. Maybe the little impulses, or the spirit web itself is love. Impulses can be sent or received, initiated, or attended. Accumulated, they become the light within, the illuminated connection. When I am in a negative space, I disconnect, I withdraw from offers to connect; I resist such opportunities. Consciously looking for and reducing barriers or disruptions to connection and retrieving memories of being captured by the spirit helps maintain my equilibrium and keeps my spirit flowing.
Cape Reinga at the North Island's northern tip is where the dead's spirits leap from the headland, climb down the roots of the pohuthukawa tree there, & descend into the underworld, to return to their traditional homeland, Hawaii-iki. This venerated tree is reputed to be 800 years old & flares into a crimson display from late October into late December. It is acknowledged as the New Zealand Christmas tree. I remember sitting there, captured by the feeling of the place & filled with awe at the massive forces [displayed] in the convergence of the Tasman & Pacific seas. This is a time when I was truly connected with the world & filled with an abundance of spirit.
I have come to see Quaker testimonies as ways we can facilitate connectedness within & between each being in the human & nonhuman environments we are part of. Throughout, the integrity of diversity, community, nonviolence, simplicity, connectedness, & continuing revelation testimonies with each other provides guidance to my integrity, the internal & external connectedness of my actions. That sense of connectedness is me feeling in tune with the spirit, at one with the universe, with the "that of god" in me, the spirit of me flowing with & into the light within the other person or the world. Spirituality is the basis of connectedness to other & to the planet.
Different Spiritualities, Experiences, & Metaphors—I have long been aware that some other people seem to have stronger spirituality than I. For me there has been no personal experience of a shoulder tap, a calling, a road-to-Damascus experience that has brought me to my knees. My spirituality is present & real for me even if it hasn't been in the form of major, dramatic life experiences. I have [reconceived] my spirituality & now realize I have had spiritual experiences. I have a spiritual connectedness to decision-making that I can depend on.
Some of my peak spiritual experiences have happened when I have been in extraordinary settings, and/or away from ordinary life's pressures. I have swam with the dusky dolphins at Kaikoura on the east coast of South Island. They dived around us, swimming alongside before cutting & twisting around in front of us & making eye contact. I grinned for the next 3 days, & the memory of it still brings joy to my heart & makes my spirit sing. What spiritual experiences have been important in your life? Did they involve just you, other people, or the natural world? What do you know experimentally that may help others find & appreciate that of god in themselves or others? I have had experiences of equally profound satisfaction & acute awareness of connectedness in the very common places of daily life. Some of these experiences are in the moment, & others develop over time.
I joined the prayer shawl ministry group near Pendle Hill. I remember completing a shawl for a friend that was "just what she needed," and "was the same shade of reddish-purple" as the healing blanket the friend had imagined. Being wrapped in a blanket is both physically and emotionally warming. I understand how people like the idea of being wrapped in god's blanket of peace. People find different metaphors meaningful, both to make sense of and to communicate their experiences. I need to focus on where I am from, that within, connecting outward from myself, rather than trying to experience an external god connecting inward to me.
My Metaphor: Tending One's Spiritual Home—The metaphor I developed for my spiritual practice is: to tend one's spiritual home. It portrays spirituality as the internal "place" that protects, restores, & energizes a person's capacity for interaction. Our spiritual home needs tending, care & attention. Home is "a valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin" & "the place where something is discovered, founded, developed, or promoted; a source." This metaphor can help focus spirituality in the present, where we are & as part of our daily life.
At Pendle Hill, I did spiritual spring house cleaning. I sorted and tidied and relabeled. I found some important treasures that needed to come back out into daily use; I found antiques and rubbish. I also recognized that some important resources were lacking. The way some people have used the term "spiritual housekeeping" is for the clearing out of unhealthy episodes of thought and deed and the modifying of patterns damaging to self and others. Much of the day-to-day tending or housekeeping carries more of an idea of keeping things in order with overtones unappreciated labor and loving, continuing service. Daily prayer sustains us as the bread of life, ensuring that we are sustained and have the energy to live our spiritual lives.
Sometimes this work is immediately inconvenient, but it ensures a valuable resource for later. What do you invest in, spiritually, in times of plenty, so it will be there in leaner times? [In our spiritual home], we hold close our stories of significant spiritual experiences to sustain us when our spiritual life feels more distant. We clothe ourselves from this home, ensuring that how we present ourselves to the world is an adequate representation of who we are. The way we see ourselves changes over time, & so we need to change how we present ourselves to others. When we have tended to our spiritual homes, we will recognize and welcome the visiting spirit.
We take our spirituality with us wherever we go, even though the form and process of it may change over time. Those without experience of a happy home (physical or spiritual) adopt new habitats, sometimes with unrealistic fervor. What appeals or doesn't appeal to you about tending one's spiritual home as a metaphor? Do you understand either your liking it, or your resistance to it? When physical and spiritual home is well-tended, both materially and relationally, there is no safer place to be who you are. The way we see our home changes as we change the meaning and senses we make of our lives. What is special about your home? What do you do there that you do nowhere else? We may invest in activities now that we know will only come to fruition later.
Our habits and practices permit us to get through some parts of life with minimal attention so that we can concentrate on that which is new or challenging; we also need to interrupt routine with celebrations, & with creativity. Tending our homes has as much to do with maintaining the relationships that support and affirm us as it has to do with tending to the physical environments. We need a sense of home in our heads, hearts, and bodies. What is the nature of spiritual homelessness and what are we called to do to address it?
Ways of Tending—How can we tend our spiritual home? The process might include: establishing a regular spirituality pattern; effecting spiritual "home repairs" as needed; connecting with support communities; forming community support networks; connect with those who share our home; being open to new experiences; plan time to have fun, create and play; spring cleaning periodically; keep a commonplace book (record of places and activities important to you); lay in resources for times of scarcity; take time to notice spiritual moments.
Further Considerations—The metaphor of tending one's spiritual home implies being & doing & emphasizes place over pursuit. I had some reservations about homemaking analogies because of gender role stereotyping. But I think most metaphors cross genders; some women have told me that the journey metaphor works well for them. The home-tending metaphor carries a sense of a central core around & from which connections "radiate out" or "emanate from." How do you tend your spiritual home? Are there other ways in which you might tend your spiritual home? Attending to one's spirituality is framed without reference to a supreme being.
The home-tending metaphor is grounded in place, locates the spiritual process internally rather than externally, & is concerned with life in the present rather than the future. This metaphor legitimizes daily self-care, service, & work as significant spiritual activities. The notions of nurturing where I am now, acknowledging where I have come from, & spiritually investing today to create places for the spirit, feels useful, for now & tomorrow.
