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Explorers of Eternity

24 Friday Jul 2009

Posted by in Good Reads, Prayer, Soul Care

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“What the world, which truly knows nothing, calls “mysticism’ is the science of ultimates,…the science of self-evident Reality, which cannot be ‘reasoned about,’ because it is the object of pure reason or perception.  The Babe sucking its mother’s breast, and the Lover returning, after twenty years’ separation, to his home and food in the same bosom, are the types and princes of Mystics.”

—Evelyn Underhill, Mysticism

I’ve been plowing through Mysticism, Evelyn Underhill’s seminal work on the subject.  It’s deep reading for one who regards herself as having no great mind, especially when the subject itself it defined by that scariest word ‘science.’  But  somehow I manage to stay afloat by hanging on to those common threads of understanding that I have intuited through personal experience.

I sit down to read, with journal and pencil in hand, mostly in the mornings but also at other times of the day.  And as I read, ever so slowly, I underline what hits home and write down what bears repeating.  Words like these, some of which Underhill borrows from others, but most of which are home-grown by Ms. Underhill herself:

“…we have agreed that sanity consists in sharing the hallucinations of our neighbors.”

“Feeling is the tentacle we stretch out to the world of things.”

In her discussion of spiritual rebirth…”Since the soul, according to mystic principles, can only perceive Reality in proportion as she is real, know God by becoming Godlike, it is clear that this birth is the initial necessity.”

“If you truly know how these things come to pass, ask it of grace, not of doctrine, of desire, not of intellect; of the ardours of prayer, not of the teachings of the schools…”

“Further, the study of the mystics, the keeping company however humbly with their minds, brings with it as music or poetry does–but in a far greater degree–a strange exhiliration, as if we were brought near to some mighty source of Being, were at last on the verge of the secret which all seek.”

These words, and many others like them, affirm the importance of my work toward recovering my true self.  They also offer hope that my intutition and feeling, as long as it moves me to experience, may be enough gas to at least take me as far as God’s neighborhood, it not to God’s actual address.  And though a beautiful mind could be helpful, I’ve learned it can actually prove a hindrance where the thinker only thinks and never does.

It’s been eleven years since my own spiritual rebirth–which was instigated by my going on the weekend retreat known as “Walk to Emmaus”.  I was agitated and disoriented afterwards–as the realization hit home that most of my life had not been directed toward eternity but the pursuit of worldly frass–and I quickly recognized I was in desperate need of some sort of compass to help me find ‘the man upstairs’.    So, after a meeting with my then pastor, who offered me what direction he could, I sat down in the quiet of my home to ponder the subject of God.  Then, quite out of nowhere, shot this thought into my head, “I wonder if it’s possible to really plug into God–to really know God and to feel His presence.”

Perhaps in an unconscious effort to answer this question, I began to read many ‘spiritual’ books, including the reading of the Bible five or six times straight through.  At the same time I began to attend and then much later lead some spiriual formation classes.  And as I look back on all of this activity, I see that this question out of nowhere, was somehow a compass in and of itself.  The strength of the question has surely led me to one sacred dot after another which has finally lead me to this motherlode of mystical knowledge, to those ‘explorers of eternity’ who have not only posed the same question, but have answered it through personal experience.  Smarter than me, they knew the answer did not lie in books but in everything that is of the world and at the same time, everything that lies wihin our deepest, truest selves.

After eleven years of groping, perhaps I am closing in on the heals of the secret, though I now see that while I have a mystical bent, I mostly likely am not a mystic at heart, at least in the truest sense of Underhill’s words.  For the “true explorers of eternity”  set out on their spiritiual journey for only one reason:  Love.   Listen to the invitation she issues:

“Give yourself, then, to this divine and infinite life, this mysterious Cosmic activity in which you are immersed, of which you are born.  Trust it.  Let it surge in on you.  Cast off, as the mystics are always begging you to do, the fetters of senses, the “remora of desire”; and making your interest identical with those of the All, rise to freedom, to that spontaneous, creative life which, inherent in every individual self, is our share of the life of the Universe.  You are yourself vital–a free centre of energy–did you but know it.  You can move to higher level, to greater reality, truer self-fulfillment, if you will.   Though you be, as Plato said, like an oyster in your shell, you can open that shell to the living waters without, draw from the “Immortal Vitality.”  Thus only by contact with the real–shall you know reality.”

Her words are enough to make one weep.

Lake Wanderings

23 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Soul Care

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My husband is on his way to Lake Eufala.  I wish I was heading east too.  But  someone has to stay behind to keep our canines corralled, to prevent ‘The  Wild West Show’ from galloping across Mesta Park.  And this time around, that someone is me, though Annie Oakley I am not.  

It’s never easy to say goodbye to Don.  Even for today’s overnight visit.  One might think I would be quite practiced at this art of well-wishing and putting on a brave front at the point of departure.  But maybe saying good-bye is less a fine art than it is a science, for Lord knows, I was never good at science.

The poodles could teach me a thing or two about their science of saying good-bye.  It’s the same formula every time, as Max and Maddie–letting their love hang out for all the world to see–run around in aggitated circles until they finally come to terms with the sad news of impending departure.  Then, in acceptance, they stand up on their hind legs to catch that final glimpse of their departing loved one, as the car backs  out of the driveway.   Just like children, the poodles don’t worry about keeping their true feelings on ice.  Nor do they mind making the dearly departed feel a little like a heel for leaving them behind. 

