God at 13,000 feet (The Art of Being Present)

We look with uncertainty

Beyond the old choices for

Clear-Cut answers

To a softer, more permeable aliveness

Which is every moment

At the brink of death;

For something new is being born in us

If we but let it

Ann Hillman

“I could die Thursday.”  Those were my waking thoughts on a Tuesday morning as sounds of birds singing and ocean rumble filled the bedroom in my beach home.   It wasn’t a depressingly fatalistic thought randomly pulled from the caverns of my psyche.  It was a sobering reality of my choice of activity for the week.  Thursday I was jumping out of a plane.

I’ve always wanted to experience the free flying soar of a bird, gazing over the world unencumbered by airplane window rims and endless wing span.   There seemed to be a higher calling to feel the air bathe my face and float with the clouds. 

Since it was my sixtieth year on earth, it seemed like the time to give it a shot.  So I signed up in June.  I had a month to plan, but I didn’t.  And then I had two days to come to grips with an air flight that had no protection of airplane walls.

Mortality belongs to anyone else.  Once in a while there is a realization that my days are numbered, but numbered only in quadruple digits.  Jumping out of a plane suddenly brought a potentially much shorter time span.  Death might be imminent and I better be ready.  

 In a spiral notebook my service was planned and my art, my books and my clothes were assigned to a list of people who may want them or could distribute them accordingly.  As the words spilled out on the lined pages, I realized who mattered in my life.  I realized what beauty I had and wanted to share.  With a free associative flair I allowed the faces of those who truly rested in my heart to become stewards of my worldly goods.  A trip to Walden Pond was gleefully planned for family to take my ashes for distribution among the chickadees and deep red maple trees.

Gratitude filled my soul about my rich and juicy life, but thinking of jumping from the plane caused my solar plexus to quiver.  “I’ll live lift to the fullest, just in case.” I told God.  “If you could send a reassuring sign, that would really be great.”    

Standing at the edge of the ocean, I opened my eyes to its power.  Wave after wave came up to my feet, lapping at them playfully, always returning to remind me to be conscious of its deep and outstretching waters. 

Chats with my loved ones became even more frequent.  Conversations had more depth than usual, allowing for affairs of the heart, rather than the mundane of the every day.

Once while driving a neighborhood road, a young buck pranced across the road foraging for food.  A neighbor slowed traffic to keep it safe as we watched in awe of his strength and beauty. 

Colors deepened around the hills and the lush foliage of the coastal mountain range seemed just a bit more vibrant. 

Finally, Thursday came. 

The decision to jump could no longer be altered.  Friends came to see me dive, gathering under a tent by the airfield.

Waiver after waiver was initialed, disclaiming any liability of crushed skull, back, feet or arms.  Dying began to be a preferable outcome to the myriad of disabilities for which I would not blame the airfield.  A whimper began in my belly and quickly ascended into my vocal cords as I read and initialed. 

“You are not selling me on this” I stated in a voice that squeaked. 

“It’s a litigious society” the airfield official brusquely retorted. 

Walking to the plane strapped into the appropriate gear took me by my friends.  Looking at their worried faces, all I could say was “remember I love you”. 

The mantra “Thy Will Be Done” began to chant in my head, repeating my desire to let God carry me in His hands.  The plane climbed high and hovered against the blue sky.  My prayer continued.  It was honest.  It was authentic.  It was the letting go of my lifetime. 

The large side panel of the plane opened with a clang, the cold air filled the cargo unit coldly and intrusively.

My tandem partner scooted me to the open panel and advised me to wrap my arms to my chest and lean my head back against him.  “Thy Will Be Done” I uttered…………………………………..

and I leaned back…………………………

At thirteen thousand feet the air smells and tastes like ocean.  Genesis tells of the firmament lifted from the earth’s waters into a “canopy” of heavens.  “It’s true” my mind said as we sailed through the cold and salty sky and the wind stippled my face with lightly tapping fingers. 

There was no more thought of the future, no concept of the past, falling through the air was being totally an experience of the present, and God carried me through the atmosphere as I gazed at the world with wide open eyes.  Flying in partnership with the universe, the world greeted me with a cheer and a wave.  My Mother the earth perfectly partnered with the clear blue sky, the far and wide stretch of green and brown patchwork ground, the majestic mountains bowing to me in welcome, and the sounds of silence with just a hush of wind caressing us, holding us as we flew unencumbered.  There was no terror, simply peace at experiencing the world in its glory so completely.