3 particularly appealing metaphors emerged from an Aoteara New Zealand workshop: spiritual landscape; tree; and mirror. [When they are formed, as though] by a volcano, spiritual upheavals are a long time in the making and are often immediately distressing and apparently damaging, they transform the land, providing rich resources that support later growth. A tree may look dormant, but if appropriate nourishment continues, it will bear fruit and flower, and grow deeper roots to ensure more nourishment over time. The mirror is a perfect surface that can reflect back to us who we are. We can all develop metaphors that help us make sense of and communicate our spiritual experiences and practices. I encourage Friends, individually and collectively, to find metaphors of meaning for themselves, share them now, and leave them for future Friends.
Conclusions—The metaphor presented here grew out of my year at Pendle Hill. The space it created gave me time to learn and think. I learned to attend to myself, to recognize how important connectedness was to me. I found ways to stay connected internally, externally, & to the world. I negotiated a different role for myself at work that suits the daily tending of my spiritual home. There are major renovations on myself going on designed to keep me healthy, safe, & active; I keep a time for sabbath more often than not. I have found room in my head & heart for another & have since married. We are setting up an "our" home in a new community.
On the whole I can catch up comfortably & usually get done what needs to be done at a spiritual & domestic level. I recognize when I'm not tending to myself & can thus restore myself promptly. I am busy, active, and helpful to my work, friends and family, and spiritual community. I am happy, alive, connected, and therefore I am in good spirits and tended by a good spirit. Now that I am home, in myself and in my own place in the world, connected with long-standing [friends and associates], I give thanks for the spirit that is between and among and within us all.
What metaphors come to mind right now? What metaphors might work for you in sustaining and maintaining your spirituality across time and place and the ebbs and flows of life? How might you identify, explore, and share them and weave them into your life?
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346. Treasure in Clay Jars (by Elizabeth Ostrander Sutton; 1999)
About the Author—Elizabeth (Lisa) Ostrander Sutton, longtime Quaker, was a full-time participant in Pendle Hill's resident program in 1996-98. She learned "centering prayer" there. She also read God Calling, walking, writing, and working with clay. Writing and being with clay gave her practice with the faith process. She is convinced that conscious spiritual practices are integral to a life lived sacramentally and faithfully and that a God-centered life is accessible to anyone, anywhere.
Preface—What happened to me at Pendle Hill (PH) [was like a fire, seemingly out, coming back to life. When I was 1st at PH, I had] fears of beginning a prayer life. [Choosing] to trust PH's faith community allowed me to go within & let God light a spiritual fire. God Calling speaks of joy born of love & wonder, & joy born of love & knowledge. [Early] at PH, I was experiencing the wonder & joy of a conscious acquaintance with God.
I plunged into working with clay, which anchored me in the uncertainty, creating a path to explore my inner landscape. I made a Fall pinch pot series called "Spiritual Awakening," and a Winter series called "Openings." I found with the latter series that I couldn't close the pinch pots. Instead, I experimenting with different openings. I made the raku vase "Treasure in a Clay Jar" during the Spring Term. The raku firing left the vase fragile with a cross-shaped crack in it. It survived its firing, just as I survived my spiritual fires.
My 2nd year was one of maintaining courage to explore the faith process [in] facing uncertainty. As I meander along a path in faltering steps, I walk by faith, not sight. My pots' presence urge me to slow down & spend time in the uncertainty & questions of the faith process. What I think is endless emptiness actually is creative space sparking conversion. I discovered perseverance was the key to experiencing the joy of love & knowledge, which I acquired through my pots. Each of them embodied some knowledge concerning living a life of faith.
[Introduction]—After the raku firing was over, I'm left feeling incomplete [and a] sense of loss. Making the raku vase involved sealing 2 pinch pots together. I made a pin-sized hole at the top. I put my lips to the hole and blew my spirit, the divine spirit into the vase in order to expand and round off the vase. I remember the taste of clay and not wanting to wash it off. Just as Adam became alive with God's breath, the raku vase took on its shape with my breath. I am a child out of God. I want to live life abundantly, boldly. I want to feel the power of resurrection, by going within and meeting the Inward Christ, known most powerfully on the cross. How do I live my life based on meeting the Inward Christ? A big part of me doesn't want to be reminded continually to let go as Jesus did, to wade in spiritual fires or die daily. Faith means putting trust in a process that slowly builds an intimate relationship with someone I can neither see nor fully understand, but only feel.
A prayer life begins, and in prayer I realize the true meaning of the phrase "Be ye therefore perfect." To be perfect in God's eyes is to be my whole self. I begin slowly to open up. My essential self begins to emerge. I see the richness of my being as well as my limitations. Meeting the Inward Christ and experiencing love is dying and being reborn. Seeing my pots make it through the raku firing gives me hope that I can make it through my transforming spiritual fires. The dried flower vase pot, with its cross-shaped crack, is fragile. It withstood intense heat for 1½ hours, so it is resilient as well. Within my perishable body lies a treasure.
What metaphors come to mind right now? What metaphors might work for you in sustaining and maintaining your spirituality across time and place and the ebbs and flows of life? How might you identify, explore, and share them and weave them into your life?
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346. Treasure in Clay Jars (by Elizabeth Ostrander Sutton; 1999)
About the Author—Elizabeth (Lisa) Ostrander Sutton, longtime Quaker, was a full-time participant in Pendle Hill's resident program in 1996-98. She learned "centering prayer" there. She also read God Calling, walking, writing, and working with clay. Writing and being with clay gave her practice with the faith process. She is convinced that conscious spiritual practices are integral to a life lived sacramentally and faithfully and that a God-centered life is accessible to anyone, anywhere.
Preface—What happened to me at Pendle Hill (PH) [was like a fire, seemingly out, coming back to life. When I was 1st at PH, I had] fears of beginning a prayer life. [Choosing] to trust PH's faith community allowed me to go within & let God light a spiritual fire. God Calling speaks of joy born of love & wonder, & joy born of love & knowledge. [Early] at PH, I was experiencing the wonder & joy of a conscious acquaintance with God.
I plunged into working with clay, which anchored me in the uncertainty, creating a path to explore my inner landscape. I made a Fall pinch pot series called "Spiritual Awakening," and a Winter series called "Openings." I found with the latter series that I couldn't close the pinch pots. Instead, I experimenting with different openings. I made the raku vase "Treasure in a Clay Jar" during the Spring Term. The raku firing left the vase fragile with a cross-shaped crack in it. It survived its firing, just as I survived my spiritual fires.
