Circle – truth

Posted on May 11, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

The Circle process is about a lot of things. One of those things is truth. It is about speaking your own truth, and listening to every other person speak their truth. It is about knowing your truth. It is about being OK with the idea that your truth may change. It is about being OK with the idea that somebody else’s truth may be radically different from yours.

It is about listening to yourself and to others.

It is about sitting in that space, in that circle, and really being open to what is happening.

It is about understanding that we all want to be heard and seen.

Part of the Circle process is to create a sort of group mind. It is understanding that what you see and what I see are different sides of the same thing. Just like in the story of the five blind men and the elephant, we all are groping towards an understanding of “what is”. When we share our viewpoints and our understandings in Circle, we are opening ourselves up to a bigger understanding. We are essentially creating new eyes for ourselves.

But in order to have new eyes, we have to have new ears.

We have to listen, really listen, deeply.

And we have to know our own truths in order to share them.

And those are both really hard.

We come from a culture that teaches debate, not dialogue. We come from a culture that teaches us to sit down and shut up. We come from a culture that says you have to give up your own ideas in order to get along with others. The group is more important than the individual.

Consensus sometimes means that one person yells the loudest and everybody else goes quiet. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, after all. If you stick your neck out, it might get chopped off.

We are taught that if we are all leaders, then we are going to go nowhere.

Circle isn’t about anybody being the leader, and about anybody being a follower. We all contribute. We all share. We all listen, and we all talk.

One at a time.

And that is hard. It is hard because we aren’t taught this. It is hard because we are taught to just go along with the flow. It is hard because we aren’t allowed to have our own voice in our culture.

It is uncomfortable and unusual to be in a space where people listen to us for minutes at a time.

Half the time we don’t even know what our own truth is. Sometimes our truth changes from moment to moment, with every new voice that is added.

Sometimes the hardest thing is being able to say that something is black when everybody else sees it as white.

Circle is about staying in that process, even in the awkward bits, when you feel that nobody is listening to you and nobody understands you. Circle is about staying in that process, even when you feel like you aren’t listening to everybody else. Circle is about staying in that process even when you think that everybody else is wrong, or crazy, or just plain blind. Circle is about staying even when you want to run away, even if it is only in your mind.

It is about coming back, and staying, moment by moment.

It is really hard. It is really beautiful. It is a whole different way of thinking and being.

And it could save the world.

Way out and way in writing

Posted on May 10, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

Writing is my form of self defense. Writing is my way out, and my way in. Writing is how I understand the world and myself.

I’m coming to learn that drawing is just like writing. It is a way of slowing down and really looking at the situation, really seeing what it is. Now, of course, I’m not seeing THE truth of what is there. I’m seeing MY truth. I’m seeing things from my perspective. I can’t see the whole picture, but I can accurately report what I see. I also fully understand that what I see is filtered through my perceptions and experiences, and that is fine too.

Whatever it is that I see, at least I’m looking at it for a change. I’m not running away from it like I used to.

I haven’t written, not really, in the past few weeks. I’ve compiled things. I’ve made some sketches, if you will. I’ve pulled up old notes where I started a piece and finished it off. But I haven’t written like I had been writing. I think I’ve kept my original goal of one post a day, but I’d gotten away from my recent two-or-three posts a day. I’ve just not had the push.

I’ve just not pushed myself, really.

I’ve taken a break.

Just like with yoga, I’ve reassessed it, and my lack of stretching, both with yoga and with writing, has made me feel out of sorts.

While I never want to do something just for the sake of doing something, I’m learning that there are some things that I just have to do. Writing is one of them. But it was starting to feel that I was using writing as a way to hide, rather than a way to experience.

I’d taken to writing while on my walking break at lunch. I was using the walking path as a sort of treadmill. I knew where everything was. There was nothing that was going to trip me. So I could write, using the notes feature on my phone. I was able to get in lots more posts that way.

The only problem was that I was missing all the stuff that was happening around me. I was missing the birds that were nesting in the airplane wings that serve as a sundial. I was missing the little stream that goes into the sinkhole. I was missing the dragonflies.

While I had my eyes directed to the screen and my mind directed to what I was writing, I didn’t have my brain open to new things.

I took time off, not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I thought I was saying too much. You know, the whole one mouth and two ears thing. I wasn’t balanced. I was producing more than I was consuming. I wanted to rest and receive.

