photo from “Dominican Saints 101“

Today is her feast day.  She was whisked away to a Dominican cloister by her father, to save her from invaders. Young Margaret took to the life like a fish to warm water, and practiced study and devotion for years. Because she was so young when she took the habit (at the age of four), many thought she would grow out of her devotion, but she never did.

Many take her story as a reminder of the seeds of great spirituality in children, and as a reminder to we who educate them to not dismiss those callings, but foster them so that they might flourish.

As a Sunday school teacher, I have always thought it was wrong to take a position of “I know and you don’t; listen carefully.” The Latin for “educate” means “to lead out.” That is, to create circumstances and opportunities that might lead a young person into discovery and reflection.

My most delightful and holy moments in Sunday school and in public school teaching were when I trusted a Gracefullness that surrounded all of our curiosity, conversation, and endeavors… when I trusted to let go a bit, listen to the kids, and regard what they had to offer as valuable.

This is harder than it sounds! I have a lot of energy, and a million ideas a minute, and like to be in charge. I pray, today on Margaret’s day, that I might be ever mindful of the gifts and passions of those I teach, and teach from a posture of welcoming and celebrating them.

I’m with Matt, Remy, and my Mom and Stepdad on Catalina Island. Gorgeous. Very islandy. We took the ferry from Long Beach early this morning, with front row seats on the top deck. I think it does something biologically to gaze out on blue sky and blue sea. I saw my first dolphins! Dozens of them from the ferry, leaping. I told Matt that I’ve seen so many dolphin tattoos and trinkets over the years, I kind of forgot they’re an actual, incredible animal.

We had an incredible lunch (scallops, two kinds of shrimp cocktail) and then rented a golf cart to see the whole island. There’s some kind of old casino from the 20s, very Art Nouveau, and a botanical garden. We’re in an amazing little inn, with a balcony and view of the water. For dinner, Matt and I (and Remy) went back down to the waterfront and had more incredible seafood near the water. We saw more dolphins (the innkeeper said a pod more than a thousand) from our balcony.

Apparently, there are bison all over the island, left over from some long ago movie shoot– the studio couldn’t be bothered to take them back off the island. According to local lore, there are also perhaps some wild black panthers running around– I saw this old movie poster today. Apparently, the movie has to do with turning black panthers into women?? There’s something about these old movies, and strange connections between “science” (or the promise of science?) and sexuality. Strange.

Last year, the museum on the Island hosted an exhibit called, “Before she was Marilyn: Norma Jean Baker on Catalina Island.” I’ve never been in thrall to Monroe, but there’s something really poignant and compelling about the idea of “her year on the island as a newlywed teen.” I recently read that when all of her belongings went up for auction, it was noted that she didn’t actually have that many clothes or luxury items– but she had a lot of books, especially first editions, and had spent a lot of time trying to educate herself. There’s something so American about that, and equally American in that no one knows or remembers that.

Matt and I gave a small 12th Night Party last weekend. Seven guests, and Matt went all-out cooking. Homemade tamales (with a sweet potato and black bean filling), a kind of Georgian (the country) filled cheese bread, quesadillas, dukkah (a crushed nut and spice mixture you can eat with bread), homemade salsa and hummus, fresh bread, olives, cheeses. I made white sangria, Matt made from-scratch lemonade. Homemade shortbread (yummiest cookie dough ever) and Mexican hot chocolate for dessert.

As usual, even in a small apartment, everyone ends up in the kitchen. Or near the kitchen, standing, eating the cheese bread and getting excited for fresh tamales. Oh, we ate. And drank and laughed. A few guests remarked that this was “pastoral,” and a good time for feeling cared for, before the semester began. That is, we work so hard, and those in the ministry spend lots of energy taking care of others– it’s nice to come to a party and be feted.

Back in the box of old photographs my cousin Larry and I looked through, we found that our Grandpa had saved the menu and program from a long-ago Navy base Christmas dinner. I love the lettering and the vaguely deco-reindeer.

I’m struck by how fancy everything has gotten, in this instant-everything global community. Chicken noodle soup. Fresh frozen peas. Coffee, tea, and milk.