My 2nd year was one of maintaining courage to explore the faith process [in] facing uncertainty. As I meander along a path in faltering steps, I walk by faith, not sight. My pots' presence urge me to slow down & spend time in the uncertainty & questions of the faith process. What I think is endless emptiness actually is creative space sparking conversion. I discovered perseverance was the key to experiencing the joy of love & knowledge, which I acquired through my pots. Each of them embodied some knowledge concerning living a life of faith.
[Introduction]—After the raku firing was over, I'm left feeling incomplete [and a] sense of loss. Making the raku vase involved sealing 2 pinch pots together. I made a pin-sized hole at the top. I put my lips to the hole and blew my spirit, the divine spirit into the vase in order to expand and round off the vase. I remember the taste of clay and not wanting to wash it off. Just as Adam became alive with God's breath, the raku vase took on its shape with my breath. I am a child out of God. I want to live life abundantly, boldly. I want to feel the power of resurrection, by going within and meeting the Inward Christ, known most powerfully on the cross. How do I live my life based on meeting the Inward Christ? A big part of me doesn't want to be reminded continually to let go as Jesus did, to wade in spiritual fires or die daily. Faith means putting trust in a process that slowly builds an intimate relationship with someone I can neither see nor fully understand, but only feel.
A prayer life begins, and in prayer I realize the true meaning of the phrase "Be ye therefore perfect." To be perfect in God's eyes is to be my whole self. I begin slowly to open up. My essential self begins to emerge. I see the richness of my being as well as my limitations. Meeting the Inward Christ and experiencing love is dying and being reborn. Seeing my pots make it through the raku firing gives me hope that I can make it through my transforming spiritual fires. The dried flower vase pot, with its cross-shaped crack, is fragile. It withstood intense heat for 1½ hours, so it is resilient as well. Within my perishable body lies a treasure.
[I see] the crack on the vase and am reminded that God dwells within me. My breath formed the vase's top curve, which made it through the fire and flames. I too, can survive [the fires of] change. The treasure dwelling within my fragile body gives me resiliency. "But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us" (II Corinthians 4:7). My capacity to come back, to survive change, comes from God. I do nothing to deserve life. God gives me resiliency.
Pruning—A great deal of time is taken up with making the coils become part of a coil pot. I scrape clay off the layered coils & tap the coils with a paddle until they are absorbed into the wall & disappear. The coils still existed but in a different form. The coils were now the walls of the pot. The coils abided in the pot & the pot abided in the coils. When I share my struggles or joys with God, I am abiding with God. I feel loved and changed as a result of that love. I am transformed into a vessel that receives. The process of reshaping by scraping or tapping, looking, and rotating the pot stand is repeated over and over, and is done mostly on the inside. Scraping, tapping, pushing, and stroking are actions involved in pruning or cleansing my vessel. With each of my strokes of the scraper, God is working, pruning and cleansing me, hollowing me out into a vessel that can receive.
As the wall of coils grows higher, the pile of coil scrapings grows. In that pile is the number of layers I need to shed in order to consent to God's presence. My confidence in what I am creating increases with each bit of clay added to the pile. With each tap and stroke, I am participating in, opening up to the faith process with God. Each action I take with the clay encourages me to open up more to God, and my confidence increases. I begin to work with the clay itself instead of with an image I want to create out of clay. I let go more and take risks. Trust grows amid the mystery of the creative process. [I unfold] and I absorb God.
Canyons—As the command "Break up your fallow ground" (Jer. 4:3) takes root in me, it begins to devour my insides; my heart burns. Jeremiah is asking me to prepare the ground of my heart for planting. Breaking up ground makes me face problems I don't want to face & provokes thoughts I don't want to think. Often in my life, God is before me, but I don't catch the spirit each time I catch my breath. I become the living dead, surrounded by the familiar & knowable, & deciding to stay the way I am. I slip into being manipulated by fear. I seek situations that don't require me to change. Fear eats away at my trust in my relationship with God. I feel stagnated.
Landscapes of my canyon clay pieces is God's fallow ground. In working clay, I break up fallow ground. I often linger on one crack & follow its winding path. Hues of blue cascade down the canyon's interior sides [into] pool of deep blue glaze in the center. Cracks I make are openings that catch light. The more I make, the brighter the light, & the more I contribute to the canyon's character. Sharing myself, what's in my heart, is what makes cracks & breaks up ground I'm standing on. Cracks are pathways to light, movement in the direction of building a relationship with God. Each crack I make reveals just a bit more of my character, and I know [a bit more of] my true self. I must reveal my fault lines hidden beneath the knowable surface I have invented for myself.
Psalm 139—In searching me, God comes to know every crevice, curve, wrinkle of body, heart, and thoughts. God knows me better than I know myself. Getting to know God is getting to know me. There is pain in getting to know me. May Sarton writes: "[But] there is nothing we suffer that doesn't hold the seed of creation in it." With my canyon pieces, the short coils of different lengths and widths must not disappear but instead be preserved. I use red iron oxide to accent the cracks instead of a glaze to make them disappear.
My eyes linger on my canyons, for I am looking at me, my relationship with God, and God's love for me. With time, I realize that amid this searching of me, I am known and loved. In the southwest US, I needed to roam a landscape similar to that of my canyons. Mighty hills were [being] brought to their knees by the wind and arid air, revealing their essence. Sunset colors surfaced. These hills remind me that beauty is in the exposure. The canyons are a witness to God's love for me.
Gethsemane Cup—When Jesus said: "Let this cup pass from me," he can't live in the uncertainty, and yet somehow he seems to endure amid this uncertainty. Trust seeps into the uncertainty with each bit of sharing what is in his heart. With his "Yet not what I want but what you want," Jesus shifted from being self-centered to being God-centered. Pain, failures, disappointments, and doubts are all easy to embrace, to grasp tightly. To consent and trust is elusive. Embracing it is impossible. [Yet] God needs my consent. [Those who] do and do and do [find it hard] to "consent," [where] I am asked to pause and pause and pause.
In order to consent, I need to go beyond myself and acknowledge there is something beyond my ability to understand, a will larger than my own. Consenting means embracing the mystery and demands embracing the stillness. In the stillness comes the realization that I am in the presence of God. In this God-consciousness space I sense what it means to be in a relationship with God. [A meaningful relationship is not conditional. God does not have conditions, and I need to not have any for God]. I am moving, [whether it seems so or not]; God is working within me, in the pauses, the unknowing, the resting time.