But then I went too far, and at the wrong time. I’ve been a little tense anyway because my schedule has been weird. A retreat, an odd schedule at work, Circle training, a vacation to pack for… There is a lot going on that isn’t autopilot kind of stuff. A lot of new balls in the air to juggle.

I’ll remember from now on that one of the balls that I have to keep is writing. It seems to center me and ground me. It seems to make me who I am. It keeps me present.

Risk of drowning

Posted on May 9, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

My parents were constantly exposing me to risks. Really dangerous risks. Lethal risks. Many of them involved drowning.

They thought it was a good idea to take me to the site of a local K-mart that had gotten flooded. This was before the levees were put in place in Chattanooga, and the entire store and the parking lot was flooded. My mother held me in her arms and waded into the swirling waters. I was a toddler, maybe three. I can remember trying to claw my way out of her arms to get away from those turbulent waters, those unpredictable waters. I didn’t know where I thought I was going to go, but I knew I needed to get away.

They thought that it would be a good idea to tell six-year-old me that the train that we were going on in New York was going to go under a river. They somehow thought that was something I needed to know. I remember, almost forty years later now, being terrified of this idea. What if the walls broke? All that pressure of all that water. It would come in, on top of us, and kill us. We’d die slowly because we were in a subway train. But we would die, certainly. The water would seep in, if it didn’t crush us first. I can remember nothing more of this experience, because apparently the idea of it simply short circuited my brain and I went to sleep. I woke up at the end of the journey.

They thought it would be a good idea to tell me that the wall that I saw when we were in New Orleans meant that we were twelve feet below sea level. That wall was the only thing that was keeping the water from engulfing us. From engulfing me. That wall was all that stood between me and a watery death. That death would have been faster than in the train, but still terrifying. I was twelve, and not past the idea of irrational fears. The wall had held this long. Surely it would hold longer. Surely it wouldn’t cave in just at the moment I was there. Surely.

My parents kept exposing me to these risks, these dangers. They kept thinking that this was a fine way to parent. I thought that they were good parents, and in many ways they were. They tried their best. They did the best with what they had. They meant well. But they weren’t ideal. And the fear of water stuck with me for a long time.

I can remember one time when we were on one of our last family vacations. I was around six, and we were in Florida. I don’t know why we stopped going on vacation. There were twenty more years of sullenness and sulking that happened after that – and that was between them. I’d expect that from teenagers, but not from middle aged people. Perhaps we didn’t have enough money. Perhaps they didn’t like to spend that much time together anymore. Perhaps they were just going through the motions.

It doesn’t matter.

I remember going out into the sea and getting turned upside down. I remember the water was all around me. Perhaps a wave had engulfed me. Perhaps I’d wandered out too far and lost my footing. All I remember was that I was in the water and I didn’t know which way was up. Somehow I didn’t worry about it at the time. It seemed normal. The next thing I know, my Mom grabs me by my foot and pulls me out of the water.

They didn’t teach me how to stay safe in the water then. They didn’t teach me any survival skills in general. Perhaps they didn’t know them for themselves. Perhaps they didn’t think that was their responsibility.

I took swim classes later, when I was probably eight. We went to the Cumberland Y at the time. I faked learning how to swim. I didn’t know I was faking it. Turns out that I could move through the water, but I didn’t know how to breathe at the same time. I was really good at holding my breath.

My Mom had told me that as soon as I learned how to swim I could get my ears pierced. I swam one day, and she thought I was fine. I wasn’t. I was still in the shallow water, and I still was faking it. In that swimming test I was allowed to stop and touch my feet to the bottom of the pool twice. I did. I caught my breath and went on. My Mom was so proud of me, and I didn’t know why. I got my ears pierced that afternoon. I still didn’t know how to swim. Water still was winning that battle.

When I was offered the chance to take the deep water class I freaked out. I knew I couldn’t fake it there. I knew that there was no way I could make it. I knew that was a death sentence for sure. I said no to the class and never went back there. My Mom didn’t understand my terror, and didn’t question it.

Years later I took a swimming class when I went to my first college. That school had a policy that everybody had to know how to swim by the time they graduated. Some benefactor had a son who had graduated, but had died in a boating accident because he didn’t know how to swim. The benefactor was overwhelmed with grief that his son had graduated with honors but didn’t know this basic life skill. He donated a lot of money to the school with the stipulation that everybody had to know how to swim, at least in a basic way, by the time they graduated.