When the parachute pulled me upright, I felt the sadness of endings.  I would soon become earth bound once again.

As we lowered closer to the earth, I could see small beings waving joyously at us.  I knew I was coming home to my life.  Gratitude filled my heart, for the world I had seen in its total unobstructed beauty, for the people who waited my return with love and relief, for my “new best friend David” who guided me gently to the ground.

There was a death that Thursday.  It was a death to fear of the unknown.  The greatest gift was the resurrection to living completely in the moment, reminded lovingly of the wonder of a world that sustains us; even when we are too busy living to notice. 

On a large piece of paper taken to the airfield are signatures from each of my friends in attendance.  Some wrote short phrases, some wrote prose.  One statement still sits like a beacon on my heart:

“You are nutz.  I love you”

Being earthbound isn’t all bad.

God in the Walls: The Gift of Self Awareness

Self-acceptance comes from meeting life’s challenges vigorously.  Don’t numb yourself to your trials and difficulties, nor build mental walls to exclude pain from your life.  You will find peace not by trying to escape your problems, but by confronting them courageously.  You will find peace not in denial, but in victory.

J. Donald Walters

Rain is pouring through downspouts on my roofline.    Prayer flags are hanging from my trees, drooping under the weight of the water and buffeted by the winds that push and prod plant and tree in my back yard.  On each flag, etched ancient symbols resemble graffiti.  They mean something; right now it’s not clear.

The steady sound of rain on my roof lulls me. Sitting at the computer, my brain seeks focus so that a promise of a written piece is fulfilled.  Nothing seems worthy of capturing on blue and white screen.  My creative genius is bereft, like many a writer, I’ve hit the wall.

A wall……………………………………….my mind begins to traverse in new focus.

Recently, I was verbally assaulted at a business event.  Because this person means so much to me, the words slammed into me with such force that an “iron wall” clanged down in my solar plexus.  It clanged with heavy weight, protecting the softness within.  

Mewing insecurities are huddled deep in layers of well crafted defenses. That protective barricade leaps to the rescue when fear flies from my inner shadows. 

Wall building becomes a talent when the pain experience is so frightening.  Walls of protection have been an important method for me to deal with scary stuff. 

Now walls are holdovers, familiar fortresses with graffiti labels.

There are walls at my job built by huge agencies with limited vision.  Those walls limit progress. Those walls make my job difficult as I attempt to parlay around their strategies and arbitrary policies.  My responding walls are self doubt that has flourished since childhood.  The painted graffiti on those walls say “inadequate”.

Another wall rebuilt itself when I learned that a volunteer activity I eagerly wanted to do was abruptly assigned to another person.  The wall is mortared with disappointment and distrust. It is that recognizable wall of not being part of the “in-crowd”.  Graffiti on that wall spells out “undesirable”.

The wall that clanged at the business event was covered with “failure” graffiti.

Now there is great sadness in knowing that walls built from fear and insecurity have prevent the fully loving relationships that we truly want and need. 

Walls teach us our stories. If open to the voice deep within walls can be tools of healing. By naming the walls for why they were built, they become pliable.  If we take time to lovingly guide ourselves, we would see the graffiti for what it is; age old labels that no longer fit today’s scenarios.  Graffiti becomes the affirmation of a life open to new connections, rather than ongoing isolation.

 Like Joshua, it’s good to find ways to see those walls come tumbling down.

Walls of defensiveness fall when admitting our part in conflict of any kind.  “I’m sorry” is graffiti that opens the heart to soft humility.

Walls of anger become waterfalls when tears melt the coldness of the heart.  “Forgive me” is the graffiti of the free person, letting go of the wrong and opening to love.

Walls of judgment are especially thick.  They are built by those who need to feel exalted, but really feel very isolated.  The graffiti of “I love you for everything you are” marks the shattered stone blocks with bold vibrant letters.

Diminished walls and new affirmed graffiti bring us in intimate community with each other.  When our walls fall, we find our true sense of human frailty.  We lose the need for blame or shame, we accept ourselves as we are, we open to all of life experiences.  Walls no longer make sense.

When we understand another’s wall, we are truly their friend.  How wonderful when we reach out with acceptance and oneness and let a wall diminish just enough to feel the freedom of our heart song to each other.

