Volume 21, No. 2-Summer, 1997

Table of Contents

Worlds of Reality
by Regina Roman

Looking for Speedtraps
by Rose Mary Dougherty

A Meditation on Art
by Sheila Noyes

Don't Be a Pest
by Gerald May

Money: A Contemplative Challenge in the Building Years
by Diane Paras

A Vast Web of Mutual Relationship
by Parker Palmer and Sharon Daloz Parks

I'll Meet You There
by Tilden Edwards

Worlds of Reality

by Regina Roman

Perhaps one of the most glaring aspects of contemporary issues within spiritual direction (and my own "growing edge") is the artificial and unnecessary division between perceived worlds of reality. Often I have heard that "at work or home I am one way, and within the sacredness and safety of spiritual direction I can be more myself."

One example is "David," a directee who (in addition to his full-time job) is chairperson for a non-profit organization. During our direction time together, he had commented on how the director of the non-profit was not fulfilling his paid duties and, as a result, the association was suffering. At his initiative, a full board investigation was conducted which resulted in some acrimonious political side-taking. What seemed to be an initial prayerful desire for God's presence in this particular work situation turned into a hotbed of festering, bruised egos. David would pray for guidance and a forgiving, compassionate nature towards the director in his moments of retreat, but the battle raged once he was again in the presence of the board and the director. Although his initial decisions were based upon a desire for deep healing for the non-profit--centered on God and prayer and a sense of authenticity--as events progressed, more and more of his decisions were based on feelings and desires of the ego and not radiating from the core of God's abiding presence in all things. His work life became increasingly separated from his spiritual life.

This is simply stated as a background of his struggle with God at home or in direction and God in the workplace under difficult situations: two worlds, two realities, maybe even two Gods! But in a recent direction time, God gifted David with a vision and understanding of the interconnectedness of his worlds. A wholeness and a holiness intersected our time together. Perhaps it was a moment which could be described as an "enlightenment" or a paradigm shift where "reality" now travels a different path: a time not as historic as Moses' new perception of life when he saw a Hebrew being beaten by an Egyptian but nonetheless a time for David when life itself rushed like a dedicated river through his innermost being. In our silence and prayers together, we both sensed God's healing and integrative presence. David was shown that there was much grace surrounding him and that his desire for safety and wholeness could also be a gift. He was, in his authenticity, attempting to build a safe haven for the organization. His difficulties at work were just a process in this entire picture.

In making his supreme soup, or meal as the Buddhists say, he was focusing on the tiny cut on his finger from chopping the carrots and not seeing the final, nourishing, wholesome soup which was being made. The hardships and struggles were ingredients in what was to be God's way through David in building a portion of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. The cut certainly still caused real pain, but it no longer was the entire universe for him. In our silence and prayers together, God was ever present and gracious in bestowing this wisdom on him. Work was no longer the "enemy" to dread but an integral ingredient in God's greater kingdom. Certainly God's wisdom graces not only the directee but also the director. As I stand in humble prayerfulness before God's presence during direction, I am constantly in awe and wonder at not only the inner wisdom brought forth into the light for the directee but also how those beams continue to permeate my own soul. I also had created an artificial division between my so-called worlds of reality. At times these beams of wisdom slowly radiate and gently massage my being; at other times they are perhaps more a bolt of lightning, as occurred in two separate situations.

On a beautiful, sunny day I met with Jerry May to discuss my final Shalem program paper, the topic of which is less important than the prayerfulness and mindfulness which surrounded our time together. It seemed so right, so authentic, so "spiritual." I then was to meet with Shalem's finance staff to discuss the receivables and procedures for recovering bad debt expenses. As I left Jerry's office, I said, "Well, time to change hats!" His simple question of "Why?" struck like a bolt of lightning. Why should the financial health of Shalem and a discussion of bad debt expense be any less spiritual, God-centered and enjoyable? The second bolt occurred shortly thereafter. I had been on the board of a bank for almost five years, but rarely did I consider it to be a place where God would possibly even want to be present. I was cordial to the other members but knew little about them, yet the bolt of wisdom struck when one of these same board members was to be considered for the new position of money manager at Shalem.

