“The antidote to exhaustion is not necessarily rest; the antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness.” – a response by Benedictine brother David Steindl-Rast to poet David Whyte, quoted in a sermon by Rev. Jennifer Ryu at the UUMA Center Institute for Excellence in Ministry

Photo credit: Michael Piazza

I spent this past week on the rugged Central Coast of California, in Monterey.  Around 500 UU ministers gathered there to attend the Institute for Excellence in Ministry, a week-long program of worship, workshops, and welcome rest. This is the third Institute I’ve attended and perhaps the best.

While there, in addition to attending the seminar on Preaching and Worship, facilitated by a friend and former colleague, Rev. Michael Piazza, now a United Church of Christ minister with the Center for Progressive Renewal, I also enjoyed the beautiful coast in the free time the conference planners thoughtfully included. I ran three days along the shore; the ocean’s crashing waves providing the sound track to my runs, with an occasional descant belted out by seagulls. There is so much oxygen at sea level, it felt glorious to run in the warm air; the sea salt mixed with my sweat, stinging my eyes, but I didn’t care. I just squinted a little and kept on running.

Another wonderful opportunity I had to visit the Butterfly Pavilion where the Monarch butterflies overwinter.  Pacific Grove, where I  stayed, is one of a handful of places in California where the Monarchs migrate as winter approaches. Although the Monarch butterflies are ubiquitous in the U.S and even as far north as Canada, they can’t survive the freezing temperatures and so, when the days get shorter and colder, they migrate. Generally, those east of the Rockies spend the winters in the high mountains of central Mexico, while those west of the Rockies come to California’s Central Coast.

It’s an amazing phenomenon in many ways: while traveling to their winter homes, they can fly as much as 200 miles a day, and take several months to arrive.  Astonishingly, the life span of the adult Monarch butterfly is only 2-4 weeks, so they live long enough to mate and lay the eggs for the next generation before dying. Unlike other migratory animals, then, the Monarch migrates to a sanctuary it has never seen; in fact several generations of Monarchs have been born as larvae, transformed into butterflies, and died before the ones I saw ever made to the safety of the eucalyptus, Monterey pine and Monterey cypress trees that provide shelter and food.

On my list of things to do before I’m 60, seeing the Monarch butterflies in their overwintering home was high on the list; imagine my delight when I discovered their winter habitat was only a mile from the hotel where I was staying! On our free time on Wednesday, my friend and colleague, Gretchen Haley, and I hiked to the Pavilion along a green trail with beautiful trees providing a dramatic, welcoming archway for us. Once there, we discovered the Pavilion was a simple path, open and free to the public, that wended its way through trees and bushes and there, halfway down the path, thousands upon thousands of Monarch butterflies flew in the air above us or clustered on trees so thickly they looked like a rich harvest of autumn leaves about to be unleashed upon the earth.

It was a cool, overcast afternoon, and so the monarchs kept close to the warmth and shelter of the trees but they were still amazing and marvelous to behold. I thought about their lives, their dedication to living in what is essentially a perpetual migration, laying eggs, before dying, the eggs hatching into larvae that become adorable caterpillars before that final transformation into the regal Monarch butterfly who would continue the cycle again. And I wondered how it felt, to be a part of the generations that got to gather together in the thousands, seeing their beauty reflected, as in a multi-faceted mirror of nature, in the wings and eyes and antennae of their brothers and sisters. I wondered how it would feel to be the a part of the generation that  leaves, finally, in the spring, going to far flung places across the nation to share their beauty with us.

Opening Worship Service at Institute for Excellence in Ministry

I thought of my own congregation of ministers just a mile down the road, and how it felt to be a part of the generation that comes together, that sees the peculiar beauty of what it means to be a minister reflected in the eyes and faces of my kindred folk who talk in the language of memorials and budgets, of baby naming and difficult divorces, of shepherding and exhorting.  It underscored for me the need for ministers to gather as a whole.