Sending Don to the lake is my gift to Don and to his Mother.  Monday she called, to say that she and Don’s step-dad were taking Micalea to the lake.   Micaela is Janice’s only great-granddaughter, and as if that isn’t enough to make her special, Micaela is the living legacy of Janice’s favorite grandson Michael.  It’s not fair to have favorites, whether it be children or grandchildren.  But favorites sometimes exist, whether or not openly acknowledged.  And, quoting all moms everywhere: “who said life was fair?”  Or death, for that matter.  Especially the kind that took Mike in a horrible car crash four years ago this December.

The news of the crash made the AP wire, as Mike and his best friend Darrell–who then played for the Oakland Raiders–had played football together at USC.  The AP reporting and all the other articles that sprang up out of the crash created a big splash at first–but as with all concentric circles created by a big splash, the outward edges have grown faint with the passage of time.  But meanwhile, at the dark hole center that swallowed Mike’s life, where those closest to Mike remain to live and love, the wounds of his too early departure are still sharply felt.  By some the wounds of loss are endured silently.  By others not so.     

Yet healing awaits for those who wander away to the lake house, for memories of happier times continue to live at that modest place that sits on a grassy hill overlooking the water.  Most of the year it stands empty, waiting to offer a bit of healing to those who come, an innocent kind of magic born from the mixture of happy children and hot summer days.  The best childhood memories were born into my children at this place.  And I imagine the same was true for Mike, as I recall his happy ten year old face as he skied across the lake twenty-three summers ago.  And while she won’t be skiing, I hope Micaela’s ten year old face is also now glowing with happiness that will one day grow into the loveliest of memories.      

As my mind wanders back in time, I realize that this is Micaela’s second visit to the lake, though her first came courtesy of her mother’s womb.  Don was at the lake that summer too, as Janice was most anxious about Mike marrying at such a young age–for knowing Mike as she did, she feared his plans for a rushed marriage might stem from a sense of duty rather than love–so Don was there to offer his rock-steadying presence.  Of course, once the family met Micaela’s mom, and saw how well she fit in and how well she loved Mike, there was a whole lot less to worry about.   

A part of Mike’s love rests in Micaela.  And eleven years later, a remnant of those who loved Mike surround his daughter, to help her create her own special brand of memories.  Somehow, I hope Micaela’s memory-making will transcend the bounds of time to reach out to wherever her father now plays in eternity.  Maybe spirits of our past selves wander across the face of the lake and maybe our current selves do too, whether they rest in the now or in the forever more.  If so, then I believe Mike and I are gathered at the lake house too, cheering Micaela on as she mixes up a little summer magic, enough that makes us thank God we’re alive in the spirit.  

Gentle Nudges and Whispers

22 Wednesday Jul 2009

Posted by in Soul Care

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I should be paying bills.  Or a whole host of other things.  But instead I write, surrounded by resting dogs.  Other than a few odds and ends, there’s nothing much on my plate for the rest of July.  It’s a good feeling to have my gardening ‘hope desk’ commitments fulfilled; and as I’m on a writing holiday from Everyday God, I’ve been enjoying some time for leisurely writing and reading.  

But yesterday, during a lull in phone calls at the ‘hope desk’, I was rocked out of my sweet lullaby to receive what may have been a small ”nudge’ of remembrance from Everyday God.   The three of us on duty know each other fairly well from last fall’s master gardening classes, as we shared a common table and counselor, though both are light-years ahead of me in terms of gardening knowledge. 

So we took advantage of the space to catch up on each others lives and gardens.   During a brief pause in conversation, one friend asked after Daddy’s health.  And while in the midst of sharing a short report of Dad’s good news, my other friend interrupted my story, in the hurried and breathless way that local weather forecasters preempt regular programing to inform its viewing audience that a tornado is breathing down their necks.  I confess to doing this too often myself, so I had no problem with her interruption.  I understand all too well how weighty thoughts can disappear if not given birth when ready to come into the world.

To my great surprise, she couldn’t wait to tell me that if I ever offered Everyday God again, she wanted to come.  Forgetting Daddy for the moment, I responded to her words, telling her I didn’t know what the future held with respect to this contemplative spiritual formation class I was mid-wifing.  But that I would definitely keep her in mind if I offered the class a second time.  I don’t think she thought any further of her words.  Her job was done; the weight was off of her and onto me.  And I was surely left to wrestle with the meaning of this unexpected source of desire.  Was this a nudge from God, a whisper to remind me not to become too comfortable in my life of leisure?   

If so, it worked.  Because this morning, and even a little last night, while pouring through Evelyn’s Underhill’s book Mysticism, I began to think about future lessons.  And even about offering the first seven sessions of Everyday God a second time around.  And the thought of both is so…comforting, so moving, so beautiful and lovely.  Though none of these words are an exact fit of  ‘it.’

But I am drawn toward these in the same way my friend is.  And not because I should do them.  I do too many things out of ‘should’.  But this I have done and would do out of the deepest of desires.  I want to.  And so, it’s time to go dash off a quick and breathless email to interrupt my friend Linda’s day, while the tornado is breathing down my neck, creating this burning awareness of the beauty of life within me.  And before the fear of it keeps me from birthing my own version of this whispery nudge.