"superhero or professional athlete..."

"I can't stand to fly,
I'm not that naive,
I'm just out to find
the better part of me..."

I hope you can see the connection between today's post, Five for Fighting's  "Superman," and Unspoken's  "Reason."

This morning we had our first Bible lesson study at Adventure Unlimited's Adult Minicamp. If you don't know what that is, it's a time set aside for us to gather in the lodge, read Scripture together, share inspiration, and discuss ideas. It is one of my favorite activities at Minicamp.

In today's gathering Alison Peticolas, AU's Ranch Director, shared an analogy that blew the windows out for me. It was in the context of this passage from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"In Latin the word rendered disciple signifies student; and the word indicates that the power of healing was not a supernatural gift to those learners, but the result of their cultivated spiritual understanding of the divine Science, which their Master demonstrated by healing the sick and sinning."

She explained that earlier in the summer, during a staff Sunday School class, one student had said that walking on water, raising the dead, etc. just seemed too big, too hard.

That was when Alison realized that there was a general sense that these "mighty works" were being perceived as the works of a super hero. Superheroes have special gifts: x-ray vision, tele-transportation, flight.  And because these gifts are superhuman, no one - who is just an ordinary human - would ever even think that they could aspire to become a superhero.

But then, she thought of a professional athlete. Anyone could aspire to be an elite athlete with practice and determination. There was no special gift -- just the demand to show up every day and put in the the time and effort.

The disciple - or disciplined student of Christian Science - is not a superhero, but a committed athlete. He/she is one who shows up willing to cultivate his/her understanding of the divine [God-based] science that is always in operation.  Spends countless hours in the laboratory, seeking a better understanding of the practical law of Love, that is behind every healing, transformative experience.

The practice of Christian Science healing is not a "supernatural gift." There are no superheroes in the scientific Christian community. Only studious disciples -- eager to know God and to understand the divine Principle that is impartially at work governing the universe.

Suffice it to say, I loved this idea. I immediately asked her if I could share it more broadly. She graciously said, "yes."

None of Jesus' acts were supernatural, but "supremely natural." They were not the works of a spiritual superhero, but of the great Exemplar.  Jesus showed mankind what is possible when we know the nature of God's love, and trust it's universality.

Jesus was the supreme spiritual athlete. He showed up each day eager to discover what "infinite" looked like - in everything around him. He was hungry to explore the boundless nature of limitless Being as Spirit. And although he may have been the first of God's children to break through the false records of time, space, and fear -- he never thought that he would be the last.

I've seen this kind of record-breaking, in the sport that I am most familiar with these days - rodeo eventing. Everytime an arena record is set -- no matter how long the former record was in place -- it becomes the new normal.

For example, I remember the first time I saw someone break into the seven second range in the keyhole event at our camp arena. It was an amazing moment. But now -- although completing a clean keyhole in the seven second range is still an amazing run -- getting below seven seconds is the new high bar for those who are "professional" in their approach to the sport.

In his extraordinary book, The War of Art, author Steven Pressfield shares some inspiration about "going pro:"

"The professional loves "it" so much he dedicates his life to it. He commits full-time.

"What are the qualities that define us as professionals?

1. We show up everyday.

2. We show up no matter what.

3. We stay on the job all day.

4. We are committed over the long haul.

"The professional is on a mission. He eliminates chaos from from his world in order to banish it from his mind."

These are just a few of the remarkable things -- from so many more -- that Pressfield offers as inspiration for those who are seeking to "go pro," in any field of endeavor. Today, I am reading them with a fresh eye -- through the lens of Alison's insight.

As someone who is in the full-time practice of scientific Christian healing, I love thinking of myself as a professional athlete. If you know me, you know that using the term "professional athlete" to describe me, is laughable in any other arena. But when it comes to seeking a deeper understanding of God, trusting His love, exploring His invariable Law, and practicing the science of Christianity -- I show up. And I will always show up - as a professional.

No magic cape, no special gifts, no personal talents -- just the heart of a professional athlete.