This was reflected in the powerful worship sessions where we ministers could sit in the congregation and be ministered to, rather than have to be the ones up on the chancel.  It gave ministers who love to sing a chance to join the 100 voice choir, directed by Jason Shelton, and to blend their voices with others in music that they didn’t choose, didn’t prepare, and wouldn’t be speaking after. There were chaplains available to minister to ministers seeking solace, or wisdom, or the presence we give out so freely in our own home congregations or hospitals or navy battalions and the scores of other places where we would scatter at the end of the week, leaving the familiarity and comfort of our shared experience in this mystical, beautiful place.

This business of perpetual migrating sounds exhausting, but there is a wholeheartedness in it as the beautiful butterflies do simply what they are called to do, and don’t worry about the rest. I guess that is where wholeheartedness is found in ministry-- which can also be an exhausting undertaking at times—in doing simply what we are called to do, in being in the moment whether in shared fellowship with other ministers, in our places of ministry, in our homes with our families, in the migratory rhythms of our lives.

And perhaps that is what we all need to do: stop seeking an antidote to exhaustion—whether in the form of more caffeine, or self medication, or other ways we try to numb ourselves—and instead to seek where we are called to be, in this moment, in this generation, in this mystery.

...and the road still stretching on

It all started with a “friend request” on Facebook, followed by an invitation to join a group by my new friend. The group: Class of 1980, Highland Park High School. Suddenly unnerved, I did the math to discover that—holy cats!!!—this year is my 35^th anniversary of graduating from high school! How could that even be possible? Thirty-five years? That’s enough to make me a grown up!

I joined the group, then scanned the names and pictures of the other 98 folks who have already joined; most names I recalled, and for several, I was able to fill in more details, such as classes we shared and if we had been friends then. There were a few who I knew some current details about, having found each other on facebook previously, but for most, only the names were recognizable, and I wondered: How did their lives turn out, so far? Are they happy? Are they fulfilled? Do their hearts ache with regret?

HPHS Graduation, May, 1980

What shiny future did their hearts behold as they marched across that stage in their red cap and gowns that day in late May, 1980. I remember sitting on the folding chairs on the grass of the football field, as our speaker, a local successful business person (and HPHS alum) extolled the virtues of hard work and keen focus as the way to success. All of us could be successful, he said, adding, “I’m saying this to each of you: to those of you who are just barely squeaking by and to those of you who are graduating with honors.” My mind flashed back to the tumultuous senior year I had had, living in Manhattan, KS, a town 50 miles away, having only a single class at first hour (US Government) followed by a full time job, then a part time job. I thought of the many mornings I overslept and called in for myself until finally, two weeks before graduation, my school counselor put me on probation. “If you miss another day, he told me, you will not graduate, and you will have to go to summer school.”

Remarkably, I made it through the rest of the two weeks with no further absences and now was seated there on the sunny day, with the green cord on my shoulders signifying my high GPA. I turned to the girl next to me and whispered, “I did both! I barely made it with honors!” But beyond that gleeful realization,  I didn’t have a clue as to what would happen next; looking at those pictures on fb, I wondered if any of us did.

I thought about my new group last night as I listened to poet David Whyte speak at Colorado College. David is a premier poet and uses  poetry (his own and others) to talk about our lives and our world. Last night was the 5^th time I had seen him and his topic was on Pilgrimages in our lives. He spoke of pilgrimage as an on-going journey, as in his poem Santiago (- David Whyte
from Pilgrim©2012 Many Rivers Press )

Santiago

The road seen, then not seen, the hillside
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall,
and the way forward always in the end
the way that you followed, the way that carried you
into your future, that brought you to this place,
no matter that it sometimes took your promise from you,
no matter that it had to break your heart along the way:
the sense of having walked from far inside yourself
out into the revelation, to have risked yourself
for something that seemed to stand both inside you
and far beyond you, that called you back
to the only road in the end you could follow, walking
as you did, in your rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night became a prayer for safe arrival,
so that one day you realized that what you wanted
had already happened long ago and in the dwelling place
you had lived in before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise
that first set you off and drew you on and that you were
more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach:
as if, all along, you had thought the end point might be a city
with golden towers, and cheering crowds,
and turning the corner at what you thought was athe end
of the road, you found just a simple reflection,
and a clear revelation beneath the face looking back
and beneath it another invitation, all in one glimpse:
like a person and a place you had sought forever,
like a broad field of freedom that beckoned you beyond;
like another life, and the road still stretching on.

