Category Archives: Science and Spirituality

The Patron Saint of “Both/And”

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There’s a hidden creek in the Cascades west of Bend that we call “Fairy Moss Creek.” I spent an hour there a couple of days ago, in the company of an American Dipper. (Dippers, also called Water Ouzels, are North America’s only aquatic songbird.)

This dipper’s right leg appears to be useless. She drags it along behind her over moss-covered rocks and through the water as she goes about her dipper business.

The rills aggregating to form Fairy Moss Creek appear out of bare rock just a little way upstream from the downed log on which I’m sitting. An additional creeklet appears to erupt from the top of the ridge across from me, then bubbles down the ridge to join the main stem. It’s up this branch that our dipper moves, hopping from rock to rock, sticking her head into pools and under tiny waterfalls, evidently finding plenty to eat. She’s in no hurry, moving steadily up and up and up, dragging that useless leg behind her. No drama. No angst. Just whole-hearted dipper.

I hear her say that injured things can thrive. Hurt beings can be strong. Imperfect creatures have every right to nutrient-rich habitat. She tells me she’s whole, in spite of her injury. She tells me I’m whole, too.  

Fairy Moss Creek is magical. This dipper is a shaman. And I am a mystic.

The world talks to me on the regular, as it does to all nature mystics.

September 17th is the feast of Hildegard of Bingen, hands down my favorite saint. Hildegard, who lived in the 12th century, was the Queen of Both/And. She was an abbess of a monastery in Bingen in the German Rhineland. She was a healer and theologian. She was an herbalist, a painter, and a writer. She instructed popes while writing music. And that’s just for starters. Hildegard was many things, some of them seemingly contradictory.

I think I admire Hildegard because I have seemingly contradictory parts, too. There’s the left-brained analytical biologist who geeks out on geology, botany, ornithology, and the intricacies of watersheds. And there’s the right-brained intuitive who loves art and poetry and healing, and who receives dipper messages.

For the longest time, I’ve believed I needed to choose between these two worlds. As a kid, I was told that the intuitive me who knew stuff about people, loved narrative and color, and talked to the trees wasn’t practical. That I needed to give her up in order to make my way in the world. That the part of me that would be useful to others and would make my living is the orderly, fact-based part. That we’d all be happier if I would just get over myself, accept the loss of my kaleidoscope life, and settle for black and white.

I’ve found a little “both/and” air to breathe occasionally, while mostly drowning in my inability to choose. My master’s degree is a Both/And: Conservation Biology and Communication. My coach training is Both/And: scientifically rigorous and firmly rooted in the mystical. (Martha Beck, who developed Wayfinder Life Coach Training, is sociologist with a doctorate from Harvard and one of the most mystical women you’ll ever meet.

Like Hildegard, I’m a biologist and a poet, a science nerd and an intuitive, a healer and a theologian. I contain multitudes. And I refuse to accept the culture’s message that I need to choose.

I know there’s more to this world than meets the eye. I believe in that deep womb-heart I felt on the Camino. I get messages all the damn time from rivers and rocks and birds. That I can also tell you the story of the basalt rock we’re sitting on at the time, identify the bird you’re hearing in the trees (and the trees), regale you with interesting facts about that bird, and tell you where the river’s headwaters are, only adds to my joy. I hope it adds to yours, too.

I’m claiming my both/and life. I’m choosing my integrity and wholeness, and to hell with the culture that says I can’t have both.  

PS. Interested in more about Hildegard? The Abbey of the Arts is offering a retreat on Hildegard’s feast day. Here’s more information.

Rewild yourself.

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A dam on the Colorado River

Dismantling dams and rewilding rivers is hard work. Hard work, and necessary work, if life is to thrive.

You and I were born free flowing streams. As we grow, most of us become dammed and channelized, our water “reclaimed,” our wildness dishonored and diverted.  We couldn’t resist this domestication when we were kids, subject to forces way bigger and stronger than we were. The grownups who dammed our waters were mostly just trying to keep us safe. Our culture, however, does not have our best interests in mind. It simply wants our water for its own purposes. The utilitarian value of the river’s water is more important to culture than the intrinsic value of a wild river’s nature.

