Embracing Dark Feelings

       In preparation for an upcoming intensive retreat with Richard Moss, whose work I've been following for nearly 20 years, I've been re-reading his latest book, Inside-Out Healing.  In chapter 8, he discusses dark feelings and the role they play in psychological and spiritual deepening.  According to Richard, dark or abysmal feelings "are part of the ingenious way in which our souls help us to evolve; therefore, experiencing them is intrinsic to deep healing." (p. 159)

       For most of us, the tendency is to run from these "untamed" feelings, to avoid them through busy lives and busy minds – compulsively thinking, repeating old stories that keep us in familiar, and often unhappy, territory.  While it's not easy to do so, our willingness to stay gently present with the mystery and physicality of raw feeling lies at the core of the heroic journey.  In spiritual mythology, the hero descends into the underworld of psyche, faces inner demons and returns transformed – empowered, cleansed, comfortable in her own skin.

       "The underworld is a gateway to the God within who is forever without a face or name.  You cannot descend to the darkness without being carried up into the light, and you cannot realize the light without being called to descend into darkness.  All feeling is mysterious, but in the lower realms in particular, some part of you knows that you are meeting what is and will always be beyond you as an ego or separate self.  If you can meet the abysmal feelings with awareness instead of letting your ego take over, in that meeting you are reborn."  (p. 158)

       "Make it a practice to turn directly toward any disturbing feeling, whether it is just a kind of restlessness or a deep sense of threat, and clear your mind of any thoughts.  Steadily 'touch' the feeling with a soft inner gaze.  Remain spacious, extending your senses far beyond your immediate location, and open your intuition to the limitless expanse of being. Keep relaxing without losing the sense of readiness.

       "This does not protect you from the abysmal feelings; you do feel them.  You need to feel them because they are part of being human and can deepen your humanity.  But not joining with any thought about them keeps you from letting your ego disguise the dark feelings by turning them into guilt, anger, terror, or self-loathing.  Moreover, when you can make space for the dark feelings, you discover that they are never as terrible to experience as the psychological misery your ego creates with its stories about what is wrong with you." (p. 163)

       Thanks, Richard.

Another Slice

       Sometimes the writing flows effortlessly; sometimes, like now, it's a bit more work.  What follows is a meander, a little slice of life with surprises and contrasts and a rhythm of its own.  I'm reminded of life's invitation to make room for it all, even when it doesn't fit tidily together.

       Instead of hiking all three days of our recent extended weekend on the north shore of Lake Superior, Joanie and I decided to spend our first afternoon exploring the Canal Park area of Duluth.  We wandered in and out of shops, browsing a bunch and buying little.  In one shop, I found a beautiful little book of photos and verse authored by a local photographer and writer – a perfect Christmas gift for my dear friend and business partner, Kirk Lamb.  Ten minutes later, book in bag, as we browsed camping equipment in the original Duluth Pack store, in walks the aforementioned Dr. Lamb.  That we would bump into him at that moment, in a good-sized city well over 100 miles from home, astonished me.  I alternated between babbling and standing there speechless.

      The next day, Joanie and I hiked over nine miles on a stretch of the Superior Hiking Trail located within the Duluth city limits – a most interesting and varied hike.  It began on a mile or so of boardwalk along the lake, moved steeply uphill on neighborhood sidewalks, then into woods along a high ridge overlooking the city, down a long stretch of creek bed, down a long, narrow lane that divided the city's two main cemeteries and back into the woods again to the edge of Duluth, where we called a cab for the trip back to our hotel.

       We saw mansions on the ridge and boarded-up houses and buildings down below.  We noticed two girls picnicking in a parking lot on a tattered blanket protecting them from the asphalt.  We passed bare maples, dormant for winter, and stands of birch with green leaves galore.  We witnessed the drama of a screeching mouse trying to escape the clutches of a hawk, thrashing in the bush as he hunted his prey and, eventually, flying away mouse-less.  Later on the trail, we came upon a sad scene: a recently deceased 4-point buck, who apparently made it back to the woods after being hit by a car. 

       There was life, death and escape from death, poverty and wealth, the ordinary and extraordinary, the joy of watching Joanie's catlike movements as she stalked birds with binoculars raised, the easy flow of our being together, the water, the woods and the wind – lots and lots of wind.  It was our constant companion that day, a steady 15-20 knots, gusting to 30 or 40 at times.  On a couple occasions, the approaching gusts sounded like a freight train moving through the treetops.  I remember once wondering if a waterfall were nearby.

       The day before, as I perused Kirk's Christmas present, one of the poems, entitled "The Wind", caught my attention, prompting me to buy the book.  That next day, as Joanie and I hiked in the wind, I noted the synchronicity and decided to share our experience and the poem with you.

