Looking Back to Move Forward

Ever find yourself wondering, “What was I thinking?!” (Usually muttered when we're living with unanticipated but now, in hindsight, painfully foreseeable consequences of choices we've made.) The plus and minus of being a writer, is that I can find out what I was thinking- because I wrote it down!

Creative work incubates within us long before it manifests in sounds or colours or shapes or stories. So, when I start to write a book, I go back and sift through the journals I’ve filled since the last book was written. I look for the luminous ends of threads and follow them down into the story that wants to be told. I dive into the recorded thoughts, feelings, choices, fears, joys and dreams in one small life, partly because it's the information on our inner lives to which I have the most direct access (augmented by the truth-telling journals- memory is often not reliable.)  

Since any tale of my life in the last few years will include some reflection on the ending of my marriage (two years ago now,) I thought it would be wise (if not exactly fun) to go back and start reading about my experience as my ex-husband and I got together in 2000. It has been. . . .  humbling. I am reading about the daily struggles of a woman (me- although there are moments when I would like to disavow ownership) earnestly and repeatedly talking herself out of the serious qualms she has about the relationship that is unfolding, and talking herself into a commitment that some part of her clearly knows is unwise. And this after years of deep psychological and spiritual inner work, a consistent daily practice, and supportive community!

Here’s the thing: we cannot be more conscious than we are. Knowing now what I did not know then, I can see how unconscious fears, stories, wounds and beliefs were shaping my choices. I'm not judging myself for this- it's simply what was.

But I’m looking for something else that I know is there, something I can feel in the shape and colour of the comments and stories, in the scent of the details of one small life: the arc of the healing my soul was seeking, orchestrating, creating. I have tremendous faith in the sacred Mystery that creates us and in what we are. Although, at times, we all self-sabotage, go unconscious, and make unwise choices, soul/psyche is always aiming for awareness of our essential wholeness, always using whatever is available to find the healing that will support us in making the choice to live fully and deeply.

So, with gentle curiosity (and a little trepidation) the soul-sleuthing begins. I continue to read and write, seeing the arc of my own soul/psyche exposing the primal wound I had never faced,  bringing about the healing I have always ached for, opening me to the ever-deepening spiral of loving myself, life and the world. 

It’s not always an easy story, but that’s okay. It’s still being told, is unfolding with increasing ease and joy, and I have every confidence that it ends well. 

Oriah (c) 2012

Finding The Truth That Takes Us Home

How do you make yourself available to the truth, even when it's hard?

Whether I am journaling or working on a book, or just posting a brief comment on Facebook, the act of writing brings me to the truth of the moment. Oh, I’m not claiming to be accessing “Absolute Truth” when I write, and it’s not that I drag readers through every detail of my daily life. But, as much as I sometimes try to wiggle away from the truth of the moment, (watching movies, or working too much to avoid some feeling or situation I am not enjoying) I can’t do it when I write.

It’s Facebook that has really brought this home to me. I post daily and my purpose is to offer us all a little daily encouragement because. . . . well, because sometimes  life is challenging and we can all use a little encouragement. But, even if I want to write something I hope will inspire gratitude or inner peace, something I’d like to reinforce our natural courage and compassion, if I am not connected to gratitude or peace, courage or compassion, I can’t write about it. It feels. . . . false. Even if I plan to use a quote from one of my books, I can’t post it if it feels miles away from what I am experiencing in the moment.

Now, this having to write from the truth of the moment, is not always convenient. Sometimes my moments- like everyone’s- suck.  But here’s the great thing about this: because I am committed to posting each day on Facebook, to writing a weekly blog,  a new book, first thing in the morning as part of my daily practise, and because I find it pretty much impossible to lie to myself on the page, when I encounter a  moment that is filled with pain or grief or some other less-than-fun condition- I can write my way into being able to be with it in a truthful way.

However we do it, being truthful with ourselves about this moment, deepens our intimacy with ourselves, each other and life. And, as the Grandmothers of the dreamtime told me years ago- “Intimacy heals.”  

Your way of being aware of and with the truth of the moment may not include writing- may happen most deeply when you meditate, or go for a walk, or go fishing. You may find yourself most present with what is when you wash dishes slowly, or draw, when you listen to or make music, or pray, or dance, or do yoga, or play with the dog.  . . . There are infinite ways to make space for the deep truth of our lives to find us, and we don’t have to do it the same way all the time, although it’s good to find a way that works even when the truth we have to face and be with is hard, even when some part of us would rather not be with what is.

