Pope resigning

Astounding all the buzz that's out there in the world over the announcement of Pope Benedict XVI's decision to resign at the end of February. He's a religious leader of a sect of Christianity that has, in recent years, lost more and more context in today's world. Still, he holds a position of amazing power.

He leaves behind a church that is deeply conflicted, both with itself and with the outside world.
The church is facing massive cultural and demographic changes. Its staunch positions against contraception and the ordination of women make it look out of touch in a changing world.  [http://www.sfgate.com/opinion/editorials/article/Pope-Benedict-s-act-of-wisdom-4270157.php]

That is an understatement ... it not only looks out of touch; it is out of touch. This pope, perhaps more that his predecessor, sees the writing on the wall and doesn't quite know how to cope with the change. One can only hope that the church he leads is beginning to see the necessity of change also. It's spent so much time establishing itself as an earthly power that it's forgotten that it's true charge is to spiritual. Those two things are often juxtaposed to each other rather than paired.

In just over two weeks time, there will be another conclave and another papal election. It will be the first time in 600 years that the previous pope will be alive to see that vote and change occur. I wonder what his influence would be? Who would he support to be pope after him? What direction would he council? or perhaps will he council?

What a time we inhabit!

Tapestry

Happy 71st Birthday, Carole King!

When I was a teenager, we danced, sang and lived to the rhythm of Tapestry. Her music slipped inside the edges of my life and lit a candle that shone into the carefully hidden corners.

We sang to each other ~ "You just call out my name and you know wherever I am I'll come running to see you again." We bounced around on the bed, on the floor, in the hall.

When one broke up with her boyfriend ~ or he broke up with her ~ we sat around and crooned, "And it's too late, baby, now it's too late though we really did try to make it.... something inside just died, and I just can't fake it."

Her music wove its threads into the tapestry of our developing young lives. What amazing memories! Thank you, Carole King.

Mountain Lion, part 2

In the darkness last night and early this morning, Mountain Lion wandered. Her large paws and languorous steps padded softly in the background of my dreams.

In one I wandered through a vast cloister. No one was there. The vaulted ceiling was sage green; the cupolas and archways were saffron; the pillars were light with long shadows crossing them and playing across a wide open floor. A fresh breeze stirred long gauzy curtains that covered the arches leading to the yard beyond the cloister. I felt at peace and at home. This was my sanctuary. Through the billowing curtains, I saw forest and beyond that, hills. In the moment, all was still and silent.

I stopped beneath one of the domes, breathed deeply and felt my arms rise from my sides to an upraised position. My sleeves were fastened in cuffs around my wrists; the rest of my garment flowed nearly to the floor; I was bare-footed on cold marble. My garment, sleeves and a shawl or scarf I wore blew in the gentle breeze.

I have no idea how long I stood that way; it seemed only a moment, yet when I lowered my arms and opened my eyes, the shadows had deepened and I could no longer tell what color things were within the enclosure. It was through these shadows that Mountain Lion came. She padded noiselessly, yet I knew precisely where she was. She walked into the cloister grounds from behind me and gave wide berth to where I stood. She wove in and out and in and out through the pillars, never getting too close. Finally, she was just to my left in front of me, facing me. Had she come closer, I could have easily rested my hand on her back. Her head, erect, could easily rest on my belly. I felt the rumble of her purr.

No other sounds passed between us. She stood solemnly a dozen feet from me. I had no fear, just a deep sense of deference and awe. My sense was that she bore a parallel feeling: no fear and total confidence.

Then I awoke with that sensation permeating my rising. What a way to greet the day!

Fierce Power

From the Kabbalah:

The fierce power of imagination is a gift from God.

Think about that ~~ fierce power. What a strong phrasing. We often reference the power of the imagination when we talk about the arts. Without the imagination, much of what we produce that is considered beautiful would not exist.

