JUNE 21, 2010     7:30 – 8:45 P.M.

As The Ancients have always known, the solstice points are powerful moments of alignment and wisdom. 

As the sun and earth dance their galactic spin, we approach the defining moment of summer: the solstice where the sun appears to stop and stand still.  We are granted a window in time, a slice of radiance, to revel in the light and the knowing that burbles forth from this potent synchronization.

The solstice provides us with a portal.  It marks a season of openings, a time where blossoms unfold into their fullness; a time when you are given the support of the cosmos to unfold into your magnificence and to recommit your spiritual stewardship on this earth plane.

Within this particular year, where time has quickened and the sentient earth has snorted and shouted for our attention, we are asked especially to stop and honor, stop and behold the messages without and within.

Come join us.  Powerful days.  Powerful times.  And everyone is needed to stand up in their light and align with the power of their heart.

$25 donation (cash or check made payable to Albertson Memorial Church)

No reservation required.

Has your relentless job hunting evolved into Groundhog Day revisited? Has chronic CNN and MSNBC watching given you PTSD? Is your life an episode of Survivor? Have you been known, from time to time, to take refuge on the floor of your closet?

You might wonder if the world is coming to an end.  Was, in fact, Chicken Little right, and the sky is falling. Or are we about to live Cormac McCarthy’s version of The Road?

It’s enough to give a grown person the willies. Many things that once seemed bedrock-solid are crumbling. The world is changing; it’s all very fast and furious. Terra firma is shifting, at best, and a bad B movie, at worst. Nothing seems enduring; everything feels fragile. Chaos has found its voice. It is, without question, a very scary time.

There are so many variables and so much reactivity; it is hard to find your footing. Let’s talk a few coping strategies so you can ride this historical bucking bronco and not find yourself splayed in a heap in the dust.

1.  Perspective, i.e., time to don the lenses with the big viewfinder.

Human beings have a remarkable capacity for resilience. There is a reason one of us created the maxim that “necessity is the mother of invention.” We have survived and endured; there are millennia of history before us. We have created kick-ass lemonade with lemons. And it is time to do that again.

This is particularly American. We are the land of can-do, the place of rebirth. We love the underdog doing what needs to be done and coming back on top. There was a reason the return of former down-and-out actor, Mickey Rourke, in the movie, The Wrestler, resonated with so many. We all like a come-back story.

It’s like the loose thread at the hem of your coat. You notice it; you might even try to yank off the dangly bit, but it is not a priority, and, often, it gets ignored. When the hem has fallen, and you are looking very rag-tag; it becomes a priority, and you begin to make the repair and mend your coat.

It’s the same thing here in this great United of States. We have ignored the falling hem (read: hungry children, homelessness, inadequate health care, broken schools, decaying cities, housing, energy crisis, depleted environment et al) and, now, we are looking fairly wrecked and disheveled. We are ready for repair, serious repair.

I see this whole bucking-bronco-ride as a course correction that exhumes core values. I see in working together for the betterment of all, we become stronger than ever.

To change metaphor in midstream, like a snake swallowing a rat, more than likely, there will be a few more deep contractions to get our attention, to cease the bifurcated posturing and allow us to come together, our great United of States to solve our problems and be better for it.

In other words, it is time for perspective and the long view. It is time to keep the faith in our abilities to mend and heal. Encoded in our can-do USA citizenship is the gumption, grit and vision that allows us to ride, ride, ride that bucking bronco and tip our hats to history and know that we can create a brave new world.

2.  Discharge excess energy.

Do not simmer, sit, stew, obsess, ruminate, nit-pick, worry, fret, agonize or perseverate. In those internal twists and turns, you create a head full of excess energy, as well as a body contracted and knotted with tension.

In other words, for the moment, you’re a mess. Your sleep is disturbed; your eating is off or very on. Your temper is short; your fear is long. You are unraveling and feel like you might snap at any given moment. You are on sensory overload – too much bad news, too many demands and too limited resources, too much to juggle, too much shoulder.

A practical approach is called for here. May I suggest you discharge this excess energy? It is serving no real purpose save to make you tight, taut, tense and cranky.