Actually, it seemed like two worlds colliding with a cataclysmic explosion. Here in the midst of chaos, I found the seeds of creation and order. I am not called to be a fulcrum, balancing from one end of the spectrum to another my worlds of spirituality and secularity, my modern world full of information overload, time commitments, family, work and community and my ancient world of saints, prophets and spiritual leaders. Rather it is now those gentle beams of light, guiding me to be open to and find those seeds of order, of creation, of oneness within the seemingly chaotic realm of all these connected worlds. I am to be in the very midst of the energetic swirl of life itself, no artificial divisions of where God is or is not.

Regina, a member of Shalem's Winter '97 Spiritual Guidance Program class, also serves on Shalem's Finance Committee and is a newly elected Board member. This article is taken from one of her guidance program papers.

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Looking for Speedtraps

by Rose Mary Dougherty

Several months ago, on my way to a meeting in Baltimore, I found myself driving faster than usual. I was running late because I kept finding things that I wanted to get finished before I left the house. As I drove, my thoughts alternated between the things I had still left undone at home and what I hoped we would accomplish at the meeting.

Out of nowhere came a police car which commanded my attention. I pulled over and stopped and looked for the registration, while uttering a fervent prayer, "God, please not a ticket!" A policewoman approached and asked, "Do you know you were going seventy in a fifty mile speed limit?" I couldn't even appear to look surprised; I knew how fast I was going. I simply said, "I'm sorry." She took the registration which is in the name of my religious community, the School Sisters of Notre Dame. She studied it and me in my grubbies for what seemed like an eternity. Then she said, "Are you a School Sister of Notre Dame? I mumbled, "Yes." She said to me, "I'm surprised at you."

I didn't need a ticket. I was duly chastised. I was also concerned. From the tone of her voice I thought, "Oh no! Here's someone who has been waiting to get back at some teacher for years and I'm going to get it all!" She said a few more words to me, ending with, "God bless you, sister." She handed back the registration with the warning, "You might want to slow down. There are a few more speed traps up ahead."

I did slow down, and I was surprised to notice that I was closer to where I was going than I'd thought I was. I began to notice the landscape around me, a lake and some beautiful trees that I hadn't seen before, as often as I had traveled that route. And when I got to the meeting, I was so grateful for not having gotten a ticket that I forgot to be concerned about what we would accomplish. It didn't seem to matter.

A week or so after my encounter with the policewoman, I went to work early to catch up on correspondence before a day of meetings. As I got out of the car and started in the building a voice called out, "Stop! Listen!" It spoke with such authority that I did stop and look around to see who was there. It was a woman from one of the neighboring offices. I stood there with her, wondering what I was listening for. Finally I heard the birds around me. I couldn't distinguish any in particular, but at least I was hearing them. Then she said, "Hear that sharp trill? That bird just arrived back here." She added, "I've been tracking its migration from Central America with school children across the country. I'll go let them know I've heard it."

The day was a little different for me because of that woman. I went out for short walks between meetings. I stopped and listened. I heard sounds I hadn't heard before; I noticed beauty. And, to my surprise, I finished the work I wanted to do.

Not long after that, when I was into my pushing mode, I rushed out of the house one morning, mistakenly putting my watch on the arm where I usually wear my Tibetan medicine bracelet with its sanskrit prayer for compassion and my bracelet on the watch arm. It was one of those days when I had a tight schedule and thought I needed to hurry from one thing to the next in order to get everything done. But I kept forgetting where my watch was. So every time I tried to check the time, I found myself eyeing a prayer for compassion instead. No accident, I think. The prayer brought me back to the moment. I noticed what I was doing. I prayed for compassion for my compulsive self.

There continue to be unplanned circumstances that whittle away at compulsion and invite intentionality in my choices. This weekend is an example of such circumstances. I had set the weekend aside to complete many tasks, including this newsletter article. But then there came a last- minute call from a friend. She would like to come to visit for the weekend. Was it O.K.? My head said this just wouldn't work. I had too much to do. But my heart said, " Of course it's O.K." And it has been O.K., even though, or perhaps because, it altered my plans substantially. I haven't done all that I had planned to do, but I have had some wonderful conversations that have enriched me. And her appreciation of the beauty of spring in my neighborhood has helped me notice it more.

