Blog

Posted on

Gifts of Presence

In the last year of his life, when my Dad felt like making conversation, he would ask, “So, what have you been up to?” After I answered, we would sit quietly for a few more minutes and then he would ask again, “So, what have you been up to?” He never remembered asking and remained as genuinely curious and interested on the 5th asking as he was on the first. Each asking became an opportunity for me to share a bit more deeply about my life. Though he didn’t remember my responses after a few seconds, he listened to each one with real interest and attention. I offered new responses each time he asked. “So, What have you been up to?“

It was an invitation to peel away the layers of my life like an onion, sharing myself ever more deeply, while pulling Dad in closer.

Awarenesses and insight that emerged in this space of disclosure and deep listening took me by surprise at first. Quickly though, I settled in to appreciate and maximize the potential they held. These conversations were opportunities for me to explore unanswered questions, problem solve, and think outside of the box. My Dad was offering me a gift of service and presence that we discuss and practice regularly in ChIME’s interfaith ministry program.

Listening another person into his or her truth is not only a skill to be practiced, but also a gift to both giver and receiver. It is a gift to be an attentive listener, holding a sacred space for the speaker’s goodness, capacity, and intelligence. It is a gift to be listened to with love, acceptance, curiosity and confidence. We are all capable of offering good attention and listening, just as we are all capable of working to heal our deepest wounds.

In another time and place, I practiced Re-evaluation Counseling. It operates on the same principles, specifically advocating that we are all good, intelligent, and zestful at our core. We just need the support of a good listener, or a few good listeners, to unpack and live into our natural gifts. In Re-evaluation Counseling theory, the human potential to heal itself in this way extends beyond individuals and into communities, nations, and to the earth. This amounts to liberation from human oppressions accumulated over lifetimes and generations worldwide.

Deep listening and care-full attention are not gifts or skills reserved for chaplains or counselors. They can enrich and enliven all of our relationships. All that is required is that we listen deeply, paying close attention to one another. We can exchange these gifts freely – all year-round. No need to wrap them up and leave them in the closet until next Christmas or birthday. The gift of presence expands and multiplies with each giving and receiving. You’ve already taken a turn as listener by reading this post (ie. listening to me). Thank you.

Now it is your turn to share. I am ready to listen. Leave a comment below or send me an email. Better yet, ask someone close to you to give you 10 minutes of their undivided attention. After you have settled into being the center of their attention, imagine that they have asked, “So, what have you been up to?”

Posted on

Winter Horizon

I have always had a tricky relationship with this season. It’s not easy to slow down, so when the short days and long nights nudge me into bed early, I get a little resentful. I know that I will eventually love the extra time for slow reflection and gentle appreciation that winter offers, it just feels like it takes me a little longer than the rest of the natural world to make the transition from fall to winter.

This year, I have noticed that this season, as the winter solstice nears, I am grateful for the pause and intention. I feel wrapped in a remembrance and honoring that feels full, reverent and nurturing.

The weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years hold the anniversaries of the deaths of my father, grandfather, grandmother, and a family friend. These anniversaries are more than just notations on the calendar, they are memories of love and reflections of loss that come to me in waves of tender remembrance.

Last year at this time, I offered a workshop for people who, like myself, were holding new and uncomfortable feelings of grief and loss at the holidays. It is very unnerving to be surrounded by the season’s merry-making when your heart feels broken. At Inn Along the Way, I met with a small group of women to share stories, cry a few more tears, listen to holiday music and make ornaments. Honoring the lives of our loved ones with symbols of quiet beauty offered an anchor in that rocky holiday season.

This year, I feel different. I am holding my memories out in the light and really savoring them. In acceptance, the intellectual memories of those who have died have become distilled in body memories of our relationships. I hear and feel my Dad’s love, my grandmother’s delight, my grandfather’s steadiness, and our friend’s laughter. Though they are no longer living, this winter season is warmed and illuminated by their presence, woven into mine. Beyond boundaries of time and space, beyond life and death, we remain together.

