Category Archives: Humanities

How We Get Here Part 1

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This is a rough and unrefined condensation of some of what I’m reading. I don’t claim to have answers but I will write without tenuousness. I’m not entirely sure of all the concepts and am not seeking debate. I’m just looking to sort it out for myself here.
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I am going to die someday. Sooner or later, fast or slow, it will happen. I was raised in a religion that depicted heaven, purgatory, and hell, and I felt fear. I left that religion and in my early 30s was bound up in it again, until the absolutism of the dogma and some epiphanies in graduate school prompted me to part ways entirely. I’ve been inarticulate about dying and what happens since then.

I used to wonder what I was before I was born. An atheist will simply say that we just did not exist, and after we die, we just won’t exist. Aside from the terror my ego feels (how can I not exist? what happens to me?), I know there is something else beyond this life. But before I can get to that understanding for myself, I need to understand how I came to be where, what, and who I am now.

We start out within the Ground of Being. We are part of it. The Ground of Being is life, and it is non-life. It is consciousness and not-consciousness. It is energy, it is matter. As Douglas Adams titled his book, it is Life, the Universe, and Everything. Before we are born we are part of it. This is a pre-ego state, a state of preconsciousness, a state of undifferentiation and no individuation. We are raw material.

So how to we get to where we are, with identities and attachments and all that this life entails?

In Singh’s book, she writes:

As we emerge out of the Ground of Being and into the physical world as a separate life-in-form, “trailing clouds of glory,” we are in a preegoic, prepersonal state. At birth we are only minimally differentiated from the Ground of Being. Inner and outer realities remain somewhat fused initially, and all awareness lies inarticulate, still partially embedded in the Ground of Being.

We start out this way, and at first we are all body: hunger, fatigue, touch, instinct. If you’ve ever been with an infant you know this. Then the remarkable changes happen as the infant’s brain grows, as concept and words develop. We develop a sense of self: me, mine, and of other, not-me. Babies start out unaware of separation and then become a aware. The First Dualism emerges on the journey to the ego.

We develop a sense of space and what is and is not ours. We realize where we end and another begins, the gap between subject and object. Then the Second Dualism develops: the sense of time, an awareness of past, present, and future, life and death.

The First Dualism, the first boundary, separates us from the experience of wholeness. Anxiety appears, as does repression and defensiveness.

Primal repression is a psychological as well as physical posture that, inwardly, begins to seal off or repress pure, inpouring Energy, the animating power of the Ground of Being. The Ground of Being, with its enchantment and ability to engulf, begins to be perceived as threatening.

Thus in our early childhood we close off our connection to the Source from which we came. We continue to split ourselves in early to middle childhood by forging a distinction between mind and body, the Third Dualism. “We lose our deep integrity, the unity of body and mind, which is the unity of feeling and attention — the ability to be present.” Our mind is given more authority as a judge or filter of reality. And then the Fourth Dualism arises: The split between persona and shadow, that is, between the person we believe we are, that we accept, that we show the world, and all the other parts of us that we disown, dislike, judge, fear, and hide from ourselves and others.

And this, according to the Christian theology I grew up with, completes our ejection from the Garden of Eden. We are part of the garden (Ground of Being), we are born, then we taste knowledge (the Dualisms, development of ego), which separates us from unity with the Ground of Being. I just don’t buy the crap about Eve (woman) being the one who fell to the temptation first (does it really matter?), and I don’t think of the “fall” as really All That Bad. It is just what is, and it is part of our evolution, our journey, through the experience we are having in this form and function, in this physical world.

And now my child is calling from her nap, and I must dash.

Spirit

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Back in 2004, when my father-in-law was gravely ill, I happened across a book that I was compelled to buy: The Grace in Dying: How We Are Transformed Spiritually as We Die, by Kathleen D. Singh. I began to read it, and in the introduction the author suggested that if the reader was in the process of dying or reading this because a loved one is dying, to do the following: know that you are safe, all is well, and put the book down.

I took her advice. Four months later my father-in-law died, and I was with him for his last week nearly 24/7. It was a daunting, draining experience. I watched him take his last breath. In the process of his dying, it occurred to me that it seemed much like a labor. And having had a child since, I know it is indeed labor. But what, I wonder, is in the process of happening? Is dying just dying? The lights simply go out? What happens to the entity called “me, myself, or I”; is it really annihilated?

Or is it a transition, a birthing into something else?

I was raised religiously and have traversed a varied spiritual path. In recent years I’ve applied the term “atheist” to myself, though “agnostic” is probably more accurate. I do not need “god” as humans are able to articulate the term; I believe the universe is marvelous, and science is a way to explore it all, and isn’t that miracle enough? I am drawn to Buddhism, particularly Zen Buddhism, although I have not become a practitioner yet.

However, I did have a remarkable experience back in 1996 that at the time, I believed (as much as I could believe, which was really a process of trying to convince myself to believe) was the Holy Spirit. When I left the Christian religion (for the second time in my life), I categorized the experience as an anomaly, as an experience of self-hypnosis or psychological wish fulfillment.