In the stillness, being is more important than doing. The stillness' mark on me is humility and just being. I come face to face with the truth of what it means to be me, to be human. Instead of drowning in my failures and limitations, I sense my perfection, my wholeness. My failures are [actually] steps closer to the ground of my being. Jesus did not let the Gethsemane cup pass. When I drink from my Gethsemane cup, I have an opportunity to face the stillness within me. The stillness becomes the compost to work the earth of my heart. I die in the stillness only to witness the dawn in my soul. I feel the warmth of coming home to God.
Dare to Suffer—There was chaos inside me. Soon it would consume me. I needed to be with clay, but I did not want to create. I wanted to destroy. [I tried to wedge], which involves folding the clay into itself repeatedly in order to pop the trapped air embedded in the clay. Without wedging, whatever I create runs the risk of not surviving the bisque firing in the kiln. When I do not face the chaos of wedging, perhaps I am denying myself the opportunity to develop my true gifts and call my authentic self into being. [The clay seems unwedgeable and is leaving a mess on me and my tools. I cleaned up and] started the wedging procedure all over again.
The clay scraper was helping me manage the chaos, but the clay was still hard to manage. [I was told to] "Keep wedging. Something happens. It just takes time." After awhile, I was able to do more wedging, less scraping. This unwedgeable clay became wedgeable. With each enfolding gesture, the chaos inside of me slowly slipped away and a calmness seeped into this experience I had with the clay. Energy rushed into my being. Wedging the clay, [enfolding it], has become an act of vital importance to me. When I enfold something into me, I consume it and consequently it reaches not just my mind but my heart and soul as well.
I realized that Jesus on the cross changed just as the clay changed. Jesus' doubts and fears began to stir up the chaos within him. "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit," was his way of willing himself into the chaos. With his plunge into chaos, he brings God into his suffering and comes to know a God who suffers with him. With the words "My God, My God, Jesus began to share his fears with God and to enfold himself into God. When Jesus dared to suffer on the cross, he discovered a God who suffers with him.
I know why I make cliff pots. [I was having trouble with a pot's rim]. I began ripping the clay off the rim, making deep, [jagged], rips. Each bit ripped off created a high or low cliff. Each cliff I make prepares me for a fling into chaos. [Others see in my pots eggs cracked open, because of pots' jagged edges]. When I see cracked egg, I know something has been born. My experience with wedging clay told me something would happen in chaos. Sharing my anxieties with God began enfolding process, & became soothing process. God would be with me in brokenness I had to face. I am called to be creative [& re-created]. In the faith journey's darkness, a turning takes place. I give up being the potter & become clay with "treasure" inside. I become like Abraham & believe God will provide. With all enfolding, I have managed to become bound to God. In claiming my origin I have become known & claimed by the great "I am." I live to go forth. I can't create when I choose path separating me from God. When I consent, I soar for I have opened the door of creation. [I am] a new creation in Christ.
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389. From West Point to Quakerism (by Mike Heller; 2007)
About the Author—Mike Heller teaches literature and writing at Roanoke College, where Rebecca is the reference librarian. He has edited and co-edited notable Quaker publications. A member of Roanoke Monthly Meeting, Mike currently serves on Pendle Hill’s Board of Trustees.
[Introduction]—[Matt. 8: 8,13 cited] My brother Bill drove me to West Point, July 3, 1967. I [got on] a green army bus, with other young men, for the ride into the barracks area. We took turns standing with arms out to be measured for uniforms, [& receive cadet clothing, among them]: gym shorts, white t-shirts, black socks, & lowcut black shoes. We were led through a sally port, a dark arching gateway into old Central area. An upper-classman with epaulets ordered me to report to the Man in the Red Sash. [My legs wouldn’t stop shaking while I did so]. 1,000 new cadets marched to Trophy Point to take the oath. We had marched in squads around the blacktop in Central Area and New South Area, learning to salute and do the about face.
For years I didn’t want to talk about my journey, from growing up in a military family, going to West Point, & becoming increasingly uncomfortable with military service; I didn’t know how to talk about it. After a Quaker meeting at Sandy Spring, way began to open. Through writing, I have gained better understanding of regret & need for affirmation, cowardice & courage, my artistic life, & my life journey of duty & spiritual direction.
Growing up—I grew up on or near air bases in the late ‘50’s & early ‘60’s, when the military lived in a bright light of victory & high morale. As kids we rode bikes down to the flight line. On some days my father let me walk with him into airplane hangars, & sometimes I got to climb into the planes themselves, & even a Titan missile silo. In 1961, my brother Bill went to West Point. [We traveled cross-country to see him at Christmas].
At 4 years old, I stand near my mother who is seated on the grass; she is tickling me. Her love for me had nothing to do with whether I was good at anything. [It seemed to me] as if in her eyes I was always that little boy. My father was a great air force captain and a great line engineer. He and my mother liked the airbase social life and were active in the officers’ club. They often had parties that I watched from the hallway in my pajamas.
There is a WW II photo of my father as a handsome young lieutenant with a thin mustache and his hat cocked at an angle. Dad took part in the fire bombing of Tokyo. The day my father’s plane ditched in the Pacific, my mother had a miscarriage, and her father died. My father was the only one from that crew that chose to return to combat; he flew 30 more missions over Japan. He got out of the military for 6 years, and was recalled in the Korean War. He and my mother decided to stay in the military for a career.
My struggles, my resistance to authority probably would have happened even if I had not gone into the military. The spring he left the air force, we moved to Phoenix. The high school art studio was a subversive place. Ed Shipp, my art teacher, had us paint big paintings. [I had doubts about going to a military academy]. I was 17 and aware of Vietnam, but gave the war little serious thought. [I applied, did tests, examinations and interviews. I received a telegram that spring from Senator Paul Fannin saying I had been accepted at West Point.
West Point—At one weekly Saturday morning inspection, I told the tactical officer that I was homesick. He asked me when I was going to get over it. I said I didn’t know. Boxing was one of a plebe year’s 4 required classes. Mr. Palone taught us a good boxer knows how not to get hit. Bob Tomasulo & I were to be boxers on our cadet company team. Years later I realized I might have been a pretty good boxer if I could have worn glasses.
One dark November night at supper, all the plebes were strung out, worn out, & tired. When they kept us from eating & poured on verbal abuse, some of us broke down. One Friday night at the movies [someone harassed me and I left]. He hated my guts because I had turned in my roommates and several others for leaving campus & sneaking in alcohol. After days of agonizing indecision & advice from my brother, I told the honor rep what I knew. The guys involved were not kicked out though expulsion was the punishment for even the smallest honor violation. I was forced to choose between the institution’s honor system and the barracks’ code of loyalty.