I am reminded of verse from the poet Rumi:

Old habits die hard. I need continual reminders to be where I am, to appreciate the moment. It's not a matter of having many things to do, or not. It has something to do with a quality of being within the doing. I envy the people who can move quickly and efficiently, yet intentionally and spaciously from one moment to the next, appreciating each moment as it is. But I'm not there yet. I need to move more slowly. I need the varied speed traps like police officers, bird calls, bracelets, and unexpected visits to slow me down. I need the voices that call to me, "Stop! Listen!" I need the invitations to kneel and kiss the ground right where I am.

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A Meditation on Art

by Sheila Noyes

In April, Paul Philibert, a Dominican priest, musician and composer, gave a lecture and workshop on the Arts As Embodiment. We asked Sheila, a Shalem staff member, to reflect on his visit.

As I listened to Paul Philibert's opening comments, he seemed to invite all of us to reflect on the essence of our being co-creators with God. For me part of our development includes discovering our creative gifts and acting upon them. Deep within us is the yearning for this expression, which is really about expressing love. Believing we were created to be receivers of God's loving presence moves us toward God's purpose of being a co-creator.

The first time I took a brush and applied paint to the paper, I knew I was experiencing a deeper and fuller dimension of who I was. And to this day, each time I begin, I sense a prayerfulness and an at-one-ness with my true self. The experience will often lead to an awareness of appreciating the God-ness in my being. Often as I gaze upon the paintings hanging in galleries, I also try to imagine what sparked the artists' imagination to create such masterful works, and at what moment(s) did they sense the connectedness of self and spirit.

Philibert reminded us of the countless ways in which creativity shows itself as each of us satisfies our hunger for expressing what is really the love of our soul and ultimately creates a work of art. The notion of the mature artist offering his or her gift, not for the sake of self but for building up the community, was new for me. I had not viewed the craftsperson as being necessarily a builder of community, and yet I have experienced it. If we are to be receivers of God's loving presence and allow that presence to move us for God's purpose, indeed as we offer beauty to others, that in fact is what we are doing. To create our best effort involves letting go of our ego and prayerfully working with our craft; then being a maker of beauty for others can be seen as a privilege. The results are transforming. Certainly we all have experienced a poem, painting or symphony bringing an enlightened moment to times of distress. Being a co-creator means opening ourselves to the possibility of allowing our work to offer transformation, too.

Philibert also spent time describing the elements of solitude, silence and suffering as ingredients for authentic expressions of art: places not always welcomed, even avoided. However, when the decision is made to separate oneself from the events of day-to-day life, if only for a short time, slowly trusting the process replaces needing to fear discomfort. Once we experience the benefits of being attentive to the holiness within us, working with the inner life becomes a reality. Listening in solitude will assist in deciphering. And this is my prayer--to rely on the belief that God's loving presence abides, always ready to encourage a willing heart.

Silence becomes a prayer of preparation before a work of creation. It invites God's Spirit to rest and nurture our spirit of creation. It appreciates beauty. Creative art arises from the silent heart; our voice comes from the silent heart.

I recall one time when I accompanied an elderly woman to a gallery in Washington, DC. She had only seen pictures of art; she had never visited an art gallery. When she came upon Renoir's Luncheon of the Boating Party, her eyes widened, her mouth opened with no sound, and she simply gazed in silence at the canvas before her. I knew the wonderous beauty of this painting had touched her deeply. She often spoke about the joy she experienced that day.

Philibert says, "great art lingers in silence as a link to the original silence in which it is born." The artist at work experiences moments of silence, pauses of reflection that are passed on to the viewer or listener. That kind of silence experienced by my friend was held as a sacred moment. And I believe when we experience such a moment it assists us in knowing the Sacred within more deeply.

In recent years silence has become my friend. Nothing feeds my soul more than walking silently through an art gallery, walking in the woods, or listening to nature's music. In those spaces, there is an in-touchness with the God within and the Holy Creator of all. And these experiences replenish the stored silence within me. Noticing what is around me, appreciating the moment I encounter the leaves' first awakening to the warmth and glow of spring, I find myself believing without a doubt the invitation of nature's call to be part of creation. Out of this an expression emerges, and sometimes it becomes a word or a painting--the voice for the inarticulate of the earth.