There are two ways to discharge excess energy: the physical and the expressive. The physical, as you could well guess, includes any kind of movement, exercise, walking, dancing, sex and the like. The expressive, as the name suggests, is about releasing via expression, be it a heart-to-heart talk, writing, singing and any another creative endeavor that funnels the energy out of your system.

Like an overcharged battery, once your excess energy has been drained, you will become more effective. And given all you have to do, that would be a good thing.

3.  Breathe

It sounds so basic. You do it every day – without thinking. However, a regular practice of a dozen deep breaths, a few times a day, can re-ground you in you, help you reconnect with your physical self and decrease stress. It’s simple; it’s a no-brainer and so easy to do. You oxygenate your body; you re-inhabit yourself, and you become more clear-headed, less frazzled and able to deal a bit better.

It can’t hurt, and it works.

4.  Follow Gandhi’s advice: “Be the change you want to see.”

If you accept that everything is energy, wouldn’t it follow that every one of your actions is a kind of energetic input that impacts not only your existence, but that of the world as well. Every action makes a difference. Quantum physics has proved this.

Therefore, consider being your Highest Self and act with integrity; treat every one like your brother/sister, work for peaceful and respectful resolutions, and offer a hand to help those in need. In doing same, you become a powerful change agent that helps create the shift towards a more responsible, conscious, interconnected and caring world.

Dear reader, may your ride be easy in the coming days.

Today, I am not so young, but I remain hopeful for what I call everyday peace. I do not flash the peace sign, nor do I use the current generation’s lingo of “peace out.” Instead, I endeavor to live my daily life from a peaceful place, which, let me tell you, is easier said than done.  This means, I can no longer clobber myself unrelentingly for my personal screw-ups. Now, I must take a deep breath, try to open with compassion, and learn from my bloody stupidity, which, truth be told, is often my whining, less-than-mature ego that has decided to come out for a spin and scream, “What about me?” and make a huge, messy ruckus.

I am working hard to avoid war on every front. I want to defuse — note: I did not say avoid or deny; I said defuse as in wanting to extricate the red wire out of the ticking bomb — conflict, be it inner and outer.

This does not mean that I am meek and mild and without strong opinion. I am none of those things; in fact, my temperament often runs hot and fiery. My red face and flashing, angry-Snoopy eyebrows have been known to signal storm clouds.

What this does mean is that I consciously inhale – ahhh…in with the good air — versus exhale with a barrage of steaming vitriol. I do not verbally, mentally or energetically pummel you with my ire, as much as I might want to; nor do I instantaneously decide that you are a bold-faced idiot. I work hard not to polarize the situation and make you the boneheaded, unseeing, completely out-of-your-cotton-pickin’-mind wrong one as I shine in dazzling superiority as the one who knows best.

In younger days, my sniveling self got pumped on those linear leaps of black and white, good or bad, right or wrong.  It was satisfyingly smug to stomp and scream, confer and confirm with my compatriots that I was right and wonder what-in-God’s-name-was-your-problem. You became my nemesis, the enemy, the object of my righteousness.

Delicious, it was — until life wore away the patina of certainty and control, until I experienced firsthand betrayal and injustice, until I understood there are more that two sides. My eyes were opened, and the linear model no longer worked.

Of course, conflict is inevitable. There is no running or hiding. Alas, conflict exists everywhere. But does that mean enemies are also inevitable?

Logic syllogisms would probably suggest same, but, hey, this is a new world, a new day. I think we can work with a new model. I think many of us want to work in a different way, one by one, person by person.

My solution: everyday peace. By that I mean, I make an effort, you make an effort to create peace, no matter the size, no more the weight, every day, in response to all that the world presents to us. Small, daily steps that build person by person, family by family, neighborhood by neighborhood to a world that chooses to operate from higher consciousness. Really, what do we have to lose with everyday peace?

Gandhi told us to be the change we want to see. I suggest we be the peace we want to see.

This is not wimpy work. It takes strength of will to stop reacting out of ego. It is stretching to learn to see the bigger picture. It requires creativity to find out-of-the-box solutions. It takes compassion to walk in another’s shoes. It takes wisdom to find the common ground.

Without peace, there is much more — more death, more darkness, more destruction, more fear, more grief, more division, more derision, more tears, more chaos, more trauma, more terror, more wounds, more broken hearts, more broken families, more broken countries. Without peace, we are constantly in pain, at war and at odds. We are hemorrhaging life force.

