My Secret Christmas "Miracle"

When I was seven years old I was Mary in the Christmas pageant at the Presbyterian Church my family attended. Mary was the only girl-part in the tableau and, in an effort to make sure we were not confused by the Catholics my mother repeatedly told me, "Playing Mary is no big deal. All she did was have a baby- any woman can do that! The Catholics make Mary a big deal, and that's a sin."

(Yes anti-Catholic sentiment and misogyny were alive and well in the 1960's in Ontario, Canada. Sigh. But I digress.)

The best thing about being Mary was the veil I got to wear bobby-pinned to my hair. It was a sky blue square of what I now realize was probably polyester and not silk (as I like to remember it.) Along the edges that framed my face, someone had glued a line of silver sparkles.

Now, in those days, the right lens of my glasses was blocked out with tape in an effort to get me to use and strengthen my "lazy" left eye. I hated it, mostly because it left me with very little sight. Mrs. Russell, my Sunday school teacher, decided that the eye patch did not fit the nativity scene we were creating, and told me to take my glasses off. I was happy to comply. 

So, there I sat, a blue-eyed blonde Mary in my Sunday dress with my blue sparkly veil, holding one of my dolls wrapped in a sheet on my lap, surrounded by a group of boys all wearing bathrobes over their clothes. The shepherds wore t-towels on their heads held in place with their sisters' stretchy headbands applied horizontally across their foreheads. The bare-headed boy was my husband, Joseph. I don't even remember what he looked like.

Because I was holding baby Jesus, I sat under the single bright light that was dramatically flipped on once we were all in place. The minister read the biblical account of the story of the birth of Jesus. It was an evening service and, because of the bright light over me, I couldn't see the people in the pews in front of me. The sanctuary was a dark background to the light show suddenly spiralling out in my peripheral vision.

Perhaps because my vision was a little different- a bit blurry- without glasses, and certainly because the overhead light was refracting off the sparkles on the sides of my veil, I could see rainbows of colour framing my vision and shooting off into the darkness around me. If I moved my head slightly the lights moved and changed as if they were alive and spinning off my face.

It felt like magic- magic akin to but beyond the guy in the red suit who was going to put presents under the tree later that night. It felt as if something divine had touched our little tableau. The lights around my face seemed to be a visual representation of angels singing. It felt. . . . like being Mary might matter.

I was enthralled. . . so mesmerized that I did not hear the end of the reading and missed my cue to return to my seat, Finally, Mrs. Russell flipped off the light and changed her loudly whispered "Mary, Mary . . . " to call my name, rousing me from my revere. The congregation chuckled and I, usually the careful little rule-keeper, was surprisingly unembarrassed as I went back to sit with my family.

I felt like I had been privy to a small Christmas miracle. I wondered if my mother might have misunderstood Mary's- all women's- place in things. It felt like there just might be girl-roles worth having in the truly big picture.

I never told anyone about what happened, what I saw or felt, that night.

Until today.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Oriah House 
(c) 2013

How The Light Returns

A single candle surrounded by darkness made deeper by the point of light; a circle of faces lit by the amber glow of a fire in a circle of stones in a clearing outside or in a dark cave, or a longhouse; someone walking alone through a bleak winter forest, seeing up ahead a small cabin lit from within- welcoming, waiting, promising warmth. How do you imagine it when someone talks about the promise of the returning light in this time of the longest darkness?

If we live long enough we will experience times of personal darkness. I'm not thinking here of the fertile darkness of deep rest and dreaming. I love the renewal and creative stirring of those periods. But I am thinking now of times when the way is lost and the heart is too weary to hope.

I am contemplating the ways in which light returns.

Sometimes it is gradual. Here in the northern hemisphere we will experience the longest night this coming Saturday the 21st and the next day- the very next day- dawn comes a bit earlier and dusk arrives an indiscernible moment later than it did the day before.

That's what coming up out of personal darkness is sometimes like: gradual, slow, an imperceptible movement back toward the fullness of life after we have experienced some kind of loss that has plunged us into what we fear is an eternal darkness. Food begins to have taste once more, and something unexpectedly makes us smile- if only for a moment- after weeks or months bereft of flavour or laughter.

In 2008 I had been predominantly housebound, often bed-bound, for more than two years with the chronic illness I'd mostly managed since I was thirty. The downward spiral had been slow but steady and showed no signs of stopping. And then, one morning alone in the country home I shared with my husband, I awoke from a night of terrifying dreaming to the sound of the Grandmothers speaking to me. The words followed me across the threshold from sleep and echoed in the room: GET OUT OF HERE NOW, ORIAH!