The Wind

Taking your chances with the wind

means you have to be prepared

for the parts of you that are

blown away,

as well as 

those

that

are

uncovered.

                                                                Joel Carter

Master Jesus

       In last week's posting, I mentioned a brief autobiography I recently wrote in preparation for a mentoring program with Richard Moss.  With just a tad of trepidation, I'd like to share a passage from that writing, a story revealed only to a few folks so far.

       I spent a number of years, studying with Master Chunyi Lin, moving through the four levels of Spring Forest QiGong, a marvelous approach to healing he developed.  In contrast to yoga, which I've tried and failed at a number of times, QiGong quickly resonated with me – as did Master Lin, who teaches that underneath all the techniques he offers, what really heals is Love.  Kindness, forgiveness, and unconditional love are at the heart of his approach.

       One thing that did not resonate at first was his recommendation that we call upon a master to assist us in doing healings.  He'd mention Jesus or Buddha or Lao Tzu as examples.  I had pulled away from Jesus some time ago, and the idea of a master seemed too hierarchical to me, so I didn't pay much attention.   In the level-three retreat, during a two-hour meditation, he came to each person to do a healing.  I was having a great meditation when I felt his touch on my cheek.  Instantly, right in front of my face, appeared the face of Jesus.  I knew immediately: There's my master.  That's whom I call upon now, when I'm doing a healing or just need some guidance. 

       A year or two later, I was doing a two-hour meditation with a growth group I facilitate.  About halfway through, I silently asked to see the face of Jesus.  Instantly, just like before, an image appeared.  This time, to my amazement, it was my face – my laughing, joyful face.  And, immediately, I realized:  Each of us is Jesus.  I'm not talking here about the historical Jesus, but about a spiritual essence, oneness with God, at the core of our being.

        Reminds me of my favorite quote from Richard:  "We are, already, that which we seek." 

The Good Partner

       This summer I was accepted into a three-year mentoring program with Richard Moss, whose teaching has touched me deeply.  Our first assignment, writing a six-page autobiography, offered a rich opportunity to reflect on my life.  Here's a thought that arose during that exercise.

       In my experience, the universe does not provide our deepest desires on a silver platter.  It partners with us, abundantly and generously, offering each of us endless opportunities to learn, to grow, and to do the work necessary for receiving and achieving our heart's desire. 

       We are loved – unconditionally, mercifully, tenderly and fiercely.  We are, indeed, well-fed.

       Still, we have to chew our own food.

River Lessons

       I've just returned from an awesome, memorable journey – 3 days on the road and 7 days paddling with a good friend 100 miles down the Green River in eastern Utah.  For me, traveling offers not only a break from old routines but also a chance to break old routines and patterns.  Traveling teaches.  And the Green River, as it winds through towering canyons and sacred lands, is a master teacher.

       It's hard to ignore beauty when I'm surrounded by it – the lush green of grass, thicket and tree and the stark, striking, arid, awe-inspiring walls of rock along each bank.  These sheer cliffs have guided the river's flow and soaked up sunshine for centuries, concentrating and containing the energy of this wondrous place.  In the presence of unusual beauty, I'm reminded again of the difference in my inner landscape between times when I'm noticing beauty and times when I'm not.

       River is a great metaphor for life.  It flows in one direction – forward, into new territory.  Paddling against the flow, even for short distances, is exhausting.  I think of how often I paddle upstream in my mind, regretting the past, imagining do-overs that could never be.  I feel the weight of wishing I'd done this or not done that and the way my energy depletes as I carry that weight.  I'm invited to let go. 

       With all its twists and turns, the river constantly takes us into the unknown, where surprise often awaits – the sandbar hiding just under the silty surface, the fierce swarms of mosquitoes lurking in the brush along the bank ambushing us when we get too close, eddies, whirlpools and countless other obstacles along the way.  We learn to go with the flow, but not to do so passively.  We try things.  We learn from experience and from what we call "mistakes".  We discover the need to choose in the absence of information.  We pick a place to stay the night, not knowing if a "better" campsite is just around the next bend. 

       Traveling the river is sometimes messy business.  The silt in the river makes it impossible to see beneath the surface.  My first step out of the canoe was an introduction to a sticky muck that took 20 minutes to wash out of my sandals.  (After that, I went barefoot.  Cleanups were quicker.)  There were times when I was up to my knees in gooey stuff.  Debris from recent storms typically floats with us downriver, cluttering the water.  And, of course, there's the inevitable collisions and messiness among traveling companions.  All part of the journey.