Once in Chicago at Christmas, as an adult, my oldest childhood friend and I were taking the escalator at the Marshall Field’s on the Magnificent Mile. Even though we were adults, we were dazzled by the displays, the immensity of it all. We remarked to each other that we were glad we’d grown up in a very small town, where things were simple and often poor– and that now as adults we could still be dazzled.

I guess I’m also glad that I grew up in a time and place when the grocery store having bell peppers (which we, strangely, called “mangoes”) was exotic, as were Jell-O jigglers. I still get dazzled by the abundance of foods at my fingertips. Isn’t it crazy, in a way, that I can read any recipe on-line or in any cookbook, and feel certain that I could make it this very night? All ingredients are within my reach.

And yet, Sunday morning, for what did I have the most intense craving? Biscuits and gravy. We were up early and went to a great diner that never closes (the best kind) and I indulged. Not as good as my Grandma’s, or my Mom’s, or even mine… but still delicious. And not the kind of thing I’d make for a dinner party, but some of the best food I know.

A woodblock creche from India; the woodblocks are similar to ones used for printing patterns on saris.

Love the detail from this wooden creche– look at Joseph lifting the new baby high! Such a human moment captured and made immediate in simple wood.

And this one, another intimate human moment. The new family, young in the world.

I was trying to remember about starlight– isn’t it true that the starlight we see is reaching us many, many years after it’s already shone? That the stars we see shining, many of them, are already dead?

I’ve been thinking a lot about saints recently, and about Joseph– an ordinary man of the world thrust into extraordinary circumstances. His faith– and faith alone, no angel came to reassure him!– and solid actions nurtured something that has continued to impact us these thousands of years later.

As this year comes to a close, I want to hold fast to the idea that the relationships I form and keep, and the decisions and actions I take, are in place in a pattern or rhythm I can’t always see or know. How frightening! How out of control! And yet, isn’t Christmas–after the waiting of Advent–about embracing the radical unexpected things, with a willingness to joyfully follow a world turned on its head?

At Our Lady of All Angels Cathedral, in Los Angeles. Love, love, love this contemporary rendering of Mary– she’s a young woman, but graceful and sure. You can see her youth in her face, in her French braid, in her posture.

Another youthful, contemporary rendering of a powerful young woman–Joan of Arc. Love her cropped, boyish hair and serious face. Can you imagine the King of France, approached by such youth and certainty, with no regard for his power?

It’s interesting to think about these saints that surround us… they were physical bodies, real people with hungers, anxieties, jealousies, and friends. I think we would recognize more in them than we would expect– surely some bit their nails, stuttered, laughed nervously, touched your arm when telling a good joke.

And then– in this recognition, can’t we see that we might also be called to use our bodies and voices? Frightening to consider how we are daily called.

Angel candelabra in Cathedral.

Angels over their city.

Another amazing contemporary rendering: Felicity and Perpetua.

I pray that I will continue to find moments of recognition with those I meet, both saints and not-yet-saints.

My grandmother. Last month, I traveled from LA to Chicago to San Fran to St. Louis to Western Mass., culminating in Thanksgiving. Whirlwind! One of the highlights in St. Louis was meeting my cousin’s dear baby and going through a box of old photos of our family.

Here is our grandmother, whose parents came from Scandinavia, in Montana in the 1930s. I had never seen this photo and nearly gasped when we found it. She looks like my grandmother as I remember her, but she is so young, so pretty, so possible. This is before she met my grandfather, married young, and went to England with one child to bear another (my mother) before reaching the age of 20. Before coming back to the farm in Southern Illinois–her husband’s family land–and raising four children in a farmhouse with no hot water until 1977, the year I was born. She also raised, in part, me and my cousins. When I was in high school, she was frying chicken for a local restaurant and driving a school bus. She had gone to beauty school at some point; my mother still has some of her hair equipment.

Also, recently, I spent a day at the Getty with my best friend,

was treated to an amazing Korean meal by a classmate,

experimented with lotus root and other delicacies from the amazing Land of Plenty cookbook for…

an amazing Christmas dinner with my husband. Vintage Advent candle-holder from Etsy, napkins lovingly hand-made in Haiti, plates from a pottery shop in Shelbourne Falls, Mass., chargers from our wedding pattern china.

