Seeing Anew

Spirit of Independence

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July 4th, the birthday of the USA, has come and gone. I considered writing about the holiday, but my website is related to Spiritual Literacy. Tying the two together raises my fear of criticism for “mixing church and state”. Maybe I’m mixing them, and maybe I’m not.

Independence is essential to me, as evidenced by my mother’s comment that I was “too damned independent”. It meant I didn’t want anyone giving me advice, “helping” or taking over my projects. I felt my parents constantly did that. Independence or freedom meant doing what I wanted, when and how I wanted. One of the hardest tasks in my life has been to follow someone else’s timeline. Tight schedules drive me nuts. Bossiness drives me nuts. Maybe I’m a squirrel in disguise!

In reality, freedom provides choice, not external control. Freedom and choice are elements of Spiritual Literacy. Spiritual Literacy opens me to see all the choices and the consequences of those choices. I see Spirit as a component of all things: people, animals, plants, earth, and the universe. Spirit is like the air we breathe to live. Within that spirit is a shared existence. As a result of that common factor, my actions and words affect others, at times helping or, sadly, impinging on others rights. An example is not yelling “fire” in a theater. Freedom of speech is very important, except when it is used to bully, slander, manipulate, etc. How I use my freedoms has consequences.

So what is the function of Spiritual Literacy related to “church and state”? The spiritual person focuses beyond himself, sees the interrelatedness of people and the world. His choices for justice and fairness aim at the good of the country, not personal gain.

Our Constitution outlines the country’s organization and values. On Independence Day I celebrated the foresight of the founding fathers, the history of our country, and our struggle to maintain its values. With gratitude I celebrate the privilege to be myself. I examine my life to reflect on whether “being me” enriches the world or injures it.

On past Fourth of Julys, my thoughts centered on arcades, cotton candy, and fireworks. I knew US history, but it was more intellectual than heartfelt. This year I was surprised at seeing the connection between being me and the Constitution: the right to make choices. I recall the stories I’ve heard of people killed for criticizing the king or attending a church, the stories of governments taking children from their parents to indoctrinate them in the government values or to train to fight in the army. That frightens me. Thankfully that’s not the life I’ve had to live. That’s not “being me”. Overwhelming gratitude fills me. 

 

 

The Wall Revisited

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Most of my life I’ve felt unheard, excluded, only accepted for my skills, but not for myself. I learned about my feelings through images, maybe you’d say daydreams. This one occurred when I was about ten.

The sun shone; clouds drifted across blue skies; I wiggled my toes in green grass. Somewhere nearby I heard children shrieking, laughing, and playing—probably a game of tag. I wanted to join them. I couldn’t. A red brick wall, much taller than I, surrounded me. Even treetops were hidden.

“Hey, can anybody hear me? What are you doing?” There was no answer to my questions. I shouted again. “Is anybody there?” I heard the laughing, but no one responded. I kept yelling till I was hoarse, then I turned my back to the wall and slid down to a sitting position.

 

At ten I didn’t understand the significance of this image, but it felt so true. And, today, so sad. Over time I stopped attempting to be heard. Unlike other kids, I didn’t talk to my parents. They always “corrected” my feelings and thoughts. If I shared, I felt sucked into their ectoplasm, loosing my identity. I became an expert at avoiding questions and redirecting conversations.

By my late thirties or forties, I was in psychotherapy and Twelve Step groups. I attended meetings, conferences and retreats. One retreat occurred at a glen in central Wisconsin.

The retreat director instructed the group to find a quiet location to think, meditate, or journal during the break. It was a delicious autumn afternoon. I wandered across a creek to a covered shelter with rough wooden picnic tables. Sitting down I listened to bronze and scarlet leaves skitter along the roof and the raucous call of a blue jay. A slight breeze caressed my face and the smell of damp earth filled my nostrils. Through the tree line, the creek glistened with stars of sunlight. The earth breathed contentment.

I opened my journal to write, changed my mind, and began to pray and meditate. My eyes closed. I took several deep breaths.

Within minutes I was back behind the wall of my childhood memory. No, the image changed. A toddler sat against a mossy stonewall–sobbing. She wanted to be on the other side. She wanted out. Unaware the wall didn’t surround her, she felt helpless. She was stuck.

A pair of strong hands appeared over the wall. They reached down, slipped under the baby’s arms and lifted her over the wall. The hands belonged to a middle aged man who spoke softly. “It’s OK.” He held her against his shoulder and rubbed her back. “You’re safe.” He nodded at the wall. “Look at the wall. See. It’s not that tall.” (Glancing away, I saw the wall was only three feet tall and about eighteen inches wide. Not the huge wall of my childhood.) He continued, “You never have to be behind a wall again. You’re big enough now to climb it by yourself.” The child’s crying stopped. “Remember. You’re safe,” the man whispered as he put the child down and disappeared.

The image faded. My muscles were relaxed. My eyes opened. Moisture slithered across my cheeks. The sun still shone. The creek rippled. That toddler lived inside me, the unheard child. The wall wasn’t too high. I knew I could get out. I did feel safe. I realized it would be okay to express myself. I could take the risk. The wall was manageable. I began opening up to people.

Images like this form the basis for a new me. I believe the instrument for this healing is God and I thank Him.