Peace is the root of all healing, be it healing of self, family or globe. Why not make peace with ourselves, with our families, with our neighbors? Consider the practice of everyday peace in your life.

As a parting gift, I leave you with one of my latest finds, a new poem to add to my favorite’s list entitled “Pray for Peace.” It’s an excellent reminder that everything can be done in the name of precious, healing and life-affirming peace.

Peace be with you, dear reader.

Pray for Peace

by Ellen Bass

Pray to whomever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching heat,
Adonai, Allah. Raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekinah, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper
of time before, time now, time ahead, pray. Bow down
to terriers and shepherds and Siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work,
pray on the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus
and for everyone riding buses all over the world.
If you haven’t been on a bus in a long time,
climb the few steps, drop some silver, and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the atm,
for your latte and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already a prayer.
Skin and open mouths worshiping that skin,
the fragile case we are poured into,
each caress a season of peace.

If you’re hungry, pray. If you’re tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.
Pray to the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else’s legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheelchair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves
we will do less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail,
or delivering soda, or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard
with yellow chalk, twirling pizzas, pray for peace.

With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds for peace, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your Visa card. Gnaw your crust
of prayer, scoop your prayer water from the gutter.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.

 

ELLEN BASS‘s poetry books include The Human Line (Copper Canyon Press) and Mules of Love (boa Editions). She teaches in the low-residency MFA writing program at Pacific University. Find more at www.ellenbass.com.

In the beginning of the week, I was called to assist (in a grief-counseling way) at a work place. Over the weekend, a young, happy, and seemingly healthy mom died suddenly during the day; she was discovered on the floor of her home. She left two small children and a husband as well as a number of long-term coworkers, all reeling in disbelief.

These days, work hours are often longer than the “awake” hours at home. There is the press and drive of companies today coupled with an employee’s motivation to do well, get ahead, and earn more. Certainly, coworkers can become extended family.

And like family, they are doubled over with grief. The thought of their coworker’s children without a mother renders many speechless; the thought of their own children without a parent is unbearable.

Death of a loved one is a trigger; it reminds of all our other losses. It’s as if we each hold a memory box close to our heart which is usually closed. Yet, with a new loss, the box springs open with our personal well spring of grief and sorrow. There is a parade of visceral memories and sensations. In life, we do not forget death.

My second reminder of sudden death was personal, a member of my extended family. A young man, 18 years of age, ready – in mere days – to graduate high school, was found with a book on his chest looking as if he had drifted off to sleep while reading before bed. His family, his school, and his town are shattered. There are no words; there is no comfort, at this moment. The promise and potential of his life unlived casts a pall over everything.

And his death becomes the uninvited guest at his classmates’ graduation, where, undoubtedly, parents will hold their children a little bit tighter and say, “I love you” with a tear-filled eyes. And these parents will wonder how they could ever survive the loss of their child. The idea is unfathomable.

Sudden death hits like an enormous, out-of-the-blue thunderclap to the heart. It is a sucker punch to the gut. You search your brain thinking that this can’t be true. One minute the person is there; the next minute they’re gone. Like a flame extinguished, you are plunged into a darkness that is incomprehensible and, often, crazy-making.

And you try to make sense of it all; you retrace your steps. You race back in time to the very last connection you shared. You think of the “Goodnight, honey” or the “Don’t stay out too late” to a family member or the “Have a good weekend” to the coworker on her way out the door. The everyday words, the daily connections seem so trivial and unimportant given the enormity of the loss, but they are the connective tissue of life.

And your mind, like a Google search engine, comes up with all the related memories and associations. You remember the shared laugh over a quick cup of coffee. You think of the sharp words about keeping the curfew or who is going to pick up the quart of milk, the dry cleaning, or the babysitter.

You remember yesterday, last week, last year, the day they were born, the day you got married, the day they walked into your class, your job, your life. Whenever and whatever those points of intersection, the moments of laughter and love, the hard times, the good times, the better times, you want to remember it all – in vivid, painstaking detail.

Images and words jump to the fore. Your knees buckle at the image of reading him a bedtime story or brushing her hair. Bath time, bedtime, play time, sleep time, making love time, not-speaking time; it all spreads before you, a map of your life with them.