The walls within me are lighter, just for having been recognized and named for what they are.  Reaching into my deepest being, self acceptance is a soft blanket that holds me in love.  My world becomes much more welcoming.    

The rain has stopped and a gentle breeze now wafts in the back yard.  As the prayer flags dance in the wind, my solar plexus dances with the lightness of Self from this deepening journey. On those flags is the ancient graffiti promoting peace, harmony, acceptance, and joy.

A smile of thanks, a prayerful salute, I rest against the walls of life.

She Loved Food

Everyone felt lucky to know Marcia.   There was a time when we boogied to Johnny Limbo and the Lug Nuts and enjoyed the smaller, “off-Broadway” Portland plays.  She was my colleague at legislative sessions.  I watched on the sidelines as she faced breast cancer with courage and resilience.  She faced divorce with the same flair.  She always wore an impish smile.

Marcia died on a Sunday morning in August, and I tucked that news into the back reaches of my mind, willing myself to deal with it later.  By that Tuesday, “later” was “now”.  Driving down Highway 101, I listened to her obituary read to me over my cell phone.   I was fine until I heard “She loved food”.  I remembered seeing her in the capitol coffee shop in 2003.  She’d gained a lot of weight, and she laughingly pointed that out.  “I sure had fun doing it” she chortled.  I was reminded that Marcia didn’t operate under embarrassment or apology, she just faced whatever came with that sweet smile and mischievous glint in her eye. 

Marcia was gone.  I felt a tsunami of grief rise up from the depths of my soul, and I found myself driving with tears streaming down my cheeks, my chest heaving with sorrow.  I eased my way carefully back to the beach condominium and plopped heavily into the bed.  Through the bedroom window I could see large oak trees and birds fly through them – and I found the scene comforting and solid.  My cells felt anchored down by feelings akin to words like forlorn and cheerless.  I lay for hours, dozing on and off, searching for meaning in this world of pain and despair.

Toward noon I began to realize that when I remembered Marcia, I saw me.  She had the same Kris Kringle balloon tummy that I’ve cultivated over the past year.  She had the same deep crow’s feet around the same green eyes.  She had the marionette lines reaching down from her smiling mouth on the same fair freckled skin.  I realized that I was taking her death very personally.  Marcia was dead.  She would never see Italy again, or play another round of golf.  She would not hug her nieces and nephews or care for her ninety-year old father.  It was done for Marcia, and every day I’m vulnerable to the same fate.  The world hadn’t just lost a fabulous woman; my world had turned upside down with grim reality.

I pulled myself up out of bed and logged on to the laptop, downloading the obituary so I could read it and catch the parts I missed when it was read.  That’s when I got her message and her legacy.  A minute part of the obituary mentioned her career.  What really mattered was her love of travel, theater, music, and reading.  The obituary writer made it clear that she loved golf, and made a point of playing every chance she got.  And, she loved food.  And, she loved her friends (who, like me, will miss her desperately).  She wasn’t important because she worked for Congresswomen and lobbyists.  She was important because she adored life and embraced all things so completely.

I shut off the computer and dressed for town.  I drove to the spa and signed up for a massage. 

The next day I was at the Lincoln City community center at 10:00, lifting weights.  By 11:00 I was in the pool, bouncing up and down with fifty others, laughing and joking and relishing in the aliveness of each man and woman alongside me in the clear blue water.  Later I instructed the massage therapist to lay many of the pacific stones on my heart chakra, because it needed healing.  I frolicked in the water pool naked, and laid my head against the side of the mineral pool as I gazed out over the spit and the distant ocean.  I stood for a long while under the rain shower, feeling the warm simulated rain fall around me.  That night I went to a meditation group and basked in the joy of peaceful reflection and found even more new friends.

It was one of the best days of my entire life.  It is the beginning of many.

I too love food.

GOD ON THE FOURTH FLOOR

God on the Fourth Floor

A Gift of Awakening

God enters by a private door in every individual

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Every Friday morning I get on the elevator and ride it to the fourth floor of the Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center in Corvallis.  It’s always a long ride. 

My ride is always fraught with ruminations about my purpose and what life holds when I reach the fourth floor phone and they buzz me in. 

I am still learning my “calling”.  No one on this floor has requested a chaplain on my watch.  Every visit I make is a “cold call”.  My job, according to my supervisor, is to “bring God into the room”.  That feels incredibly daunting.  Who am I to bring God anywhere?

