Archives for category: Spirituality

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I scrolled down my Facebook feed last night, image after image of comments, photos, memes about a fresh tragedy in Charleston. Nine souls in heaven now, countless beings writhing in anguish because someone thought it was okay – or necessary – to kill in order to try to control their environment.

Cynthia Hurd, Reverend Sharonda Singleton, Ethel Lance, Tywanza Sanders, The Honorable Reverend Clementa Pinkney, Myra Thompson, Reverend DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Reverend Daniel Simmons, and Susie Jackson have all left this world at the hands of another person. Beautiful people; this world misses them.

Dylann Roof thought he had something to protect from them.

From us.

I see posts by my dark-skinned friends and wonder if their feelings about me have changed. I look pretty darn white. I’m afraid to comment. I value their friendship; I love them, even the ones I’ve never broken bread with. I don’t want to lose them. I agree with them. I wonder if they would believe that. I sit in silence.

That’s my attempt to control my environment.

I see comments by Charleston citizens of my own apparent ethnicity, heartbroken that someone violated the ‘charm’ of their city. Much of that ‘charm’ was built through the theft of the sweat of slaves. Can I tell my friends that some of my own ancestors landed in Charleston, hundreds of years ago? There’s a street there named after my mother’s family. They went on to own a plantation in Alabama.

Shame. Secrets. Pain.

I’ve listened to relatives pine about lost grandeur, wistfully flipping through photos of elegant sitting rooms and rolling lawns. I’m riveted by the photos of the slave cabins (no one calls them that anymore; now they’re ‘out-buildings’). I’m afraid to comment. I value their friendship; I love them, even the ones who have hit me repeatedly. I don’t want to lose them. But I don’t agree with them. I wish I could think of something to say that would open their minds. I sit in silence.

Shame. Secrets. Despair.

Gender, Race, Nationality, Species, for goodness’ sake. Whatevah. But whatevah matters.

Karma. Our state of mind, our actions, bring us to our present conditions. Our world is our mirror. Everything we see and experience reflects our own state of mind. Thank goodness it’s fluid and mutable.

I believe in reincarnation. Not because it makes sense, but because of what I’ve seen firsthand (out of body experience in 1999, dreams beyond enumeration).

In recent years, I’ve explored regression hypnosis. I wanted to know if I’ve been abducted by ‘aliens’. I wanted to know how far back my Buddhist roots go. Instead of plunging back into memories of darkened bedrooms, mysterious glowing lights and little people with big eyes and elephant-hide skin, or sitting in caves in the Himalayas, I got histories beyond this world.

In every session, my mind has carried me to worlds so unlike this one that description strains possibility. I’ve been a humanoid aquatic being with golden and blue skin that flowed in rippling ribbons around my legs. I’ve been a spindly, withered being that buried himself deep in sand so he could send his mind to other bodies in other universes in order to try and open minds, teach. I’ve been a pilot of a starship trying to blast through a crusty yet etheric shield around earth – eons ago. I’ve been a young goatherd living in remote mountains who left home to travel with the star beings who visited regularly. I’ve been a fat old woman who ran a boarding house in a post-apocalyptic America-like place, having lost all family and friends and living in a neo-agrarian society without even a post office.

It’s enough to make me want to write Science Fiction, because I doubt anyone might believe they’re my memories. As if it matters. It’s enough to make me wonder how humans can be so confused that we think we’re not the same, just because we look different or hold different beliefs. And yet, each time I return to this waking life I marvel that I can be both Leslee and all those beings. If I can be all those beings, then I can also be a person killed in a senseless shooting. Or the person firing the gun.

I try to keep my vision focused on the facets of the mirror that please me, wishing to love and share and cherish others. But the hateful glimpses keep popping into my peripheral vision. There’s some house-keeping to be done.

Since I was a little kid growing up in 1960’s Alabama, I’ve been confronted with racism ranging from subtle to terrifyingly flagrant. It frightens me to the core. If humans hate each other because of culture and skin color, what’s to protect me from the hatred of others? If I don’t even identify myself as human, how can I walk in this world without fear?

In this life, here I sit as an overweight white female, trying to learn to accept it, even to love it; trying to learn to love myself. Somehow, I pray to believe, that effort works towards bringing unconditional love to this world.