       The river invites humility and humor.  It teaches mercy.  I'm invited to go with the flow, to learn from experience and embrace myself as a learner, to smile and forgive – forgive myself, my companions and life itself.  In this moment, all is what it is and cannot be otherwise.

       In this moment, I'm here.  I get to choose.  I get to move forward.  I get to remember that I'm not in charge.

       In a session yesterday, focused on the wound of shame, this thought entered the conversation.  Later, it re-organized in verse.

Universal Solvent

Love is the

Universal Solvent.

All wounds melt

Into its healing

Grace.

Don't fight

The wound.

Bathe it in love.

Let it dissolve

Gently.

Smart and Lucky

       I'm fascinated by what science is telling us about the origin of the universe.  Apparently, we (and I use the term loosely) have a pretty good idea of the story back to about 10 million trillion trillion trillionths of a second after the big bang, when the universe was so small you'd need a microscope to see it. 

       I'm amazed at how infinitesimally small the universe was at the beginning and how unimaginably huge it is now.  Talk about a growth spurt.

       My latest venture into that arena is an ambitious and delightful book by Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything.  Here are a couple quotes.  The first touches on just a couple of the hundreds of things that had to go absolutely, perfectly right in order for the universe to be what it is today. 

       "If the universe had formed just a tiny bit differently – if gravity were fractionally stronger or weaker, if the expansion had proceeded just a little more slowly or swiftly – then there might never have been stable elements to make you and me and the ground we stand on.  Had gravity been a trifle stronger, the universe itself might have collapsed like a badly erected tent, without precisely the right values to give it the right dimensions and density and component parts.  Had it been weaker, however, nothing would have coalesced.  The universe would have remained forever a dull scattered void."  (p. 15)

       From other reading, I know that a host of other things had to be just right.  For example, matter gets denser and contracts as it gets colder.  Water does, too – except just before it freezes, when it expands and becomes less dense.  Thus, icebergs and ice cubes float.  Were it not for this special and mysterious exception, earth would have quickly turned into a giant ice ball – certainly precluding our arrival.

       Speaking of our arrival, the second quote relates to the millions of things that had to go just so, in order for you and me to be alive.

       "If your two parents hadn't bonded just when they did – possibly to the second, possibly to the nanosecond – you wouldn’t be here.  And if their parents hadn't bonded in a precisely timely manner, you wouldn't be here either.  And if their parents hadn't done likewise, and their parents before them, and so on, obviously and indefinitely, you wouldn't be here."  (p. 397)

       If you go back 25 generations, he goes on to say, "there are no fewer than 33,554,432 men and women on whose devoted couplings your existence depends."  If any one of our 33 million ancestors meets someone else, dies prematurely, or gets a headache at the wrong time – no me or no you.

       As I sit in awe with this information and allow the amateur cosmologist in me to wonder what it all means, a short, and by no means complete, answer comes to me. 

       The universe is very, very smart.  I am very, very lucky.  And everything unfolds – just right.

Madonna's Passing

       Joanie's mom, Madonna, passed on peacefully three weeks ago.  Her kids and grandkids were with her during the vigil, surrounding her with love and feeding her rich double-dark chocolate ice cream.  Her last tastes were of this all-time favorite food. 

       Death teaches us, it brings us together and reminds us of what's important.  For example, the fly-in fishing trip to Canada that friends and I had been planning for nearly a year suddenly wasn't what was important any more.  I let it go and was blessed many-fold in return by the teachings of this shared experience and by a deepening connection with Joanie and her clan.

       There was a time at the hospital near the end, when I was the only man in the room.  Keeping vigil with Madonna were her three daughters and one of the granddaughters.  It was awesome to see how natural and fluid these caring women were in that situation, conversing and reminiscing, laughing and crying, at ease with their mother, themselves and their feelings.

       Death is a mystery to us.  It asks us to make room for two apparently contradictory truths.  The first is:  Madonna is gone.  Over time, each in his/her own way, the members of her family will come to grips with that truth.  The second truth is:  Madonna is still with us.  Depending on one's cosmology, Madonna remains alive in our hearts or she remains literally alive in a realm of spirit.  Either way, our connection with her is permanent.  Either way, we still have access to her.

       All the little deaths in life – the losses, the leave-takings, the disappointments, the countless invitations to let go – prepare us for that larger letting go.  We sure need the practice, because letting go is not easy for us.

       Madonna lived generously and joyfully.  She loved and laughed.  She traveled and tasted so much of life.  She cherished family.  She was graceful in life and graceful in death. 

       Love helps us live that way.  Perhaps chocolate does too.