What you shared was real; it was so very, very real. And you find yourself choked up; words, memories, and feelings are caught in your throat and chest. It is difficult to take a deep breath. Everything feels so fragile and precious now. It is hard to navigate these uncharted waters; you lurch from side to side feeling broken into a million little pieces never to be whole again.

So, how do you make sense of a sudden death?

Be very, very gentle with yourself. It is hard, exhausting, excruciating work to make sense of the un-sensible and to unpack and repack a life that you have held with such reverence and tenderness.

Take all the time you need to feel all that you need to feel.

Take all the time you need to remember and revisit all that you experienced and shared with the one you lost.

There will be a day when you do not weep.

There will be a day when you surprise yourself with a small laugh.

There will be a day when your heart’s heaviness has lifted.

And there will be a day, when like a tiny blade of grass that pushes through a crack in the cement, you will be ready to take a step forward and be in the sunshine.

And until that day comes, allow us, your family, friends, and coworkers to walk with you and share the loss. It is primal; this connection that we feel when we hear of death, especially the deaths of the younger ones.

There is a ripple effect; the loss moves out in ever-widening circles and whoever hears or knows anyone impacted by the loss wants to do something. Make a meatloaf, bake lasagna, make the calls, organize logistics, walk the dog, be a shoulder, lend an ear.

We want to feed you, nourish you, and hold you. We want to help you stay afloat when you are drowning in heartbreak. We feel your loss; your loss becomes our loss.

Unfortunately, loss is a universal, and the experience of loss is most commonplace, although it feels anything but common. With loss, there is a part of us that wants the world to s-t-o-p and pay heed. Don’t you understand, we have lost our loved one. Yet, life goes on and you find yourself retreating from the din and dailiness.

Loss sends out the call to gather. Hear ye, hear ye, all family and friends, it is time to circle the wagons. It is time to stop and attend. It is time for reverence and remembrance.

Jungian analyst, poet, and cantadora (keeper of the old stories), Clarissa Pinkola Estes tells us that the wise, elder women of her family would say, “The only miracle medicine we have is each other.” And so it is, even in sudden death.

To all families going through such a difficult time now, may you find peace and comfort during your dark days. And to Jordan who sat across from me at the Thanksgiving dinner table for many a year, may you rest in peace, dear one. You will be missed, and you will be remembered well.

Ahhh … the pool, it was a sanctuary of chlorinated coolness. I loved the feeling of being under water; it was like another world. Do you remember Dustin Hoffman’s character, Benjamin, in the movie The Graduate? How he would be hunkered down, under the water, in the corner of his pool? Benjamin was alone, unbothered, and in his own bubble – at least until Mrs. Robinson came on the scene.

This summer, as much as humanly possible, I want to be underwater, not in the conventional sense of scuba diving, snorkeling, or swimming, but in the detached, free-floating, not-in-this world sense.

I want to be free and unfettered, without constrictions and containers, and allow myself to sense life without the daily pounding of extraneous sensory input and information.

I want to be suspended in space, floating freely and weightlessly in cool, blue-green water that shields me from the breathless heat of summer, the hot tempers that follow, and the call to do anything irritating and enervating. It’s that last piece, the call to sidestep the irksome, the energy zapping, and the superfluous that makes my dive into the water so delicious.

Life does do life, and, obviously, there are moments when I happily participate in the great circus that parades through my life. But this summer, my vacation is to go glub, glub, glub and, metaphorically, dive into the quiet, watery depths.

By taking the plunge, I opt out of the rush, the push-pull, and the never-ending chase of everyday life. I float; I hang out and I hang loose. I can swim and morph into a graceful being, at one with my body, at one with my mind, and at one with the water that holds me tenderly like a long-lost mother.

I am able to look up through the shimmering scrim of undulation and see a blue-blue sky with puffy, white clouds lazily circumnavigating the globe. I can watch open-winged birds use the sky as their tablet to write love poems in some invisible ornithological alphabet. I can witness multi-colored schools of fish drift by in a languid, liquid ballet.

And impossible, but true, is that it is possible for me to perceive the variations of sunlight and moonlight and starlight as the lumination penetrates the layers of blue and green and aqua tinted waters. I can witness the light dancing in waves as it wiggles through the watery prisms. Simply by being present, I, temporarily, bathe in streams of light as if I were a piece of a stained glass treasure found in the sea.