Or we talk about the wild imaginings of children who can see things so differently from adults. I wonder who sees truly and who has less ability to see? Perhaps as we grow older, we buy into the cultural norm and lose the wildness of the imagination.

But we don't talk about imagination's fierce power, or that it's a gift from God. The definition I'd probably choose at the merriam-webster.com site is "furiously active or determined." That was before I checked the origins of the word: "Middle English fiers, from Anglo-French fer, fers, fiers, from Latin ferus wild, savage"...

Yes! The power of the imagination is wild! The wild is what feeds the power and creates the force that explodes as the imagination. And... it's a gift from God. Or Goddess. Or whatever you choose to call that Ineffable One.

In the current temperament of our culture, there is an overwhelming squashing of imagination. Arts classes are cut from middle school, junior high and senior high schools. Teaching to the test negates the adventure of taking risks and getting messy and exploring our incredible imaginations. We've forgotten that those imaginations are gifts and have been our greatest gift as a culture. Just imagine where we'd be without the creativity of Harriet Tubman, John Muir, Albert Einstein, Aaron Copeland, Marilyn Monroe, Eleanor Roosevelt, Steve Jobs and so many others.

As for me, I love the wildness of that fierce imagination. I continue to encourage it whenever and wherever I see it. Now, I will also remember to thank the One for that fierce gift expressing through each person. Amen.

Commitment, part 2

Another aspect to commitment is passion. Passion moves us beyond thinking to acting ~ taking the steps necessary to stand up for what we believe or to work beyond the schedule or simply to move forward to accomplish a task.

The quote by Murray says the moment one commits oneself, providence moves to assist in fulfilling that commitment. The quote comes from his book The Scottish Himalaya Expedition written in 1951. Murray was a mountaineer who found himself fully committed to an expedition by booking passage to Bombay as the first step. He committed his money and his time for the trip to Bombay. Those were the first steps. Then providence took over as plans came together for the rest of the trek.

One must take the first step, take an action, in order to move forward into the realm where providence, the universe, lays out the next step. Commitment is about not sitting still and waiting for the world to arrive. It's about going forward to meet the world face-to-face. It's about stepping into the flow and finding that it carries us along.

Commitment, part 1

Commitment is defined by merriam-webster.com as the state or an instance of being obligated or emotionally impelled. Impelled or driven forward by our obligations or emotions.

So much of what we do is by chance. We dance forward with an idea or a relationship or a task. If at some point it no longer serves the need or desire that originally attracted us, we leave and move on to the next attraction.

When I was younger, we referred to this as having the attention span of a mosquito. Recently, I've discovered that mosquitoes have significant attention spans because all their entire focus is on food. That's commitment in mosquito-land.

Only human beings can choose whether to commit or not. Only human beings can choose their focus, their commitments. Only human beings can be wishy-washy, bored or apathetic. Or afraid to commit, to make a stand, to choose.

Grief

A couple of days ago, I messaged a friend on Facebook. She had recently lost her partner and I simply asked how she was doing and if she wanted to get together. Just let her know I was thinking about her. She responded almost immediately with, Yes, let's get together.

After work today, we met. I didn't know the details surrounding her loss; hadn't asked. Sometimes they aren't the most important things to know. Our conversation bounced from dissing a boss we had both known to our individual work paths to grief groups to the horrific shooting of children in Newtown to the suddenly gorgeous weather. In the midst of this bouncing, she shared what had happened, how her partner had died. In the breath after a comment on the whereabouts of a former colleague, she simply stated the facts.

It took my breath away: the suddenness of it, the simplicity of the statement, the manner in which it was set, parenthetically, between two common subjects like peanut butter on toast. In that instant, I saw the rawness of her grief, how sudden and shocking the fact of it had been, and remained, for her.

What I felt was awe. Awe that she honored our moment together by sharing it. Awe that she was still quietly sitting there. Awe that she could function at all.

What I thought was, If I ever face that same sudden loss, I hope and pray I have a fraction of her courage. She is my shero.