Sometimes, when I feel my own resistance to being with the truth I start writing with the phrase, “I don’t want to write about . . . . “ At other times, when I notice that I am doing everything BUT taking myself to writing, (because the utensil drawer in the kitchen is suddenly screaming to be reorganized or the urge to clean the oven  is irresistible) I ask myself on the page, “What are you trying to outrun?” and see what comes.

The commitment to living a human life fully involves being with the truth of our experience in the moment. That’s where home is. Our practice- however formal or informal- is our way of going home over and over again.

 Oriah (c) 2012

My Favourite Four Letter Word

Monday was Labour Day here in Canada. This, combined with a week of energetically re-arranging and cleaning my apartment and a recent retreat filled with intense studying and writing, got me thinking about work- about how much I love to work, how meaningful work (along with intimate relationships) is important to a sense of well-being, how work is often vilified, depicted as something we would eradicate from our lives if we had the resources to hire others to do it.

One of the great gifts of having had a chronic illness for many years, is that I truly appreciate the times when I am able to work. I am aware of the satisfaction I feel from being able to move furniture, the “good tired” I get from using feeling/intuitive/mental abilities to write or work with a client. Doing work that makes us stretch just a smidge beyond what comes without any effort at all, can feel invigorating.

I am thinking here of work in the broadest possible way- as focused effort expended in a particular direction. Could be paid or unpaid, inner or outer, something we love doing or something we do only because it has to be done or for some other end (like putting food on the table.) Could be creatively open-ended or. . . . not so much. There are only so many ways to wash the dishes, but even there we have choices about the quality of the attention we bring to the task, whether or not we really feel the warm, soapy water (and offer a small prayer of gratitued for hot running water,) whether or not we see the task as drudgery or an act of caring for ourselves or others.  

One of the most challenging things about aging is the diminishment of our ability to work as we once could. Still, if we don’t get caught in identifying with the quantity of accomplished work, but allow ourselves to enjoy the feeling of working at whatever level makes us stretch just a little (without hurtling ourselves over the cliff of “but I used to be able to . . .” ) the pleasure in work can still be ours.

Of course, the conditions of our work can make it easier or harder to find joy in the activity. If we are compelled by circumstances to work long hours, to do work that separates us from those we love for long periods, or to work in conditions that are unsustainable for our minds, bodies, hearts or spirits, finding joy in work can become difficult or impossible

Years ago, when I was encouraging a friend to seek the assistance of a skilled guide in order to deepen her understanding of and healing around a terribly abusive childhood, she responded with a plaintive wail, “But it’s so much work!”

"Well yes," I replied, “but work is not suffering. It’s just work.”

Now, this may make me the poster child for the protestant work ethic I was steeped in as a child, but it’s true: work doesn’t need to be suffering. Work can be just work, focused effort in a particular direction. Our beliefs about work can make it suffering. Even when work is challenging, how we do it can create a little ease and, sometimes, real joy. If we are willing to bring curiosity and mindfulness to our experience while actively creating meaning for ourselves from the tasks at hand, even the most mundane or challenging work can deepen our awareness and enrich our lives.

Which is why work is my favourite four letter word. 

(c) Oriah 2012

My Mistake With A Vampire

We all make mistakes. Let me tell you about one of mine.

Recently I went unconscious for a nanosecond and picked up the phone even though I knew it was a call from someone who I experience as draining my energy (no psychic ability involved on my part, just call display.) Energetically it's a vampire-prey relationship (which I’ve been understanding more as I read Unholy Hungers: Encountering the Psychic Vampire in Ourselves & Others by Jungian analyst Barbara E. Hort.) I ended contact with this person a couple of months ago when I realized it was the only way I could not feel fed upon.

I’m not saying there aren't other ways to stop energy-draining patterns in a relationship, just that I could not find one in this case. I’d tried being explicit about what I could not do, being brief, making contact less frequently, only having contact when others were around, being open-hearted and compassionate, being fierce and direct. I’d looked at my part, and I’d had some insights. I’d understood what was happening and why, but the energy drain continued. So, I stopped having contact. I didn’t offer a lot of explanation (had been down that road many times in trying to shift things.) I just said (as much to myself as the other really,) “I’m done.”