By diving in, I pull the plug.  I can float and dream and simply be.  I can reconnect with my soul that craves quiet, freedom, and a place to be.

There will be no sound of the constant clickety-click of my brain. There will be no rushing to and fro. There will be liquid time and space. There will be communion with the elements. There will be an opportunity to see, sense, know, and feel differently. It sounds like the perfect vacation for me this year.

So, do not be surprised if the phone goes unanswered, the mail piles up, and my computer weeps from lack of contact. I will be deeply under water, taking a very long breath.

The spiritual teacher, in this instance, is Derek O’Neill, an Irishman complete with brogue and a quick laugh. He has also been a psychotherapist; these days, he is a healer and spiritual teacher. O’Neill calls himself “an awakener.” He says he is “like the hospital nurse who wakes you up in the middle of the night to give you a sleeping tablet.” In other words, he is all about consciousness.

O’Neill is a devotee of Sathya Sai Baba. Both men, I am told by eye witnesses, can manifest vibhuti, sacred ash used in Hindu worship, out of thin air, and both men can heal others. Additionally, both men are avatars.

Avatars are associated with the Hindu tradition. Wikipedia tells us that the word avatar “literally means descent and usually implies a deliberate descent from higher spiritual realms to lower realms of existence for special purposes.” These very special beings are “marked with superhuman qualities.”

The way I understand it, avatars are divine beings in human form. They operate at such a high vibration and extraordinary consciousness that they can take actions beyond the normal human range. Further, they have incarnated in their lifetime to be of service to humankind. For example, Jesus and Zoroaster were seen as avatars during their days. Amma and Mother Meera are also considered avatars in today’s world.

During the workshop, Derek O’Neill said, “If you want to find water, dig a deep hole.” He elaborated and told us to find a teacher and become a disciple. With an audience numbering about 800 people, he tells us – and with his finger pointing for emphasis – that we need a spiritual teacher, or we will not get where we want to be on the spiritual path and attain the levels of consciousness that we desire.  He allowed that we need one teacher, one path, one focus. (And O’Neill added that we could study with his group.)

O’Neill’s words irritated me, because I think we are all fractals of the Divine. We carry the spark of the Godhead already. I believe that our journey of consciousness is learning to honor the divine within as well as the divine in others.  

I would guess O’Neill would counter that I am choosing “the path of Buddha which is to continue the path of incarnation as long as sentient beings suffer.” In other words, I would be continuously spinning on the Wheel of Samsara, the Tibetan Buddhist wheel of life, death and rebirth that eventually leads to enlightenment; the focus of O’Neill’s workshop.

Yet, I still struggle with this find-a-teacher idea. I am a person rooted in a country founded on religious freedom. The whole one-teacher, one-path seems so singular and limiting to me. I have tasted the wisdom from a number of sources. O’Neill would likely argue that I have diluted my path with my varied teachings. I would counter that it has been expanded and integrated with all of my interdisciplinary pursuits.

I have worked with people who have lived in ashrams and been betrayed by their guru, and others betrayed by their priests, ministers or rabbis. They were, at one time, one-path, one-teacher people until their experience changed. This makes me think of spiritual teacher, Caroline Myss. She talks about the disciple archetype, whose path is to ultimately experience betrayal from the teacher, which, in turn, requires that the now untethered disciple reclaim their personal power.

I am wary of groups with groupies and their seemingly blind allegiance. I am not someone who drinks the Kool-Aid, but am I in denial? Have I missed the boat to nirvana and enlightenment?

I began emailing and chatting with friends and fellow sojourners on the path. In response to my ruminating emails, one friend wrote:

“That thing about needing a teacher and being a disciple is a very eastern thing. I never understood it until I met Amma and then I understood not only the concept but the way it works. The teacher has already ascended to the divine and so when you’re in his/her presence you are with the divine. It isn’t that you don’t have access to God, but the teacher is the route for ascension. It’s just the way they believe, and I get it. When you’re with Amma you’re definitely in the presence of God – no doubt about it from my point of view.”