Thanks Alison.   What an inspired idea, from a very professional spiritual athlete - herself.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"there's a reason for the world..."

"there's a reason for the world,
You and I..."

There are days when everywhere I turn there are reports of heartache and hopelessness. As a spiritual healer, that's what I do. I am available to help others find the softest ray of hope in the middle of despair, a glimmer of light in the midst of darkness -- the presence of God, where the evidence seems contrary.

Recently a dear friend asked my a question -- one that I have heard articulated in hundreds of ways over the last three decades, "What is the reason for it all?" The question boils down to this, "If Life is spiritual, and the ultimate reality is not defined by human existence, why are we even here?"

Today, Five for Fightings's "The Riddle," gave me words that I could hang my thoughts upon. Here are the lyrics, if you would like to read them.

Mary Baker Eddy makes this statement in her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Mortal existence is an enigma.
Every day is a mystery."  

I have read that passage as many times as I have heard the question.  And although I have always felt that there had to be an answer -- to that enigma [riddle], I have only ever glimpsed a fleeting shadow of its truth.  But today, while listening to Five for Fighting's "The Riddle," things started to fall into place for me. And I really mean "for me." I can only speak to what I am feeling about this "riddle" - and only about today's insight.

That said, for me, it is becoming clearer that our human experience is all about relationships. It is not about succeeding at a particular career, interest, or avocation. It is not about accumulating property, money, prestige, or awards. Those are only props and vehicles. I believe that the real "reason for it all" is "you and I."

The houses we dream of building, the cars we think will define us, the competitions we hope to win, the awards we accumulate, the degrees we earn, the weddings we create, the environment we save, the celebrations we host, the money we save -- or spend, the bodies we shape, and clothe, and starve and indulge -- they are not the endgame. They are simply there as props on this stage of human experience. As vehicle to get us to where we will deepen our understanding of what is important. The real goal is to stretch and strengthen our focus on what really counts -- you and I -- and how we love.

Our relationships are the place where love either happens, or is waiting to happen. It is in our relationships that we discover the deepest sense of God as Love. But how often do we let something get in the way of that discovery. 

 We might let a competition convince us that comparing ourselves with others is reasonable - and make us feel we need to distance ourselves from the "other" in order to be competitive. We may turn away from building fellowship, because of a disagreement about policy, procedure, politics, and polarization. We might allow being "right" to trump being kind. Or we let "fear of being thought ridiculous," get in the way of saying what is in our heart.

I see it everyday. Heck, I feel it everyday. I am afraid that someone will not return my affection, so I don't reach out in friendship. I hesitate. I equivocate. I let something petty get in the way of the miracle of an unbroken friendship.

There are a million stories in this naked city of my heart's failure to say, "the heck with being right, understood, or emotionally safe -- I am going to be me, and love, love, love."

I am beginning to feel that the bravest thing we will ever do is love without fear of being rejected. That the only thing that will ever make a real difference in the lives of our children, our friends, our neighbors -- and yes, our "enemies," -- is to love, especially when everything in us feels vulnerable, afraid, and insecure. To love in a way that never leaves anyone feeling alone in this world. When we love, not in spite of how our love might be received, or how we might be treated, or thought of -- but instead of. This is our real reason for existing.

How often do we judge the deserving of others to experience our love. We weigh their words, choices, or actions, and then, we allow that assessment, to determine our own words, choices, and actions. But what if we just loved. Loved because it is who we are -- not because it is what we have decided someone else deserves. We cease to be reactionary -- and become revolutionary.

We stop basing our lives on how someone else's behavior will -  or will not - gives us permission to react. We begin to live with true courage -- to act out from the fullness of that Love which operates unspent within our hearts. 

 The heart is not a measuring stick, or a sorting hat, but a lens through which we see the world as a place where we have a reason for existing -- to love. To love without regard for self. To love without an agenda. To love without reason. To love without condition of reciprocity. To love without judgment of another's deserving -- or our own.