Sometimes, instead of a gradual return, the light comes back all at once- like the blaze of a match struck in the darkness- saying: "Live!" in a way we may not fully comprehend even as our vision is seared by the flame of awakening.

The Grandmothers of my dreams are rarely so explicitly directive.The urgency in their voices made me move that morning, even though I did not understand fully what they were telling me. I drove into Toronto and, although I returned home that night, changes began to unfold which gradually resulted in a move to the city alone a year later and, even more incrementally, the restoration of my daily energy and health.

Often for human beings the returning of the light after a long and difficult darkness happens in a strange mix of both the sudden flare of a call to action and a gradual integration of the growing light into our bones and our lives. Eventually, I realized that the Grandmothers directive had pointed to changes that were more all-encompassing than an excursion into the city or even a change in my residence. They had been urging me to remove myself from a situation where I was losing track of myself and my connection to Life and Spirit.

Light returns, because it is the nature of Life- of what we are- to cycle through periods of darkness and light. And the gifts of the darkness, those things we bring back from difficult times that allow us to live life more fully in an open-hearted way, are easier to retrieve if we can remember that the light will return. And when that seems like no more than a nice but unlikely idea, it helps to be with others who hold this knowing faithfully in that moment.

Even now, as we explore the longest night and reach for the promise of the return of the light here in the northern hemisphere, our sisters and brothers in the southern half of this planet are celebrating the time of the longest light and the fullness it brings.

And the Wheel turns, and Life continues, and the Sacred Wholeness holds us all.

Oriah House (c) 2013

Exploring Underlying Uneasiness

An uneasiness arises within me as soon as December begins. My sleep is filled with darker dreams; migraines pop up with greater frequency; I feel a tightening in my body and I have had small but alarming “cardiac incidents” (as the doctors like to call them), around the end of December in some previous years.

I know I’m not alone. Friends and clients wonder out loud about uncomfortable and often unnameable emotions that are stirred around the holiday season. For me, it's not about the expectations or the busyness. I gave myself permission long ago to keep the season simple- dropped what did not fit; focus on time with family and close friends; let go of all the family and cultural expectations that can create a real Stressmas.

But something deeper arises annually, like a dark underground river that suddenly surges and puts me on shaky ground. Having noticed this in other years, I am particularly careful to do my daily practises of yoga, prayer and meditation during this time, but the feeling I have is far from settled.

This year I decided to just sit with the feeling in an open-ended way, not pretending (even with myself) that I have a clue what it is about. 

The irony is that my childhood Christmases were relatively pleasant family gatherings- which is to say that my mother was nice to me at Christmas because my grandparents came to stay.

Ahhhhh. . . . and there's the source of the uneasiness: My mother’s seasonal acceptance and affection were seductive illusions. I knew they wouldn’t last, but I wanted them to be real more than I have ever wanted anything else. And while I played my role- kept all the rules, worked hard to be helpful- and enjoyed being temporarily treated like a Good Daughter, I knew it was a dangerous game that could tempt me into believing and make the return to “normal” excruciating in January.

When we have repeated feelings of uneasiness for no apparent reason, there’s a good chance that some (usually unconscious) part of us has a foot on the gas and is shouting, "Yes!" while another, equally unconscious aspect (perhaps having learned from previous experience) is slamming on the brakes and yelling, "Don't go there!"

The annual uneasiness in my body is an echo of  the power and the danger of the seasonal seduction that played out in my childhood home. My nervous system goes on alert, anticipates the bait-and-switch of childhood.

There maybe more. I’ll continue the open-ended inquiry throughout the season if and when the feeling arises because even this small revelation feels like it has lifted some kind of burden, made the season much lighter for myself.

Awareness, while not always easy, brings its own reward – greater freedom to be with and appreciate my life as it is now. And for this I am deeply grateful.

Oriah (c) 2013

What Can & Can't Be Earned

There are things we can earn and things we can’t. When we confuse the two we suffer: we behave with entitlement where we need to take responsibility; we engage in exhausting, ineffective and endless trying that can lead to despair.

This may seem self-evident, but I can truthfully say that a great deal of the suffering I have experienced or contributed to in this life is rooted in confusion about this simple truth.

We can and often do earn money, respect and trust.

Money is easiest in the sense that it is quantifiable and amenable to mutual agreement. Of course there are questions of clarity and fairness and honouring agreements etc. But the fact remains that money (or other forms of concrete barter) is something that can and often is earned.

Respect is a little more complicated. We earn respect primarily by being respectful. No guarantees there, but on the whole those who feel respected by us will respond in kind. And where they don’t in a big and consistent way, it’s probably best to take ourselves out of the vicinity if we can at least in the short term. Earning another’s respect, of course, starts with living and seeing ourselves in a way that cultivates self-respect. Respect is one of those things that adheres to the adage- We often teach others how to treat us.