Here’s what I’m up against:

Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve hated my white skin.

Not because I’m racist; because it just looks like the wrong skin. It’s not the skin I was expecting in this life. I gaze upon people with golden caramel-colored skin or deep coffee-colored skin, smile at their radiant beauty, and pray to have my skin back in my next life. It might be African, it might be Tibetan or Mayan, I don’t know or care. Just please not this splotchy pink translucent stuff. I can’t explain it; I can only confess it’s where I’m at, and I want to move to a better place.

For now, I have to deal with this white skin.

When I was a little girl, I used to check regularly to see if my missing genitalia was finally growing in. I’m not a lesbian or trans-gender; I just thought I was supposed to be a guy. When I got my first menstrual cycle, I sobbed in despair; I was doomed to life as a female. I knew instinctively at that young age that to be female in that present world and time meant to be perceived as less-than, dis-empowered.

For now, I have to deal with this female gender.

When I got pregnant, I gained 75 pounds. Twenty years later, I still carry 30 of them. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.

Which is, of course, the root of the situation at hand.

Thank goodness I believe these transient conditions will pass. Thank goodness I can see the world changing before my very eyes. Thank goodness I believe we can come through this mess of current events with a deeper understanding of ourselves and how we connect and create our realities. Because I can’t wait to fall in love with what I see in the mirror.

I don’t want to live in a world of self-hatred, with constant reminders flashing before me on Facebook and the news.

To accomplish that, I must learn to love others as myself. It’s a process. I don’t want to feel separate from others. I don’t want resentment, anger, despair. I want love, peace and community.

To accomplish that, I must learn to love myself, so my mirror-world doesn’t show me the horror of Dylann Roof’s actions. Dylann Roof hates himself far more than those he killed. That’s how he can stand expressionless while listening to loved ones of the dead plead with him to repent. He doesn’t feel worthy of salvation; his despair runs that deep.

Does my despair run that deep? Does your despair run that deep?

Can I accept my own circumstances – the world I’ve created – and be willing to surrender my wish to control, protect, preserve? Am I willing to insist on love at any cost?

When I remember that this is just one life, just one world among countless universes, the conditions I grasp with my might-as-well-be-skeleton-hands dissolve and waft away like strands of a spiderweb in a soft breeze, like a forgotten dream.

I have work to do.

Because I have work to do, we have work to do.

You are me. I am you. I love you.

This matters. Please don’t shrug this off and say, “whatevah”. In every moment we make choices that lead us along our path in this world, and thus we choose what we will next see in the mirror of our world.

Please help me remember in those every moments, that we come from boundless love abiding in stillness and peace. We just got a little bored and decided to incarnate. We don’t have to create pain.

Please, let’s do this together.

Thank you – please accept my deepest gratitude.


  

A potted rose geranium lives on my back stoop. Surprisingly.

I didn’t expect it to make it through the winter; in fact, I didn’t expect it to make it through last summer. It’s tall and lanky, gangling about the corner of the brick wall. The leaves waited until August to begin growing less than 4 inches apart. I let it shiver in drought throughout the winter.

But yesterday afternoon, I noticed that each branch wears a tiara of soft green buds… and a few blossoms are beginning to peek through their capes of green.

I smile, for nature’s resilience and the ever-flowing cycle of the seasons.


jellyfish

Choosing Pain and Mortality

15 March 2014

Lately I’ve been feeling a quandary about experiencing pain. Is it a choice we make?

I’m aging, I can accept that: it’s pretty undeniable when your body clearly changes, showing signs of wear and increase. I can also accept that aging might be alright… Except in my case, it seems to hurt.

No need for detail on that here, because the point of this post is to explore a decision that seems to be facing me.

Over the past few years, I’ve visited a few conventional Western medical doctors out of curiosity, to learn what they can tell me about any causes of the pain from their point of view. Not much news, aside from of course hearing once again that I need to lose weight, get more exercise, and eat foods that doctors believe help lower cholesterol. Seems simple enough.

The dilemma is that when I do these things, I feel worse and it hurts. A lot.

Again, I’ll spare you the detail. The choice looms between following conventional recommendations that might prolong my life, or continuing with approaches arising from intuition and my Guides.

