"I, me, mine..."

"All through the day:
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine.

All through the night:
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine.

Now they're frightened
of leaving it,
everyone's weaving it;
coming on strong all the time:
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine,
I, me, mine..."

Someone once asked me why George Harrison was my favorite Beatle. There are many reasons - most of them quite spiritual. But, I think it is his writing of,  "I, Me, Mine,"  that still catches my breath, 50 years after its first recording.

It is not a particularly lyrical song. But the message is deeply spiritual. When asked about the message behind the song, Harrison once replied:

""It is about the ego,
the eternal problem."

Wow. In the video linked above, George expands, briefly, on this eternal problem.

The ego -- a false sense of self that is defined by an encapsulating layer of skin - that is the eternal problem. We believe that everything inside of that layer of skin is "me," and everything beyond it, is "other." 

We feel an inherently spiritual impulsion to expand our understanding of what infinite being includes, but we go about it in all the wrong way.

Rather than the dissolution of those self-boundaries, and an expansion into the all-oneness of spiritual identity, we seek to possess more -- to include more.  To stuff our sense of  "self" with more.  We pursue what leads to a bloated sense of being. My house, my children, my favorite Beatle, that great idea -- well, it is mine. And on and on it goes.  Mine, mine, mine.

George sings,

"Now they're frightened of leaving it,
everyone's weaving it,
coming on strong all the time..."

And we are. We are taught from earliest childhood to accumulate. Accumulate friends, information, toys, awards. We have been told that control over this accumulated self-sense is the ultimate goal. I manage my time. I am in charge of my finances. This idea is mine - mine to claim. This particular image that I hold of myself - it is my favorite. 

When we lose control of this self-important version of who we are -- we feel small. When we think that we have less "mine" than someone else, we feel like a failure - by comparison.  It is this separateness from one another - and therefore, the Source of all Being - that defines "sin" -- a word that comes from the same root as the word, "sunder -- to separate."

But this is also the root of our greatest fears. I fear that my thinking is creating my reality. I worry that my beliefs are leading to my health issues in my body.  I am concerned that my limited sense of things is creating lack in my life -- or in my children's lives.

I remember an experience that I had more than three decades ago. I was working at my desk. I'd been struggling with a painful headache for days. I felt like a failure. Who did I think I was? How could I sit there and take calls from patients who were asking for help, when I hadn't been able to heal myself.

While I berated myself for all that I didn't understand about God's power -- for why else would I not be healed -- my office phone rang. I answered it and the person at the other end of the line was, in fact, someone asking me to pray with them. They went on to describe the physical symptoms they were facing. And yes, they were exactly the same ones that I was struggling with.

On the one hand, I was so honored that she was led to call me. I had long-felt that if a call came to my office, God had well-prepared me to take it. I agreed to pray for her, and hung up.

As I sat there listening for what was spiritually true about this dear person, it occurred to me that I believed that there were two different personalities needing healing.  There was "my challenge," - based on my beliefs, and "her challenge," - based on what she was believing.  

When in fact, there was just one all-inclusive Truth-based sense of being.  What was true, was true for both of us. In fact, all of us. It was so clear to me. The illusion of two separate skin-encapsulated beings, stuffed in their own membranes of genetic history and personal narratives, with personal minds that could believe something on their own -- was ludicrous.

"Why," I asked myself, "was I honored when a patient called me for help, but felt like a failure when facing the same symptoms "in" my own body?" It was the false perception that each of us was defined by a layer of skin, and that everything inside of my skin was me. And therefore, it was my mind that was responsible for my experience.  And she, for hers.  Silly ego.  

The lie of separation -- personal sense -- when dissolved in the solution of spiritual oneness, disappears within the truth of our common "wholeness" -- which is the root of the word "health." This oneness leaves no room for comparisons. It refutes any sense of hierarchy -- of personal privilege or specialness.

This lie -- of egoic thinking -- that suggests itself to us day and night is insidious.  It is what Mary Baker Eddy is referring to in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures when she writes:

"Mortals are egotists.
They believe themselves to be
independent workers, personal authors,
and even privileged originators..."

They also believe themselves to be owners, possessors, the parents [and children] of one another, the accumulators of personal wealth, ideas, solutions, prayers, bodies -- lives.

This personal sense of existence is so contrary to an understanding of true individuality -- a word that has its root in the concept of un-divided-ness. We are not the apportioned personalities -- pieces of divinity. We are not divided from the wholeness of universal good.  We are not subject to personal success or failure.