I took the class the first semester to get it over with. I took it, and I took basic swimming. I learned how to breathe. I learned how to turn myself over to rest. But most importantly I learned how to not freak out in the water. I didn’t learn this from my parents, and I’m sad. I’m sad for them that they taught me to fear water rather than to respect it. I’m sad for them that they never understood the damage they did to me.

I now take water aerobics for exercise, and I’m grateful for it. I actually do it in the deep end, with a flotation belt. I’m glad that I’ve gotten over my fear. But I don’t think I’ll ever get over wondering what other psychological damage my parents wrought.

“Still waters” meditation – part one.

Posted on May 8, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

My still waters aren’t that still.

I’m trying a meditation at the retreat. We are supposed to be led to the “still waters” of Psalm 23 by Jesus, but I’m not liking the still waters that I see in the picture I was given to focus on. They are too still. The water looks dead. There is nothing to look at. The color is autumn and not spring. I need the green of spring, the promise of it.

I change the meditation to somewhere I think I’m going to like. I change it to a mountain stream, or a brook. Something like that. Surrounded by trees, not an open lake. Maybe twenty feet across, but I’m not concentrating on the distance. I’m looking at the shore. I’m looking at the rocks and the shells buried in the mud. There are clam shells here, and a little evidence of humans. Soda cans. Coke bottle caps. A little, not much, but enough to remind me that other people have been here. The metal is interesting in a casual way.

The light catches in the pools of water, sparkling. A fish swims by, scales flashing. There are bubbles and swirls in the water and dappled light from the sun filtering through the leaves. I thought I would like it here but I’m a little ill at ease. There is a little too much of everything and I’m a little overwhelmed. Everything I see is beautiful and everything I see is special and I want to take it all home with me. There is a just too much and yet not enough at the same time.

We sit down, Jesus and I, by the side of the water. We sit down on a large dry rock, warm from the sun. There are bits of green moss clinging to the side that edges the water. It is plenty large enough. No worry about falling off, and there are plenty of flat places to put our things down without worrying about them falling over and spilling.

Jesus hands me a sandwich. The bread is homemade and brown and warm. It’s warm out like an afternoon that stretches out forever, an afternoon of naps, an afternoon of no appointments, of nothing to do. Nothing to do except just be.

There’s hummus on the bread and spinach leaves and there’s cucumbers that have been sliced. There’s no skin on them so there’s no bitterness. The sandwiches are wrapped in wax paper that has been folded carefully and mindfully. It is sealed with a tiny bit of masking tape. It is a delight to unwrap. I enjoy the sound and the feel of the paper. I bite into the sandwich and it is everything I need. I didn’t expect it, and I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own but it’s just what I need and he knows that. We sit together, eating our sandwiches.

We drink lemonade that he made. It is a little tart and a little sweet. Perhaps he used a lime or two in with the lemons. We drink out of glasses he brought along with him. The lemonade is cool but not cold. It is a simple lunch but it is enough and I am thankful. I’m thankful he thought to bring lunch, and thankful that it was handmade.

He keeps showing me these kindnesses, these bits of thoughtfulness. I’ve never known anyone to love me this much. They are usually so wrapped up in their own busyness and their own problems that they don’t have time to think of me. He is always as near or as far as I need. He’s never too much.

We’ve finished lunch and while it was soothing, the place where I am isn’t quite what I need. It was what I thought I wanted. It was where I thought I should be. I allow Jesus to take me somewhere else. I can’t imagine there is anywhere else, but he knows the way.

He leads me a little further along and I see a way out. I see there is an island in the distance, across a wide expanse of water.

It looks something like this –

There are steppingstones to it. They are sort of like this –

Or maybe this –

Or kind of this –

I don’t really want to work that hard. So we look to the left and there’s a small rowboat just big enough for two. It is wooden, grey, weathered.

It is facing out, ready to go.

It looks sturdy. We get in.

He rows out in the sunny day. It is bright, and there’s a little bit of a wind. He’s rowing and it’s hard work, and he’s doing it all. I smile into the sun and I enjoy how I can hear the sound of the gulls and the wind out here.

We are rowing alongside the steppingstones. There’s not a path like in Marazion. It isn’t solid –

But it also doesn’t disappear with the tide twice a day.

These stepping stones are always there, he says, even when the tide is high. Boats don’t come through this way this way because it is too shallow for them. I could wade in these waters and be safe.

We get to the other side and I enjoy the walk through the woods. It’s a small island with a lot of trees and shade. While I’m there I think it would be nice to rest here and we go looking for a place. There’s a cabin with a stone base but there’s also wood to it. It isn’t quite a stone cabin or a log cabin. It is a bit of both.