How often have we heard that no one leaves this experience wishing they'd bought another house, or earned more money, or won another competition -- but wishing that they'd spent more time with their loved ones, done more to improve the lives of their neighbors, forgiven a long-held hurt, said what what in their hearts.

I may be wrong. I often am. As I navigate the laboratory of this human experience, I sometimes feel fragile and small. But I am getting better at giving myself permission to be all of those things -- to not get everything just right. To make mistakes. To learn how to do it differently. Because as long as I am learning more about how to love as God loves -- more consistently, more universally, more impartially, more humbly, and fearlessly -- I am living on purpose, and with intention.  When I love freely, I am free.

In her poem titled, "Love," Eddy offers this guidance as we navigate the riddle of human existence:

"for Love alone is Life;
and life most sweet,
as heart to heart
speaks kindly
when we meet and part."  

Yes, I think that this may be the reason for it all -- you and I.

offered with Love,

Kate

postscript: 

I had an insight this morning that took my breath away. I'd been up most of the night thinking about this post. I'd fallen asleep as the sun was coming up. When I woke again an hour later it was with a start. I'd always loved thinking about relationships through the metaphor of the sun and its rays.  

The sun, God, is like the circle I would draw as a child. The rays would branch out from a central circle -- in spokes. I've often thought of how if I were to put my fingers at the farthest ends of two of those rays, they only become closer when those fingers move towards the sun -- God.

But this morning, I realized that when two rays are closest to each other, they are closer to the Sun, God. My goal in life is to draw "nigh unto Him," I do this best when I am closest to you. Just a thought -- offered with Love.

"One December night in 1910..."

"I can't stand to fly.
I'm not that naive.
I'm just out to find
the better part of me.

I'm more than a bird.
I'm more than a plane.
More than some pretty face,
beside a train.
It's not easy to be, me..."

I weep each time I hear Five for Fighting's song, "Superman."  It makes me think of spiritual luminaries like Jesus, Mother Teresa, Mandela, Moses, and yes, Mary Baker Eddy.  These were men and women who were never trying to "fly."  I believe that they were only trying to find the better part of themselves, and that once they'd discovered some significant spiritual milestones along the way, felt compelled...by compassion...to share those insights with humanity. 

One hundred years ago, tonight, Mary Baker Eddy quietly passed away at her home in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, with her dearest friends close by.  Her last written words -- in her own hand --were, "God is my life."  I think she discovered, not only the better part of herself, but the best.  A sense of "self" that understands exactly why God identified Himself to Moses as "I AM."

This is my story about how that night -- 100 years ago -- had an impact on my life, 87 years later. 

It was early December, 1997.  My husband, daughters, and I were living in the carriage house at Mary Baker Eddy's Chestnut Hill home.  At the time I was immersed in projects related to the life and contributions of this extraordinary thought-leader.  Living in the contextual setting of her life was a remarkable gift.

In exchange for our housing, we made daily security checks on what our daughter called, "the big house," Mary Baker Eddy's former home.  It is a large stone mansion set on a hill in a suburb of Boston. At regular intervals during the day we would walk through the house to make sure that pipes had not burst, doors were secure, and that lights were on/off. 

That December night I was feeling overwhelmed by our circumstances.  I was facing some pretty aggressive demons and was feeling quite alone.  At midnight I offered to make the long walk up to the "big house" and do the security check myself. 

It was a bone chilling night.  The kind of cold that didn't slowly creep through layers of clothing, but penetrated immediately like a steely claw that wouldn't let go.  The night sky was a star-peppered navy velvet, and a wazing crescent moon rose over the slate roof of the mansion like the profile of a benevolent luminary.   It was beautiful, but all I felt was the weight of our plight.  Health concerns, financial uncertainty, looming homelessness -- they all seemed to have actual mass that night as they sat heavily on my heart.

I walked into the house by way of the back door, large flaslight in hand. I made my way through the arches and hallways of the first floor before ascending the flight of stairs leading to the landing just outside of Eddy's former bedroom.  