However, the empty spaces or times of silence are not always welcomed for any of us; rather they present feelings of vacancy, inadequacy, sadness, doubt and suffering--the humanness in us all. But all the experiences of life, including suffering, have shaped who we are; and who we are is good in the eyes of God. The struggles experienced as we enter into long practices and disciplines bring forth the most authentic part of ourselves which is revealed in our craft. The deeper we experience the process, the better able we are to renounce the ego and let go of inhibitions, and we are able to produce new authentic expressions. And if we dare to face all that has been given with a prayer to know God's grace abides, perhaps we can greet them as teachers--being simply grist for the gift of creativity.

When working with a creative expression, the practice and discipline of the work become the work of the Spirit, developing more purely and clearly the image of God within. The invitation of the Divine to accept the call of co-creation also becomes the call of love for the entire community. Each of us has something unique to give, whether it be a meal to be shared, a poem, a piece of music, or a painting. Appreciate your limitations, appreciate your gifts. Cast away the images and words that inhibit the creator within in order to discover the abundance of your gift. Remembering the words of Paul Philibert, "Each of us is a word of God becoming flesh through an obedience to the word of God." The goodness of God is in us all, leading us to give generously of the unique gifts within.

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Don't Be a Pest

by Gerald May

Counsels for Spiritual Directors from John of the Cross

Four hundred years ago, St. John of the Cross offered passionate advice to spiritual directors for companioning people whom God was leading into deeper contemplative awareness. People going through such transitions usually feel confused and distressed and are concerned that they are doing something wrong. All too often, their directors agree. John says such "blind guides" fail to realize that God is secretly preparing the soul for greater realized union and freedom in love. Knowing only how to "hammer and pound" with practices and concepts that "they themselves have used or read of somewhere," these "pestiferous" directors work against the exquisite gift God is giving.

John's advice remains especially relevant today. With all the spiritual practices and psychological knowledge available to modern spiritual directors, we have even more material with which to make pests of ourselves. Below are ten counsels that I believe John of the Cross offers. Remember that they apply specifically to transitions into deepening contemplative awareness and that they are my own interpretations.* Where I have distorted John's original intent, I ask forgiveness.

1) A person moving into deeper contemplation might feel stagnated, as if nothing were happening for a very long time. It is easy for directors to become frustrated: "He's making no progress. I wonder why he keeps coming when he's not doing anything!" To this John says, "I will prove to you that [the soul] is accomplishing a great deal by doing nothing." In becoming inactive, the person is unknowingly welcoming and cooperating with God's secret interior movement towards greater realization.

2) It may even seem like regression. A director might think, "This person was beginning to claim her self-worth and take charge of her life, but now she's assuming no responsibility or initiative anywhere in her life." John's counsel here again is not to meddle, for "it is God who in this state is the agent; the soul is the receiver...pure contemplation lies in receiving."

3) What was once a rich and disciplined prayer life now seems a shambles. The person feels it's his fault, that he doesn't have the willpower to pray. Rather than encouraging the person's practice, John suggests helping him explore his real desire. If the desire is to just be with God in "simple, loving attention" without active prayer or meditation, this should be affirmed.

4) Sometimes even simple, loving attention is lost. John counsels no worry here either. He says that in the depths of inner solitude and receptiveness, people "should even forget the practice of loving attentiveness."

5) People in this transition lose touch with their habitual images of themselves, their sense of direction, and their usual belief systems. Directors often try to help with psychological insights or theological explanations, but John maintains that these losses are necessary for freedom. Because "God transcends the intellect," the mind needs to be emptied "of everything comprehensible to it."

6) Images and perceptions of God disappear. A person might say, "God used to be very real for me as a loving Presence, but now all I find is emptiness and void." Directors may desperately want to help fill this void, but John says it would be a mistake to try to do so. He explains that the person "walks safely when empty of form and figure..." because God "cannot be grasped by the imagination." A person is much more available when "the senses find nothing to be attached to, take pleasure in, or do." Putting it succinctly, he says, "God does not fit in an occupied heart."