Today is the shortest day of the year. Doesn’t Daisy in The Great Gatsby say she’s always trying to notice the longest day of the year, and never can? What a sad thing, her youth, her longing for summer warmth and shine (and those shirts!), and always missing it all.

I don’t know what it says about me that I’m noticing the shortest day of the year, but I’m surrounded by Christmas lights, red wine, and plenty of carols and cards. Christmas lights don’t twinkle as well in the light, so I’m thinking that this is the best night of the year to shine.

image from markheybo on Flickr

Some ideas with which to begin…

“The human is first of all a promise-making, promise-keeping, promise-breaking creature.” –Martin Buber

“The gorilla, the chimpanzee, the orangoutang, and their kind, must look upon humans as feeble and infirm animals, whose strange custom it is to store up their dead.” –Miguel de Unamuno

“No fact in human nature is more characteristic than itswillingness to live on a chance.” –William James

Photo by Squish_E on Flickr.

“Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.”

                             –Reinhold Niebuhr

Photo by Aaaarrrrgggghhhh! on Flickr.

Photo by pol sifter on Flickr.

image from vvonstruen on flickr

From my recent compassion/social engagement class notes:

Iris Murdoch’s definition of love: “the non-violent apprehension of difference”

a definition of compassion: “being moved in one’s depths by the suffering or bliss of another, and responding in ways that intend to either ease their suffering or promote their flourishing”

a definition of forgiveness (which can happen without reconciliation): “to heal from wounds, to have a safe place to grow strong enough to let go of the harm, to be free internally”

a definition of reconciliation (which cannot happen without forgiveness): “a right relationship restored between two people”

on brushes with the sacred: These moments are self-authenticating, complete–we feel as though we could do anything…and yet, we can’t hold onto that feeling. This is the tension of living a spiritual life.

on “bad feelings”: “Every single internal reaction we have is there for a reason.” These “bad feelings” aren’t the sin; they are the starting place.

This is the “Danubio Esven Hair Curler Machine,” manufactured and used in Uruguay since 1932.    Photo from Vince Alongi on Flickr. My own hot rollers are not so draconian-looking; they are powder blue with “velvet” rollers.

I start with the piece above my eyes, where my bangs would be if I had them. When I started this process, heat and spray once a day, every morning and maybe an evening extra, I did have bangs.  I roll the swath of hair around the heated velvet surface, careful not to touch the end that went into the base. I could do this blindfolded, half asleep; I’ve been hot rolling my hair since junior high, twenty-one years minus the few when I had perms.

My hair is naturally wavy. If I let it air dry, it will wave and some strands will curl. You’d think this would be desirable, but I don’t like that I can’t control how exactly it will wave, and what it will do over the course of the day. I prefer to heat it all, section it off into two sizes of roller, and spray with hair spray for good measure. This way, I can predict how my hair will look throughout a day, after brushing again in the afternoon, and even the next morning.

Hair spray! Control! Not the stuff of meditation, or so I thought until this morning.

This particular morning, I was in a hurry because I had an appointment at the Rancho Cucamonga DMV. Also, because I thought they might photograph me for my driver’s license, I was being sure to hot roll my hair carefully. No messy side part or wonky curl-out-of-place for me—you keep your driver’s license for years and see it near daily; having an ugly photograph would require me to “lose” it so I could go and get another.

I usually curl my hair in seven portions; three along the top of my head, in the “bang” section and directly above and behind it, one over each ear, and the final back piece—right above the nape of my neck—usually gets divided in two.

This morning, when I got to that last section, above the nape of my neck, part of me said, “Oh, just put it onto one curler. No one will notice.”

Immediately another part said, “Shut up! We’re going to the DMV. We need to do this right.”

Two months ago, I would have done one of two things. Either I would have listened to the first voice, and said firmly to my-self, “Don’t be stupid. No one is going to see the back of your head, let alone photograph it. You’ll look good enough.”

Or, I would have listened to the second part, and said, “Absolutely. We’re going to be carrying this card around for years. We’ll feel bad if we don’t do the best we can with our hair.”

Either way, I would have shut down the alternate view, without a second thought.