In We Knew Mary Baker Eddy - Expanded Edition, William Rathvon shares his memories of conversations he had with Mrs. Eddy. I am especially reminded of these two brief statements from late 1910:

"Depersonalize self.
To personalize thought,
limits spiritual growth."

and

"What you need 
more than self-forgetfulness,
is self-nothingness." 

It reminds me of Eddy's own self-published statement from page 282 of Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896:

"Remember, it is personality,
and the sense of personality
in God or man, that limits man."

I think that George Harrison and Mary Baker Eddy might have enjoyed one another's company. I have certainly been blessed by both of them.



offered with Love,

Kate

"All those years ago..."

"I'm shouting all about love,
While they treated you like a dog..,
when you were the one
who had made it so clear
all those years ago.

I'm talking all about how to give...
but you point the way to the truth
when you say,
"All you need is love."

Living with good and bad,
I always look up to you...
Now we're left cold and sad...
by someone who offended all.

Were living in a bad dream.
They've forgotten all about mankind,
and you were the one they
backed up to the wall...
All those years ago
You were the one who imagined it all
All those years ago.

Deep in the darkest night
I send out a prayer to you.
Now in the world of light
where the spirit, free of the lies
and all else that we despised.

They've forgotten all about God.
He's the only reason we exist.
Yet you were the one
that they said was
so weird...
All those years ago

You said it all,
though not many had ears,
All those years ago
All those years ago...."

I don't know that I will have much to say about the above lyrics...they have left me speechless tonight.  I hope you read them before you listen to this video link to the song, "All Those Years Ago."

This George Harrison song, has been a part of my muiscal memory for decades now.  I have such a lovely memory of hearing his friend, Paul, singing it during an amazing Wings concert at Boulder's Folsom Field in the early nineties.  And though I love the song...and remember singing along...I don't think I'd ever thought about the message.  That was, until I read a small descriptive note that appeared with a friend's posting of the video on Facebook. 

The note explained that "All Those Years Ago," was George Harrison's tribute song to his Beatles bandmate and friend, John Lennon.  Well, now I was thoroughly interested.  I have a particular soft spot for George, and the rest of the boys from Liverpool.  But as I listened to this song, I could almost imagine John, the disciple, singing this to Jesus, and it gave me chills. 

It reminded me of Mary Baker Eddy's statement:

"To suppose that persecution for righteousness' sake belongs to the past, and that Christianity to-day is at peace with the world because it is honored by sects and societies, is to mistake the very nature of religion. Error repeats itself.  The trials encountered by prophet, disciple, and apostle, 'of whom the world was not worthy,' await, in some form, every pioneer of truth."

I know that not everyone, who reads this post, may think that John Lennon, was a pioneer of truth...but, that 's not the point of this piece anyway.  Its purpose is to express gratitude for each experience of fellowship, brotherhood, friendship, and sisterhood, that every "pioneers of truth," throughout history, has known.  I am so grateful that Jesus had John...and Mary, that David had Jonathon, Paul had Silas, Mary Baker Eddy had Calvin, John had George, Paul, and Ringo... oh my goodness, so many wonderful examples of love, that it fills me to the point of overflowing tonight.  To think that their journeys were not without kindness, warmth, companionship, understanding, and fellowship...makes me weep.

It's something I'm thinking about as I walk my own journey with profoundly inspired thought pioneers.  If I am seeing each of my brothers and sisters as the Christ presence in my life...and in the world, I have to ask myself, "Am I being that friend, or sister, who observes, records, brings warmth, extends encouragement, comforts, defends, loves...beholds....their promise?"

This is the question I am in tonight...

Blessings,

Kate

"He entertains angels...who listens.."

"You'll never know how much I really love you,
You'll never know how much I really care,
...Listen, do you want to know a secret
Do you promise not to tell
Closer, let me whisper in your ear..."
-Lennon/McCartney

"Listen"...I remember how much I loved this song when I was ten years old.  It might have been because it was the first time I'd heard George sing (he was my favorite!).  Or perhaps it was because at ten, what I wanted...and needed...more than anything else, was to be listened to. I needed to believe that I was someone worthy of sitting "in conversation" with.  And I thought that George was singing just to me.  In fact, I was convinced of it. If I close my eyes, I can still see the small black vinyl 45rpm record spinning on our old record player, and when I hear it, I am - once again - smitten with hope.  It didn't really even matter why I loved it then, it was a song I couldn't get enough of.  I was sure that I, and I alone, was the sole reason it skyrocketed to #2 on the charts, just behind "Can't Buy Me Love," that year.   I wanted to be listened to, and George was promising me that, when we really love someone, and when we really care, we will listen...and be listened to.

