This poem expresses exacting how I feel at this moment. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Last Night As I Was Sleeping
by Antonio Machado (Translated by Robert Bly)
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Losing My Religion
I've been struggling for a long time and it's a relief to say it outloud. While the vocabulary of Islam remains in large part the language of my spirituality, it is no longer the structure in which I reside. How did I come to this? I guess the same way I came to Islam. I didn't come to this religion being focused on who was going to Hell, what kind of clothes a woman was wearing, or as a reaction to anything. I came because Allah touched my heart and I cried in prayer. I had spent years living my Mother's fantasy of an unmarried, woman with no children and had a good job that paid good money. She was right--the world loves young black women who are "smart" and can earn money. I enjoyed it, she enjoyed it. One day I found myself unable to dance. Really, I was unable to dance and move or even keep a beat.
I had become a cold "Bitch Goddess" people love. The problem with being a truly unfeeling person (not the pretend kind) is you are engaged in killing your own heart. After much chaos I came to Islam. It was the harmony of the approach to spirituality that touched me and my heart that had been frozen began to melt and I got in touch with my heart.
There are a lot of regulations in Islam, particularly for women. I saw those restrictions to be part of a larger effort to bring harmony to the social community. The modest clothing is feminist in intent--view me as a person not parts you want to have sex with. (BTW, men have similar sartorial restraints, but most do not adhere to them.) It took years to "master" the regulations and my feelings about them, but I felt I was serving a "greater good" and submitted.
The problem with doctrine is that it really struggles with real life and real people. For me, it was the death of my first son. Siddique lived four days and I grieved alone. The Muslims I knew gave me three days (Traditions say more than this is excessive). My Christian family was aloof. I searched within Islam for the heart I knew was there, is still there, but it all seemed very separate from the practice of people around me. I found Sufism and became reanimated, but ultimately it seemed to me to be a worship of an aloof teacher. I sought refuge in salat (prayer), but my suffering had made it little more than exercise.
I have finally come to Mindfulness. It is practice. It deals with suffering. I am a practical woman and I need what works. My life is not abstract and I am a community person. My path at this time is mainly Practice through service. While the ability to sit is where I've come to nourish myself, I seek nourishment in order to love and to "sit with pain" unblinking for both myself and my community. My community has a lot of pain and the anger coming out of that pain has the power to destroy us. I am particularly focused on the many children of my heart. Already my neighborhood 12yo boys are falling to the streets. While my son has a falanx of love and support he is not immune to the forces of anger.
My world is one of great heart and great anger. My neighbors are giving and caring and sometimes very violent. The solutions to all of our problems is love, Inshallah, as I develop my Practice, I will become a piece of the solution. I am losing my religion, but growing in my heart, I hope. I think Allah is pleased.
I had become a cold "Bitch Goddess" people love. The problem with being a truly unfeeling person (not the pretend kind) is you are engaged in killing your own heart. After much chaos I came to Islam. It was the harmony of the approach to spirituality that touched me and my heart that had been frozen began to melt and I got in touch with my heart.
There are a lot of regulations in Islam, particularly for women. I saw those restrictions to be part of a larger effort to bring harmony to the social community. The modest clothing is feminist in intent--view me as a person not parts you want to have sex with. (BTW, men have similar sartorial restraints, but most do not adhere to them.) It took years to "master" the regulations and my feelings about them, but I felt I was serving a "greater good" and submitted.
The problem with doctrine is that it really struggles with real life and real people. For me, it was the death of my first son. Siddique lived four days and I grieved alone. The Muslims I knew gave me three days (Traditions say more than this is excessive). My Christian family was aloof. I searched within Islam for the heart I knew was there, is still there, but it all seemed very separate from the practice of people around me. I found Sufism and became reanimated, but ultimately it seemed to me to be a worship of an aloof teacher. I sought refuge in salat (prayer), but my suffering had made it little more than exercise.
I have finally come to Mindfulness. It is practice. It deals with suffering. I am a practical woman and I need what works. My life is not abstract and I am a community person. My path at this time is mainly Practice through service. While the ability to sit is where I've come to nourish myself, I seek nourishment in order to love and to "sit with pain" unblinking for both myself and my community. My community has a lot of pain and the anger coming out of that pain has the power to destroy us. I am particularly focused on the many children of my heart. Already my neighborhood 12yo boys are falling to the streets. While my son has a falanx of love and support he is not immune to the forces of anger.
My world is one of great heart and great anger. My neighbors are giving and caring and sometimes very violent. The solutions to all of our problems is love, Inshallah, as I develop my Practice, I will become a piece of the solution. I am losing my religion, but growing in my heart, I hope. I think Allah is pleased.