What I love about chaplaincy is that I’m not allowed to preach (which I don’t do very well anyway).  I’m not allowed to bring my own theology (which isn’t clearly defined for the outsider because I’m so against having a ‘set’ theology).  I’m to bring a Presence that allows openness that helps clarify the mile marker on their personal spiritual journey. 

I’m an anomaly in a mainstream setting.  The other chaplains know who they are.  They are Christians.  They espouse American religion and it fits them like a wet suit – they move in it easily and comfortably and there are no tears or bubbles that need mending.

I, on the other hand, will dance wildly at Solstice time in worship of the Goddess.  I will join others at Buddhist retreats and learn acceptance.  I will honor my chakras on a weekly basis, hoping for a deepening of the ancient Hindu spirituality.  I will allow Jesus in my heart as much as I can without allowing the fundamentalist dogma to crawl out and into my ventricular system.  I thrill when I hear Jewish chant and soften at the rituals.  I believe in the braided path to God, and I use my sixty’s marching mentality to defend all that I believe – as I hear the Native American war chant beating in the distance.

That is the strange persona that I bring to the fourth floor.  I don’t expect the nurses to understand it. The minute I introduce myself as the Friday Chaplain, they have a preconceived notion of what I’m about. 

The fourth floor is for women patients only.  Bright pastel walls blend with the bouquets of flowers adorning room shelves when a partially opened door allows a peek into the room.  Balloons can be seen waving a joyful “look at this!”  Passersby catch a glimpse of youthful husbands and wives as they gaze at their new born child with awe.  There is a gentle sense of love and joy in those rooms. 

When I began my internship, I would knock timidly on the door and then gauge whether I was welcome by facial expressions.  The most recognizable expressions are those of Mormon couples.  They have no need for any spiritual presence outside of the True Church.  The second most understandable expressions are those afraid that I’m there to proselytize.  I empathize mightily.  After years of Christians convinced that I need their brand of God, I have no desire to be a continuing conduit of arrogant parochialism for captive hospital audiences.

Last week I walked into room 4106.  I knocked first and listened for permission to enter.  I scanned the room for evidence of family and support.  There were flowers and balloons. 

A woman lay in the bed, fresh faced and beaming.  Instead of the baby lying in the nearby Plexiglas bed, she was laying in her mother’s arms.   Her skin was the color of Bing cherries with a web of dark hair caressing her tiny head.  The mother looked up when I told her who I was.  She welcomed me in, and asked me to give her the bulb so that she could remove unwanted material from the baby’s nose.

The baby’s name is Marissa and she doesn’t like bulbs up her nose.  Her reaction was immediate and vehement. 

“That’s a spunky little girl” I exclaimed, falling in love immediately.  Her mother agreed and gleefully began to share the energy she experienced as Marissa settled into her womb and claimed her place as an important part of their life within that cave of nutrients and love.

I moved to the other side of the bed to get a better look at this little female who had claimed my heart.  She opened her tiny eyes, and a Light emanated in the room. I shared my observation with the mother, who again validated my perceptions.  “Her middle name was Christina because she was a gift from God”. 

She had lost a baby two years ago through a tubular pregnancy, a chaplain sat with her to support her in her grief.  This time, she wanted a chaplain to pray a prayer of thanksgiving.

The prayer came easy.  I wrapped Marissa with a blanket of gratitude for the role she would bring to our world.  I thanked God for the parents who would care for her and support her.  A tear rolled down my cheek as I sent a virtual hug over to this baby, who had settled down and lay with ease in her mother’s arms.

I opened my eyes, and felt the glow of Love and Joy wrapped around us.  Marissa was the only being that took it for granted.  The mother and I smiled at each other; we knew it was a special moment.

As I was leaving, the mother promised me that Marissa would belong to a church and attend Sunday school every week. 

“Just remind her of who she is every day” I said, (breaking my chaplaincy code of expressing my own theology).  “A Child of God”.

It was a defining moment.  I didn’t bring God to the fourth floor.  She was already there.

Aging is Not For Sissies: It's a great ride!

You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope, as old as your despair.

Douglas MacArthur

Looking in the mirror is sometimes akin to watching “Fear Factor”. 