I am grateful for this renewed perspective on the season of waning light.

May these long, dark pre-solstice days also offer you ample opportunity to feel the light of those who have blessed your life. In their absence, I hope you also feel their presence and, in your delight, celebrate your eternal love.

Barren branches of oak and maple

Reaching to the sky like old and crooked fingers.

Swollen with time and age, bent in angles and curves

holding memories and experiences of days passed long ago.

Youthful flexibility tempered by challenges and growth,

developing a rigidity accumulated from season to season.

Reaching upward and outward,

Beckoning to the sun and moon alike in honor to each passing day.

Reaching upward and outward,

Calling me to pay attention.

Notice the sky.

See the beauty in these twisted tendrils.

Celebrate the youth that has passed

and the age that has arrived.

Live this day.

Empty deciduous branches of winter,

Hold nothing but the weight of the sky,

the love of those crooked fingers,

remembrance of yesterday,

and joy of today.

Posted on

This is not OK

I don’t write about politics at this blog, but this is not really about politics. It’s too personal to be thrown into that sphere of abstraction and remove. However, this post is inspired by current events, by the US military standing at the border of our country assaulting vulnerable individuals who are asking for help. This post is about my fury and grief and bewilderment.

It’s about my belief that we are actually capable of being good people. That’s worth clarifying: WE are ALL capable of GOOD, those who are in need and those who are in power and those who are caught in the balance between them. This post is about our shared and damaged humanity and my drive to reclaim and heal it.

Let me take a few steps back and explain how I came to be so surprised by the reports of tear gas and rubber bullets being shot at people seeking asylum at the Mexican border. After all, there are reports of violence and injustice every day. But I spend most of my life in a media brown-out. I don’t really want to live with my head in the sand, but I can’t bear the constant images and stories of human inflicted suffering that are so pervasive in our news cycles. Their crushing weight triggers a deep grief that renders me stunned and sorrowful, overwhelmed by emotion and incapable of generating thoughtful productive “response” to such tragedy. So I tune much of it out, knowing that big events will seep through my veil of protection. When that happens, I join the community to mourn with families impacted by violence, hate, starvation and atrocities of war. I mourn what feels like our profound loss of safety and collective compassion. And, I mourn the constant assault on our planet. The pollution of the earth, air, and water that sustain us is both example and exaggeration of the corruption that poisons our human family.

I am accustomed to the heavy sorrow that accompanies a new tragedy. I know that as I sit with my grief, I will cry (a lot) and I will walk and write and simmer, first in silence and then in community. My grief will become softened by my acceptance of it and by time. But it doesn’t go away. It remains within me, humming at low frequency and is re-stimulated by each new event or action that violates my sense of what is “right” in the world.

It is a bit disturbing to realize that my heart’s response to this level of upset is so familiar.

But the response that I had this morning, after listening to NPR reporting from the border, was not familiar in that way. It was full of a rage and fury that is neither familiar nor comfortable. When someone appears on your doorstep, afraid and in need, you welcome them in. Turning them away is unkind. Chasing them away violently is appalling. By the time I got home I was shaking and sweating, tears rolling down my cheeks, and pleas for some common sense spilling from my lips. I was incensed at the violation of human rights, terrified by the trajectory of our country, and even more terrified by the fear that gripped me. The grief that usually follows a report of violence feels like an invitation to nurture, this rage feels like an urgent call to action. But what action?

Yes, our government is a mess and voting will help. I felt absolutely triumphant after voting a few weeks ago. And I feel grateful to be cultivating meaningful relationships that allow me to offer tangible support to individuals and organizations in my community doing good work. If anyone in need appears at my door after walking 10 miles or 10,000 to get there, I know I will invite them in and I will share my dinner and ask them to share their stories. Still, there needs to be more.

Words are a start. I will not be among the millions of individuals who disagree with what is happening but contribute to the injustice and violence by remaining silent. So, I will lend my voice to the dissenting crowd. This is not OK. I could shout from the rooftop, but only the turkeys and deer in the field would hear, so I’ll say it here. This is not OK. I will not stand silently while individuals acting on behalf of the US government commit acts of violence against vulnerable people. This is not OK.