Another friend responded:

“Here I am, definitely a devotee and a one teacher person and yet in my thinking I don’t think that everyone must have a teacher in order to reach the next level or whatever it is. In my thinking, there is a wide open way, not a specific way. …

One thing that is distinctive in my experience of having a teacher is the initiation into the practices. It wasn’t just that he taught the practices, it was a live transmission when he initiated me into the practices (kriyas, meditation). I realize now that all the yoga and meditation I did before, everything I cooked up, was so little compared to what this is. It is through him that I have this. Whatever this is, all I know in my experience is that it is really something and, for now, I am compelled to continue on this path.”

These heartfelt responses were helpful and reminded me that all things work.

If you are familiar with my writing, you know that I am an advocate of the “and and” approach to life as opposed to the either/or platform. And, clearly, that holds true here. Unlike O’Neill, I do not feel it is mandatory to find one teacher, the teacher. I think as long as we trust our own good instincts and listen to our hearts, we will know what’s right for us and how to proceed on our spiritual journey.

There are many ways to find God, to find ourselves in God and God in others. I honor them all.

And all is the operative word for me. I remain a rebellious type. And that is one of my styles of learning to question and argue and poke holes until I can make peace with what works for me. I am simply not a one-teacher kind of gal, but, happily, I am not so irritated at the suggestion.

It all began recently. I was having dinner with a friend. We were playing catch-up with our respective comings and goings, sharing our recent discoveries about the inner machinations of life. The conversation flowed; the iced tea flowed. We were swimming in heady depths. And, like the phosphorescence glowing in a night ocean, I became aglow. As if plugged in to a socket, I was lit with inspiration, filled with the glimmer of God. My being was illuminated.

The epiphany popped right out of me. And there it was, in all of its ephemeral glory, standing next to the bread basket – with a lovely assortment of artisan breads, I might add.

“Now what does an epiphany look like?” you might ask. That’s a tricky question, because my epiphany will not look like yours, and yours will not look like mine. Epiphanies are energetic and inspirational flashes. They are holistic in that they involve mind, body and Spirit. And, above all, they are individual and idiosyncratic.

So, there was my epiphany flashing with promise and potential, a few inches away from a killer raisin bread. That was all it took; my epiphany hooked on to my energy field, and after dinner, we headed home.

I was ready to put epiphany into action. I was musing and meandering down Possibility Rd. Everything looked bright and sparkly.

But life started doing life. And I let the daily drill drown out epiphany’s song. And then — poof — it was gone. I wondered if epiphany decided to hide. I looked under the bed, between the couch cushions, on the counter, in the car, in the closet, in my pocketbook and, alas, no epiphany.

Why would it do that? It came so freely. I wasn’t asking for it. It was a gift, pure and simple.

After a thorough search of my place and my belongings, I found myself bereft and yearning for what I once held so lightly and, even, so smugly. Certain, it was mine for the keeping. Yet, it had become a quicksilver flash, a starry moment of satori.

What was I to do?

I opted for the obvious and pulled out the Yellow Pages. There, I found the closest Lost and Found. I hustled downtown and marched very officiously into the office. I filled out forms in triplicate. I was asked to draw an image of my epiphany and to sing its song. I was embarrassed at how little I really knew about my epiphany.

“Could I describe its essence?” the Lost and Found worker asked. It all felt so fleeting and hesitant, like day-old perfume placed on pulse points. If I held my head in just the right way, I could catch a slight, almost-there whiff of its essence.

And for no-known conscious reason, I began to call out, “Epiphany, epiphany, where are you?” No sooner were the words out of my mouth, than there was a loud rumble of falling boxes filled with forgotten umbrellas, boots, books, and what-not, followed by the clatter of hangers heavy with missing sweaters and misplaced jackets. My words awakened all of the lost items bundled away in boxes and hanging unclaimed by their owners. They wanted to be found.

Yet, there was no sound, no sight, no flash of energy. My epiphany was nowhere to be found. I left the Lost and Found crestfallen, and certain I would never find my epiphany again.

A few evenings later, wanting to forget and distract myself, I immersed myself in a police drama on television. As I sat in the glow of lamplight, there was a quick change in the lighting. “Is that a power surge? Is this a precursor to a power failure?” I wondered.

The shift in light turned out to be an advanced greeting, because, there, sitting on my couch munching a piece of killer raisin bread, was my epiphany.  

Needless to say, I am very happy and have promised my epiphany to take the steps so it can stay brightly illuminated.

