Checkmarks

                                                                Checkmarks

Like many people, when I was in college, I had a plan in my mind as to how my life was supposed to unfold. It was predictable if not cliche. I would graduate from college, start a career, get married, buy a house and have a bunch of kids. Each step being a large checkmark on my to-do list of life. Check, check, check... Each successive accomplishment being met with less a feeling of achievement and more of an impatient push to the next box that needed checking. My early adulthood was more about blind striving than it was about true enjoyment, patient discernment, or thoughtful reflection.

This is how it is for many in our culture. We follow the narrative that was contrived for us and sold to us. Not that this is a bad thing. Expectations for how people should lead their lives allows for communities to form and cultures to remain relatively stable. A good thing.
A problem arises, however, when all the check boxes are filled. Degrees are earned, vows are exchanged, mortgages are signed and families are completed.

Then what?

The narrative ends.

I suppose investment firms make arguments that one must save for one's retirement. So keep working and invest in that IRA!

Then what?

The narrative ends.

In our culture you are as good as dead or at least obsolete.

I think this dead-end cultural narrative is what insights many a mid-life crisis. Good for sales of Corvettes and cosmetic surgery, yet maybe not so good for sustained happiness. Even if a full blown mid-life crisis doesn't ensue, our cultural dead-end narrative definitely nets a phenomena of middle aged people floundering about in almost an adolescent-like state (myself included). Oh, what to do now that all my boxes are checked? The only natural indicator being to go back to the start, to one's adolescence when we are still emerging into ourselves. We grasp for answers in the way we did in our youth and when we find none, we numb out or act out. Alcohol, shopping, gambling, extra marital affairs, the list goes on.

This summer while I walked through Ireland I was happy to partially find an inroad to the next chapter in my narrative. It is simple really, I discovered that at this point I don't have to do anything. As in I don't need any checkmarks or to-do lists for my life. I can wait and see what comes. It is okay for me to not have a grand plan because I trust something will come or maybe it won't, and that's okay too. I know this seems counter culture but the nice thing about having all my previous boxes checked and having successfully completed the cultural narrative is that now I can create my own story as it comes.

And all I have to do is wait.

Blisters

Blisters

There is a rhythmic pace while walking a pilgrimage. The steps seem to melt into one another and a trance-like state permeates the experience. The weight of the pack becomes non-existent yet in an odd way palpably obvious with vacillating thoughts of, “Oh, dear God take this weight from my body, “ to “I don’t feel the heaviness of the pack. I must be getting used to it.” Evidence that each side of my personality was trying to make sense of the experience.

As in life the pain of walking the path was mixed with the comfort of healing. On the second day of the walk my feet began to blister and I was blessed with healers. Those sores on my heels developed unexpectedly given my boots were well broken-in and I had completed many a practice hike. Each morning on the pilgrimage, a sort of make shift triage area was set to address the aches, sprains, bruises and scrapes of the group. Healers emerged to assist those other travelers with their weak spots. The rawness that had developed on the backs of my feet were prepped, bandaged and wrapped. A couple of days into this morning routine I began to realize the process of dressing my wounds was really a ritual. Hands were washed, supplies were gathered and a mere glance signaled to me it was time to start. The space felt sacred despite the milling about of others. And at times the odd body mechanics involved in getting my foot in the proper position was awkward to say the least.  As the ritual unfolded, I would focus on the healer’s hands; slow, confident and calming. It became a sort of morning meditation or prayer for healing and hope for another day of safe walking.

 I accepted the healer’s healing.

I have worked hard over the last several years to heal not from wounds developed from too many miles on the trail but wounds that have been collected over the course of my life. Some of these wounds were inflected deeply and needed time to heal and still leave significant scarring. Others were more like flesh wounds, superficial yet wide and at times equally as painful as the deep ones. The trouble with these sorts of wounds is if you don’t bandage them correctly they begin to fester and compound. Sooner or later the ignored or mishandled emotional injuries take their toll and a systemic infection takes over. And so it was with me, years of not tending to my feelings netted a sort of emotional sepsis leaving me in a stupor of outbursts, anger, and depression.