I was a member of a conservative, bible-based, fundamental Christian church. The story behind the path that led me to that after years of atheism can be read here. Anyhow, one Saturday evening I remained after service. It was common for members to remain and pray with each other. This was a church where people sometimes experienced the “baptism of the Holy Spirit,” evidenced sometimes by people speaking in tongues (seeming to babble) and being filled with the Spirit, evidenced by joyous, continuous laughter. Not hysterics, not banshee laughing, just a robust laugh as one would do watching a funny show.

One evening a woman sat on the floor experiencing this laughter. I observed awhile, curious. Another woman came over and asked, “Would you like to join and be filled with the Holy Spirit?” I answered yes, but expressed a worry that it wouldn’t “take.” She said, “Just trust. Let thoughts and worries go and just be with whatever is.”

I sat next to the spirit-filled woman, put my hand on her arm, closed my eyes, and waited. To my wonder, I felt a tingling warmth from her enter my hand and flow up my right arm into my body. Whatever words I summon to describe the experience won’t do it justice, but here goes: As I was filled with this feeling, I felt light, both weightless and incandescent. I began to feel a laugh bubbling up in me. I allowed it to come forth. I sat for however long, bathed in this energy, laughing gently, feeling joy. At the same time, I also felt a part of me was still there, observing. I was not generating or creating this. Nothing was forced by me. At the same time, I did not feel “possessed” or taken over; I still felt I had agency. It was an experience unlike anything I’ve known before or since.

At some point I felt satiated, full, and decided I was done. I removed my hand from the woman’s arm and opened my eyes. I felt new. I felt connected, united with myself and with everything. As I walked, my feet connected in a way that felt like I was the earth and the earth was me. I had a feeling of well-being, life, and love. This feeling remained with me for many hours. After the night’s sleep, it had dissipated. I did not seek this encounter again, and one year later I came to terms that I did not agree with aspects of this church’s dogma and no longer wanted to pretend I did. But I remembered this experience and cherished it awhile.

Then life happened, and the incident faded. Whenever I thought about it, I lumped it in the “I’m not certain what that was but it probably wasn’t real” category. Except… it felt real, and it still resonates like an authentic experience, an encounter with the energy that makes up the universe. While I don’t believe in an anthropomorphic god, I do believe there is something that makes the universe go, something science does not explain completely yet, that it is real, we are made of it, and that we can access a connection with it. (As Carl Sagan said, “We are star stuff.”)

And now I have reopened Kathleen Singh’s book to face the question of dying, of what it’s about and what might follow. The experience I had in 1996 was a glimpse. My hunch is that this connection is possible, is accessible via meditation practice over many years, and that it is our destination at the moment the body dies. As I read her book I will process some of my reactions here.

Labor Day Anthem

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This song gives me chills every time I hear it. Before I met my husband, I lived on the edge this song describes. (We are incredibly fortunate and grateful for that.) I also used to work with (i.e., provide social services to) people whose lives were rife with the challenges that he sings about. And there is a blogger I know and admire who works and serves people in the situations he sings about and somehow keeps her sanity. This is for all of them and for her. (If the video doesn’t show and play for you, click this link to see it.) Turn up the volume, close your eyes, and really listen. Then, if you can, do something to help somebody, somewhere. Here are a couple of places to start:

Modest Needs
Feeding America

To Love

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Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

–C.S. Lewis

What’s The Story?

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In reading Eckhart Tolle’s books, I am reminded that we shore up our egos with stories. Unfortunately, ego can be a monumental obstacle to real peace, real being. At one point in my life, it was very important to me to tell people my story: of where I came from, my family dynamics, the struggles I had, the battles I fought. I wanted to be understood. That is, I wanted to be praised, pitied, cosseted. The older I get, however, the less important all that seems. Perhaps it’s interesting as family history, but it really isn’t vital to how I’m to live now. Or at least, it need not be.

I was given a subscription to The Sun, and I always savor the last few pages, including the section called Sy Safransky’s Notebook (he’s the editor). From the March 2010 edition:

I left my story in a barn so someone else could keep milking it. I left my story in the fitting room; it didn’t fit me anymore. I left my story at the hospital because it wouldn’t stop bleeding. I left my story at the rest stop; it needed a rest. I left my story at the body shop because it always wanted a different one. I left my story with some cash so it could never say, “Poor me.” I left my story without saying where I was going because I didn’t want it to follow me; it never even noticed I was gone.

–Sy Safransky

On Keeping the Sabbath

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I just heard a fascinating interview on Fresh Air with Judith Shulevitz as the guest.

She has written a book about the history of the Jewish sabbath and also included a memoir about her own journey into keeping Sabbath customs. I found her lyrical and articulate, and her views impressed me. What I especially appreciate is the concept of resting as a community, and of stepping back from our attempt to manipulate and control the world for one day.