© Bill Kennedy | Dreamstime.com

Every have one of those seemingly endless stretches of time, when it feels as if all your get-up-and-go has got-up-and-went? You are not sick, per se. You just don’t give a damn anymore. Nothing matters much.

After all of your full-speed-ahead decisions, choices and actions, you feel directionless. You are lost. You motivation is MIA. You are no longer the little engine that could. Why even your dream catcher is collecting dust. Your dreams and visions have been shuttled to the corner, where they remain barely visible. You have no oomph to make them manifest, and have begun to wonder if they really are viable.

It’s as if all of your personal energy, chi as the Chinese would say, has left unannounced and headed to someplace warm and tropical for vacation. I can well imagine my personal chi doing a tango with a swivel-hipped someone, while I am at home, stuck and stalled, like the proverbial lump.

Recently, these particular set of symptoms have surfaced repeatedly in conversation. Many spiritual sojourners are finding themselves smack dab in the middle of stuck. They are experiencing the symptoms of what I call spiritual depression.

What exactly is spiritual depression?

It is not clinical depression; it is not a reaction to a specific grief or loss.

Spiritual depression is a part of the spiritual journey. It is a period of no energetic flow, usually following an earlier infusion of new energy. It often comes amidst transition and change after you have taken new steps, but, then, turn the corner and the path has evaporated before your very eyes.

Spiritual depression is an in-between time that serves as a bridge from the old to the new. You can feel as if you are stuck in a rut. You can feel bored (read: unconsciously fearful). You can even feel as if you are pressing the snooze button on God. And, frequently, when you are just about to emerge out of your darkness, you can feel very panicked and confused.

Think of the caterpillar hanging on the tree bough in its silken pouch. Initially, the caterpillar is content to be snug as a bug in a rug, but the non-movement begins to wear thin. Penned in by silken fibers and stuck in seemingly interminable darkness, the caterpillar reaches a moment of movement. It has outgrown its cocoon, and with considerable energy tears a small rent in the fabric of the chrysalis. Then, the caterpillar begins to pump and pump and pump its wet, folded wings, building momentum and allowing the butterfly to come forth. The tight darkness births movement. 

Spiritual depression is a bit like that. You find yourself hanging in the dark, still and stuck. There is no outer movement; but unbeknownst to you, you are incubating. You are simmering in your own contracted energy with your folded wings still wet and untried.

This incubation offers a calibrating effect. And that calibration is the point of spiritual depression. The stuck darkness and your condensed energies meld, merge and coalesce into a higher vibratory momentum, which is a push into the new you — the soul-refined, alchemical you.

In other words, spiritual depression is a not a bad thing; it serves a purpose. It is a necessary precursor to a big soul leap. Out of the darkness and stillness, you emerge into a higher frequency and vibration. You have reconnected with your own source of energy so that you can pump and pump and pump and, ultimately, take flight. Your consciousness grows in light; your heart glows with the twin flames of courage and compassion. 

That understood, spiritual depression is very dispiriting and mightily uncomfortable. How can you handle this very tender time?

I suggest the basics:

1.  Be patient.

You cannot rush a rebirth as much as you try. You are filled with old ways and new energies; they need to merge and reform into new aspect of you.

2.  Be gentle and loving to yourself.

The kick-in-the-rear tactic does not work here; that only serves to tighten your contractions into the little self. You want to be reconnected with your more expansive, soul-infused Self.

 3.  Trust the timing.

There are always other pieces of the clockworks that are needed to make everything run in sync. 

 4.  Remember the big picture.

The spiritual journey is not about the end point, but about the process of the journey itself.  Undoubtedly, the gods hold you close when you are deep in spiritual darkness.

5.  Maintain your spiritual practices.

Even in the dark, it is important to feed yourself from the divine umbilicus. It will facilitate your process.

And, then, I promise you, there will be a day when you realize you feel a little lighter, and you are ready to take a small step. One small step leads to another and leads to another and this eventually leads to a great gallop across open spaces and new frontiers.

In the meantime, honor the hard work and strong choices that brought you to this place of transition. And please know this: a) you are not alone; b) spiritual depression is a bridge to the high octane you; and c) the gods applaud your fortitude to be of service in this lifetime, during these times and on this planet.