My brother and sister-in-law live on the banks of what’s left of the Colorado River, close to where that mighty Grand Canyon-carving river flows to a trickle through Mexico into the Gulf of California. Here the Colorado is channelized and denuded, beautiful in its own way but a shadow of its former wild self. The Colorado’s waters are dammed all along its length — diverted to irrigate crops, generate power, and provide drinking water for Los Angeles, Phoenix, Las Vegas and other western cities.

Real rivers are messy and unpredictable, for sure. But the life supported by a river that runs free is exponentially richer. That life isn’t as useful to humans. It’s wild. Wild life has value in and of itself, value not seen or appreciated when the dam was built.

Fish-killing dams have been removed from many Pacific Northwest rivers in the last decade. Two examples: the Elwha in Washington and the Rogue in Oregon. Four dams on the Klamath River could be removed starting in 2022. Taking out Snake River and Columbia River dams has been a controversial topic for decades.

Demolish a dam and lose control. Floods are unleashed, rapids ripple again, wild life thrives, natural ebb and flow happens. Salmon recover, and they feed Orcas who depend on the salmon. Riparian songbirds reappear as willows recolonize river banks. As marshes, wetlands, and estuaries rewater, the abundant life native to these swampy habitats returns. A wild river isn’t conducive to commerce and capitalism, though, so be prepared to live less conveniently and with less stuff.

Yes, taking out dams is hard work. Yet dismantle those dams we must, once we become aware of the damage they do.

What’s the dam in your free-flowing wild river? Is your dam made from following rules you don’t believe in, rather than choosing your commitments intentionally? Is your dam the belief that you have to be small and quiet, rather than living big and bold? Is your dam made from waiting for permission to flow, rather than letting loose and being who you are? For me, it’s all of these. (I’m flouting all three of these limiting beliefs by blogging much more often!)

As adults, we can dismantle the dams blocking our flow. We can take them apart, brick by brick. Or we can blow them up all at once. We can also keep them, if we like the result. But be prepared to pay the price of dam demolition. Wildness does not exist to be utilized and controlled, to be at the beck and call of those who would use its resources for their own gain. Be prepared to ride the wild river’s ups and downs, to swirl in the eddies. Be prepared to meander up side channels to swampy places where life thrives in unexpected ways.

Be prepared to discover just how resilient you truly are.

Photo by John Gibbons on Unsplash

Living a Healed Life

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A woman meets her soul: photo of child and bear

The source of your woundedness isn’t what you think it is. The reason you feel broken isn’t what other people did to you. You don’t feel broken because of the things that have happened to you. The source of your wounds is your beliefs. You feel broken because of your thoughts about those people and those events.

This is good news.

You can’t change other people, and you can’t change the past. What you are totally and completely in charge of is your thoughts and beliefs. The source of our sickness is who we believe ourselves to be – our foundational metaphors. If we’re swimming in a polluted worldview, our lives will be sick. (Last week’s very long post goes into this concept in detail.)

We heal when we learn to think healing thoughts. It’s that simple.

Two things I’m not saying: I’m not saying that others’ bad behavior is okay. I’m not saying you should overlook someone else’s violence or tolerate boundary violations, and just think happy thoughts. I’m not telling you to forgive, although that may happen.

I’m also not promoting the Law of Attraction – the belief that my thoughts make things happen in the physical world. This is different. The work I’m talking about changes who I think I am, which then affects the world around me. There’s a big difference between the magical thinking of manifesting 101 and the hard work of learning to think healing thoughts.

I am talking about solid neuroscience. We see what we tell our brains to look for. If your worldview is negative, you’ll find ample evidence to prove your beliefs, and you won’t change your mind. Your polluted metaphor has shaped your brain in profound ways. Your current worldview is like an eight-lane neuron superhighway that’s easy and automatic. And so very unhelpful. Our brains want to stay on this wide, fast, easy street precisely because it’s easy and automatic. Back in cave woman days, when resources were scarce, our brains evolved to favor the easy and automatic. Learning new ways of thinking and building new neuron pathways requires energy, so our brains, still stuck in survival mode, resist it.