7) In this transition, people often feel they are becoming more withdrawn and less loving. The director may agree that this is evidence of having gone astray. John, however, maintains that God, not the person's will, is now doing the loving. Neither director nor directee may understand it, but "if the will stops making acts of love on its own...God makes them in it...secretly, with infused love."

8) Or a person may confess, "I feel completely lazy. I don't care about my responsibilities anymore. I'd really like to just go be a hermit." John says these feelings need to be respected, for they constitute "holy idleness...an inclination toward solitude and a weariness with...the world, in the gentle breathing of love and life in the spirit." He says that far from being a disorder, this is an "inestimable good... much greater at times than a soul or its director can imagine."

9) It is not unusual at these times for a person to want to find another spiritual director, or to discontinue direction for a while. Directors often feel this is unwise, but John affirms that people may well need such a change. He says, "you should not assume that in turning from you this person turned from God."

10) The last counsel embraces all the others and, I believe, applies to all spiritual companionship: never forget that God is the True Director. God is now guiding the soul in secret, "leading it by the hand to the place it knows not how to reach." The director cannot "know the means by which God may wish to benefit" the soul, and the person therefore needs "another doctrine more sublime than yours, and another spirituality."

Even if directors mean well, John says they have no excuse for "rudely meddling in something they do not understand." In other words, don't be a pest. In all spiritual companionship, and especially during these transitions to deeper contemplation, the spiritual director needs to be exquisitely prayerful, completely humble, and full of faith in God's goodness and mercy. Of the latter, John has no doubt: "It should be known," he says, "that if a person is seeking God, God is seeking that person much more." And he goes on: "when the soul desires God fully, it then possesses God."

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Money: A Contemplative Challenge in the Building Years

by Diane Paras

My recently married friends and I sometimes joke (commiserate?) about something we have recently lost: our disposable incomes! We talk less of weekend trips, concerts and other entertainments and more about paint, tables and chairs, and trips to the hardware store. We laugh at the change that seems to have happened overnight. We are in the "building years."

The building years are that time in life when we are building our lives materially. Three weeks ago my husband and I bought our first house. This is a typical first major financial goal among our peers. What is next? Mutual funds and retirement accounts sufficient for what might be a post-social security era? A family?

This is particularly challenging for those of us who desire our lives to be God-led. Some questions have arisen for me: How should I handle money during this time of building, of planning a future? This money question is also a lifestyle question. One can ask, "what kind of lifestyle do I want?" Or one can ask, "How much money do I want to have and how will I spend it?"

There is so much involved in shaping a lifestyle and planning a future. It is fun in lots of ways. We dream, set goals, work to achieve these goals. It is especially fun to see plans materialize as they have for me right now with my new house. As I celebrate, however, I notice a nagging feeling emerging: Am I acting as though my future depends on my own control of resources?

God alleviates my sense of control over the future somewhat with jokes at my expense. For example, the house that I have bought is in the one place that I swore I would never live: my own hometown where I grew up and went to school! When the house came on the market, I didn't even want to look at it. But I felt unmistakably led! OK, so God is really the one in control. Still, I had to meet God partway.

One of the places to meet God seems to be in my prayer about choices. As far as my new financial choices are concerned, it seems as though they have deeper implications than those I made in the past. These choices reflect my values and willingness to truly be God-led through the landmines of desiring security and society's consumerism. Yes, landmines is the right word; I've heard so many stories from people who looked back at the material goals they achieved and found them empty.

I wish God would just hand me a blueprint--a lifestyle formula for my husband and me; it would be so much less confusing. But of course there are no formulas. We will have many lifestyle decisions to make in the next years which may need frequent reevaluating. We will look at how much is enough and how much feels right. We will discuss to what extent we might live below our means or spend (spread around) what we earn.

The only way I can figure to navigate through these landmines is by prayerfully trusting our security to God and being open to God.

Being open to God means being open to the truths that God presents to us. Some truths hurt a lot; the truth of unequal access to goods and opportunity in our country and on our planet is particularly hard. I know, for example, that I am part of a small minority of people who have any choice at all over lifestyle. Yet being open to God means acknowledging the mystery of having so much when others have so little. It means listening to God's daily nudges, whether they invite giving or enjoying, or both.