It seems pilgrimage is a theme I’m meant to explore in my own life now, with the talk by David Whyte, the fb page that beckons me to consider the path taken, the path not taken, the way the path has shaped me, the way I have shaped the path. David spoke a lot about the Camino de Santiago —an ancient Catholic pilgrimage, though now modern day ecumenical one, that goes for roughly 500 miles over a variety of routes from France, Portugal, and other parts of Spain. It is a 5-7 week journey during which you walk by day and rest in inns or hostels at night; not quite as wild as Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, but similar.
As luck would have it, I’m currently reading a book called, Pilgrimage, from Humbled to Healed by Sonia Choquette, that details her own experience of walking the Camino de Santiago, as a means of dealing with unexpected, multiple losses in her life and the resulting emotional chaos.
What would it mean to take on such an intentional pilgrimage? To take on an arduous journey through the French Pyrenees mountains? Or, like Cheryl Strayed, to travel alone on a trail that was 1000 miles long? What could you learn of yourself and the world around you? What would you see inside yourself, the shadows in bas relief to the vista of mountain, and trail, and town, and sea?
And what if we didn’t need to spend thousands of dollars in order to go on a pilgrimage? What if we needed only to step outside our door with a new intentionality, with the commitment to pay attention to our own path, to see what we need to see, to learn what we need to learn?
David Whyte said the first step in any pilgrimage is to be willing to give up the conversation you’ve been having with yourself. To start a new conversation with the horizon that takes off the blinders of status quo, that steps out of the deeply imbedded ruts of familiarity and complacency. He said that a pilgrimage begins when we stand where we are, and raise our eyes to a horizon not quite seen—the path itself keeps us from seeing where it might, ultimately, lead.

Camino de Santiago, Day 2: Descending from the Pyrenees

I wonder how my life would have been different if, at my high school graduation, just a couple weeks shy of my 18^th birthday, I would have understood that I could choose to change the conversation I had been having with myself and with my world for as long as I could remember? What would have changed if, during key moments in my life—the death of my father and nephew, the advent of AIDS and all it took from me, the birth of my son, the expanding of my understanding through higher education, the death of my brother, the highs, the lows, the times of great joy, the times of great devastation, the times of deep uncertainty—I had taken just a moment to lift my eyes from that mile marker and dared to look out again, at an ever-changing horizon, to see if it was time to deepen the conversation or to change it? Who knows where I would be?
That I am here, in this place, in this time, is a great fortune to me and I can only surmise, looking back, that I sometimes did intuitively change the conversation, change the path, let the path change me. And I know, as I now eagerly look forward to my 35^th high school reunion, that there is no there, at the end of any great pilgrimage—whether undertaken on a well worn path travelled by millions before you, or simply trod on the singular trail that holds your life—there is only the next step, the new way of moving forward.
David Whyte mentioned that there is a place that takes an additional three days hike from the “destination” of the Camino de Santiago. It’s called Finnisterre and it is at the edge of the sea. Those who choose to journey on to this place, complete three rituals once they arrive: the eating of a scallop (the emblem of the pilgrimage), the burning of something you brought along (usually letters, cards) and the leaving behind of something that had been on the journey with you.
I think these, too, are great additions to our individual pilgrimages: the eating of a food that symbolized the way, the burning of letters and words that no longer have a place in your life, and the letting go of something that held you in good stead but is no longer needed; or is reminiscent of the old conversation, when now you need to start a new one. Powerful reminders that what we once thought we couldn’t live without, can be let go, and we will find a new way to go forward into the next chapter, the new invitation, the field of freedom that will always beckon us on.