Most of us aren’t currently living in food scarcity, in fear of saber-toothed tiger attacks. We can afford the resources to rewire our brains, if we choose to. But, because learning to think healing thoughts is uncomfortable and often not supported by your family and friends, you must make it your priority. Your health and wholeness must be your priority. If it’s not, you won’t do it. Why not? Because rewiring your brain is freaking hard, scary work.

Why does healing feel so scary? Why do we resist it?

1.This wounded place is familiar. When we accept the healing that’s always offered, we choose to travel an unfamiliar road into unknown territory – the opposite of easy and automatic. Our brains resist this.

2. When we regrow and expand parts of ourselves on our journey toward wholeness, it can hurt, just like when blood flows into your leg that’s been asleep, or into a frostbitten hand. You get a functioning limb at the end of the process, but the process can hurt like hell.

3. We’ve constructed our lives based on being one particular shape. When we let our shapes flow and grow, the lives we’ve built will inevitably be disrupted. Healing leads to change, and change always destroys one thing while something new is created. Metamorphosis is naturally destructive.

When we regrow and expand a part of ourselves, our new shape can cause friction. We rub against others differently. They might not want to stay connected to us. We might not want to stay connected to them!

4. These newly grown or uncovered parts, like babies and puppies, will be messy and disorganized, at least for a time. They are raw and vulnerable and sensitive. So healing can cause feelings of incompetence and lostness, which are especially disruptive for those of us who put a premium on feeling competent and confident.

Our armor has been our protection. Our armor has also been constraining, a too-small skin. Armor has kept us safe, but it’s also been heavy, clanky, and inflexible. When we uncover, shed layers, grow new limbs, we can feel raw, exposed, and ungainly.

So why choose to heal, if healing is uncomfortable, painful, and disruptive?

We are created by God, the Ultimate Wholeness, in whom we live and move and have our being, to be whole, holy, and healthy. The Holy One wants us to heal.

A healed life is a powerful life. When we stop spending our time and energy staying small and playing nice, we can use our time and energy to change the world. We can stop scoping for danger and worrying about being acceptable, and start seeing the broken places around us where we can bring healing. We can use our anger for good, rather than stuffing it because we’re afraid someone (looking at you, patriarchy) won’t like us.

Because we’re adults now, and we can keep ourselves safe. Because we have an inkling we’re not living the life we were put on this earth to live. Because we know there’s more joy and love on the other side of healing. Because once we see the ways we’re choosing safety and smallness, we can’t unsee them. Because choosing to stay armored and small requires more energy than finally shrugging off the armor to run light and free.

Because living as people who trust ourselves and our good hearts, people listening to our souls, is our calling.

The choice to heal, to learn how to feel fear and act in spite of the fear, makes us invincible. Unstoppable. And legions of invincible, unstoppable warriors leading healed lives will change and heal our world.

Two of my favorite “thought work” resources are Kara Lowentheil’s blog and podcast, Unf*ck Your Brain (heads up: Kara uses salty language) and The Work of Byron Katie. These two resources are very different in tone but their aim is the same: choosing thoughts deliberately.

As always, if you’d like to talk more about these ideas and get some immediate clarity, please schedule a no-cost, no-obligation call with me here.

Image: The Bear and the Child, kid-lit.net, photographer unknown

What is healing, anyway?

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A woman meets her soul: photo of child and bear

In “A letter from God to her daughters who observe Lent,” I suggested that, this Lent, rather than “focusing on the ways you’re not good enough and the ways you fall short, you commit to your own healing.” To my astonishment, the post has been viewed over 45,000 times. Clearly it struck a chord with many of you.

But what exactly is “healing”? Like most important words, “healing” means different things to different people. This post explores what I think healing is, the number one reason we don’t heal as well as we could, and ways to explore what healing might mean for you.

First, some etymology. Our modern English words health, healing, whole, and holy all spring from the same root in Old English, hāl. So our healing and health are rooted in being whole, and our wholeness is a blessing to the world. We’re holy wherever we are on our journey to wholeness simply because we’re created by and rooted in the Holy One.