Journey to Taos, NM #2
Inshallah, I'm going to the POC Retreat. Thanks to the kindness and generosity of someone who has been and wanted to make that experience available to someone else. I am thrilled, blessed, scared. This is BIG. I haven't wanted anything BIG in a long time. Even the wanting (see Journey to Taos, NM #1) was difficult for me. The mercy of the last 15 years has been to discover the miracles and the blessings that come from my day to day life. That journey into gratitude has in large part shaped the woman I am now. And now to have wanted AND received a gift for my soul is amazing. Susan Boyle ain't got nothing on me.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Pearls of an Injured Life
A pearl is a beautiful thing that is produced by an injured life. It is the tear [that results] from the injury of the oyster. The treasure of our being in this world is also produced by an injured life. If we had not been wounded, if we had not been injured, then we will not produce the pearl. Stephan Hoeller
I sometimes reflect on my own injured life. I think about the ways I've been injured and the ways I've injured others. Scenarios run in my head of how I could have done better or how they could have done better, but today I understand that no matter how I've been hurt or done the hurting, I and "they" were doing the best we could. I've also come to understand that I've gained many pearls from my injuries. I have a family and friends that are amazing, loving people.
One of the gifts of aging for me is the ability to embrace my life, with all its joys, sadness, disappointments, thrills, unfulfilled dreams, etc. The pain of living is very real, but it does not penetrate my soul the way it did when I was younger. I can see the lightness outside the darkness of both spiritual and physical pain. I've also been blessed to know that even with all my many faults, contained inside me, and all human beings is the heart of love. I can tap better into that universal heart than when I was younger, or perhaps the nature of that heart changes over time.
I've been watching and reading about Susan Boyle and her injured life. She has a learning disability, is unpretty, and seems to be generally ignored, and sometimes harassed. The highest compliment given to this 48 yo woman is that she's considered a "sweet girl." She loved and cared for her mother and sang in church and did karaoke. I like to imagine the people who looked at her as she went along, and shook their heads, some in sadness and others in superiority. The result, several days ago "frumpy," "old," "unloved" Susan Boyle went on a stage, opened her mouth and beautiful pearls spilled into the ears and hearts of the world.
I thank Allah for my pearls. I hope that you are enjoying your pearls.
I sometimes reflect on my own injured life. I think about the ways I've been injured and the ways I've injured others. Scenarios run in my head of how I could have done better or how they could have done better, but today I understand that no matter how I've been hurt or done the hurting, I and "they" were doing the best we could. I've also come to understand that I've gained many pearls from my injuries. I have a family and friends that are amazing, loving people.
One of the gifts of aging for me is the ability to embrace my life, with all its joys, sadness, disappointments, thrills, unfulfilled dreams, etc. The pain of living is very real, but it does not penetrate my soul the way it did when I was younger. I can see the lightness outside the darkness of both spiritual and physical pain. I've also been blessed to know that even with all my many faults, contained inside me, and all human beings is the heart of love. I can tap better into that universal heart than when I was younger, or perhaps the nature of that heart changes over time.
I've been watching and reading about Susan Boyle and her injured life. She has a learning disability, is unpretty, and seems to be generally ignored, and sometimes harassed. The highest compliment given to this 48 yo woman is that she's considered a "sweet girl." She loved and cared for her mother and sang in church and did karaoke. I like to imagine the people who looked at her as she went along, and shook their heads, some in sadness and others in superiority. The result, several days ago "frumpy," "old," "unloved" Susan Boyle went on a stage, opened her mouth and beautiful pearls spilled into the ears and hearts of the world.
I thank Allah for my pearls. I hope that you are enjoying your pearls.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Communication Without Words
I like words. I like to talk. Most of the people I feel closest to, like words and like talking. However, it is so important to remember that for many, many people talking is not their best way of communicating. My husband and many people express their love through their labor, just like the father in the following poem by Robert Hayden. This poem reminded me of the need to acknowledge, respect and celebrate those that labor in love’s austere and lonely offices. Talk does not always illuminate, often, it can be a weapon that can distort truth. Those of us that love words and their uses must not, assign intellectual or spiritual accomplishment for those that master the use these tools.
Ultimately, all means of communication are only tools for touching each other's hearts. No matter how eloquent the words, if they do not serve the heart they are empty. Love expressed by hands are equal to love expressed by words. Enjoy the poem.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert E. Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Ultimately, all means of communication are only tools for touching each other's hearts. No matter how eloquent the words, if they do not serve the heart they are empty. Love expressed by hands are equal to love expressed by words. Enjoy the poem.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert E. Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
The Gifts of Aging #1
This is a picture of me in my "big girl"clothes. One of the reasons I started this blog is to write about aging. I was blessed to grow up in a family of women who demonstrated the power and beauty of a woman in her different stages of life. I wanted to show a picture of me in my "Sunday best." I look at this woman and recognize the child, girl, and young woman she was, but I also see a face and figure that no longer beguiles most people. However, one of the gifts of aging, if you take it, is the gift of freedom. I now embrace me and am amused at things that would have sent me to my bed in depression or to rage when I was younger.
I was sharing with younger friends at dinner, the freedom from others expectations or views of me. Clearly, the woman in this photo decided to wear jewelry that doesn't match and it's overdone (at least that's what I think some critics might say). For me, as a adorned myself, I thought I looked just right! The point is, one gift of my aging is to discover the Beloved in me. It doesn't inoculate me from pain but it takes the echo of the sting away. I've also begun to settle into myself and embrace my errors and shortcomings. I don't expect perfection from me or anyone I love or even like. In fact, embracing my "shortcomings" has freed me up to love myself and others more. We all need love.
Getting older also means I sometimes need help. It is the sweetest thing when one of by "babies" reaches back to help me out of the car. My weakness like my aging is a great blessing.
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