Finisterre

The road in the end taking the path the sun had taken,
into the western sea, and the moon rising behind you
as you stood where ground turned to ocean: no way
to your future now but the way your shadow could take,
walking before you across water, going where shadows go,
no way to make sense of a world that wouldn't let you pass
except to call an end to the way you had come,
to take out each frayed letter you brought
and light their illumined corners, and to read
them as they drifted through the western light;
to empty your bags; to sort this and to leave that;
to promise what you needed to promise all along,
and to abandon the shoes that had brought you here
right at the water's edge, not because you had given up
but because now, you would find a different way to tread,
and because, through it all, part of you could still walk on,
no matter how, over the waves.

- David Whyte
fromPilgrim
©2012 Many Rivers Press 

A boot left at Finisterre 

“The historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence” -- T.S. Eliot

I have been feeling very disoriented for the past week. My laptop decided to crash and burn on New Year’s Eve and I have been limping along, using my old laptop while my current one is in the shop. I’m not the most disciplined at backing up my data and I haven’t even begun to see what my last restore data point is so I’m not sure how much I lost, but I for sure lost my most recent work, including notes, readings, website links, research, etc. for sermons from probably September, 2014 through at least February, 2015, as well as personal things– such as recent poetry and journal entries I’ve written.

I was telling Kat, our office administrator today, that the loss of my laptop with its current data makes me feel almost paralyzed, as if I’m not sure how to be in this world without this information. I don’t know how to get to point B because I’m not sure where point A was located.

I have all the old history archived, of course, going back to the very beginning of my time at All Souls, and I have boxes of hard copy archives as well– old sermons, notes, journal– in boxes in my garage. Of course, I haven’t gone through any of that in ages so I’m not sure why it’s important that I have it, only that I feel reassured that I can dig through the past to re-discover what I discovered then, to remember my lessons, to see mistakes I’ve made and not make them again, to rediscover moments of triumph, of epiphanies, of love given and received, joy that was shared, forgiveness that was given, and grace, too.

We need to have access to our past, I think, so that we don’t become untethered from our history, so that we can retrace our steps and find point A once again. Otherwise, we might find ourselves going around in circles, or repeating lessons we really did know once.

This is true, of course, in a broader perspective as well. As the old adage goes, those who don’t remember their past are doomed to repeat. I would add that those who don’t remember the past are also more likely to miss how it is connected to the present.

This Sunday we will be celebrating the 124^th anniversary of the founding of All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church. As we do each Founder’s Day, we will be revisiting the history of our congregation, metaphorically opening up the old photo albums, blowing dust off the tops of boxes of memorabilia and see how we got to be where we are today, thanks to the commitment and passion and dedication of those in the past who worked hard to be a liberal religious voice in Colorado Springs, who stood arm in arm with those seeking social justice through all those times– the suffragettes, the civil rights movement, the feminist movement and the lgbt rights movement. One of our ministers, Rev. Orloff Miller, was present in Selma, AL and, along with two other white UU minsters, was with Unitarian Universalist minister, James Reebe when they were jumped by a gang of white men as they left a restaurant with some black leaders. In that attack, Rev. James Reebe was mortally wounded.

Incredibly, this March marks the 50^th anniversary of the March from Selma to Montgomery, AL, organized and led by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. It marks the 50^th anniversary of the murder of James Reebe and Unitarian Universalist lay leader, Viola Liuzzo, who both answered the call to go to Selma as allies to the African American community.

What have we learned since then? What are the lessons we still need to learn? How is what is happening in our present world, with black, unarmed men being killed by people in authority positions at an alarming rate, linked to that event?

It took three attempts for the march to be successful. Averaging 10 miles a day, the marchers finally left Selma on March 21, and arrived at the State Capitol on March 25. It may not seem like much distance was covered, but, in fact, it was one of the most significant marches in recent memory, measured not by miles, but by lives impacted.

This Sunday, January 11, I would like to invite those of you who are local to join me, members of the NAACP and other faith communities in seeing the movie "Selma" at the Cinemark Tinseltown theater at Circle and Lake. We will be attending the 3:50 PM matinee and then gathering afterward for a discussion. For those who live elsewhere, I encourage you to see the film with others, as well. This is one box of history that we cannot afford to let gather dust in our garages or basements or attics. This is a film, this is a moment in history that we need to re-visit now, if we are to make sense of what’s happening today, and be a part of the solution rather than the problem. As we do, we can draw inspiration and strength from our predecessors at All Souls who also bravely and passionately answered the call of their day, to make a place of justice and equity for all. Let us not grow weary in the work of love.