“Soul” is another big word that means different things to different people. When I think of my soul, I’m imagining the place within me where I experience connection to my Source. The soul is like the stem connecting the pear to the branch; the channel water follows from the underground aquifer to the spring; the tree’s taproot reaching down to nourishing soil. Our souls are the conduit for God’s healing—healing that’s always waiting for us.

Our souls speak in metaphor and image. What healing is for you depends on your primary metaphor. (A metaphor is a sort of shorthand label for a worldview – a frame through which we perceive our lives. I’ll use both words interchangeably in this post.) That frame, that metaphor, is profoundly important.

We have metaphors we live within, whether we are aware of them or not. We swim in our metaphors like fish swim in water. It’s crucial that the water you swim in is healthy, unpolluted, life-giving water.

So many of us are swimming in polluted metaphors, because we live in a culture steeped in judgment, conflict, and competition. We live as though life is a courtroom, or a war, or a test. Or all three at once.

So many of us learned in school that the goal of life is to follow the rules and get it right, whatever it is. In this elementary school worldview, we compete for good grades and approval. We are pupils and God is the strict taskmaster doling out affirmation sparingly, and only to those who achieve perfection.

So many of us learned in Christian churches that life is a courtroom, and God is a stern judge who demands retribution for our infractions of His law. We are so bad, in fact, that He needed to send Jesus to die for our sins, because we could never otherwise repay Him for our transgressions. In this metaphor, we are defendants constantly trying to prove ourselves worthy of love and acceptance.

I learned the war metaphor growing up in a family with addiction, scary conflict between my mom and dad, and physical violence. I woke up this morning, as I often do, already tensed for battle. “Life as war” is the metaphor I automatically gravitate to. This worldview tells me that every day is a battleground where survival is achieved through appeasement, keeping my head down, and staying camouflaged. In this metaphor, I am caught in the crossfire, vulnerable to collateral damage in someone else’s war. And those in charge, including God, don’t care in the least about me and my well-being.

These three polluted metaphors have common elements. They’re highly regimented and rule-bound, full of fear and straight lines and doing what you’re damn well told. All three feature a separate and distant God who rules from the top down. These metaphors say “need to, have to, can’t, shouldn’t.”

Friends, here’s good news. These metaphors are not the truth. They are, to put it bluntly, incorrect. These worldviews are socially constructed by institutions that benefit when we stay in line, stuck in fearful consumerism, competition, and addiction.

I know these metaphors are false because they aren’t grounding, loving, and compassionate. Love created us from Earth to live lives grounded in the deep knowledge that we are lovable and so very enough. We’re created to live in joy and purpose by the Holy One who is the source of joy and purpose. We don’t have to prove anything.

When you read the descriptions of these three metaphors, how does your body feel? Does your upper body tense? Does your breathing become more shallow? Do your eyes squint and your focus narrow? Does your heart rate increase?

A metaphor that creates stress is a destructive metaphor.

Healing happens when we live within healing metaphors.

Our worldviews must grow from the bedrock truth of our goodness to be healing for us.

Perhaps true repentance is trading in a polluted metaphor for a healing metaphor. The word often translated as “repentance” in the Bible is the Greek word “metanoia,” which literally means to have a “new mind.” To have our minds blown open. Our metaphors live in our brains. We can change our brains. We can have new minds. If one or more of these destructive, poisonous metaphors feels familiar, you can choose a new one. A healing one.

[Biblical Interlude: (Some readers don’t give a rat’s rooty-poo about the Bible. For others, scripture is deeply important. If the Bible is unimportant to you, feel free to skip this paragraph.) In Romans 12:2, Paul admonishes his readers not to be conformed to this world, but instead to be transformed by the renewing of their minds, so that they will know the will of God and be better able to follow it. In chapter 8 of his letter to the Romans, Paul contrasts life in the flesh and life in the Spirit. He says that life in the flesh leads to death, and that life in the Spirit leads to more life. (The word “flesh” is better translated as “world.”) I understand Paul to be talking about living within rigid and static metaphors – living in a false metaphor rather than a worldview that springs from our belovedness. Life in the Spirit is life lived within a changing, flowing, healing worldview. And what is choosing a new metaphor but a “renewing of your mind” that will lead to transformation?]