[It's important to note here, for readers who are not familiar with this property, that her home had been kept intact for 87 years -- each room appointed and furnished exactly as it had been the night she passed.  It served as a museum of sorts.  Tours were offered during which visitors could see the setting in which Eddy and her household had lived at the turn of the century.] 

As I stood on the landing, it was not lost on me (steeped as I had been in the history of her life) that it was close to the anniversary of her passing.  I thought about that night.  How her household workers had supported her, and how this must have been a very private part of her spiritual journey -- a threshold that she alone could cross.

I felt that way myself that night.  I was facing my darkest fears.  Being without housing as a wife and mother -- with no seeming resources at hand to secure a home for my family -- was my worst nightmare.  And yet it was that dark corridor which loomed for us just beyond the dawning of the New Year.  With one child in grade school, and infant twins, I couldn't imagine how we would find our way out of the situation without divine intervention. 

My husband was doing everything he could, but options seemed non-existent, and our prospects for housing were bleak.  Besides that, we were in the middle of the early stages of adopting our twins and we needed to be in a secure home-setting for the adoption agency to sign off on our compliance with state requirements so that the judge could finalize our adoption and declare that we were -- forever -- our daughters' permanent family.

Standing on the landing, just outside of Eddy's bedroom door, I longed to have her tell me what to do -- or at least how to pray about such a hopeless situation.  Then it occurred to me that she too had faced many dark nights in that room.  I wanted to know what it felt like to be her.  What had she surround herself with? 

I stepped over the satin rope that kept visitors just outside the threshold of the room during tours, and sat on the floor right next to the head of her bed.  I turned off the flashlight,  closed my eyes for a few moments, and prayed to really see what she saw. 

When I opened my eyes, there were three things that immediately caught my attention. 

When Eddy first moved into that house she was disappointed with it size and opulence. So she'd had her quarters reconfigured so that she had a small bedroom and an adjoining office. She'd also had a skylight put in the the ceiling over the landing just outside her bedroom door. This opening let in natural light.  That dark winter night, moonlight that poured through the skylight, and filtered into her bedroom through the open door. It was as "soft as a moonbeam mantling the earth" and it fell on the other two images that had immediately caught my attention.

One was a portrait of Jesus.  Simply framed and just a bit to the right, it would have been about eye-level on the wall directly in front of her as she sat up in bed.  This made me cry.  To be reminded of the savior who, as she herself had said was, "waiting and watching in voiceless agony" during his night of "gloom and glory" in the garden of Gethsemane,  humbled me greatly.  I could see how his portrait served to galvanize her courage.

The other image was an already familiar etching of Daniel in the lions den.  In this depiction, Daniel has his back to the lions, his hand are gently folded behind him, and he has his face upturned towards the light that is pouring through a small barred window.  He is facing the light -- not the lions.  He is peaceful, not defensive.  He is focused and calm, not distracted and distressed.  Its message was clear to me.

This piece was also simply framed and hung almost at eye-level on the same wall as Jesus' portrait -- just opposite her headboard.  The moonlight fell on these two images with such gentleness that I felt as if they had been kept exactly as they had been -- for all those years -- just so I could sit with them that night and be comforted, encouraged, and healed.

I will never forget that night sitting on the floor next to her bed.  It was almost as if I'd been given a holyland tour of the garden of Gethsemane and nothing had changed.  As if Jesus' tears had never dried that night, and still lay in salty pools on the rocks.  I could almost hear the song of the those first century nightingales, the cooing pair of doves that had nestled beside him as he prayed, and the scent of jasmine that perfumed the velvety air while his disciples slept. 

But my holyland was a worn carpet, a narrow bed, a moonbeam, the face of the Savior, the posture of a peacemaker...and the prayers of a woman.

It seems like such a small part of this story to say that during those next months of ceaseless prayer, we were shown -- step-by-step -- exactly what we needed to do to continue the work we loved and find just the right home for our family. 