Aren't we all hungry to be really, truly heard.  To know that what fills our hearts with love, peace, joy, inspiration...is meaningful to someone, might make a difference in their lives, and could possibly be the encouragement they need to feel less alone in the world.  I think we all want to know that our thoughts and feelings, insights and stories have poignancy.

But what about the desire to listen.   To hear someone else's story.  To discover what is most meaningful to the people we know and love...or even those we are just meeting for the first time.  This is my hunger.  And it's a hunger that for a long time I tried to ignore, or simply temper to the point of only asking the more light-hearted questions. 

My children sometimes think I am just too curious.  I ask their friends a million questions when we are in the car, driving to a soccer game or birthday party.  "What is your favorite subject in school?"  "Where did you move here from?"  "Do you like to play board games?" "What is the most interesting place you've ever been?" But it isn't mindless chatter,  personal probing, or small talk for me.  I really do enjoy hearing about how another person feels.  I like hearing the details of their childhood. The rich textures of remembered moments from a wedding, the birth of a child, the way it felt to knead the first loaf of bread they ever baked,  or the tactile memory of thow it felt to grind wheat berries, by hand, on large round millstones at an ancient monastery in France.  I like giving space to their stories, their feelings about those experiences, and their insights.

I am not listening to be polite.  I am not asking questions because I think I should.  I really, truly, genuinely am interested. 

But even in adult gatherings, I often felt unsure of myself.  For a long time I was embarrassed by my own interests in other people's stories.  I always seemed to be the person at a dinner party who wanted more and more details.  "What color were the curtains in the villa?"  "Did the woman offer you any insights about why she chose to devote her life to raising pygmy goats?"  "What did you feel like when you saw your husband for the first time on the dock at summer camp?"  "What did your father say to you just before he walked you down the aisle?"

But I am learning that this is not something to be embarrassed about.  It is not idle prattle.  When, as my friend, Chief Listening Officer (really!) of Educare Learning Institute,  Sandy Wilder, puts it, "we pull in next to someone and look out at their experience with them...from their point of view" we give them something that is greater than gold.  We honor their heart, their stories, their life experience...their wisdom and inspiration.  We tell them that they are worthy of our attention.  We remind them that the world is not, and never will be, spinning so fast that we can't slow down long enough and take a moment to listen to one another with genuine interest. 


For me the difference between being "nosey" and listening deeply, is in the details.  What am I interested in hearing?  Do I want "the inside scoop", am I asking about the lives of  people other than the person I am with, am I hoping to hear something no one else knows?  Or, am I truly interested in how the person I am sitting with experienced a situation, what insights they gathered, what lessons they learned, how they felt...and are feeling?

Mary Baker Eddy describes the untold blessings found in this kind of listening, when she wrote:

"He entertains angels who listens to the lispings of repentance
seen in a tear - happier than the conqueror of a world."

Sometimes all it take to turn a "wrathful and afflictive" experience, into a moment of courage, a lesson learned, or an opportunity for someone else to be blessed by the footprints we have left in the sand, is to have someone take the time to listen to us tell our stories.   In the telling we often hear how far we have come, how profoudly we were moved, how fundamentally we have been changed.

My friend Stacey shared this Youtube clip, "Children of Light," with me the other day...and it is worth every second you might give to viewing it.  It is about a teacher in Japan who is nurturing the lost art of listening in his students.  It shows the power of sharing our stories...and what happens when we really listen to one another.  Mr. Mifuyu remarks, following a compelling example of the impact on one child of a shared story, and how it loosened the tightness in her own heart:

"When people really listen, they live in your heart forever..."

As I think back over the years of all the stories I have told, and all the stories I have heard, I am stunned by what I now realize.  It is the people who have really listened to my heart, that have left the most lasting impression on my life.  In their listening, their deeper questioning, they have given me a window on my own experiences, insights, and the lessons I have learned.  Sometimes those listening partners have been a beloved four-legged companion.   Yes, I am now seeing, that my dearest friends, are those who have listened to, and shared with, me in times of heartbreak and celebration, inner inquiry and stream of consciousness awakenings.  And somehow, I have always learned as much from the questions they have asked, as I have from the stories they, too, were led to share during those feasts of Soul...that always turned into great potlucks...catered by our Father-Mother, God...who loves us all. 