Happy New Year!

 

Last year I set a goal to "get my house in order," literally and metaphorically. I’ve gone a long way toward accomplishing that goal, though I suspect it is one that requires a lifetime to fulfill and even then, there will still be items not crossed off on the to-do list. Still, I’ve made progress: I got new living room furniture and replaced the old, scarred mismatched night stands in my bedroom with a set that matches my bed. I’ve organized my closet (a daunting undertaking, filled with the ghosts of fashions past) and cleaned off my desk at work. I’ve gathered ideas for major revamping of my bathroom and kitchen.

I’ve deepened my spiritual life, and have become more consistent in my running (or, as I like to call it: controlled stumbling.) I went to a wonderfully fulfilling, enlightening weekend retreat with the poet, David Whyte, on the theme of Solace. (For more information on this poet, check out his website at http://www.davidwhyte.com/.) Local peeps, he’s giving a free lecture at CC on January 28^th, 4 P.M.

So the end of 2014 looms and I feel content with what I’ve accomplished, though mindful of where I fell short. There certainly are areas where I didn’t give my best effort, where ego triumphed over love, and where I stubbed my toe on the sharp corner of discontent. This proves, for those of you who were wondering, that I am human, after all! :)

I wanted to share with you some of my goals going into 2015, both as a means of holding myself accountable to them, and to opening myself to any encouragement you want to give! :)

I have decided to run four half marathons, one a month, June-September. Before you question my assertion that I’m human, let me just add that my version of running is a run/walk combo (known as the Jeff Galloway method) in which I run four minutes, walk one. Psychologically, I know I can keep running for four minutes as long as there’s that one minute break. I am going to begin a training program that will prepare me for this. The farthest I’ve run is a 10K, which is 6.2 miles, so almost half of a half marathon! My time for that was 1:23, so I’m hoping to finish the half marathons in 3-3 ½ hours. See below for links to the races I’ve chosen.

Another running goal is to run a sub-36 minute 5K. My current PR is 38:41, so this seems do-able and hopefully the training for the half will help in my pace and endurance overall. I want to end the year having run 1000 km (that’s just over 621 miles but sounds so much more impressive to say 1000!!).
I would like to make some progress on my bathroom remodel, and continue in my efforts to make my house more of a home; a sanctuary, rather than just shelter. I would like to do something to make my yard more inviting as well. I am the most uninspired "gardener; it’s all I can do to make sure Sam mows the lawn in the summer. But there’s always hope!

So now, we say goodbye to 2014 and welcome, with all the hope we can muster, the uncertain days of 2015. I am reminded of this quote by poet Rainier Marie Rilke: "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final." And that is all we can do, after all, isn’t it? I offer best wishes for a happy and prosperous 2015, and the courage to let everything happen to us and to keep going, and this final poem by another of my favorite poets, John O’Donohue:

A Morning Offering
I bless the night that nourished my heart
To set the ghosts of longing free
Into the flow and figure of dream
That went to harvest from the dark
Bread for the hunger no one sees.
All that is eternal in me
Welcome the wonder of this day,
The field of brightness it creates
Offering time for each thing
To arise and illuminate.
I place on the altar of dawn:
The quiet loyalty of breath,
The tent of thought where I shelter,
Wave of desire I am shore to
And all beauty drawn to the eye.
May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays,
To risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.

　

Here are the races I’ve chosen for the summer.

June 13th (the weekend before my 53rd birthday) Huntington Beach Fun in the Sun

July 4th The Colorado Springs Half on the Fourth

August 16th Run the Rockies Trail Half Marathon

September 6th Half Marathon at the Happiest Place on Earth!!

“I know there is strength in the differences between us. I know there is comfort, where we overlap.” -- Ani DiFranco

I’ve spent the past two nights filling out holiday cards while Sam and I had a Hobbit marathon, watching the first two movies in anticipation of seeing the final installment today.