The larger story for me is about a woman, who was just that, a woman.  A woman who never sought to be great -- only good.  Who never sought fame or fortune, but to understand, for herself, the better part of "me" the "I AM" of spiritual being. 

I believe, that when she wrote, "God is my life," on December 1st -- two days before her passing -- she did just that.

I don't remember the cold as I walked back from "the big house" to our cottage that night.  I only remember the moon, the stars, and the simple room where a woman had prayed one December night in 1910.

Thank you for your courage, and your example...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"I'm fifteen for a moment..."

"...Halftime goes by
Suddenly you're wise
Another blink of an eye
67 is gone
the sun is getting high
We're moving on...

15 there's still time for you
Time to love and time to lose
Oh 15, there's never a wish better than this,
When you've only got a hundred years to live..."
- Five for Fighting

This song, "100 Years" by Five for Fighting, grabs me and doesn't let go.  Whenever I hear it on the radio, or recently on my friend, Liesl's Facebook page, I remember being 15, and it was magical...for a moment.  Then the next moment,  I was 15 and 20 seconds, then 15 years and 3 days, 17 minutes, and 45 seconds...you get the picture. Today I am 55...for a moment. And I really feel no different today, than I did at 15. I feel love deeply, I long to make a difference in the world, and I want to know the presence of God in my life. 15, 55...they are just numbers that come and go.  Each one of these numbers is as full of value in marking life milestones as those same numbers are in helping us count apples in a bowl, measure a room for wallpaper, or reconcile a check book.

15 was a space that marked an important time in my life.  It was sweet and full of learning...and I loved it.  I have enjoyed the bookmarks that were 23, and 35, and 48...placeholders that make it easy to reference those chapters when recalling a shared experience of joy, sorrow, triumph, or transitions with others.  I can say to my daughter, "when you were 11 and we lived in Colorado..." and we both know where to land as we remember events on our shared timeline. The number doesn't define her, it only serves as a valuable reference point in cataloguing our experiences together.

As I bookmarked tonight's milestone I couldn't help but write my own verse to 100 years:

"I'm 55 for a moment
No longer waiting for a reason to love
And I'm just grateful
Counting the blessings I have known..."

I will only be 55 for one moment.  But that moment will be rich with spiritual substance.  It will be teeming with the opportunity to be generous, kind, patient, good.  And although Life blesses me with an infinite number of moments, each one...including this 55th year, 8th hour, 33rd minute, and 27th second of this chapter in my eternal life book...is precious, treasured, and worthy of celebration. 

I will try to count every one of my moments as dear...sacred as that first moment I looked into my daughters' eyes, heard my mother's voice, tasted my first bite of pear, or felt the sweetness of true love.

In the last year I faced a health crisis that made me even more aware of how very precious each moment of life is.  Every moment.  Not one is disposable. Each is a gift.  A moment of life can be filled with beauty, movement, joy, affection, wonder.  Isn't it amazing!

When I think of the gift of life, I think of my mom.  No matter how many times she has faced seemingly insurmountable odds, she lives her life vigorously, and with a clear purpose.  She lives to bless, and every day she blesses the lives of the children she nannies.  She lives her life with such exuberance and hope...she always has. Her childlike joy and eager generosity have taught me that youthfulness is experienced in each and every moment that we choose to fill our hearts and minds with love.  My mom has always made me feel as though her life is more wonderfully rich because we, her children, are in it with her.  I hope she knows that we feel the same.  

"I'm 99 for a moment
I'm praying for just another moment
And I'm just dreaming
Counting the ways to where you are..."

15 there's still time for you
Time to love and time to choose
Oh 15, there's never a wish, better than this
When you've only got a hundred years to live..."

I hope your very next moment is a precious to you as the sound of a loved one's voice...and that it is filled with gentle friends, exhuberant joy, and a profoundly God-sent sense of purpose...and always with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Don't miss this precious "Peter Pan" moment from when I was six years old...it broadcast on television each year...what joy it brought to us all...i liked being six...I still do!!  Watching this today I am six again...for a moment!!

love, Kate