On this day, as I started to follow the first part’s suggestion, I thought to my-self, “Well, that was a little harsh. I didn’t have to say ‘shut up.’”  So, I thought the following:

“I can see why you feel it’s so important to have great hair. Having pretty hair has been a currency, and gotten you a lot of good, for a very long time. You’ve had a lot of success from having great hair. And you’re right—it feels good to have a nice driver’s license photo. I appreciate that you care about that. I think in this case, though, we can still have a great photo and good hair, even without the one extra curl. The front of the hair will still look good for the photograph.”

That felt good. And then, like the sliding of an ice sheet when it starts to melt, something very slight but solid shifted inside of me. I suddenly remembered all of the interior words of judgment I’ve had for other women over the years. A day in NYC might have included the following interior monologue as I observed and judged others:

I can’t believe she’s plucking her eyebrows here on the train. How can she stand for us to see that? Why is she wearing white shoes with her black uniform stockings—even if she wants to be comfortable, she should buy some nice looking flats. Doesn’t that girl know that you don’t carry a straw purse in winter? Look at that fake Coach bag. She has lipstick on her teeth. I can see her bra straps. Why doesn’t she buy a new belt if she’s going to wear it every day? Our uniform is navy; I can’t believe she wears black with that. She needs to moisturize her cuticles. Her roots are showing…

Of course, a similar voice runs alongside, pointed at myself:

Why don’t you wear heels? It’s only a few blocks walking. You’re so slovenly to keep choosing comfort. I don’t care if your back hurts, you’re not carrying a backpack to the party. You need to get up early to put your hair up because it’s going to rain tomorrow and you’re not going to the meeting looking sloppy. Do not touch those cuticles. It doesn’t matter if the corset digs. You’re being photographed. No salt for three days before the pictures. I can’t believe you didn’t floss. It doesn’t matter if your ears hurt; these earrings make a statement…

Judging the appearance of other women was just an amplification of my own really harsh inner critic. And each fueled the other: the less patience I had for myself, the more hateful my thoughts about others—even my dearest friends. And for every negative thing I noticed about someone else, my own critic flared double time.

In the past, when I’ve considered compassionate practice, I’ve done it from an either-or perspective. Either in therapy I’ve worked on a kinder self-voice, or working alone a harsh “Christian” inner voice would insist that judging others is a sin. I am not surprised that I never made much progress in either; it seems that neither voice was being listened to or affirmed, and without me attending to them, they were all the more unhappy and pointed.

Pema Chödrön’s simple, encouraging voice is a great model for this work. She uses phrases like, “no big deal,” and “simply label it.” Even when we want to curse at our slow learning and sharp internal thoughts, she reassures us that this is part of our human habit, and practicing compassion will encourage more fruit than continuing in our brittle way.

Chödrön’s optimism that we have more going on inside ourselves that we think—that is, she sees the positive potential in me, when all I see is a brittle pattern of self-blame and not-enough-ness—this also is such a relief in a sea of self-help articles and quizzes to see how self-centered or “dependent” we are. Chödrön writes, “To your surprise, there’s a big world there,” and “The world opens up and suddenly we’re there for what’s happening…we have the ability to drop our [previously deeply held] story line, to rouse ourselves” (66).

This rousing is what I experienced when I felt my “ice sheet shifting.” I had an alternate story line—one of appreciation and delight at my own blessed body and those I encounter moving through the world—there in the possible undercurrents of my heart all along.  And not that I needed to silence the voice that kept me from seeing/sensing this—Earley’s words of compassion for every part of myself allowed me to hear, identify, listen, and affirm even the parts I would have thought were keeping me from a more life-affirming stance. Instead of getting rid of those voices, I gave them a bit of light and a bit of fresh air—that which we all need!—and to my surprise, I discovered more about myself from recognizing it.

I notice now that when Jay Earley describes “developing a trusting relationship” with a part, or an exile, he’s really encouraging us to develop a trust-worthy center. That is, I will be more free to express my varying internal thoughts if the responses I give myself are kind, or at least not harsh. Long ago, a therapist taught me that feelings are feelings, and will find a way to express themselves. We can try to push them down, or away, or deny that we’re having them, but they will find a way to come out. Earley revealed one way to do this—to listen. Why am I surprised that a technique that has helped me in relationships, in teaching, and in mentoring teachers would work within myself? Chödrön modeled the kinds of phrases I might use instead—words of welcome, and patience, and affirmation.