This opens up the question of giving. As a professional fundraiser, I am aware of the statistics that show people in the building years are not, as a group, large givers. With responsibilities for the futures of children, selves and sometimes parents, there sometimes doesn't seem to be enough for charities. How does one give when one is saving? How does one give when one feels the weight of future responsibilities that one cannot accurately predict? I grapple with this myself, and I know it is scary. Yet, to be God-led, isn't the idea to be willing to let go of everything, even of our sense of responsibilities, and be open instead to the responsiveness God invites of us?

We cannot anticipate what God may want for us, cannot confine God to what our limited minds might imagine. For myself, I know that to open the planning of my financial future to God requires two things of me: the courage to listen to God and the courage to accept God's guidance. I pray for both.

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A Vast Web of Mutual Relationship

by Parker Palmer and Sharon Daloz Parks

Both Parker Palmer and Sharon Daloz Parks are on the faculty of Shalem's newest program, The Soul of the Executive. Sharon is associate director of the Whidbey Institute and former senior research fellow in Leadership and Ethics at Harvard's Kennedy School of Government. Parker is a nationally-known writer and lecturer in the areas of leadership, education, community, social change, and spirituality. Below are excerpts from their recent books. The symbol ~ is used to show breaks in the text where we have skipped large sections.

Excerpted from Parker Palmer, The Active Life: A Spirituality of Work,Creativity and Caring, (Harper & Row, 1990, pp 51-53.):

• ...Despair...descends on some of us in this society of "makers" when we are forced to admit our dependence on gifts.
• In that moment we are compelled to face our own limits and reliances, compelled to admit that total self-sufficiency is, and always has been, an illusion. ~ The joy beyond despair comes when we abandon the exhausting illusion of self-sufficiency and become the grateful recipients of the gifts that life provides. ~
• ...[T]he fact is that we will always need to be makers. There is raw material in our lives, and it can be properly worked and shaped; in fact, the chance to work it is one of our major gifts. The fact that we lead gifted lives does not mean that everything we need comes down like manna from heaven. There is a legitimate sense in which we need to make roads and houses and dinner, even friends and a living and love. But we need to look again at the truth of how we make, to see how intricately our making is interlaced with our gifts. We have the gift of freedom to imagine shapes that this material might take. We have the gift of skills and tools to do the making, and the gift of the power to use them. If we can understand our giftedness, our making will no longer carry the burden of impossibility....
• ~ Western culture has a million ways of reinforcing the illusion that the world consists of inert stuff out there and that we are the active agents of change whose role is to get that stuff into shape. This is the assumption that has fueled the rapid development of technology. This is the assumption on which most modern education has been based, an education aimed at giving us the tools to exercise dominion over the earth.
• But now philosophers of science have begun to discard the arrogant notion of an inert world out there that is discovered and manipulated by an active intelligence that resides in here, in us. According to the new view, all of reality is active and interactive, a vast web of mutual relationships. We can no longer maintain the old distinction between an active knower and an inactive world. As knowers we both act and are acted upon, and reality as we know it is the outcome of an infinitely complex encounter between ourselves and our environment.
• ~ We are part, and only part, of the great community of creation. If we can act in ways that embrace this fact, ways that honor the gifts we receive through our membership in this community, we can move beyond the despair that comes when we believe that our act is the only act in town. Even more important, our action will less likely lead to corporate despair and more likely contribute to the health of the web of being and of all who live in that web.

Excerpted from Laurent A. Parks, Daloz, Cheryl H. Keen, James P. Keen, and Sharon Daloz Parks, Common Fire: Lives of Commitment in a Complex World, (Beacon Press, l996, pp 201-211.):