We can all, at times, be unintentionally draining to others- yes, there’s a little shadow vampire in everyone, and yes, some folks’survival strategies lean more this way than others. Sometimes it’s a pattern in a particular relationship- as it is with this person and me. When we didn’t have contact- as happened recently when I was on retreat for two weeks- I noticed a real and sustained increase in my own energy.

No one likes to lose a habitual source of energy and comfort. So, I wasn’t surprised when the phone calls continued. I did not pick up. I deleted the messages. Each time I sent a quiet prayer for the other, that they find what they need and know they are loved. (Yes, you can love someone and know that contact is a bad idea.) 

But recently, inexplicably, I picked up the phone one evening when it rang, knowing it was this person. It may have been a moment of weakness or a moment of strength, a moment when I was too tired to think straight or thought I could “handle” it. Whatever it was, for an instant I went unconscious about what I know. Sometimes that’s all it takes to revert to old habits- a moment of unconsciousness. As we spoke I could feel my energy plummet as the other's voice became increasingly animated. It was very strange- like watching water being siphoned from one container to another. I got off the phone in seven minutes, and that’s when things got interesting. 

My inner critic went nuts: “Well, that was brilliant! Finally get the energy to write and just throw it away. How stupid was that!? And now the door is open. It’ll be a long spiral down into days in bed. And the calls will keep on coming. . . . “

You can always count on the inner critic to start catastrophizing. I was disappointed in myself and, for a moment, more than a little scared that there might be some truth in the critic’s dire predictions. I lay in bed and took long slow breaths into my belly, asking myself, “What is actually happening in my body?”

I could feel a dull sensation behind my eyes- like a black fog- and a heaviness in my legs. I realized that the precious feeling of being solidly awake and embodied that had been so vivid in the last few weeks had dimmed a little- where it had been, in the centre of my body, there was a wobbly feeling. The critic chimed in again, but I over-rode it, keeping the tone of my inner self-talk gentle but firm.

“It’s okay. I made a mistake. I’ve made this one before and survived and regained equilibrium. This time was brief, so recovery will be speedy. I am learning. Learning takes time. Old habits die hard, and new ones take time to establish. Being fully conscious in every second is not possible, so mistakes are inevitable. Nothing dire has happened. I caught it quickly, and I know how to recover from much worse. It will be okay.”

And slowly, I relaxed and moved into a deep, restorative sleep.

We all make mistakes. What matters is what we do with them. Brene Brown's research shows that we do not learn more or learn faster if we are shamed by ourselves or others. The shamanic path in which I was trained emphasised the willingness to learn from our mistakes, and one of the things we can learn is to offer ourselves tenderness and mercy, and then- we begin again with renewed energy and deepened wisdom.

Oriah (c) 2012

Rediscovering Joy in Work

In hindsight I often marvel at how little I know about where I am going or how to get there and yet, somehow, am guided in what I need to do.

I was having trouble deciding on the nature of the “retreat” time I’d set aside- two weeks starting at the end of July. I’d booked a small cottage in the woods northeast of Toronto- a lovely spot on a river too small for motorized watercraft, without a phone or an internet connection. Very private and very quiet. But was I going for a holiday, for rest and relaxation, or to work on my writing, or primarily to do ceremony that required solitude? I couldn’t decide. I felt like I needed all three.

As I packed up some novels (to serve the holiday option) the Grandmothers (who often appear in my dreams and less frequently insert guidance when I meditate or as I walk through my day) repeatedly mentioned six other, somewhat heavy-duty books on brain science and psychology. I resisted. I’d read three of these books. One was a wonderful but complex Jungian take on the effects of early trauma on psyche. Rereading it was about as far away from rest and relaxation as I could imagine. I thought I’d compromise- take four novels and a couple of those “suggested,” but when one of the latter literally “fell” off the shelf- twice- I gave up and stuck them all in a bag, muttering to myself, “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m taking them all.”

What followed was two weeks of study and writing for twelve to fifteen hours a day. I was. . . compelled. . . fascinated. . . . moved to read, take detailed notes and then write my own reflections and stories as they came. Although I had my laptop with me, I was surprisingly drawn to write mostly by hand, filling five journals and, for the first time in my life, having to soak my hand in warm water at night to ease muscle spasms from non-stop scribbling.