There’s a fireplace, and the cabin is just big enough for two. It is cozy and welcoming.

There’s food there. It’s already stocked, and there is even tea ready for us.

I want to stay here but I can’t. There are other responsibilities, so I’ll stay here as long as I am allowed.

(No pictures are original – all are from Image search on Google. Ideally, I’ll paint this, but I needed some reference points.)

Poem – manna

Posted on May 7, 2014 by betsybeadhead | 2 Comments

I’m surrounded by manna
and I’ve eaten my fill.

I want to grab it all,
the 12 bushels overflowing,
the scraps, the crumbs.

I want to gobble it all up
and get sick on God.

I forget there will be another day,
another blessing,
another brokenness.

I forget the lilies and the swallows.

I forget the quail in the desert too.
I forget those who gathered 2 day’s worth.

All I see is now
and I want it all.

My hands are full and I want more.

What is the goal? On diet and deity.

Posted on May 7, 2014 by betsybeadhead | 3 Comments

Say you have a friend who wants you to do things their way. They want you to eat only raw foods, or no carbohydrates, or a macrobiotic diet.

What is the goal? The goal is health, and they think they have the path that is right for you because it worked for them.

But say you already are healthy. Your weight is good. Your cholesterol is fine. You are sleeping well. You don’t need to do things their way because the way you have been doing it has worked for you.

It isn’t the path. It is the goal.

The same is true of faith.

So many people will try to convince you that you have to go to their church, be a part of their denomination, or read this book by this religious author.

What they are saying is that they think you aren’t well, but you know you are.

You have to do what is right for you, and only you will know that.

Don’t let someone try to put something into you that isn’t right for you.

Understand that they mean well, but when they try to force-feed their diet or their deity to you, it doesn’t reflect on your lack or need. It reflects on theirs.

Poem – the moon does not change

Posted on May 5, 2014 by betsybeadhead | 2 Comments

The moon does not change.
We do.

The moon, with its waxing
and waning
its new and old,
the moon is the same
to the moon.

It is us who change,
us who move.

It is our tilt, our time, that is different.

We forget this.

We mark time by the moon, the months of our lives.
We celebrate, we howl, we dance,
all based on the moon
and how it reflects the light of the sun.

The moon doesn’t change.

It is still the same moon, reflecting the same sun, day by night,
night by day.

All the time, up in the sky, it is reflecting
mirror-like,
the rays of the sun to someone.

Your day is another’s night,
after all.

So when we howl, when we dance, when we celebrate
what are we marking?

Why do we use the moon, the same moon,
to tell us
when it is time
to dance, to howl, to celebrate?

Perhaps because we have no other way
to say
that time
is passing by
quickly.

Pay attention.

The winters only come once a year.
We can mark time by them, but then
it is too late
to change
direction.

The moon reminds us faster, and more kindly.

Yet we need to remember
that the moon doesn’t change.
We do.

Poem – Spring’s progression

Posted on May 5, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

First the redbuds, then the dogwoods
then jonquils
then irises.

They come, in that order, marching
into our lives, heralding
Spring.

They flower together only in our minds.
They flower one by one,
in the slow progression of time.

None see the others in their prime.
The dogwood’s bloom dusts the ground
that the iris dances upon.

Time and time and time
and more.

We mark it by the flowers.

We know when is when by our eyes
and not by the calendar.

Soon the twilight will be lit up by fireflies.
A different kind of bloom,
but still a marking of time.

You are here, now, they say.
Enjoy it.
Soon there will be another delight, they say.
Enjoy it.

It won’t last, but that is part
of the beauty.

Mary’s finger

Posted on May 4, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

So, I found Mary’s finger. And not just any finger, her right index finger. That has to mean something. That has to mean more than just her pinkie finger, right?

I was on retreat at Mercy convent – a convent for retired nuns of the Sisters of Mercy. There is a statue of Mary in the back garden, made of marble. I went outside to draw it. I’m not much of an artist but I like to try. I’d just realized that drawing is easier if I use pencil and an eraser rather than a pen to make my first sketch. You can go as deep on that as you like.

This is the angle I was working with.

Part of drawing is noticing what is actually there. When we take pictures, we often work so quickly that we miss things. Or, well, at least I do. There are things that our brains fill in and we assume things are like we think they are. I’ve learned that when I take time to actually draw something I learn where those gaps are. I learn what reality is, versus what I think reality is. It is a very useful meditation.