• ...Committed people...are deeply realistic. Indeed, it is their fierce refusal to deny reality that fires their commitment. What is unreal for them is the belief that so often animates the "real world"--that each of us is alone in the world, an independent, autonomous being, carving out our scrap of fate at the necessary expense of others.
• ~ Adam Curle...who set aside a successful academic career in Third World development to mediate disputes in Biafra, Northern Ireland, Sri Lanka and other trouble spots, told us that he keeps himself from becoming discouraged by trying not to become too attached to the outcomes of his work. But, he emphasized, his highest value, what keeps him connected, is compassion. "How do you hold those two together," we asked, "detachment and compassion?" He responded by describing "Indira's web," an image central to Hinduism. The ultimate reality is that the universe is a web in which each node is a living being. Each one is influenced by everything else in the universe.
• ~ This is not to say that the responsible, connected imagination finds the continual ebb and flow in the composing of commitment always easy. It is only to say...that people who live committed lives know they can't not engage with life. They know they not only see possibilities to which they are committed, but they steward an awareness, a consciousness, essential for the survival of our species.
• ~ From early in life...[they] had engaged in some compassionate way with people different from themselves, learning again and again to cross, and thus to redraw, the boundaries between "self" and "other." Over time, the sense of who "we" are grew larger, more encompassing, as they participated in and grew through communities that both formed and nourished them.
• ~ Along with this growth in awareness, the stories, images and symbols that invigorated those communities came to take on richer meaning, igniting the fire of a common imagination, and moving them toward responsible action. At the same time, the very dialogue of their lives--with both their inner and outer worlds--was marked by a quality of confession that enabled them to keep their balance in the midst of the world's complexity, their despair, and their own fallibility. Over the years their hearts' deep gladness became so integrated with the world's deep hunger that they found a home in that "sweet spot" where everything connects and were finally unable to turn away from its claim on them. ~ Almost without their noticing, their roots had taken a fierce and luxuriant hold in the soil of the world, and they had become dedicated spirits, the people we need.

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I'll Meet You There

by Tilden Edwards

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.  - "Open Secret: Versions of Rumi"

Do those words ring a bell in your soul? They do in mine. Once, when I was a teenager on a Boy Scout camping trip, we slept in a pristine open meadow at 7,000 feet in the High Sierras. I will never forget how overwhelmed I was that night by the vast swirls of stars filling the clear sky with their mysterious light. Words cannot convey the sense of the largeness of life I felt. All the sure definitions, divisions and worries of life melted for me. I was struck dumb with wide-eyed wonder. But I had no spiritual context for this awe. I felt vaguely anxious in an impersonal vastness. In hindsight, the veil was thick between my consciousness and any sense of divine Presence.

Now, much later in life, I know I would lie in that meadow with the same awe-struckness. But the awe would not stop with a sense of vastness. It would be pervaded with a quality of intimacy and belonging. The veil between my awareness and divine Presence would be thinner. A quality of trust, of faith-knowledge, grown over many decades, has settled to the bottom of my consciousness and would show me now that I was caught up in much more than a mysterious, physical vastness. Deeper still is a benevolent spiritual intimacy that holds and pervades that vastness. My trust is not that I can really understand that divine Presence and its ways, but that the divine Presence understands and mysteriously guides me and all creation as moving parts of one great dance of life.

That trust turns the vastness of space into home. I don't have to clutch a separate sense of self and try to protect it from that vastness. The same divine energy that animates what I see also dwells in me. In the light of such trust, a spiritual teacher has called us "congealed spirits." In time, that embodied spirit will melt and be reconstituted by Spirit in some new form.

In the ecstatic moments that Rumi speaks of, all these words about trust disappear. What remains is the naked trust itself, along with a sense of mutual belonging beyond all definitions and understanding. Of course, such consciously full moments of unity fade in time. My overly "congealed" self easily loses its pliancy then. It can harden into sharp definitions of self and other, of this and that. I can become caught up in black-and-white views of good and evil. I can feel and do all those things that follow from losing a sense of being a part of a larger, trustworthy, uniting Presence. But the memory and desire for that fullness of real being in God remains, along with a tenacious trust that allows the moments of the day to remain at least tenuously open for the Presence that never is elsewhere.

I can meet you in such "faded" times in a good way, because I trust the Spirit is always present, however veiled. Most of life is meant to be lived and appreciated in the simple trust of what is given in the moment, regardless of the ebb and flow of our sense of spiritual presence. But there are those special times when life directly reveals its incandescence. I would love to meet you, then, in that field where the world is too full to talk about--where our words stop, our hearts open, and we simply live out of the immediacy of our shared spiritual home. We don't even have to be physically present together to share this home.

We can find ourselves taken to the immediacy of that never-absent home at any time, in the midst of anything. May we meet there soon! And may such times bring to our faded times an ever deepening trust and active love for the world's realized fullness in God.

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