I also swam in the river, did my daily practise sitting on the earth beneath the trees, recorded my dreams, (which were clearly the bridge between what I was reading and what I was writing as part of the new book on choice) and prepared and ate great meals. But mostly, I was learning and writing, reading and contemplating from five in the morning until nine at night.

And I felt great! What I remembered was how much I love to work, how much I enjoy learning and letting the fire of creativity and ideas and stories take me where they want me to go. For the last five years of my marriage it was all I could do to take care of cleaning, cooking, laundry, gardening etc. in between collapsing in bed ill. This- this feeling of being on fire with the desire to learn and write, to dream and work- had not been with me for years.

Each night as I lay in bed, listening to the owls calling to each other in the forest around me, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this rediscovery of the joy of doing work I love. I came home happy and eager to continue, ready to read and write and learn more, with enthusiasm. (Enthusiasm- en-theos- filled with/possessed by the divine/Spirit.) Sometimes, if we can let go of "deciding" what something should or could or ought to be, the impulse that comes from deep within will guide us to the home we are longing to revisit.

In the end, all my dithering to figure out what I my intention was for the retreat time, gave way to that which called to me. Was it a holiday (holy-day), time to work on the book, or a ceremonial time of solitude? Yes. 

Oriah (c) 2012

Heart Stretches

I spent the last two weeks in a cabin in the woods alone, doing my Sacred Pipe prayers daily sitting on the damp earth as the sun rose and the loon’s call echoed down the river.  I did a little swimming in the river- but mostly I wrote. No phone, no television, no internet. The silence was spectacular, the isolation was intense, the writing went on and on and on.

And then, I came home.

I’ve only been home three days, but it’s been a busy time of dealing with changing developments in the care arrangements for my parents (both of whom have Alzheimer’s.) There are questions. There are challenges. There is heart ache and frustration. There is a need for action. There are obstacles to taking action. There are accusations, abuses, lies and the opening of old wounds. There is responsibility. There is bewilderment and grief.

Compared to my previous two weeks, there is a flood of interaction, a constant quest for clarity and wisdom, continual use of electronic communication (or miscommunication.)

Taking an early morning walk two thoughts kept coming to mind for contemplation. One is an observation, the other is a belief that has been brought to consciousness. Both opened me to truths that ask me to stretch in my capacity to be with the other.

First the observation:  It is much easier to be calm, kind and forgiving, even when on the receiving end of difficult behaviour, whether mildly irritating or blatantly unjust, if we understand something of the story of the other. If a friend is constantly worrying about money, keeping track of who paid for what and exacting the dollar difference in shared expenses, it's much easier to tolerate her obsession, to be patient with her anxiety if I know she was raised in abject poverty, or grew up in a household where money was seen as power and used to manipulate others.

But often we don’t know the other’s history, the back story of the fears that drive them or the beliefs that shape their behaviour. (We're not always aware of this within ourselves!) The challenge is to hold the other in my heart when I don't understand why they are behaving the way they are, to know that in this moment they are doing the best they can with what they have to work with even when I don’t know what old psychological material or lack of resources they are experiencing. I’m not talking about taking or allowing abuse or injustice. I can remove myself (or others) from range when someone is striking out and/or sometimes step in and stop action that may cause harm without making the other something less that another human being doing the best they can. Now that’s a challenge – particularly when the other is swinging at you!

As I stepped out of range of a few nasty swings in the last few days, I also realized I hold a semi-conscious belief that if I am as kind and patient and compassionate as I can be with another, sooner or later the other will be kind and patient and compassionate with me. Sometimes it works. We human beings are very responsive creatures. But sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes we can be kind and compassionate and patient and we still have to be smart enough and alert enough to duck when someone takes a swing at us.

The challenge, the stretch is to be kind and patient and compassionate because that‘s the way I want to be with others (and myself.) Not to get a particular response. Not to earn consideration or love or approval. Not to stop the other from wanting to do me harm. To be compassionate for the sake of compassion- with no expectation of effecting change in the other, but because that is how we want to live, even as we know we will do so imperfectly, as human beings, doing the best we can.

Deep breath, . . . .  wide heart-stretch.

Oriah (c) 2012

Summer Retreat

I will be away from July 28 until mid-August on retreat in a cabin in the woods, writing and doing ceremony in a place with no internet or phone connection. I will post again on Wednesday, August 15.  May we each find the rest and rejuvenation of sacred self-care that we may offer sustainable service.