While looking, I noticed that she is missing some fingers. She looks a little sad about this.

Here is her left hand. Some repairs have already been done.

Here’s her right hand. There is a lot more damage here.

There are six intact fingers, and only one thumb in total. There is a small chip marble rock garden at the base, so I thought that the rest of the fingers could be there. It was a long shot. Surely someone else has looked for it.

Here’s the rock garden. The plaque says “Our Lady’s Garden” In memory of Sister Mary Demetrius Coode, Fall 1993.

I started looking on the left-hand side. That is the side I was closest to. I looked around a bit, but not really very hard. I mean really – someone else has to have thought of this, right? White marble statue pieces fall into a small rock garden filled with white marble pieces. That is where you look.

But the people who live here are all old. They don’t have great eyesight. They aren’t quite fit enough to hunch over and study these pieces. Their knees and backs aren’t so great anymore. They’ve had a life of service and now they are resting.

I gave up looking on the left side and moved to the right. There was more to look for over there – bigger pieces. It should be easier.

After about a minute I found it.

An electric shock ran through me. It was like finding an Easter Egg, or a four leaf clover, or a diamond. I found it. Me. It was here.

I thought briefly that they had left it in there as a treat, as a special thing to be found. It was the fact that I found it that made it special. It wouldn’t have been the same if it had been intact, or if it had been sitting at the base.

There is something about seeking, and finding, that is special. There is something about putting forth the effort and having it rewarded.

I thought about keeping it. Then I thought about taking a piece of chip marble as a token instead. In fact, I thought about taking one anyway, even before I found the finger. I thought about taking a piece as a memento of the search. I was going to pretend that the chip was a piece of the finger. Kind of like a diamond in the rough. The pieces at the base and the statue were both marble. The only difference between the two is one had a lot more work and skill applied to it. But the material is the same.

How do things get value? Why is this piece of marble more valuable than that piece? How does this relate to ourselves and our lives? Deep down, we are all the same.

I didn’t take the finger. I put it on the base, easily visible. This was during the silent part of the retreat, so I knew I couldn’t explain it to the sister who is the caretaker of the place. I figured if I left it there it would make it easier to tell her later.

Then I thought that maybe it is safer in the rock garden. It can’t fall off the base and break into more pieces. It could shatter if it fell again. And I thought also, maybe I should leave the joy of finding it for someone else.

I didn’t find her right thumb, but then again I didn’t look too hard after finding that finger.

A whole finger! Of Mary!

She looks pretty happy that her finger has been found. This is around 11:30 a.m.

Later, at the end of the retreat when we can talk again and it is time to go home, I went to tell the Sister in charge. I thought she was going tell me that they left it there on purpose. No – she was delighted that it had been found. “Now I can write up a work order!” she said.

I was about to leave, but I followed her outside to make sure that she found it. Maybe it had fallen off. Maybe someone had moved it. I went to have some resolution. I went to help find it again if necessary. I went, in part, because I didn’t really want to leave.

She was beaming when she noticed it, and carried it carefully, like a baby bird, in her hands.

She told me that members of the church that sponsored the retreat came once and cleaned this statue. She was so happy about this kindness done to the Sisters.

She told me “We have to be the finger of Mary.”

Yes, and her thumb, and her big toe. And everything. We have to be Mary, willing to let God into the world. We have to let her take care of us, and we have to take care of her. It is reciprocal, this relationship. She isn’t God, but she is a face of God. She is mothering, kindness, compassion. She is a willingness to say “Yes, here I am” when God asks for a favor. She represents who we are when allow God to work through us.

And we also have to be marble, allowing ourselves to be shaped by a Master’s skill.

And we have to understand that we are valuable even as chips at the base of a statue.

Mary is beaming now. This is at 7, after I told the Sister about her finger.

Really?

Posted on May 2, 2014 by betsybeadhead | Leave a comment

I know a lady who is constantly saying “Really?” It isn’t used to say that something is truly that way, or to express surprise. It is used in an exasperated way. It is used as a way to express frustration. She does this several times a day, sometimes several times an hour.

The weird thing is that she is a grandmother. She is old enough not to say “Really?” all the time. It sounds so immature. It sounds that way because it is.

It isn’t the word that is the issue – it is the thought behind the word. She says “Really?” because she’s constantly upset that her version of reality doesn’t match up with actual reality. She’s constantly being unpleasantly surprised about how her version of real isn’t really real.

The trick is that she needs to adapt her reality to what reality actually is or she will constantly be upset.

Really.