And when we practice this kind of deeply-focused listening with others, it naturally rolls over into our moments of silence, and we begin to listen to God from that same space of hunger.  The banquet that follows is surprising, satisfying, and sweet.

Thank you dear friends.  I am deeply moved by your willingness to pull in next to me, and listen to my heart...with me.  You will live in my heart forever.  Forever...and ever...

I love you...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit: Nathaniel Wilder 2009]

"My sweet Lord..."

"My sweet Lord
Hmm, my Lord
Hmm, my Lord

Now, I really want to see you
Really want to be with you
Really want to see you Lord
But it takes so long, my Lord

My sweet Lord, Hallelujah
Hmm, my lord Hallelujah
My, my, my lord Hallelujah…"
-     George Harrison "My Sweet Lord"

This time it didn't take so long.  But I am getting ahead of myself. 

On Mondays and Thursdays I am at a college for office hours.  At this college, the 30 minutes from ten to ten-thirty is spent in quiet.  Students, staff, faculty…everyone stops for thirty minutes of silent inspiration…or at least I think that is the intent.

Last term I spent that half hour studying, taking calls, praying for myself…and others.  Yes, it was quiet, it was inspiring…but somehow it wasn't very different from the rest of my day as a spiritual healer.  It was a continuation…not the interruption…of my work day, and it was not "quiet" in the way I needed.  I knew the difference. 

But this term I had the opportunity to hear a friend talk about her relationship with "quiet time" and it felt all to0 familiar…and the insights, very exciting.  She shared in our Wednesday worship meeting that she, too, had struggled within herself about how to use this space of time.  At one point colleagues had invited her to join them in their outdoor quiet circle and that week she had decided to put her quiet "work" - reading, studying, preparing for the next class - aside and go sit in silent communion with her friends.  She said that it was such a rich and inspiring time for her. 

Something about her experience resonated with me.  I wanted that "something more" again.  I wanted to not be so busy in my prayer and quietness.  With her encouragement,  the next time I was at the college I shyly joined their silent circle in the sun.  And it was glorious.  Thirty minutes of true silence.  No prayer agenda items, treatments, ToDo lists, rehearsing of quotes or citations, wrestling with "angels",  or mental arguments….just silence, just listening...no mental speaking.   When a thought would come, I would gently usher it into stillness.  I had forgotten how much I really LOVED meditative silence.   At the end of that first day I was hooked.  I couldn't wait for my own self-imposed quiet times…thirty minutes, an hour, two….back to basics.  Back to the very foundation stones of my spiritual practice.  Not praying about, or for, anything or anyone….just listening.  No mantras, statements of affirmation…just silence.

And the more I sat with my silence the better I became at watching thoughts….some benign, and some not so good…wandering  in, trying to get a rise out of me, giving up, and leaving for lack of engagement.

So, that brings us to this morning.  It was a gorgeous fall day in Elsah.  The air was cool, the sun was bright…but not hot.  I made my way to the concrete circle in the middle of the lawn right as the Chapel bells rang at the top of the hour.  I sat on the brick pavers, wrapped my paisley pashmina around my shoulders to ward of any chill that might distract, leaned back against the high concrete curbing and closed my eyes. 

I let the sun and the silence penetrate deeply.  I opened my eyes briefly as three other women joined the circle but quickly returned to the stillness of a space that was full in its emptiness.

As I sat there listening, I heard a man at right at my left ear say, "Excuse me…" in the warmest, kindest, richest voice.  It was so close that I almost felt His breath move the stray hairs near my ear. From somewhere deep inside I immediately responded with "Speak Lord, for Thy servant heareth…"  But there was nothing more.  I wondered for the briefest moment if perhaps I was mistaken and someone had actually come by the office, seen me outside in the circle, and come over to gently ask for help.  I opened my eyes briefly, but there were only the three other women in the circle…no men. 

It was then that I truly knew that it was God's voice I had heard.  You see, God's voice to me has always been a woman's voice.  But today, had I heard a woman's voice I might have assumed it was one of the other women in the circle speaking.  This voice was so clearly not a woman's and so obviously His….and I was so grateful.

It was only then that I pondered what God had actually said.  "Excuse me…" in the loveliest way.  Gently inserting His voice...and presence...into my reverie.  It was like my small daughter's gentle tug at the hem of my jacket after church as I stood in the lobby talking to friends, or my mother's loving "excuse me" at my bedroom door when as a child I would have stayed up too late reading and she wanted me to know that she was still up and I might want to turn out the light and get some rest…

It was a gentle reminder of His presence…and it was wonderful…
Kate