If I follow the first, I can pat myself on the back for “doing everything I can” in the eyes of others, and learn to enjoy hardly being able to move when I wake each morning, continuing to creak throughout the day. Day to day life becomes what… a quality of [large] enduring?

If I follow the intuition and inner guidance, I go back to eating the cholesterol-laden red meat and rich cheese (along with all the wonderfully “healthy” things I eat), and drinking alcohol. I know, sounds crazy, but after a couple years of experimentation, these keep the pain at bay sufficiently for me to manage the exercise part without much complaint.

I feel the spectre of “family responsibility” hovering over me like a magpie waiting to peck at my head if I don’t do what others expect.

My gut tells me that’s no reason to hobble along a path that’s just, well, longer. Not necessarily better. Hmm.

On the other hand, if I continue to follow my gut, I might not be here in ten years. Or sooner (which, come to think of it, is of course true for all of us anyway…).

I have no fear of death. I love my family. So… and but… why choose pain? Why choose pain (or any debilitating discomfort, including emotional) for a still uncertain outcome or lifespan?

Why choose any route that’s torturous just because that’s what others do, or it’s accepted?

I’m sure many folks have found themselves in this spot and worked through it, whether for them it was about life-partner and gender choices or religion or politics or career… But I admit I never thought of it as being willing to choose a possibly more rapidly approaching death, over pain.

Something happened this week that drove this home for me and brought these words to the surface. I received, online, some lab results from some bloodwork, and for 36 hours I thought I had Chronic Kidney Disease and perhaps 10 years to live. Fortunately, it turned out that I read one of the numbers wrong (folks with numerical dyslexia really shouldn’t read lab results alone…). But what floored me was that I was okay with thinking “Wow, this really might end before I’m in my 90’s. What a relief.”

Oops.

No, I’m not suicidal, and my depression is soundly in remission. I don’t hate life. I’m okay. Again, I love my family.

The results of my meditation experiences have brought me to this place of irony: Once we understand that this one lifetime is but a moment in an eternity of experience, and our families in this life are our friends and lovers and enemies in other lives, and that we will certainly see them again soon, death takes on a whole new significance. It becomes not the end. This is what I have seen, what I know and feel in my bones, more deeply than anything else I know.

What I have seen directly contradicts what’s generally accepted by the culture I live in. And it offers me more freedom to choose how to follow the path I’m on. I know this path will continue into my next life, just as it currently continues into my other lives. And I will never be lost. I think that’s totally cool.

So the choice seems simple, actually.

I reflect that in the past ten years I’ve made similar choices about other decisions, but they were all somehow different, perhaps leading up to this one. And this one probably leads to another.

So here we go, you and I, in this dream together. I’m going to take the path that resonates with my deepest being, and enjoy my time here to the fullest. I’m happy you’ve joined me for the moment, and I look forward to continuing this manifestation as long as we can.

Who knows what delights and lessons our next encounter may bring.


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It’s all y’all’s fault!

(chuckling…)

I heard this phrase at work on Friday, and it struck me, how incredibly, deeply, indelibly Southern it is…

From the accent, to the habit of blaming, to the clumping of anyone that’s not “yer folk” into a vast glob of otherness. The lilting sing-song that wafts on the breeze, a veiled curse…

Thank goodness it was said jokingly in this instance…

Still, we speak what we know… And since I still live here and experience such things, I feel compelled to own the part of myself that sometimes wants to join in with the battle cry: it’s all y’all’s fault!!!

Spank me. Let’s get on with it, team… I’m really trying to move beyond “all y’all’s fault”…


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fog-wrapped near view world
keep both eyes on road?
persistence: to peer beyond


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(HHDL in Santa Clara, CA, 24 Feb 2014)

From Elizabeth Drescher’s essay at Religion Dispatches:

In this light, the soft-spoken challenge of “universal
compassion” His Holiness throws down, which “involves gradually expanding one’s circle of concern until it finally embraces the whole of humanity,” is a pedagogical one: How do we learn to move beyond the commodification of education, of wisdom teachers like the Dalai Lama, of compassion itself? Does the Dalai Lama as mega-brand, as rock star, as spiritual presence, reinforce such commercial constructions or invite their dismantling?

To read the article: http://www.religiondispatches.org/archive/culture/7633/his_holiness__inc__the_dalai_lama_as_a_spiritual_mega_brand