It was at this point that I reached out for healing. My triage area was set up, healers emerged, sacred space was created, and rituals developed. Just as when my feet were getting tended to, the process of emotional healing was at times uncomfortable, even painful and almost always awkward but I tried to stay focused on the slow, confident calmness of the healers.

While walking the pilgrimage I realized healing and wholeness has arrived. And perhaps more importantly that I need to accept the healthy me and honor the work I have done to get here.  At times the seductive nature of my wounds creep up and I find myself with the temptation to hold onto old hurts or, more damaging, the role of martyr, wallowing in my own brokenness. In so many ways I can see myself in other people who define themselves by their victimhood. The pilgrimage allowed me to acknowledge reliving hurts and reopening wounds is not a space I want to get stuck in and more significantly it is okay to let it go.

I’ve accepted the healer’s healing.

My feet are nearly back to their pre-pilgrimage condition. I don’t miss that pack or the incessant walking but on occasion I notice I drop into that trance-like state and I am back on the trail feeling the rhythm of the pilgrimage. A sense of raw calmness remains along with a tender wholeness that I will need to continue to nurture as I try to make a little more sense of the experience.

Vacations Are Not Pilgrimages

Rob and I went for an early morning swim today sans children. The waves were calm and the temperature of both the air and water was perfectly non-existent. The briny water buoyed us as we watched the sun rise from behind the far off mountains. I commented that I didn't want to go home. Rob responded with, "I'm ready to go home. I know this can't last forever and that's okay." 

Indeed, vacations are meant to end. At best they are wonderful diversions from one's "normal" life. And if a vacation were indeed your life you would need to take a vacation from it! A never ending circle I suppose. 

Although vacations have a terminus point, as they should, pilgrimages don't. While hiking through Ireland earlier this summer it became apparent to me pretty early on that a pilgrimage is really just a microcosm of ordinary life. The walking itself can be difficult, monotonous and frankly at times boring. There are no museums, tours, snorkeling or any other kind of distraction out in the mountains. Just me and all my demons waiting to show up and reflect themselves off the other pilgrims. Of course all their demons showed up too. 

Yet, just as I felt done with the whole experience I would round a corner and be encountered with a breathtaking view or another traveler would say something profound or amazing or maybe something as simple as a sheep would be in my path reminding me that goodness in life is often simple. So, even though life can be difficult, painful and complicated by others and myself it is only a matter of time before something wholly wonderful will occur. 

As we make our final trip home today, I too am happy to be going home. Our vacation is over but our pilgrimage is not. 

Children and The Heart of My Pilgrimage

I always have a hard time traveling without my children. Of course the logistics of being child free tends to be smoother and the expense is less but when I am without them an empty, almost lost feeling fills me. I've always known this but this summer my need to have my kids with me has been highlighted. 

My pilgrimage to Ireland was the first time was away from my children for an extended period of time for recreational purposes. I felt a void throughout. At every turn during the 100 mile hike, I would see something I wished my kids could experience with me. "Oh, Allison would love that!" Or,"David would think that was funny!" Alas, I had to enjoy these sights solo. 

Our family pilgrimage to Mexico has been much different. I've relished watching our children take in the sights, sounds and smells. The immersion into another culture has been a great experience for all of us. I've especially enjoyed watching the kids start using Spanish and making playground friends with the locals. My heart is full. 

Some might think my attachment to my children is a sort of co-dependency but I would disagree. I wonder if the way I feel about my kids is just a slight peek into the heart of the divine. Perhaps God wants to watch all of  creation experience life they way I ache for my children to share my experiences. 

After Pains: Some Initial Thoughts on Pilgrimage

After Pains: Some Initial Thoughts on Pilgrimage

Our second child was born with the help of an induced labor. I won’t go into the specifics of why I made the choice to use a Pitocin drip to get my labor started but at the time it seemed the most sensible thing to do. I arrived at the hospital on the scheduled day and went through the steps to get my contractions going. Although I was told induced labors were more painful than naturally occurring ones, I still chose to opt out of any pain relief offered. I made the decision to place myself in a situation I knew would be painful and a lot of work with the hope that I would come out the other side with a healthy baby and a sense of accomplishment.

