Sinking Into the Heart

Sinking Into the Heart

Anyone else have problems being present to the moment? It’s the mantra of contemplatives and mystics across the ages, of all faith traditions and of none. Sounds simple, but it’s not.

Three months have passed since I last published a column. That was the time frame I gave myself before returning to “regular” life routines after having knee-replacement surgery.

During the early days of recovery, I lay on the couch feeling completely useless, dependent on my daughters for just about everything from getting up and down, making it to the bathroom, and walking around the house to fixing food, doing exercises, and icing the knee. Not surprising for the first week or two. But as weeks passed, I became impatient with myself, aware mostly of all the stuff I wasn’t doing.

No Zoom groups: London Writers’ Salon, Lectio, book club. No writing: journaling, columns, book project. No reading despite having a stack of Donna Leon mysteries sitting on the bookcase. I couldn’t sit long enough to get through a chapter. All the stuff that made me feel like I was accomplishing something. Connecting with people. Being a worthwhile human being. I could do none of it.

I dreaded nighttime. Sleep was elusive and when it came, it came in short spurts – an hour or two now and again. Depression inched its way into my psyche.

The challenge was to live what I write about: the grace of being open to the present moment. Easier said (or written) than done.

Woman standing on banks of York River looking at the Supermoon on the horizon
Supermoon over the York River

This topic recently came up during lunch with a good friend. Sipping hot coffee on a surprisingly cool morning at an outdoor café, I shared my struggle. She reflected on the role of surrender in prayer. “Surrender” is a word often found in contemplative literature. It’s not one I use. It feels old and uncomfortable to me, conjuring images of failure, domination, militarism, and patriarchy. Someone wins and someone loses. In my experience, God doesn’t require surrender but receptivity. I prefer something like “letting go,” or “opening up,” but understand the intended meaning here. It says “Sorry, but you’re not in control.” And don’t people mostly want to feel like they are in control?

I certainly did. I was faithful with all prescribed exercises and prompt for PT sessions. My daughter who cared for me during the first ten days created a chart to make sure medications were taken on time. The second daughter did the same for at home exercises. I didn’t miss a pill or a rep. I would be back to “normal,” whatever that is, soon, soon, soon!

Not so much.

My memory may be less than accurate, but surely, I recovered more rapidly after my first knee replacement. My daughter said, “no.” OK. With a nod to the physical changes that occur over a decade, I conceded that my older body needed a bit more time. But not too much more. Not with me in control, doing all the right things at the right times.

Be still and know I am God

Psalm 46:10

Eventually, reality wore me down until all I could do was what my friend named over salad and soup: sinking into the Presence within. Like theologian Howard Thurman’s “centering down.” Or 17th century Carmelite, Brother Lawrence’s admonition to “practice the Presence.”  It wasn’t so much a giving up of control as it was a recognition that I never had it in the first place. At least not of everything. We can decide how to respond in our immediate situations, but things happen that we have no power to change. I still did all my exercises, took medications on time, and went to PT. But I began to open to the grace of the moment and embrace some truths I knew but forgot:

– I needn’t be constantly productive to be worthwhile. Simply being is enough.

– My “work” for the moment was to heal, not to write the next column or book.

– Good, loving people filled my life, especially my daughters, family, friends, and medical staff.

– I am a human being with a body that is sometimes broken and that is always getting older.

– Life is a series of letting go and receiving.

– I can savor the life I have, the things I can do that bring me joy.

Orange Day Lily with sparkling drops of dew
Day Lily on a Morning Walk

And the one truth that encompasses all others: I exist, along with everyone and everything else, in the Mystery of Being, the Source, the Connector of all that is. It’s good to sink into that knowing, to lift my heart to Holy Presence all around and to find it within, no matter the name I give to it, content with being held and loved by Love itself.

Photos by Mary van Balen

References

London Writers’ Salon

Howard Thurman in Meditations of the Heart

Br. Lawrence Practice of the Presence trans. Carmen Acevedo Butcher

A Friend’s Gift

A Friend’s Gift

Deep friendships add light to one’s soul even in difficult and dark times. Those special people with whom we share our journey offer a safe place to rest, finding a space in their hearts for our struggles and sorrow as well as our dreams and joy. They celebrate with us. (Something I suggest we do as often as possible and for every little thing.) They accompany us as we grieve. As we process what life is handing us. Or ponder big questions along with the mundane: weather, books read, or what to cook for dinner. They share hard-won wisdom. No topic is taboo. These friends may cry with us or tap laughter hiding beneath our tears. They may simply “be with” us when there are no words to say or when neither of us can see a path opening ahead.