All of this occurred within a barracks life that was harsh & confusing. The world behind closed doors of plebe rooms included crude jokes & macho posturing. One of those I turned in asked, “Why didn’t you talk to us 1st?” He was right. For the rest of 1968 & long after that, I must have been clinically depressed. The honor incident occurred in the context of sinking institutional morale. The war for me was strangely distant, even though a friend’s brother was killed in the Tet offensive. [The assassinations of King & Kennedy followed later that year].
In the spring of my plebe year, I bought a sketchbook to rekindle my sense of creative energy and integrity. My good friend and frequent roommate Joe Waldhaus was a rebel. He stubbornly refused to buy a class ring, in spite of numerous attempts to persuade him. He was practicing Gandhi-like non-cooperation.
The superintendent Major General Koster spoke to us when he resigned because of his role in the My Lai massacre cover-up; charges against him were dropped. The summer before my West Point senior year, Rebecca Crist & I were engaged. During my senior year, she lived in nearby Fort Montgomery. The 2nd & 3rd years, I painted at post hobby shop. One painting was of Long Island shore in summer. Another was the lane behind old Central area.
West Point, despite itself, was quickening my ideals for how I wanted to life, if only because I was experiencing inward rebellion and disillusionment. I had experienced something of apostasy, separation from God, and I was beginning to experience a journey of restoration and return. [I had a few good role models at West Point in Col Jack Capps, Col. Charles Kimble, and Maj. Pat Hoy. The last two taught] with a gentle but sharp edge that made me wake up, listen, and enjoy. At our graduation in Michie Stadium, Secretary of Defense Laird gave a speech. I did not bother throwing my hat in the air. That afternoon I slid 2 army issue trunks into the back of a car and drove out the south gate.
The Army—In June, 2 weeks after graduation, Becky & I were married in her parents’ home in Phoenix. The 1st year after graduation, I learned something about the excitement & power of firing large weapons. [I jumped out of a plane 4 times, twice at night, in spite of being scared the 1st time]. When I saw footage of our B-52s dropping hundreds of bombs in Cambodia & heard it described as rolling thunder, I realized how little I understood of what was happening.
Our Ranger training was based on small unit infantry combat in Vietnam. I ended up not having to go, which is one reason that telling my story might be self-indulgent. I felt vague guilt and self-consciousness about not suffering the brutality of war along with others. I spent a year as an armored cavalry platoon leader, practicing things [I] hoped never to have to do. After the armored cavalry I was assigned to Arlington, Virginia.
I walked from home to headquarters, into an office that managed personnel databases for army intelligence. I drove across the Potomac to George Washington University. I was the awkward army guy sitting in class with anti-war hippies, graduate students, & older women returning to school. At the Ft. Myer hospital, I went to the Psychiatry Department, but [something kept me from explaining what I needed, & I left shivering in fear].
Meanwhile, Becky went to the Quaker Meeting at Sandy Spring, Maryland. Becky & I were drawn toward Quaker worship. Becky grew up in the Disciples of Christ church. We attended Unitarian Universalist, & Catholic services. The only thing I knew about Quakers was something vague about their refusal to participate in wars. We went to the Quaker meeting together. I remember how strange it felt in the silence to watch my thoughts unspooling for that hour. Afterward I felt relaxed and open. I wrote 2 letters asking to resign my commission. They accepted my resignation after the second letter, on the last day of my 5-year commitment. My father thought I was making a mistake, and may have had doubts that I could make it on my own outside the military.
Friends—Before I knew anything about Quakers, I felt drawn to a plain style of behavior. Plain speaking seems like the way of my movie heroes, Gary Cooper & Jimmy Stewart. For the same reasons, when I left the army, I was glad there was no ceremony. [We went back to Phoenix, which seemed like our spiritual home]. If a drill sergeant had asked, “What are you going to do now,” I would have said, “Drill Sergeant, I don’t know.”
One morning I woke up, and knew that I wanted to go into teaching. I contacted AZ State U’s English Department, and talked to Lynn Nelson. She became a mentor who helped me face my fears about teaching. At a level below my logical mind, I felt I was finally doing the right thing. That Year I took a course in methods of teaching art of Ed Shipp, my high school art teacher. He said, “Back in high school, there were forces working on you that were beyond your control.”
Becky & I began attending the Quaker meeting at AZ State U. in the small chapel across from the library. When the meeting accepted our requests for membership, they presented us with 2 books by Howard Brinton, Quaker Journals & Friends for 300 years. The silence of Quaker worship spoke to me before I knew anything of Quaker faith or witness. The silence offered me an opportunity to go inward & listen, & it was an opportunity to be with others with long experience in this inward listening. I found comfort in this careful waiting on the Spirit.
I was embarrassed about having chosen to go to West Point. I did not feel worthy to call myself a Quaker, but that changed as I gradually sensed that [I always was a Quaker]. Becky’s love and support had kept me alive; she believed in me. [With 2 children], love and forgiveness began their long course of unfolding within me. [I did not admit to my Mom that I regretted going to West Point]. Did I feel that admitting regret would make it harder for me to forgive myself or to forgive others? I did not regret that I returned to art as a way to be present in the world & that I had begun to listen to my heart’s whispering. I didn't regret how the way opened.
I was hired as an English teacher at Thunderbird High School. I learned from our principal, other teachers, & my students. My body & soul were quietly saying yes to a new life. I didn't return to West Point for 24 years. In 1994 my plebe boxing teammate & friend Bob Tomasulo, died in a rock-climbing accident. When I finally did go back to West Point, it was to visit Bob’s grave. Parking at the Old Cadet Chapel, I got out to look for Bob’s grave. West Point had given me my friendship with Bob T. West Point had helped me become a Quaker, too.
My father at 85 had a bout with pneumonia, and spent a month in the Virginia Veterans Care Center, a nursing home. It was not easy. Despite the atmosphere of diarrhea and urine, the nurses smiled a lot and had helpful words. I felt something sacred here with these old men and the few old women. Soon they would all cross over. My father seemed to resent them, but to me they seemed like sweet old men, not at all like the men I remembered meeting in the army. Somewhere along the way I learned that most military officers are kind, extremely bright people, and probably most are smarter than I am.
What should one do for one’s family, community, nation, and world? Now I feel I should do what I can to work for nonviolent solutions in the world. I have learned that knowing one’s duty is a journey of lifelong discernment through conflicting tensions. A sense of duty arises from one’s deeply-felt inward life. [Woolman linked duty to self-interest in writing: “To examine and prove ourselves, to find what harmony the power presiding in us bears with the divine nature, is a duty not more incumbent and necessary than it would be beneficial.”