As predicted based on my previous birth, the labor was fast and hard and when our son emerged and was placed on my belly, my only words were, “I wanna do that again!” I was euphoric and the sight of his strawberry red head only made my heart swell more. Then, the after pains started; a hurt I had never experienced before. I could barely breathe through the rhythmic clenching of my uterus. I was unable to sit up or talk. My whispered voice begged for something, anything to take away the ungodly pain. Relief came in the form a pill. I finally settled in with my baby.

In these days after returning from Ireland, I wonder when my relief from the after pains of immersing myself on a pilgrimage will come. I am drained physically and I feel my soul has been put through a grater. Rawness, exhaustion and euphoria mixed. What a strange combination!

Twelve years ago I chose to be placed in a painful yet transformative situation. Pilgrimage seems to be that too. Sorting out the transformation will take time but I think the pain is part of it just as it is when any new life emerges. No pill can take away these after pains but I pray I will soon find myself uttering, “I wanna do that again.”

Backpacks and Losing Control

                                                  Backpacks and Losing Control

I had every intention of keeping my backpack with me as I boarded the plane. I made it through the pre-screen with only a minor snide remark about the size of my pack made by the TSA agent. I was sure I was in good shape. For sure I would be able to easily board the plane and secure the pack in the overhead compartment.

As I sat at the gate, the announcement came. The flight was full and they were asking for volunteers to check their carry-ons. "Not me," I thought, "I will not relinquish my bag to the guts of claimed baggage only to get potentially lost between Phoenix and Dublin. No. Way!" I reasoned that all of these other people could surely check their bags to afford this pilgrim peace of mind.

When the flight attendant finally insisted that I check my pack, I had already dragged it to the back of the plane in a futile effort to find space. I gave in. Returning to the front of the plane where my pack was tagged and taken away. I watched as it disappeared from my sight.  I felt that all of the planning and packing and preparation for my journey was slipping from me. What if they lose the bag? I can't walk that trail without boots! This is going to ruin my trip! All of these thoughts ran through my mind and I realized I had no control over what happened.

They didn't lose the bag. But not because I did something right or acted or made a wise choice. I realized my pilgrimage had officially started when I grabbed my pack off the carousel in Dublin. And I already learned one of the first lessons: That this pilgrimage will progress like the rest of life and it is probably best to let go of any perceived notion of control.

Spring Air

Spring Air

In the early mornings late in the spring, I roll my car windows down to enjoy the last of the cool air Phoenix will offer for a seemingly insufferable time. As I drive to the gym or to work the air blows through my car. My radio blares and I breathe. I imagine that God is providing this last sweetness as a measure of contentment, a promise of sorts that the summer heat will not have the final word. I love this time of year even though I know the end is coming. The looming of summer only makes my appreciation riper.   

There is certain alchemy of the spirit that occurs when an individual accepts that and ending has come. The initial turmoil that the finality of a situation brings is often a mix of numbness and denial that eventually leads to a tentative and at times fleeting acceptance. Perhaps my enjoyment of the final days of spring is a form of denial or perhaps it is an acceptance that all things end. Spring dies and our harsh desert summer enters, a purgatory of sorts. This is a time to retreat from the openness of God’s creation and roll up the windows. Silent incubation.

The Spirit takes her time and works.

The end mysteriously leading to rebirth and renewal. With the windows down. Just as God had promised.

14 Year Olds, Groups, and Ireland

14 Year Olds, Groups, and Ireland

As I write this, my oldest child is celebrating her 14^th birthday with thirteen of her closest friends. Hip Hop party music is streaming, soda’s are being sipped and abandoned with half their contents left while screams and giggles of excitement fill the house. My daughter appears sure of herself as do her friends who easily navigate amongst each other. I sense no drama. No tension. No problems. But I am sure beneath the surface there are insecurities and resentments that might even go unnoticed to those who are feeling it. Or perhaps this is just my own projection of my experiences with groups: delightful, loving and necessary with a shadow of intolerance of others’ peculiarities especially in large or drawn out doses.