And because I’ve always found it more useful to hear what people do want rather than what they don’t want, I’ll offer a suggestion – for you and for me. I will not wait for a peaceful, united global consciousness to come from somewhere else or someone else. I will live within it now. I need to participate, to help the tide to shift. Out of fear, into acceptance. Out of isolation, into connection. Out of lack, into abundance.

Jack Kornfield offers this advice,  “In these polarized and deeply troubled times, we are called upon to deepen our own practice of steadiness, courage, mindfulness and love. It is at just these times that we must become the steady hearts the society needs, the ones who remember who are, who are unafraid to tell the truth and who do so embodying the human possibility of compassion, understanding and reconciliation.”

I have stopped shaking. My heart is steadying. Let us stand together in fierce love, compassion and courage.

Posted on

From the Clearing, with gratitude

This year, in this season, I am practicing standing gratefully and intentionally in the receiving space that Martha Postlethwaite describes in her poem, “Clearing.”

Do not try to save

the whole world

or do anything grandiose.

Instead, create

a clearing

in the dense forest

of your life

and wait there

patiently,

until the song

that is your life

falls into your own cupped hands

and you recognize and greet it.

Only then will you know

how to give yourself

to this world

so worth of rescue.  ~ Martha Postlethwaite

At this time two years ago, I was sitting with my Dad as the hospice chaplain read him the Sacrament of the Sick. Dad had been inwardly focused for weeks, mostly non-verbal with his eyes closed against the noise, confusion and distraction from the outside world. But the day that the hospice chaplain came, Dad was wide awake and eager to engage. I was so glad to look into his eyes and to share words of comfort, hugs, tears and laughter. As I describe in Without a Map, A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind,

It felt as though Dad had come back from a deep and private place in order to say good-bye. I was so glad to be there and to be ready for the conversation he had wanted to have. I drove away wishing I had offered more or different words and that I had understood more of the meaning in his words. But I also drove away with a much lighter heart that afternoon and felt that Dad’s heart was lighter too.

The comfort and connection of that afternoon ushered us both into a peace that had been elusive for months. We were standing in the clearing, trusting what was to come.

It would be a month before he died. There were plenty of ups and downs yet to come, but at the time I was not thinking of future or the past. I was simply grateful for this momentary deep breath of awareness and ease.

So much grace, learning, and vibrancy has fallen into my cupped hands in the two years since Dad died. I am honored by the gifts of insight and experience that I received in our journey together and I am so grateful for the opportunity now to share our story with others.

In the clearing, there is room enough for grief and gratitude. There is time for both joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. There is permission to know and permission not to know. There is peace.

And, in my cupped hands, there is room for it all.

And there is room left to wonder — about me, about you, about where we are and where we are going —  and to wonder about what you find falling into your cupped hands.

What is arriving there?

Posted on

Oak Leaf

It has been windy. Most of the leaves have now fallen from the trees and remnants of the yellow and red flames of autumn are turning brown in the hollow spaces alongside the roads and fields. Ditches and culverts have filled with their excess and the rainwater must find new paths through and around the piles of decaying vegetation. Taking a walk early one afternoon, I felt the shift in the seasons settle into my bones and suggest a pause to my busy mind. The fecundity and fullness of spring and summer have given way to the barren openness of late fall. This is the time for hibernating, resting, waiting and attending.

But there is so much to do. How can I possibly pause amidst the great need in the world, my longing for a safer, more gentle world?

The air was crisp and still. The only obvious motion, besides me, came from a half dozen juncos and a lone cardinal that darted from bush to tree and back again. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a lone oak leaf falling. I stopped to watch it spiraling slowly to the ground. The leaf had strength and integrity, but it fell with a gentle lightness. The only leaf in sight, it seemed so solitary and yet so much a part of both sky and earth.