Trust is trickier than respect, because it tends to develop over time and be effected by previous experience. It can take a long time for someone who was abused to trust another. If we want someone’s trust we can, to some degree earn it by being honest and consistent (and honest about where and when we must be inconsistent.) I’ve noticed that in fact most people are consistent- even if their consistency is in being inconsistent and/or dishonest. Another adage with some truth- People usually show us who they are from the start. Pay attention and trust what they are showing you.

But then there are the things we can’t earn. We can’t earn love. And we all want to be loved.

To borrow from Martin Buber’s observation about the word God, love is an over-burdened word. It can show up in a variety of ways but always, on some level, to be loved includes a sense of being seen and accepted, cherished and valued just for being ourselves.

If we try to earn the un-earnable, we will suffer, because it is simply not possible. Oh someone may appreciate our generosity and caring, may admire our efforts and value our contributions. But love- being seen and cherished for being- is not earned.

I know this because I grew up in a household that taught me to believe otherwise. It’s a hard belief to break. Teaching a child that every expression or feeling of being loved must be earned anew each day is based on the notion that we are not- each of us- worthy of love just because we are and not because of how useful we could be to another, or how well we can adhere to someone else’s sense of who we should be.

The belief that we must (and can) earn love, is a lie that creates tremendous suffering.

We can’t earn love. We never could. Knowing this, keeping it in conscious awareness, we are blessed to freely love and be loved.

Oriah House (c) 2013 

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Last week, I started to feel a little like an old dog that someone might think had to be put down. I couldn’t hear anything out of my right ear and a crown on one of my teeth came off. Since I didn’t swallow the crown, that glitch was easily remedied, but the blocked ear defied health care professionals' intervention for a few days (turns out my eustachian tube was blocked.) It has cleared now (thank you, thank you, thank you) but the seven days of impaired hearing was, in hindsight, a gift.

We all know the one about needing to walk a mile in another’s shoes if we want to understand them. But sometimes it’s impossible to imagine ourselves in another’s place, and it is easy forget that others are not having the same experience we're having.

So it is with humility that I apologize to those I know who have had hearing loss for any moments of irritation I have had with their struggle. Trying to function in a noisy world with partial hearing loss is. . . .exhausting. In crowded restaurants the din is overwhelming and requires enormous focus to hear what table companions are saying. And giving up- while a relief from the trying- feels incredibly isolating, like you’ve just stepped out of a certain kind and level of connection with others.

And I knew- or at least was hoping and guessing- that my situation was temporary, repairable. If your hearing loss is permanent or progressive, I cannot imagine how much fortitude it takes to hang in there and try to listen and participate.

I think of my father whose hearing declined with age, and how he withdrew from conversations, stopped going to church, was increasingly reluctant to go to large restaurants. Family members urged him not to give up, and truthfully, I was mystified at how much he disengaged.

Now I get it.

You know, as someone who was diagnosed over thirty years ago with a chronic illness (CFS/FM) that many do not acknowledge or understand, you’d think that I would “get” that I was not “getting” what it was like for my father and others I knew who were losing their hearing.

Which is all to say that I am grateful for last week’s hearing loss- almost as grateful as I am for its restoration. It has rooted a needed awareness in my body, reminded me that even though in some sense we are One, every other is also wholly other with their own history, inner and outer challenges and resources. Remembering this, each encounter becomes an opportunity to explore the Mystery of the other. And for this, I am deeply grateful.

Oriah © 2013 (You can subscribe to this weekly blog by putting your email in at the bottom of the green panel on the right hand side of this page.)

What Makes Us Squirm

Last week, I was caught off guard by something that made me cringe just a little. 

I was making a sandwich in my kitchen while listening to a video conversation between Anne Lamott and Oprah Winfrey. I love Anne’s writing and humour, her spirit and her honesty. At one point Oprah read a line from Anne's book Help, Thanks, Wow:

"Prayer is a chance that against all odds and past history, we are all loved and chosen." 

Anne responded, "Yes, we are all loved and chosen."

Her words made me freeze, knife poised mid-air, mayonnaise jar in hand, suspended, not breathing for a few moments.

I knew right away what the problem was: it was my discomfort with the word “chosen.” I often experience feeling held in the love of something larger than myself. But chosen?

I sat with my reaction to the word, started to contemplate some questions: What would it mean to be chosen? By whom? For what? Suddenly I remember standing awkwardly at school dances, hoping and dreading both possibilities- of being chosen and of not being chosen.