Next month I will be placing myself in a group to travel 100 miles by foot on a pilgrimage through Ireland. Pilgrimages are meant to be experienced alone. One can travel together while pilgrimaging solo. I am aware that I need intention and focus to stay in my, “own” space yet the aspect of group travel is still there. And with this comes dread. Interestingly, I like everyone who is going and from an outsiders perspective there would appear to be no problems. Just like my eldest and her gaggle of buddies. Yet, I know the shadow side of groups. It is like they say about fish and houseguests: After 3-days they both stink.

My trepidation arises out of a combination of experience, self-awareness and the unknown. I know pretty well how I work in groups and the results can vary wildly. The best results have always been when I’ve displayed my professional persona. Knowledgeable, gregarious and in control tend to net favorable results in the work arena. My second best showing is with my mother/wife persona. Personable, stable, fun and can keep the kids alive? Great! When these identities are stripped from me I am often times left floundering and wondering how I should act. It’s not pretty. Grasping for something. Should I be a clown? A know-it-all? An introspective intellectual? A party girl? Somebody help! I can drown in my own existence while the group I am with looks around and wonders if anyone will throw me a life-preserver; humiliation at its peak.

So, the question is, “How do I navigate a personally meaningful solo pilgrimage while living into the tension and paradox of a group of travelers?” Or perhaps the real question is, “How do I live into my own tension and paradox?”

God, I wish I were 14 again…not really.

Abundance #7 or God is not Homogenous

God is not Homogenous. 

Years ago I sat in my priest’s office and cried. I wept so intensely that I thought I might not stop or that my body might give out before my sorrow. When I was finally able to look up from my lap I glanced at him and uttered, “I’m a mess.” My hot, swollen face begged him for a balm to ease my miserable state. His expression was one of painful knowing and he simply said, “We are all a mess.”

At the time I wondered if these words were any help at all. I truly wanted to believe that life could be smooth, faultless, and easy. I wanted to feel assured in the presumption that somewhere out there existed people who were not a, “mess.” I never wanted to fully embrace the brokenness that is.  Yet, as the years have progressed I have learned to lean into that raw reality of life.

During work meetings, I have made a practice of attempting to feel others’ souls. This could be an attempt to avoid the monotony of paperwork or some other avoidant measure but I would like to think that I am working on my relationship with God through deepening my understanding of people’s spiritual presence. One thing I have noticed is once I am able to get past a person’s psychic baggage, personality quirks and pent-up emotional issues what I generally experience is extreme variations. Spiritual energy it seems is as diverse as thumbprints. Through this I have come to understand that God is not homogenous.

I am at a loss when I hear talk of, “We are all the same in God’s eyes.” Are we really? Perhaps those who thoughtlessly mumble these kinds of clichés are offering a simplistic ideal of spirituality intended to quell their own anxiety about their worthiness. In this construct, God is being seen as the great equalizer, a type of soul blender emulsifying all of creation into a putrid, colorless puree.

To be clear, this is not an argument for the maltreatment of those different from us but rather a call to respect diversity fully. Giving lip service to respecting diversity because, “deep down we are all the same,” seems like an ideological error because in my experience we are not the same. Yes, we are all broken and yes we are all blessed with gifts but these things do not make us the same. True acceptance of diversity is honoring the patchwork of souls God has presented in this world.

Thinking back to that visit to my priest I wonder why I was dismayed by the stark realization of the messiness of humanity. Perhaps there was fear that broken people could not truly be loved. It has taken me awhile to love my own broken self as well as the diverse broken souls who have been placed in my life. Ultimately, I believe this is the root of true abundance, to practice healthy self-compassion while honoring the true soulful diversity that is.