Your true self, your soul, speaks in metaphor and image. Because we live in a culture that considers knowledge to be only that which can be weighed and measured and proven with numbers, many of us have lost touch with our soul’s wisdom. You will never fully heal if you’re living in a damaging metaphor. We heal when we relearn our soul’s native tongue, and dwell within metaphors of wholeness, joy, and purpose.

What metaphors might create groundedness, wholeness, and peace for you? Perhaps one of these: A Redwood tree. A spring of living water. A hummingbird flying from flower to flower. A boat sailing on the ocean. A pilgrim on a journey. A butterfly emerging from her chrysalis. A snake shedding its skin. A bird incubating eggs. A stream flowing in the desert. An oak tree. A peaceful cloister. A lively temple. A warm house. A growing garden. Granite. Sunlight. Flame. A mother or father caring for their child(ren). A community. A loving friend. A soccer team. Bees in a hive. A fern unfurling in springtime. And so many more, probably as many more as there are souls. I want to keep going with this list! Your soul’s metaphors may be numerous. Your soul may fly from flower to flower like a hummingbird, too.

In these metaphors, God is interwoven, part and particle of the world, feeding, healing, growing, and wild. These metaphors are open-ended, flowing, growing, and use words like “choose, desire, want, will.” Many of them are drawn from the natural world, because, after all, human beings are just fancy animals.

How do you feel when you read these? I can feel my breath deepen, my heart slow down, my arms and neck relax, and my focus widen.

When I feel that my body is tense and anxious because I’m falling back into my familiar battle metaphor, I remember, eventually, to choose a different one. You’ll know when you’ve connected to a healing metaphor when you feel more grounded, whole, and peaceful.

Traditional spiritual practices for getting in touch with our connection to God and our soul’s wisdom include formal worship, chanting the psalms, silent retreats, Lectio Divina, Centering Prayer, walking labyrinths, pilgrimage, and daily prayer time.

Here are some less-traditional ways to explore what your soul’s healing metaphor(s) might be.

  • Stream of consciousness writing (Morning Pages are one example)
  • Meditation
  • Vulnerable conversations with trusted friends
  • Intuitive painting
  • Collage
  • Art journaling
  • Contemplative walking
  • Photography
  • Reading and writing poetry
  • Reading and writing fiction, fairy tales, fantasy
  • Yoga
  • Running
  • Sitting on a rock, under a tree, atop a mountain, next to a river…
  • Dancing
  • Playing
  • Gardening
  • Building something
  • Sweaty physical labor
  • Working with a coach or spiritual director

There are so many more methods for connecting with our soul. They seem to involve getting out of our thinking heads and into our bodies.

This “Soul Whispering Process” has been helpful to me and my clients. It might be helpful to you, as well. Download it here.

Choose one or two of these, or something completely different, and practice them consistently. Be patient.

Parker Palmer says the soul is like a wild animal to be approached slowly, quietly, and reverently:

“Like a wild animal, the soul is tough, resilient, resourceful, savvy, and self-sufficien: it knows how to survive in hard places…. Yet despite its toughness, the soul is also shy. Just like a wild animal, it seeks safety in the dense underbrush, especially when other people are around. If we want to see a wild animal, we know that the last thing we should do is go crashing through the woods yelling for it to come out. But if we will walk quietly into the woods, sit patiently at the base of a tree, breathe with the earth, and fade into our surroundings, the wild creature we seek might put in an appearance. We may see it only briefly and only out of the corner of an eye—but the sight is a gift we will always treasure as an end in itself.” Parker Palmer, A Hidden Wholeness

Awareness of the metaphors in which we dwell is crucial to our healing. If you tend toward stress, scarcity, and fear, you’re swimming in a polluted worldview. You have the power to choose life-giving, free-flowing, healing metaphors to live in.