John Makransky’s exhortation that we “discover” and then remember, receive, and reflect upon the “benefactors” of our life gave me concrete examples of how to marry my individual class work reflection on gratitude for compassion in my life with specific examples. I have had so many benefactors! And Makransky is correct—although my life has been filled with and shaped by their kindness and attention, it can be difficult to fight the habits of complaint, judgment, narrowed-eyes, and distrust of the people in line with me at the DMV (for example.)

Makransky shares Chödrön’s premise that we are essentially good, and capable of good. Makransky writes,

When we receive the wish of love, the wish for our happiness, we are instructed to trust that wish more than any limiting thoughts of ourselves…This takes us beyond our usual limitations, to extend the wish of love more inclusively and enduringly than we may have previously thought possible. To extend love ultimately to all beings gives us a glimpse into the vast capacity of love that was hidden in our being all along (96, emphasis mine).

I note that Makransky specifies that the wish of love is ours to “receive,” that is—it has already been given. What a revolutionary idea in a world where we are seduced into consuming the accoutrements we believe we need to “be” better versions of ourselves. We lack nothing—the love has already been given. Lest we doubt, meditating simply on a few people who have shown us care, however small, can begin a new habit in our minds.

My “compassion and gratitude notes” from the last few months include phrases and names:

“the lady at church who said she liked hearing me sing,” “the guy at the bike shop,” “the woman in the president’s office who took time to talk to me,” “the ING lady on the phone who was happy to keep explaining things to me,” “the old man at church,” “my old professor,” “Mrs. J always wrote such great comments on my papers,” “Miss Marilyn always made sure I had a dress to wear on Sundays,” “my stepdad was worried that I might not have a good TV,” “Sister CM always checks in on me.” And even: “bus driver was patient,” “the receptionist smiled encouragingly,” “the lady next to me squeezed my hand during prayer.”

It is as if, once I learned the posture of receiving, there was an abundance for me to receive. Once I opened my arms, they were filled with blooms of compassion. While I was practicing opening my arms to receive, I was also noting without judgment the inner thoughts that ran throughout the day. Instead of labeling them good or bad, I just followed Chödrön’s example and tried to say, “Huh. That’s a frustrated thought. Look at that.”

Then, incorporating Earley’s suggestions, I might add, “I can see that you feel frustrated. What do you need right now?” Remembering Makransky’s and Chödrön’s assertions that kindness, receiving, and listening are more fruitful than judging, I’d try to listen to that need, and even if I couldn’t hear it, respond with a kinder inner voice.  Of course, this is a new habit, and radically in opposition to the habits reinforced by the blogs and magazines I read daily, and the packaging of the things I buy.

I have noticed that I move easier in the world when I attend to my own thoughts and needs. I have also noticed that being compassionate to my self has encouraged a general posture of gratitude, openness, and willingness to be delighted by benefactors I come across.

Am I willing to let my hair wave on its own, to cede control over something to which I could simply let be and be grateful? Not yet, but the daily practice of curling my hair has changed—and the patience I now show myself is a growing patience I have for others.

And, as I am learning, the gratitude I can begin to feel when regarding my un-controlled hair is a gratitude I have access to all of the time. The love and affirmation are there; I must only practice receiving.  And above all, I remember this is practice—I have two decades’ worth of old synapses that are in a pattern of self-judgment and seeking glossy control. Makransky, Chödrön, and Earley reassure me that as I continue this new practice, it will be like warm streams of water on the rigidity of my old judgment; over time, those sheets of negative self-regard may finally break and float freer, leaving me better able to connect with myself and others.

I wrote this reflection on “self compassion” for a class on compassionate social engagement. Before we can begin the work of restorative justice and engaging socially, we must first learn to listen and show compassion for ourselves and those in our immediate communities.  To begin this work, I highly recommend the Pema Chödrön text.

Works Cited and Consulted

Chödrön, Pema. Start Where You Are. Boston: Shambhala. 2001.

Earley, Jay. Self-Therapy. Minneapolis: Mill City Press. 2009.

Makransky, John. Awakening Through Love. Boston: Wisdom Publications. 2007.