For one day each week, the Sabbath encourages us to enter into a moment outside of ordinary time and all the cares associated with it. I can’t do her ideas justice; it’s worth a listen.

Even for an agnostic such as me, it was worth a listen. And now I want to read the book. It resonates the way the Unplug campaign did. I found that the weekend I unplugged for one day, I felt more centered. Last weekend I did not unplug, and I felt I hadn’t even had a weekend!

Go here for more information and to listen to the interview.

Women Hold Up Half the Sky

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Last night I saw a movie based on a book called Half the Sky, written by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. Their work through this book and Nicholas’s New York Times column is an effort to galvanize the world to pay attention to women’s rights all over the world. I could get on my soapbox and provide statistics about poverty, sexual abuse, maternal death, but I think sharing my reflections about one story might be more compelling. Before I do, though, I will share one statistic with you: globally, at least one in three women are beaten or sexually abused in her lifetime. Since I myself am among the group of “one in three” (although I don’t discuss it often here), I want to focus on how one woman has catalyzed major change in her culture.

I want to talk about Woineshet, a young woman who was featured in short film directed by Marisa Tomei. She transformed her experience of being brutally raped into a forum for changing her culture for the betterment of women and therefore, also of men. In Ethiopian villages a common practice — which has been upheld by the law — is that of men raping women and girls, who are then usually forced into marriage with their attackers. As a result of making the offer of marriage later, men cannot be prosecuted for their attacks. In one village, about 70 percent of the marriages found their genesis in this practice.

Woineshet was 13 when she was raped. She journeyed two days for a physical exam in order to provide proof for authorities, only to be told that her virginity was in doubt because the wound looked old. Her attacker was arrested and released on bail; then he abducted Woineshet again and held her for a month, forcing her to sign a marriage certificate before she escaped. Before a judge — who suggested that she was fortunate that her attacker wanted to marry her even though she was no longer a “fresh virgin” — she replied to the question of whether she would marry her rapist with the simple answer: “I refuse.”

She has since, with the steadfast help of her father, gone on to complete her basic education and is pursuing a law degree. She has pursued her case through the legal system in order to win the right for women to prosecute their attackers. What is more heartening, however, is her work to educate people to effect change in the culture which supports this practice.

There is a scene in the film where Woineshet has visited a village, and the men and women gathered to hear her story. A young woman who was forced into marriage after her rape spoke about how she felt. She was unhappy; she wanted to have an education; she wanted to be someone; she was angry. Then the man who attacked her — her husband — spoke from his perspective, of how his actions made him feel like a successful man. It is tempting to feel outrage toward him, but instead I felt something else: hope. I listened to this man talk about how he felt at the time, and how he has come to understand how devastating his actions have been. And he offered to apologize to the woman he’d hurt, and kissed her feet. I realize those actions don’t “make it all better,” but that’s not the point. This enlightenment must occur for change and healing to occur. He cannot undo his actions, but he can atone. Person by person, culture changes. Woineshet is an example of resilience and perseverance at the young age of 21; imagine how she might improve the world throughout her lifetime.

Join the movement: Half the Sky. Women aren’t the problem; they’re the solution, along with men.

To Haiti With Love

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To Haiti with Love is an online auction of art, photography, papercrafts, clothing, and creative goods. All proceeds will go direct to the St. Joseph’s Family of homes for children in Haiti. There are some gorgeous works and delectable items offered.

The auction opens at 8 AM EST on Monday, February 1, 2010.

The auction closes at midnight EST on Monday, February 8, 2010. There is still time!

Instructions on how to bid are here.

I’ve offered three items for bidding — a felted bowl with chocolates, a cashmere/wool scarflet called a Fidget, and fingerless gloves made of wool and silk.

Make a bid, change lives!

(And I’d love to see someone enjoy my creations!)

Hundred Acre Wood Meets Michelangelo

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After nap Claire decided to bring many stuffed animals downstairs. She lined them up on the couch and told them stories, and then she lined them up on the floor and pretended they were watching television. There was one arrangement that caught my eye. I was feeling absurd, and this configuration of Piglet in Pooh’s arms reminded me of La Pietà.

Yes, perhaps I’m irreverent, but when you spend all day with a two-year-old I think there’s an explanation.

pooh pieta

Where I Worship

Karen has an interesting post about the altars at which she does not worship and provides a photo of the one that is central in her life. It got me thinking. Years ago I created an altar with items of personal significance. (On the right sits a fertility goddess that I made November 2006, a few weeks before I conceived Claire.) I used to light a candle and incense at this altar. Since moving to our most recent residence, it sits unused on top of a bookcase at the top of a staircase. It never gets used. And since Claire’s arrival, it wears a shawl of dust. Here is a photo of it (Husband’s face has been blurred out to respect his privacy):

altar

After reading Karen’s post, I was inspired to share my real altar.

my real altar

I pray at this altar, where I learn to be patient and humble and compassionate, where I have the privilege of caring for the best gift Life has entrusted to me.