A Slice of Life

       It's been almost two weeks since we returned from the Superior Hiking Trail.  While memory fades a bit, I still carry with me a felt sense of the experience and an eagerness to return to the trail next month.  During a meditation, (it was on the morning after my last posting, in which I promised to tell you about the trip) a thought arrived that helped me story the experience in a new way.  Here's the story.

       It was a challenging hike – lots of roots and rocks, rivers and creeks, valleys and peaks.  The gorges were gorgeous – and steep.  Climbs were arduous.  Descents were tough on old knees.  There was an intermittent, occasionally excruciating, pain in the ball of my left foot that mysteriously appeared and disappeared.

       We set out amid fields of daisies and blazing orange hawkweed.  Ancient cedar groves were followed by an aging birch forest.  Later, a long stretch of young spruce crowded the path, caressing our elbows.  On the fourth day, after a long stretch of pine and mixed woods, we wandered through miles and multi-generations of maples.  On our last night, we were surrounded by old Cedars again, as we immersed ourselves among the boulders in a luxurious, cascading stream, cooling aching feet and weary legs.

       We thoroughly enjoyed a couple of beautiful campsites.  At our first site, we were surrounded by a fork in the river, sparkling water flowing along two sides of a narrow peninsula – our three tents pitched practically on top of each other.  It was amusing that night to hear the harmony of rushing waters and snoring sleepers.  We also did our best to enjoy a couple campsites that weren't so beautiful, near water that wasn't so tasty.

       On the third morning, we woke around 6 a.m. to the sound of thunder.  The dawn was dark.  Quickly packing tents and stuffing bags, we got the important stuff in plastic, just as the rain – and breakfast – began.  We hiked 8 miles that day in a rhythm of rain that alternated between downpour and drip.  For me, it was a refreshing break from the heat and humidity – only a temporary relief as it turned out.  The next day was oppressive – like I imagine equatorial tropics – hot, humid, buggy, windless.  We hiked in muck, miles of ankle-deep mud.  Every now and then, a breeze blessed us, as we ascended along ridges overlooking Lake Superior.  The views were spectacular that day.  The day before, similar vistas went unseen.

       During most of the journey, we were serenaded by birds of various kinds.  Joanie and Rosanne told us their names.  One evening, Roger and I watched a pair of enormous beavers frolicking in a pond.  (I guess you're never too old to have fun.)  And they were having great fun, till they noticed us and slapped tales on the water, angrily informing us that we did not belong there.  I heard their message, but didn't agree.  Sometime during the second day of hiking, I had started feeling like I was part of all this.

       On the trek, we encountered all sorts of life: butterflies galore, hundreds of worms wiggling to the surface trying not to drown in the rain, slugs that slimed our tents and cookware, ticks and pretty much every variety of biting insect there is up north.  We saw lots of wolf scat, but no wolves.  Imbedded in one pile was the hoof of a young deer – a sad story told by its remains.

       There were tasty ripe raspberries and wild strawberries along the trail and long patches of immature thimbleberries that hikers will enjoy in a couple weeks, if the bears don't get to them first (the berries, that is).  There were varieties of mushrooms, with hues of gold and orange and brown and off-white.  One white one I particularly remember looked like a golf ball on a tee.  The mushrooms, of course, would not be tasty.

       There was up and down, awesome and ordinary, slogging and smooth sailing, enervation and exhilaration, pain and pleasure, breeze and stillness, beauty seen and beauty clouded, berries and butterflies, bugs and slugs, tastiness and toxins, teeming life and end of life.  

       The trip, I realized, was like one of those pizzas with everything on it, where one slice contains all the ingredients.  I could see that all of life was represented in those few days and that our hike reflected the wholeness of life's journey.

       What came to me, during that morning meditation after last week's posting, was this thought:  Each moment is a slice of life!  Like a strand of DNA, containing all the information for an entire organism, all of life is fully present and fully represented in each present moment. 

       Maybe it is all here now.

Three Quotes

       I returned late last night from a five-day backpacking adventure on the Superior Hiking Trail.  I'm hoping to tell you about it, and I see that the experience needs to percolate a bit, before a coherence emerges.  With the challenge and the beauty, the exhaustion and exhilaration, and a wonderful variety of experiences, wisdom can't be far away. 

       It's not here now.

       So, here are some favorite quotes to tide us over till next week.  Chances are, you've heard them.  Hopefully, they bear repetition.

       "It's impossible to get better and look good at the same time."  (Julia Cameron – great inspiration for lifelong learners)

       "What anyone thinks about me is none of my business."  (I don't remember the source, but I'll never forget the thought.)

       "You are, already, that which you seek."  (Richard Moss – a wonderful invitation to relax and to trust who we are.)

       It's midsummer.  Dream happy dreams.