From Anne Hardt at Tempe Meeting I learned that the idealistic option is sometimes the most realistic. From Janeal Ravndal I learned that “nothing you do is too small to make a difference.” From Sterling Omstead’s study of Woolman and Gandhi I learned that nonviolence can be an act of spiritual self-fulfillment. From William Stafford I learned that even if war seems unavoidable, we can do everything possible to “postpone it, shorten it, deescalate it.” Wendell Berry asks: “How many deaths of other people’s children by bombing or starvation are we willing to accept in order that we may be free, affluent and (supposedly) at peace?
The world is too small to have anything but neighbors. What are needed are people who can work hard to make peace. Woolman and Gandhi saw that the means and the ends are inseparable from loving one’s neighbor as oneself. I still feel like a beginner at prayer. I pray that my heart will be opened to see what is needed. I pray that my heart will be opened to see beyond anger, despair, and lashing out. I pray that my heart will be opened to see the beauty, mystery and love that surround me.
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Pruning—A great deal of time is taken up with making the coils become part of a coil pot. I scrape clay off the layered coils & tap the coils with a paddle until they are absorbed into the wall & disappear. The coils still existed but in a different form. The coils were now the walls of the pot. The coils abided in the pot & the pot abided in the coils. When I share my struggles or joys with God, I am abiding with God. I feel loved and changed as a result of that love. I am transformed into a vessel that receives. The process of reshaping by scraping or tapping, looking, and rotating the pot stand is repeated over and over, and is done mostly on the inside. Scraping, tapping, pushing, and stroking are actions involved in pruning or cleansing my vessel. With each of my strokes of the scraper, God is working, pruning and cleansing me, hollowing me out into a vessel that can receive.
As the wall of coils grows higher, the pile of coil scrapings grows. In that pile is the number of layers I need to shed in order to consent to God's presence. My confidence in what I am creating increases with each bit of clay added to the pile. With each tap and stroke, I am participating in, opening up to the faith process with God. Each action I take with the clay encourages me to open up more to God, and my confidence increases. I begin to work with the clay itself instead of with an image I want to create out of clay. I let go more and take risks. Trust grows amid the mystery of the creative process. [I unfold] and I absorb God.
Canyons—As the command "Break up your fallow ground" (Jer. 4:3) takes root in me, it begins to devour my insides; my heart burns. Jeremiah is asking me to prepare the ground of my heart for planting. Breaking up ground makes me face problems I don't want to face & provokes thoughts I don't want to think. Often in my life, God is before me, but I don't catch the spirit each time I catch my breath. I become the living dead, surrounded by the familiar & knowable, & deciding to stay the way I am. I slip into being manipulated by fear. I seek situations that don't require me to change. Fear eats away at my trust in my relationship with God. I feel stagnated.
Landscapes of my canyon clay pieces is God's fallow ground. In working clay, I break up fallow ground. I often linger on one crack & follow its winding path. Hues of blue cascade down the canyon's interior sides [into] pool of deep blue glaze in the center. Cracks I make are openings that catch light. The more I make, the brighter the light, & the more I contribute to the canyon's character. Sharing myself, what's in my heart, is what makes cracks & breaks up ground I'm standing on. Cracks are pathways to light, movement in the direction of building a relationship with God. Each crack I make reveals just a bit more of my character, and I know [a bit more of] my true self. I must reveal my fault lines hidden beneath the knowable surface I have invented for myself.
Psalm 139—In searching me, God comes to know every crevice, curve, wrinkle of body, heart, and thoughts. God knows me better than I know myself. Getting to know God is getting to know me. There is pain in getting to know me. May Sarton writes: "[But] there is nothing we suffer that doesn't hold the seed of creation in it." With my canyon pieces, the short coils of different lengths and widths must not disappear but instead be preserved. I use red iron oxide to accent the cracks instead of a glaze to make them disappear.
My eyes linger on my canyons, for I am looking at me, my relationship with God, and God's love for me. With time, I realize that amid this searching of me, I am known and loved. In the southwest US, I needed to roam a landscape similar to that of my canyons. Mighty hills were [being] brought to their knees by the wind and arid air, revealing their essence. Sunset colors surfaced. These hills remind me that beauty is in the exposure. The canyons are a witness to God's love for me.
Gethsemane Cup—When Jesus said: "Let this cup pass from me," he can't live in the uncertainty, and yet somehow he seems to endure amid this uncertainty. Trust seeps into the uncertainty with each bit of sharing what is in his heart. With his "Yet not what I want but what you want," Jesus shifted from being self-centered to being God-centered. Pain, failures, disappointments, and doubts are all easy to embrace, to grasp tightly. To consent and trust is elusive. Embracing it is impossible. [Yet] God needs my consent. [Those who] do and do and do [find it hard] to "consent," [where] I am asked to pause and pause and pause.
In order to consent, I need to go beyond myself and acknowledge there is something beyond my ability to understand, a will larger than my own. Consenting means embracing the mystery and demands embracing the stillness. In the stillness comes the realization that I am in the presence of God. In this God-consciousness space I sense what it means to be in a relationship with God. [A meaningful relationship is not conditional. God does not have conditions, and I need to not have any for God]. I am moving, [whether it seems so or not]; God is working within me, in the pauses, the unknowing, the resting time.
In the stillness, being is more important than doing. The stillness' mark on me is humility and just being. I come face to face with the truth of what it means to be me, to be human. Instead of drowning in my failures and limitations, I sense my perfection, my wholeness. My failures are [actually] steps closer to the ground of my being. Jesus did not let the Gethsemane cup pass. When I drink from my Gethsemane cup, I have an opportunity to face the stillness within me. The stillness becomes the compost to work the earth of my heart. I die in the stillness only to witness the dawn in my soul. I feel the warmth of coming home to God.
Dare to Suffer—There was chaos inside me. Soon it would consume me. I needed to be with clay, but I did not want to create. I wanted to destroy. [I tried to wedge], which involves folding the clay into itself repeatedly in order to pop the trapped air embedded in the clay. Without wedging, whatever I create runs the risk of not surviving the bisque firing in the kiln. When I do not face the chaos of wedging, perhaps I am denying myself the opportunity to develop my true gifts and call my authentic self into being. [The clay seems unwedgeable and is leaving a mess on me and my tools. I cleaned up and] started the wedging procedure all over again.