Such companions have blessed me. I hope the same for you. The pandemic may have complicated personal connections, but bonds with deep friends are resilient and remain. 

Mike was such a friend. He passed away in February of this year. Our final in-person visit was last year in late June. We shared lunch, and appropriately, guitar playing and song.

Mike Wood playing guitar and singing
Mike

Music and desire for community brought us together when I was around 17. A small group of people, most in their late 20s and early 30s, were gathering to explore their faith and how to live it out during the years that saw the Vietnam war, the growing civil rights movement, and social upheaval. The friends came together to support one another and celebrate life with singalongs, potlucks, and conversations that lasted late into the night. Invited by a mutual friend, I brought my guitar and joined Mike and others providing music.

We gathered in homes and in a member’s shoe store – after hours. Eventually the folks pooled money and purchased a small property nestled along the fringes of the Hocking Hills. It was named Koinia and became their gathering place and a refuge for those of us seeking solitude and nature’s balm.

My life and Mike’s intertwined beyond the small group. We sang in coffee houses, at weddings, and liturgical celebrations. We saw one another at holiday parties and birthday bashes for mutual friends. Years flipped by like pages of a riveting novel.

Life took us in different directions, and opportunities to connect became fewer though we offered support as we could, especially during difficult times. Hearing Mike’s voice and music and meeting his compassionate gaze was a great comfort when he sang at the funerals of both of my parents. No matter how much time passed between our visits, when we did reconnect, conversation flowed as easily as ever.

Four years ago, Mike inspired me with a story of struggle and forgiveness. I had been working alone in a small cabin near Mike and Patty’s home. Preparing to co-direct a retreat, I needed the quiet, away-from-everything space. A few days before, a longtime mutual friend, Mario, had died. On the funeral day, I drove into town, picked up Mike and his wife, Patty, and took them with me to the funeral. People gathered afterwards to share memories and food. When things quieted down, I returned Mike and Patty back to their home then stopped at a nearby convenience store to buy drinking water for the cabin.

Mario and Mike

On my way out of town, grief settled in as profound loneliness, and I wasn’t ready to return to the empty cabin. I sat in my car on the edge of a park. And sat. Finally, I called Mike and invited myself to dinner. He and Patty warmly welcomed me and shared more food, laughter, and stories. Their company bolstered my spirits, and as night approached, I headed back to the cabin. Providence had other ideas. A fallen tree blocked the final stretch of road, and unfamiliar with an alternative route through the hills to the cabin, I called Mike again.

Patty had the guest room ready when I arrived, complete with an extra nightgown laying on the bed. We visited until 11 when she said goodnight. Mike and I stayed up for a couple more hours and sang a song or two. Then just talked. As conversations go, ours meandered from Mario to grief at his passing to times at Koinia. Perhaps led by our sorrow, we eventually talked of struggles with past hurtful experiences. Mike shared a particularly difficult episode. Then matter-of-factly said, “I forgave them.”

After a quiet pause he continued. “I had to let it go. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.” I watched him. One of the kindest, gentlest, loving souls I have ever known. “I had to move on. And you know, it hasn’t been a once-and-done thing. As time went by, memories came back. Occasionally still do. I felt hurt and betrayed all over again. And angry. Each time, I forgave. It got easier.”

We sat in silence for a while. I watched him and tried to imagine him different. Bitter. Cold. Nursing a wound that wouldn’t heal. I was grateful Mike had chosen forgiveness all these years. That his life, like his songs, was full of kindness and hope.

I shared something with Mike that night. Something I hadn’t forgiven. Not completely. Not every time it resurfaced. Not easily.

What is it about old wounds that make hanging on to them feel deceptively comforting? Is it that dwelling on someone else’s shortcomings shields one from their own? Is it self-doubt? Does pulling someone else down make one feel better about themself? Oddly attractive, hanging on to hurts gives power to those who hurt us. Power that can affect one’s life long after the event. Lack of forgiveness can poison a personality. Mike knew that and refused to let it happen.

I took a deep breath. I forgave. I knew I’d have to make that choice again and again. But I could. I would. Remembering Mike will help.