Let’s give Mary Oliver the last word:

“What I want to say is

the past is the past,

and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable

of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond,

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

And put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.”

from Mornings at Blackwater

Image: The Bear and the Child, kid-lit.net, photographer unknown

Postscript – God’s letter to her daughters who observe Lent

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Dear friends,

God’s letter to her daughters who observe lent has received over 30,000 views in the three days since it was published. I’m astonished by the response. Many readers commented, most expressing gratitude. Some commenters criticized my post, calling my words unbiblical, ungodly, and “evil.”

Although I don’t enjoy criticism, I am learning to handle it. But the criticisms, by extension, are leveled at readers for whom the post resonated deeply. These readers’ comments shared their pain, brokenness, and vulnerability, and they did not sign up for critique. So I’ve turned off comments today, although you can still read the ones previously posted.

Some of you have asked permission to share and quote in sermons and articles. Thank you, and yes.

Now, on to a few common themes expressed in the comments and on Facebook.

Where’s God’s letter to his/her sons?

That’s not the letter that’s mine to write. I am a woman, speaking to women in a patriarchal culture and patriarchal church. As several of you pointed out, the letter’s message applies to men and other genders as well, probably. I can’t speak to that with integrity. If God has given you words for her/his sons, please share them in the comments. I’ll collect your responses for a future post.

My husband, an Episcopal priest, is considering using “a letter from God to her daughters … ” as a starting point for his sermon this Sunday. He may preach about cultural burdens placed on men in the context of Jesus’ temptations in the desert. If he does, I’ll link to the recording here. You can also read a summary of his sermon on his blog.

Thank you to those of you who have asked permission to substitute non-gendered language and repost. I am grateful.

The hubris of “putting words in God’s mouth”:

First of all, this was a literary device. I tried writing this piece several different ways, and the words eventually told me they wanted to be a “letter from God.” This may only make sense to other writers. The device was evidently effective, given the response. Some readers referred to the piece as poetry, which is a good description, I think.

Secondly, I am not delusional. I do not think I am God’s ordained mouthpiece. I do not believe I speak Truth with a capital T. That said, I do believe that, through our soul’s connection to the One and to each other, we receive messages for others as well as ourselves. I don’t think this communication with God is weird or mystical or uncommon. Communion with the Source is what prayer is, and creativity. It’s actually very ordinary. We connect to the Heart of Life, and then we flow with what It gives us. I simply shared what was given to me in a way that worked for the words. Please share what is given to you, as well. I am not special in this regard.

My words are “evil” because they depart from God’s inerrant revelation as given us in the Bible. Therefore, I’m leading people astray.

Ouch. What can I say? I respectfully disagree. I’m not leading anybody. I’m just following Jesus.

I think we are, some of us, following Jesus in a different way. Some of us don’t identify as followers of Jesus at all. We have very different beliefs about the Bible and its interpretation. We have very different beliefs about and experiences of the nature of the soul, ultimate reality, and truth. We will never agree, and that’s okay. As long as we are kind.

I ask that, when we feel the need to point out the error of another’s ways and to tell them how to live correctly, we consider whether our words are compassionate.

To those of you who shared dissenting opinions carefully and thoughtfully, thank you. To those of you who responded to the criticisms carefully and thoughtfully, thank you for stepping in to protect your sisters and defend me.

Going forward, I will delete comments that I judge to be disrespectful and unkind, in order to create a safe and healing space.

Clearly the message in “God’s letter to her daughters who observe Lent” was a balm for many of you. I’m glad. May we accept the healing that’s always offered, knowing the Holy One is within us, holding us, and yearning for our wholeness.

I’m wishing you all a blessed Lent.

Peace,

Barb

  • Photo credit: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash

A letter from God to her daughters who observe Lent, 2019

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Ash Wednesday-ahna-ziegler-558904-unsplashDear Daughter,

On Ash Wednesday, if you’re in church, the minister will invite you to the observance of a “holy Lent” and mark your forehead with the ashes of repentance.

Let me be very clear about this at the outset: I love you so much. I delight in you. I cherish you. For ever.