The clay scraper was helping me manage the chaos, but the clay was still hard to manage. [I was told to] "Keep wedging. Something happens. It just takes time." After awhile, I was able to do more wedging, less scraping. This unwedgeable clay became wedgeable. With each enfolding gesture, the chaos inside of me slowly slipped away and a calmness seeped into this experience I had with the clay. Energy rushed into my being. Wedging the clay, [enfolding it], has become an act of vital importance to me. When I enfold something into me, I consume it and consequently it reaches not just my mind but my heart and soul as well.
I realized that Jesus on the cross changed just as the clay changed. Jesus' doubts and fears began to stir up the chaos within him. "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit," was his way of willing himself into the chaos. With his plunge into chaos, he brings God into his suffering and comes to know a God who suffers with him. With the words "My God, My God, Jesus began to share his fears with God and to enfold himself into God. When Jesus dared to suffer on the cross, he discovered a God who suffers with him.
I know why I make cliff pots. [I was having trouble with a pot's rim]. I began ripping the clay off the rim, making deep, [jagged], rips. Each bit ripped off created a high or low cliff. Each cliff I make prepares me for a fling into chaos. [Others see in my pots eggs cracked open, because of pots' jagged edges]. When I see cracked egg, I know something has been born. My experience with wedging clay told me something would happen in chaos. Sharing my anxieties with God began enfolding process, & became soothing process. God would be with me in brokenness I had to face. I am called to be creative [& re-created]. In the faith journey's darkness, a turning takes place. I give up being the potter & become clay with "treasure" inside. I become like Abraham & believe God will provide. With all enfolding, I have managed to become bound to God. In claiming my origin I have become known & claimed by the great "I am." I live to go forth. I can't create when I choose path separating me from God. When I consent, I soar for I have opened the door of creation. [I am] a new creation in Christ.
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389. From West Point to Quakerism (by Mike Heller; 2007)
About the Author—Mike Heller teaches literature and writing at Roanoke College, where Rebecca is the reference librarian. He has edited and co-edited notable Quaker publications. A member of Roanoke Monthly Meeting, Mike currently serves on Pendle Hill’s Board of Trustees.
[Introduction]—[Matt. 8: 8,13 cited] My brother Bill drove me to West Point, July 3, 1967. I [got on] a green army bus, with other young men, for the ride into the barracks area. We took turns standing with arms out to be measured for uniforms, [& receive cadet clothing, among them]: gym shorts, white t-shirts, black socks, & lowcut black shoes. We were led through a sally port, a dark arching gateway into old Central area. An upper-classman with epaulets ordered me to report to the Man in the Red Sash. [My legs wouldn’t stop shaking while I did so]. 1,000 new cadets marched to Trophy Point to take the oath. We had marched in squads around the blacktop in Central Area and New South Area, learning to salute and do the about face.
For years I didn’t want to talk about my journey, from growing up in a military family, going to West Point, & becoming increasingly uncomfortable with military service; I didn’t know how to talk about it. After a Quaker meeting at Sandy Spring, way began to open. Through writing, I have gained better understanding of regret & need for affirmation, cowardice & courage, my artistic life, & my life journey of duty & spiritual direction.
Growing up—I grew up on or near air bases in the late ‘50’s & early ‘60’s, when the military lived in a bright light of victory & high morale. As kids we rode bikes down to the flight line. On some days my father let me walk with him into airplane hangars, & sometimes I got to climb into the planes themselves, & even a Titan missile silo. In 1961, my brother Bill went to West Point. [We traveled cross-country to see him at Christmas].
At 4 years old, I stand near my mother who is seated on the grass; she is tickling me. Her love for me had nothing to do with whether I was good at anything. [It seemed to me] as if in her eyes I was always that little boy. My father was a great air force captain and a great line engineer. He and my mother liked the airbase social life and were active in the officers’ club. They often had parties that I watched from the hallway in my pajamas.
There is a WW II photo of my father as a handsome young lieutenant with a thin mustache and his hat cocked at an angle. Dad took part in the fire bombing of Tokyo. The day my father’s plane ditched in the Pacific, my mother had a miscarriage, and her father died. My father was the only one from that crew that chose to return to combat; he flew 30 more missions over Japan. He got out of the military for 6 years, and was recalled in the Korean War. He and my mother decided to stay in the military for a career.
My struggles, my resistance to authority probably would have happened even if I had not gone into the military. The spring he left the air force, we moved to Phoenix. The high school art studio was a subversive place. Ed Shipp, my art teacher, had us paint big paintings. [I had doubts about going to a military academy]. I was 17 and aware of Vietnam, but gave the war little serious thought. [I applied, did tests, examinations and interviews. I received a telegram that spring from Senator Paul Fannin saying I had been accepted at West Point.
West Point—At one weekly Saturday morning inspection, I told the tactical officer that I was homesick. He asked me when I was going to get over it. I said I didn’t know. Boxing was one of a plebe year’s 4 required classes. Mr. Palone taught us a good boxer knows how not to get hit. Bob Tomasulo & I were to be boxers on our cadet company team. Years later I realized I might have been a pretty good boxer if I could have worn glasses.
One dark November night at supper, all the plebes were strung out, worn out, & tired. When they kept us from eating & poured on verbal abuse, some of us broke down. One Friday night at the movies [someone harassed me and I left]. He hated my guts because I had turned in my roommates and several others for leaving campus & sneaking in alcohol. After days of agonizing indecision & advice from my brother, I told the honor rep what I knew. The guys involved were not kicked out though expulsion was the punishment for even the smallest honor violation. I was forced to choose between the institution’s honor system and the barracks’ code of loyalty.
All of this occurred within a barracks life that was harsh & confusing. The world behind closed doors of plebe rooms included crude jokes & macho posturing. One of those I turned in asked, “Why didn’t you talk to us 1st?” He was right. For the rest of 1968 & long after that, I must have been clinically depressed. The honor incident occurred in the context of sinking institutional morale. The war for me was strangely distant, even though a friend’s brother was killed in the Tet offensive. [The assassinations of King & Kennedy followed later that year].
In the spring of my plebe year, I bought a sketchbook to rekindle my sense of creative energy and integrity. My good friend and frequent roommate Joe Waldhaus was a rebel. He stubbornly refused to buy a class ring, in spite of numerous attempts to persuade him. He was practicing Gandhi-like non-cooperation.
The superintendent Major General Koster spoke to us when he resigned because of his role in the My Lai massacre cover-up; charges against him were dropped. The summer before my West Point senior year, Rebecca Crist & I were engaged. During my senior year, she lived in nearby Fort Montgomery. The 2nd & 3rd years, I painted at post hobby shop. One painting was of Long Island shore in summer. Another was the lane behind old Central area.