It’s been years since I’ve sent Christmas/Holiday cards– and these will clearly have to be considered New Year’s cards, late as it is– so why the sudden change this year?

Several of the members of the Siblings Survivors of Suicide group on Facebook suggested sending cards to one another, a list was created and here I am filling out 61 cards to send to people I’ve never met but for whom I feel a deep affinity. We call each other sibs or siblings in our comments and it truly does feel as if we are family, born not from the same DNA but from the same searing experience of losing a sibling to suicide.

I actually belong to two specialized communities on Facebook: the sibling group and CJ’s Holiday Challenge group— a group I happened to read about on an online store where I buy running clothes.

In some ways the two groups are very different. For me, one lessens the darkness and the other increases the light. In the siblings group, the posts, this time of year, are about missing our siblings during the holidays; for many it’s the first holiday without their brother or sister. In the other group, it’s mainly for runners and it’s about staying active during the holiday season and our posts are about fitness goals we set for ourselves each week and races we do and tips on which kinds of shoes are better in winter.

But there is one way in which the two groups are very similar: we support one another. In the Siblings group, when someone posts about their sadness, or their anger at their sibling, or their disappointment and anger in friends who think they should just "move on" others post "I know exactly how you feel!" "Hang in there" "I understand" "You’re not alone."



Cards from my "siblings"

In the Challenge group, when someone posts about meeting their weekly goals, or missing them, or being sidelined by an injury, others post "Great job!" "Keep it up!" "Shake it off!" "You’ve got this!"

In neither group is there any judgment of what a person is feeling or what they have accomplished. We just genuinely and compassionately let one another know, we really aren’t alone, there are people out there cheering us on, believing in us, and being there for us.

So, when a sibling suggested sending cards, I added my name to the list. And, as many other siblings have said on that page, it has made a difference this year, to receive cards from a dozen states and as far away as Australia, cards that say Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays and that are signed by someone who is in community with me, who understands that any time we say these words of cheer, there is a sadness embedded in them that not all will see.

I know that even though my cards won’t reach folks (particularly the four people in Australia!!) before Christmas Day, that they will just be appreciative of them when they do arrive. Just as we all were for the woman who gave up trying to get the cards out and posted a holiday meme on our page instead.

Some of the people on both pages have also become friends on my regular Facebook page and it’s been interesting to see where we are alike and where we are different in our beliefs, outside that small box of commonality. And it’s been fun and refreshing to see a side that is different than the one we all focus on in those two special groups. There really is strength in our differences and definitely comfort in the places where we overlap.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said, "The world is so empty if one thinks only of mountains, rivers and cities; but to know someone who thinks and feels with us, and who, though distant, is close to us in spirit, this makes the earth for us an inhabited garden."

These groups make an inhabited garden of this earth for me, as does the community at All Souls, my Junior High Alum gang and others.

Truthfully, community is what strengthens us and binds us heart to heart, life to life, in an inextricable network of mutuality, to paraphrase Dr. King.

Where do you find community? Where do you share your life in support of another and let your guard down enough to receive that support as well?

There will be two opportunities to gather as a community at All Souls this week. One is our annual Christmas Eve service at 7 PM and the other is this Sunday, Dec. 28 at 1030 AM when high school senior, Kendra Burdick will be sharing her stories of community as we celebrate Stone Soup Sunday. I hope you can attend either or both. The truth is, we need each other, and that’s a very good thing.

Happy Holidays!

The Beauty of Darkness

We are counting down to the longest night of the year, the shortest day, the time when our ancestors feared the light might disappear altogether as daily the sky darkened earlier and earlier. Although in our modern times, this is one of our most frenetic seasons filled with holiday parties, bright lights, frenzied shopping and crazy drivers (umm, sorry), in the ancient days this was a time of stillness, of gathering quietly together, of building a fire as big as we dared to ward off the darkness and fight comfort in the warmth and light reflected off the faces of our community as we told stories of surviving the darkness in years past.