Take precious care. You are loved and guided far more than you realize.

I am in a pensive and reflective mood. The close of another year, a year that has sped by with alarming alacrity, is approaching. Top ten’s, enumerated how-to’s and other comparative, self-help measures abound. There is a common stirring among us to take stock and give some thought to what has transpired. Be it birthdays, holidays, significant anniversary dates, we tend to bookmark the beginnings and ends of passages — remembered moments that are carved totems in the meaning of our existence.

As I sit in the penumbra of candlelight, I realize I’m none too happy with myself. I feel lost and adrift. I feel as if I have been treading water for months. Swimming in the same tight circles, I am weary. I have lost the picture; be is small or big, the screen before me is full of fuzzy static and undulating blobs of gray. There is no cursor to help me find my place, much less take the next step.

Jungian analyst, Marian Woodman, once wrote that metaphor is the instrument of transition. I know this to be true, but, presently, I am without image. There is nothing visible on my inner screen. There is no symbol calling me forward, reminding me of who I am. There is no videotape to reveal frame after frame of my yet to-be-revealed new self.

And the image need not be a literal picture; there are the realms of sound and feeling as well. Yet, on the kinesthetic scale, there are no strong sensations to pull me out of my straitjacketed self. I don’t feel much of anything. There are no archetypal shoes in which to climb or dance or run like fleet-footed Hermes. And audibly, there is nary a whisper to push me forward. There are no resonant tones to realign me into balance.

I am – on every level — floundering. And as the word conjures, I am flipping and flailing on a wooden dock, off the hook and no where to go, save the ultimate frying pan. Clearly, things aren’t going so well.

It dawns on me that I am in the metaphoric dark. Like the caterpillar in the chrysalis, I am entombed in a woven web that contains me. I feel immobile, directionless and clueless.

The cerebral part of me well knows this is all part and parcel of the process. The journey of consciousness has its fits and starts with the ego repeatedly surrendering to the soul. Yet, at this moment, with blank newness before me, there is little comfort in that awareness.

Curiously, these past few weeks, I have also been experiencing vertigo, as a result of some ear problems. Vertigo is about your world becoming a tilt-a-whirl; you spin. It’s as if you are standing on rolling waves. And when I try to put my feet on the floor, I hold on to my mattress as my world goes somersaulting around me. It gives me that oh-whoa kind of unsteady feeling.

The symbolism of this ailment, hand-in-hand with my flat, floundering, unhooked self, grabs my attention. In energy medicine, ears are all about trusting. And vertigo is, obviously, about balance and, perhaps, even staying saddled as I ride the bucking bronco of the vertigo horse.

Ahhh….a few clues to help me find focus — and they are good clues at that. I always appreciate the symbolism of what ails me. I thank my body for teaching me, but I know there is more. I can feel the presence of something else lurking, waiting to surface.

As I sit in the muted light, I begin talking to God. It helps to talk. I allow all my concerns and consternations to come burbling forth. Like a babbling brook. I go on and on. And in that process, I feel myself emptied of all the surface layers, and I reach a still point, as if I have swum to the depths of the pool and discovered clear, illumined water.  In that place, unconsciously, spontaneously, I sputter, “But what about the God in me?”

I feel as I have been clobbered in the solar plexus. I am breathless, stunned at the words that fall from my lips. The words are weighty; they feel like a cloak of God-ness has been placed upon my shoulders. There is a sifting and shifting process within my being, and I hear the words, “the cathedral of my being.” 

The still point has become a flashpoint of knowing. It is up to me to identify with my God within. In doing that, everything changes; all perspectives rotate. A whole new gestalt slides into place.

Yes, my being does become a cathedral, and, therefore, demand the respect and reverence that goes with same. And my thoughts and actions are not only imbued with a generous heart, but unlimited thinking and doing as well. All things are possible.

Like the vertigo, I am dizzy with this newfound ground. It all fits together so perfectly. From my body to my mind to my soul, I am turned upside down, reminded to trust, trust, trust and to walk wearing my God cloak.

I like wearing this God cloak. It feels warm, protective, honoring, serious as well as joyful. The God cloak reminds me that there are answers within, mastery to be tapped, connections with all and service opportunities everywhere.

Thank you, God, for the talk. I no longer feel like a fish out of water.