Here are a few more things I want you to comprehend. Despite what you’ve been taught, “holy” does not mean pure and unearthly. “Sin” does not mean breaking my rules and making me mad. “Penitence” does not mean listing and wallowing in all the ways you’re wrong and bad. Repentance does not mean promising to do better to stay out of trouble.

Please think about these words a new way, on Ash Wednesday and every other day going forward.

What if you only sin when you refuse healing and cling to brokenness? When you use those sharp broken edges to hurt yourself and others?

What if holiness is when you choose to be whole, even though you’re terrified? When you embrace and enfold those pieces of yourself you’ve lopped off to fit into others’ molds?

What if penitence is when you see yourself clearly, and know, speak, and live from your heart?

What if “repentance” is re-membering your true self in all her messy glory?

What if, this Lent, instead of focusing on the ways you’re not good enough and the ways you fall short, you commit to your own healing?

I was there at the Big Bang, enlivening every particle, atom and molecule. You are made of me, and through me you are connected to everything and everyone. I am everywhere. You swim in me and I in you.

This means, my dear, when you let yourself be healed, your healing heals the world. And when you cling to your brokenness, the world stays a little more broken than it needs to be. Your healing is important and necessary. You think your healing is selfish. That’s incorrect. Your healing is crucial. I’m using that word deliberately, sweetheart. Your healing IS the crux – where you and I come together.

This Lent, the only fasts I want from you are these: Fast from distractions that allow you to stay wounded and broken. Fast from believing you’re not good enough. Fast from making yourself small, and nice, and silent. Fast from all judgment, especially of yourself.

This Lent, make space for me to flow into you and through you.

Befriend your fear, your anger, and your sadness. They are a deep source of nourishment and strength.

Let your love go free.

Let your joy be unconfined.

Sweetheart, healing isn’t complicated, and it’s always available. All you have to do is tap into it, like a maple tree in springtime or an aquifer of living water. You know this. But it’s so easy to forget, isn’t it? All you have to do is let me clear out the dams and the trash, the resentments and identities and old, too-small skins, that keep you stuck and stagnant. Relax your heart armor just a little. And then allow yourself to flow, child. That’s all you have to do. I’ll do the rest.

This Ash Wednesday, let those ashes symbolize our unending connection, a connection so easy to forget and so simple to strengthen. When the priest wipes those gritty ashes on your forehead and says, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” celebrate your elemental oneness with this dear, dirty earth and with me. I am in those ashes, in the dust, in the stars, and in you.

Girl, I need you! You’re the only you I created. So, please, let yourself be the creation I made you to be. You don’t need someone outside yourself telling you how to live. Trust yourself. Trust your heart. Trust me. I’ve got you.

All my Love,

God

Ash Wednesday, 2020 update: This post was first published on Ash Wednesday of 2019, and it’s received over 60,000 views. I closed comments in 2019 because, although most comments were positive, some comments labeled those who found solace in this post as foolish, unchristian, ungodly heretics. I’m reopening comments for 2020 and will delete any comments which denigrate others. Use the contact form to email me directly. ~Barb

Photo credit: Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash

Your feelings are not your problem. Your feelings are your solution.

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My mom was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer when she was 62. By the time it was found, the cancer had metastasized to her lungs, although we didn’t know that right away. The lung cancer would kill her a year later. My mom had been very healthy her whole life. Her plan to live to be 100 was one I heard often as a child. Her cancer was completely unexpected, which was why it was found too late to save her life. I was devastated. Everyone who knew her was devastated.

And she didn’t want to talk about dying.

We were living in Illinois, so I took both my kids, six and ten at the time, to Arizona with me for the summer. In June, the kids and I took a road trip with her to visit her favorite aunt in New Mexico. She went swimming with her grandkids. She took walks with her dog and her husband. She still didn’t want to talk about dying.

In July, my mom was slowing down. By August, I was doing all the cooking and cleaning for her and my stepfather. She had to sleep sitting up because she couldn’t breathe lying down. And she still didn’t want to talk about dying.

We went home to Illinois at the end of August. My mom’s last words to me were her promise that she’d call me when it was time for me to return and say good-bye.