Looking around for the host tree from which it had fallen, I saw that it had drifted quite a distance before beginning it’s downward dance. Yet there was no wind, not that I could sense anyway. A breeze more subtle than anything I could perceive had carried it aloft from the tree to the middle of the open field. Yet it had been carried, strong and sure to the place before me.

I must trust that I will be held by that which I cannot see.

Picking it up, I studied the sturdy oak leaf. It was a uniform shade of brown. Each lobe was unbroken, its edges sharp. Complete and intact, the leaf was so perfect that it could be an end to itself. Yet here it was so clearly a part in a larger cycle of life. Through the spring and summer, this leaf nourished and strengthened the tree. Now, in autumn, it has fallen to the ground where sun, rain and insects will turn it into nutrient rich soil, bedding for new roots during the next years growing cycle. Letting go of its place on the branch, it falls to the ground and finds new purpose creating space for new life.

I must release what is to allow for what is to come.

Laying the leaf back down on the field, it will become one of many when the wind picks up and gathers the stray leaves together in piles. No longer singular, each leaf becomes truly part of the chorus of living, dying and decaying material. When spring comes bursting forth, this bed of leaves will be host to the insects, seeds and roots of new life. But first, there will be snow.

I must rest now. There is a potential unfolding.

Winter’s rest is a gestation, a period of rapid development taking place out of sight and intent. As I embrace the longest nights and shortest days of the year, the darkness invites me to pay attention to a growth that is subtle, patient and attentive. I must hold my impatient, active and eager “doing” self to the side to make space for my allowing, accepting and “receiving” self.

It is time to stand in a clearing.

Posted on

Spreading the Word

This fall, I am spending some time sharing Without a Map: A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind with audiences in my region. Before my first book presentation, I worked with Kali Bird Isis, an expressive arts therapist who supported me in identifying which aspects of the book I most wanted to share. As I found and refined my approach, I paid attention to emotions that remained raw or unresolved as well as the ways in which I have found solace, inspiration, and new energy since Dad’s death.

With the first few events behind me, my discomfort with public speaking has been replaced by a genuine enthusiasm for upcoming book events. Each opportunity to share my story provides a strong and healing contrast to the feeling of isolation that was so pervasive in caregiving. Each presentation is also an invitation to others to more fully embrace their own life stories and the relationships, caring, and connections that have contributed to them.

It is both validating and inspiring to hear from people who share that the book’s themes and approach resonate deeply with them. This recent review from Kimberly Luyckx at ReaderViews made me feel very clearly seen and heard:

Steele-Maley’s memoir is reflective of a greater life lesson, maybe the greatest of all. Connection. One such example is when she uses the smooth rhythm of her words to relate the foundation of our lives to the roots of nature’s trees – “long and strong, stretching deep into the earth and reaching out to one another.” All throughout her book, the author relays a universal message that infiltrates and transcends the reality of her situation. Her circumstances present a larger perspective of life. Being in the “wild” she is granted with a view often described as awe-inspiring and infinite.

Kimberly’s review identifies the powerful unifying themes that encourage me to want to share the book as widely and as frequently as possible. Connection to one another and to the earth offers a powerful antidote to the anger, dis-chord and dis-ease that threaten our humanity and the entire planet. Connection is not only a salve for our individual lifetimes, it’s a pathway for our collective, planetary and evolutionary future.

I would love your help getting Without a Map: A Caregiver’s Journey through the Wilderness of Heart and Mind into more hands — and getting myself with more audiences in large presentations or intimate group conversations. Here are a few ways you can help:

  •      If you are connected with a community like Goodreads, leave a rating and/or review.
  •      If you bought the book at Amazon, leave a review there.
  •      If you are in a book group, read and discuss it there (and let me know how it goes.)
  •      If you live nearby, bring a friend or two to an upcoming event.
  •      If you live far away, put me in touch with businesses or organizations in your area that are interested in hosting a reading or presentation. I would be happy for the chance to travel to your neighborhood!

I am grateful for your support and for the courage and strength your readership gives me as I continue writing, sharing, appreciating the present, and imagining a vital future for us all. Thank you for being on this journey with me!