One thing that remains the same is that we humans tend to want to ward off the darkness. Then it was with a fire, now it is with all those parties and shopping expeditions I just mentioned. And we do this not only in the long nights of winter, but throughout the year. We have night lights, and bright inside lights– some even scheduled to automatically turn on at dusk, even if we’re not home; we have a multitude of blue and green and red lights blinking on all of our electronics, we ward off insomnia by watching the Late Show on television. We have flashlights and candles at the ready, all to ward off the darkness that we have been wired to fear.

Danger, we believe, lurks there, in the darkness, where there is just enough ambient light for us to see shadows menacingly crouched, ready to pounce.

And we have learned to do the same in our own, interior world. We fear the darkness, the shadows of our lives, we don’t want to be still and sit in the silent night of our fears, and terrors, our shame and regrets, our ugliness that is as much a part of our human birthright as is our opposable thumbs and our ability to draw meaning from life. We would do almost anything to not have to spend time in the darkness of our souls.

But the shadows in our world, those moments we’re not proud of, those memories we fear because they bring a grief so overwhelming it might consume us, might eclipse forever the light of our days; those dark thoughts of despair we’ve had, those times when we failed ourselves, all of those are equally a part of who we are as the medal we’ve won, the promotions we’ve received, the love we have shared. And it is only when we can learn to love the beauty of the darkness that we can be fully alive and centered in our light.

This Sunday at All Souls, as we sit on the precipice of darkness, with the longest night of the year beckoning, the choir will be performing our winter cantata called "The Beauty of Darkness." In it, we will explore through song and word, how we can find the beauty, the gifts, the lessons that await us in our darkness, how we can discover the darkness is nothing to be feared by rather to be embraced. I hope you will join us for this special service. And also, don’t forget the Solstice Party which will be this Saturday, from 6-10 at All Souls where we will celebrate with food and drink, and music and rituals, the returning again of the Sun.

Happy Holidays

I am imperfect. And I am enough

Last week I went to a class on Whole-hearted Living and Loving. It was based on the book, "The Gift of Imperfection" by Brene’ Brown. Many of you are familiar with her ground-breaking work on the impact of shame in our lives. The book covers many ways to bring healing into our lives, to break the hold shame has over each us, in differing ways.

One of the things we talked about in class was how we are enough. How we are flawed, and frail, and that’s okay. The facilitator talked about the stories we tell ourselves, how we think if only we can..... we will be worthy. She invited the class to share some of their stories aloud. Some mentioned getting a better job, or losing 10 pounds, or finding the perfect partner. If only that would happen then they would feel worthy.

Of course they’re worthy now; we all are. But the lies we tell ourselves, that were instilled in us so early that they are almost our native tongue, say otherwise. We can be so quick to find flaws within us, to feel unworthy in our lives. I was speaking to a friend the other day who is struggling financially and how she felt so unequal to the task of giving the right amount of the right quality of Christmas presents to her family and friends. If only she could afford better presents, then she would be worthy. Another friend mentioned how she feels invisible with her family– as if she isn’t good enough for them. If only they would be proud of her, then she would be worthy. For me, I feel unworthy when it seems as if my best isn’t good enough– in any situation, as a friend, a parent, a minister, a sibling. If only I could be enough for those in my life, then I would be worthy.

Often the holidays can heighten these feelings of unworthiness, the bright lights and cheerful holiday music seeming to highlight even more our shortcomings, our "unworthiness." I invite you to think of those things that make you feel unworthy– that if only you had more of, or less of then you’d finally be worthy. Now imagine saying that same qualification about your best friend, your child, your parent, your partner. Probably you’d never say of your child, for example, "if he only lost 10 pounds, then he’d be worthy!" or of your best friend, "if she only got a better job, then she’d be worthy." It sounds just as ridiculous to say those things about yourself, when you think of it, doesn’t it?

As we enter the thick of the holiday seasons, mid-way through Hanukkah and rocketing towards Solstice, Christmas, and Kwanza, and the end of the year, I encourage you to be gentle with yourself, to consider trading in those old, tired, false beliefs about yourself for something shiny with joy and possibility: the truth that yes, you are imperfect. And you are enough. Write it on your hand if it helps. I did. Happy Holidays.