Years of smoking and living have left their mark.  Spider web lines are escaping from the sides of my mouth and spreading up into my cheek area.  The top surface over my lip looks like someone took a potato masher and stamped ridges all along the surface from nose to upper lip.

Ridges in my forehead have deepened since my twenties, when I joked about lifting my forehead often and saying “huh?” 

There are doughy rolls of flesh careening down the front of my body.  These are the Steve foothills; they’ve amassed their bulk over the past twenty years.  I used to eat what I liked and rarely saw my tummy do more than bloat a bit from menstrual water retention.  The tummy has become its own geographic region

It’s not all bad.  I can live with the crow’s feet.  They are deep and wonderful.  They crinkle like saran wrap when I smile, they edge my eyes in soft folds of velvet crinkles that show a life lived any way I could possibly live it. 

The big blessing is that my body works.  There is no arthritis or any of those other diseases baby boomers are beginning to discuss over cocktails at the fortieth class reunion.  Only childbearing related surgeries have invaded this sixty year old body.  The gall bladder is still sitting down there in the appendix neighborhood.  There’s no doubt, it’s been a good life physically.

There are stark realizations that come when it may be the last quarter of life.  While death is not something to dread, losing quality of life is.  “Aging is not for sissies” the bumper sticker reads.  Being a sissy is easy when the focus is on stooped bodies, dementia, loss of hair and teeth or being shuffled off to “the home” to wait out the final days. 

It is important to learn how to lead a non-sissy life.

To find the recipe for great life on the other side of sixty, I look to others for help.  Mindfulness becomes my tool kit, and discernment is critical.  While a commercial shows how Oil of Olay can lessen the wrinkles on a thirty-five year old woman, the key is to see the more authentic beauty of women who have moved into the non-sissy era before me.  Buddhism tells us to let God look through our eyes and see the Truth of all that is.  God moves my spiritual eyes into His world of crones – and the vivacious dance of women who have found their essence beckons me on.

Sixty looks good on a woman with an awe-inspiring mind, a writer of herstory who creates foundations so that individuals can be served and given a financial helping hand.

Sixty-one looks exciting on a woman with impish good looks, a quick wit and the wherewithal to change careers from the rigors of drug counseling to the world of marketing and elder care.  She now gives Reiki in a hospice setting; her soul magically moving to the rhythm of her soul.

Sixty-three looks inspirational on a woman who gathers all into community and guides them in love and acceptance.  Joy shines through her eyes as she learns techniques to help each of us toss the “ball of light”.

Seventy-something looks wonderful on a woman with clear skin, beautiful white hair and a smile that shines like a warm starry blanket.  The truth and beauty of her writing displays her heart and wisdom.  It brings me to my knees. 

Seventy-five looks reassuring on the woman who serves her church with unconditional love, even in the face of uncertainty.  She is the rock that people turn to, the wise woman that people seek for clarity and insight.

Eighty-one looks great on a woman who sits at her favorite table in Rudy’s and proclaims “I can’t believe I’m eighty-one…..I really only feel sixty-five!”  Her secret weapon is resilience, she has no expectations, only a celebration of the many blessings she identifies daily.  She believes in God’s direction, in fact she plans on it.

I’ve had two real mentors in this world.  One taught me to love God in a way that was inclusive of every spiritual journey.  She taught me unconditional love and the joy of laughter.  She died at seventy-eight, her legacy never did.

The other mentor has skin tone like mine, a smile like mine, and a zest for life like mine.  She can be found at the pool doing water aerobics or walking at the mall.  Her friends range in age from their sixties to their eighties.  They tell me that she is their light – she makes them laugh.  In the past four months she has been in Mexico, Seattle, Santa Cruz and Ashland.  She took a month off in March to celebrate her eightieth birthday. 

I call this mentor every day.  She answers my “special ring” with “hello, my darling daughter”.  Then we share our day’s plans, recap what happened before and find a reason to laugh.

God’s revelation is that sissies have no idea what they are missing.  Embracing each day and living it fully is the crone way.  Celebrating the self and the life the self has created is the gift that is wrapped in the potato masher lips and saran wrap eyes.  The foothills of Steve could use more water aerobics and less celebration of food.  That’s a choice I’m willing to make.  The real work out is to jump in and engage in each day joyful embrace. 

 “Come be the best you can be” the Voice invites.  The non-sissy life is just beginning.