She died September 1st, alone in her bed, never having asked me to come back.

I was heartbroken. I didn’t know I could hurt like that. I was also deeply angry. I was angry that she’d never let me tell her how much I loved her, and that she didn’t let any of us say goodbye. This was no accidental death, like my dad’s. My mom had plenty of advance warning. Hers could have been a much better death. It didn’t have to hurt so much. She could have died surrounded by people who loved her. She was a nurse. She knew how to do this right.

Grieving her death while I was so angry was harder and took a lot longer than it would have if she’d done it better.

I held onto this anger for years. I tried to let it go, but it stuck around. It persisted, despite therapy and many attempts to forgive.

I didn’t know at the time that I was carrying a lot of what the Acceptance and Commitment Therapy model calls “dirty pain.” Mixed in with the clean pain of my heart-rending grief was a ton of unnecessary suffering. (The Buddha and many healers since have put it this way: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” In other words, pain comes and goes, as a result of injury or loss. Suffering hangs around, tied like a yoke to the thoughts we’re having about our pain.)

And then one day, almost twenty years after her death, I did something that helped my anger loosen its grasp. I filled out an Awareness Wheel about how much I still missed my mom, as a teaching example for a small group I was facilitating. (Download one here. The rest of this will make much more sense. And here’s a previous post about the Awareness Wheel.) I was encouraging this group of wise women to go deep in their choice of issue to work with. They encouraged me to be brave, too. What follows is verbatim from my Awareness Wheel that day.

 

In the middle, in the Issue circle, I wrote “I miss my mom.”

I Notice/Observed: “Tears, heaviness in chest, avoidance of talking about her, distracting myself, tightness in arms/neck/shoulders.”

I Think: “She shouldn’t have died so young. I wonder how she is. I hope she’s happy. I wish she’d had a better death. I wish I’d been able to say goodbye. She was selfish in her dying. I wish she was still alive. People should have talked about the family history of cancer.”

I Feel: “Sad, furious, love.”

I Want (for myself): “To feel at peace. To have you back. I Want (for you): That you’re happy. I Want (for us): That you know I love and forgive you.”

I Do (Past): “Stuff feelings. Be mad. Grieve.” I Do (Present): “Feel my grief. Acknowledge loss and your impact on my life.”

 

It’s useful simply to fill in a wheel when uncomfortable feelings arrive. It’s even more useful, after you do your wheel, to identify which thought is causing the most suffering. You do this by reading the thoughts you wrote and feeling how they feel in your body. Many of my thoughts were painful, but “She was selfish in her dying” felt like a knife to my gut.

I questioned that thought using Byron Katie’s method called The Work. (More on questioning our painful thoughts next time.) Simply put, through a series of questions, we get very clear on the results our thoughts are producing in our lives. Then, we turn the thought around and kindly investigate how the opposite might be true. This process wiggles the thought loose just a little and begins to grow new brain connections. Healing begins at the cellular level. We feel a little relief, at last.

When I gently investigated my thought “My mom was selfish in her dying,” I began to see how my mom had been generous in her dying. She let me take care of her. She spent time with her grandkids. She was trying to protect us.

When I let go of the thought that she’d been selfish, I can just love her and miss her. I can see that she was doing the best she could with an incredibly scary sad thing. I can see the ways I’d been selfish in her dying, by wanting her to do it my way.

This is how healing has happened, for me. I still miss my mom, of course, and letting go of my anger is ongoing. Now, though, my grief is mostly good, clean, healing grief. I can tell when it’s mixed up with dirty pain, because they feel different in my body.

Martha Beck has said, “If a thought causes suffering, it isn’t true.” That’s an audacious statement. It’s a core belief of my coaching work, because I’ve found it to be true.

When you pay attention to uncomfortable feelings using an Awareness Wheel, you find the thoughts causing suffering. When you question the thoughts that cause you to suffer, you begin to change your brain. When you begin to change your brain, you heal. And that’s how your feelings aren’t your problem, but your solution.

Interested in talking further about this? Contact me here to schedule a conversation. I’d love to explore with you!