In the context of spirituality, is everyone chosen, and if so, does that make being chosen meaningless? Is it like giving everyone in the class a blue ribbon for participating when they didn’t really have any choice? And is being chosen always a good thing? I learned early to do well (at school, household chores etc.) as a way of not getting singled out, not being "chosen" for special attention in my family.

If I’m chosen does that mean someone else was not chosen? And won’t they be upset, envious, angry? Does that mean those that are chosen will now have to take care of those who were not?

Yes, leave it to me to see the spectre of unlimited responsibility lurking beneath any potential blessing.

I am pretty sure that Anne Lamott would say we are all chosen, and we know this because we are here, alive, living life on this spectacular planet. If that’s what she means- and that's my guess- I would agree.

And yet, the word makes me uncomfortable. So I pay attention. Because I have discovered that what makes me squirm a little for no apparent reason often offers me insight into who I am, helps me bring to consciousness that which is unconscious. I’m not talking about things that create anguish. I’m talking about  ideas, words, people, and situations that stir a little anxiety, create a bearable discomfort. In these places I resist the urge to move away instantly, choosing to just hang out a little, wondering what might be revealed.

So, I invite you to stir the pot of contemplation by sharing your own responses to the word “chosen” here. Does it sit well with you? Does it have any meaning for you? Do feel chosen in any sense? Are others chosen?

For me, it's a word that asks me to stretch, to consider where my discomfort comes from, to play with the possibilities for a good, life-deepening understanding of being "chosen ".

Oriah (c) 2013

Freedom To Be The Worst

This blog only makes sense if you know that I was always at the top of my class. From kindergarten on I was a driven little over-achiever- straight A's, perfect test scores, homework complete, all assignments on time. Oh eventually there were less than perfect projects and tests, and I learned that life did not end and I would not annihilated if I made a mistake. Still, I preferred to do well at everything, just in case- which meant of course, that I wasn't too keen to try things at which I did not naturally excel.

So, I am thrilled to announce that I have joined a class where I am (and will no doubt remain for quite some time) the worst student. It's a Tai Chi sword class.

I've wanted to take this class for awhile, primarily because one of the characters in my novel is an expert swordswoman. I figured I should at least get a feel for moving with a sword if I am going to describe her experience. Oh, I admit, I have had some not-so-secret fantasies of moving like the women in the movie "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" (the only martial arts movie I've ever seen) but I have enough sense to know they are just that- fantasies.

The class has about twenty participants. Most have clearly done a lot of Tai Chi and Kung Fu. I took three Tai Chi classes twenty-five years ago. Some of the folks in the class know the sword form itself, which is good because I can watch and follow them, albeit without much finesse and often too slowly not to be a menace to the people around me. Happily the swords are wood and the others seem to have an excellent spatial sense so I have neither been hit by anyone else nor accidentally swiped anyone myself.

I didn't see the notice for the class until two of the seven sessions had taken place. It's probably just as well. Starting late dissolved all hopes I no doubt would have had about "keeping up." I did two private sessions with the instructor so I wouldn't be completely lost, and those further helped me accept my novice status.

I don't remember being particularly bad at physical or athletic activities when I was a child. Until I hit puberty. At thirteen I grew to my current height of five feet nine inches and became all uncoordinated knees and elbows, a source of a great deal of amusement for my family. It was a happy day when I could drop PhysEd.

The sword classes are a workout, mentally and physically. (I am discovering muscles I apparently do not use very often.) In the midst of going through the movements again and again, I occasionally feel like my head will explode as I try to focus on the present moment form and move smoothly into the next move which I may or may not remember.

The other night, as I was moving through the class, working hard to remember which leg should be forward, I thought, "Wow, I would not have been able to do this twenty years ago, would never have been willing to look this bad at something." And suddenly, I was grinning as I moved from "Dragon Touches the Water" to "Big Chief Star." And I thought, "I am the worst in the class, and I'm okay with that!"

Being willing to be bad at something, to struggle with learning something, gives us incredible freedom that we do not have if we must always do well and/or look like we are doing well. It is, I believe, what stopped me from learning a second language when I was younger- there's just no way to do it without stumbling and getting it wrong in ways that are apparent to others.

Of course, I have to be careful not to get too attached to being the worst in the class. If I keep going- and I plan to- at some point, someone newer will come along and I will be neither the worst nor the best, will be what we are most of the time- someone muddling along in the middle, having moments when it all comes together, and moments when it all falls apart (sometimes because we have stopped being present and are busy congratulating ourselves on the brilliance of that grace-given moment where it all flowed so well.)

Learning to use a sword is broadening my ability to love it all: the effort sometimes required to learn and the grace of moments when the flow carries us; times that are the worst, the best, and the overwhelming number of moments somewhere inbetween.

Oriah (c) 2013