West Point, despite itself, was quickening my ideals for how I wanted to life, if only because I was experiencing inward rebellion and disillusionment. I had experienced something of apostasy, separation from God, and I was beginning to experience a journey of restoration and return. [I had a few good role models at West Point in Col Jack Capps, Col. Charles Kimble, and Maj. Pat Hoy. The last two taught] with a gentle but sharp edge that made me wake up, listen, and enjoy. At our graduation in Michie Stadium, Secretary of Defense Laird gave a speech. I did not bother throwing my hat in the air. That afternoon I slid 2 army issue trunks into the back of a car and drove out the south gate.
The Army—In June, 2 weeks after graduation, Becky & I were married in her parents’ home in Phoenix. The 1st year after graduation, I learned something about the excitement & power of firing large weapons. [I jumped out of a plane 4 times, twice at night, in spite of being scared the 1st time]. When I saw footage of our B-52s dropping hundreds of bombs in Cambodia & heard it described as rolling thunder, I realized how little I understood of what was happening.
Our Ranger training was based on small unit infantry combat in Vietnam. I ended up not having to go, which is one reason that telling my story might be self-indulgent. I felt vague guilt and self-consciousness about not suffering the brutality of war along with others. I spent a year as an armored cavalry platoon leader, practicing things [I] hoped never to have to do. After the armored cavalry I was assigned to Arlington, Virginia.
I walked from home to headquarters, into an office that managed personnel databases for army intelligence. I drove across the Potomac to George Washington University. I was the awkward army guy sitting in class with anti-war hippies, graduate students, & older women returning to school. At the Ft. Myer hospital, I went to the Psychiatry Department, but [something kept me from explaining what I needed, & I left shivering in fear].
Meanwhile, Becky went to the Quaker Meeting at Sandy Spring, Maryland. Becky & I were drawn toward Quaker worship. Becky grew up in the Disciples of Christ church. We attended Unitarian Universalist, & Catholic services. The only thing I knew about Quakers was something vague about their refusal to participate in wars. We went to the Quaker meeting together. I remember how strange it felt in the silence to watch my thoughts unspooling for that hour. Afterward I felt relaxed and open. I wrote 2 letters asking to resign my commission. They accepted my resignation after the second letter, on the last day of my 5-year commitment. My father thought I was making a mistake, and may have had doubts that I could make it on my own outside the military.
Friends—Before I knew anything about Quakers, I felt drawn to a plain style of behavior. Plain speaking seems like the way of my movie heroes, Gary Cooper & Jimmy Stewart. For the same reasons, when I left the army, I was glad there was no ceremony. [We went back to Phoenix, which seemed like our spiritual home]. If a drill sergeant had asked, “What are you going to do now,” I would have said, “Drill Sergeant, I don’t know.”
One morning I woke up, and knew that I wanted to go into teaching. I contacted AZ State U’s English Department, and talked to Lynn Nelson. She became a mentor who helped me face my fears about teaching. At a level below my logical mind, I felt I was finally doing the right thing. That Year I took a course in methods of teaching art of Ed Shipp, my high school art teacher. He said, “Back in high school, there were forces working on you that were beyond your control.”
Becky & I began attending the Quaker meeting at AZ State U. in the small chapel across from the library. When the meeting accepted our requests for membership, they presented us with 2 books by Howard Brinton, Quaker Journals & Friends for 300 years. The silence of Quaker worship spoke to me before I knew anything of Quaker faith or witness. The silence offered me an opportunity to go inward & listen, & it was an opportunity to be with others with long experience in this inward listening. I found comfort in this careful waiting on the Spirit.
I was embarrassed about having chosen to go to West Point. I did not feel worthy to call myself a Quaker, but that changed as I gradually sensed that [I always was a Quaker]. Becky’s love and support had kept me alive; she believed in me. [With 2 children], love and forgiveness began their long course of unfolding within me. [I did not admit to my Mom that I regretted going to West Point]. Did I feel that admitting regret would make it harder for me to forgive myself or to forgive others? I did not regret that I returned to art as a way to be present in the world & that I had begun to listen to my heart’s whispering. I didn't regret how the way opened.
I was hired as an English teacher at Thunderbird High School. I learned from our principal, other teachers, & my students. My body & soul were quietly saying yes to a new life. I didn't return to West Point for 24 years. In 1994 my plebe boxing teammate & friend Bob Tomasulo, died in a rock-climbing accident. When I finally did go back to West Point, it was to visit Bob’s grave. Parking at the Old Cadet Chapel, I got out to look for Bob’s grave. West Point had given me my friendship with Bob T. West Point had helped me become a Quaker, too.
My father at 85 had a bout with pneumonia, and spent a month in the Virginia Veterans Care Center, a nursing home. It was not easy. Despite the atmosphere of diarrhea and urine, the nurses smiled a lot and had helpful words. I felt something sacred here with these old men and the few old women. Soon they would all cross over. My father seemed to resent them, but to me they seemed like sweet old men, not at all like the men I remembered meeting in the army. Somewhere along the way I learned that most military officers are kind, extremely bright people, and probably most are smarter than I am.
What should one do for one’s family, community, nation, and world? Now I feel I should do what I can to work for nonviolent solutions in the world. I have learned that knowing one’s duty is a journey of lifelong discernment through conflicting tensions. A sense of duty arises from one’s deeply-felt inward life. [Woolman linked duty to self-interest in writing: “To examine and prove ourselves, to find what harmony the power presiding in us bears with the divine nature, is a duty not more incumbent and necessary than it would be beneficial.”
From Anne Hardt at Tempe Meeting I learned that the idealistic option is sometimes the most realistic. From Janeal Ravndal I learned that “nothing you do is too small to make a difference.” From Sterling Omstead’s study of Woolman and Gandhi I learned that nonviolence can be an act of spiritual self-fulfillment. From William Stafford I learned that even if war seems unavoidable, we can do everything possible to “postpone it, shorten it, deescalate it.” Wendell Berry asks: “How many deaths of other people’s children by bombing or starvation are we willing to accept in order that we may be free, affluent and (supposedly) at peace?
The world is too small to have anything but neighbors. What are needed are people who can work hard to make peace. Woolman and Gandhi saw that the means and the ends are inseparable from loving one’s neighbor as oneself. I still feel like a beginner at prayer. I pray that my heart will be opened to see what is needed. I pray that my heart will be opened to see beyond anger, despair, and lashing out. I pray that my heart will be opened to see the beauty, mystery and love that surround me.
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