"in restless dreams…."

"in restless dreams
I walk alone,
narrow streets
of cobblestone…"

Emiliana Torrini's hauntingly beautiful recording Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence," was waiting for me when I woke this morning. This may not be an obvious "spiritual" post. And I am not really even sure I will be able to make the written connection that I feel in my heart. But this blog is all about speaking from experience -- honest experience -- and this is mine. So here goes.

I am a prolific dreamer. This is not something I am alarmed by -- at least, not any longer. As a child I was what is referred to as a lucid dreamer. I only had to close my eyes and I would dream. Often two or more dreams at once. I was aware I was dreaming. I could turn my head and change from one dream to another -- depending on the level of terror, or joy, a particular dream was evoking at that moment. When I'd return to the dream, whatever had disturbed my peace would have passed, and I could re-engage with what brought me respite from reality.

No, I am not kidding. My childhood was pretty scary. These dreams were my escape from the "real" terror of being me, in the world I was living in.

I became very adept at initiating these dream-retreats from reality. I believed that they saved me from madness. I still do. As I grew up, and discovered prayer, I was less inclined to disappear and more willing to stay in the moment, where I would pray for clarity, courage, and a calm trust in the power of good to overthrow evil.

But there was one dream scenario that I hoped would never fully disappear from my life. In it, I walked the narrow stone streets of an ancient village. The pages I held were not in book form, but in scrolls. I read hungrily, as the sun warmed my shoulders, and the scent of lavender swarmed like honey bees around my head. 

I was often alone, but occasionally I sensed someone by my side. If I turned to look at my companion, the dream would end, and I would be back in my bunk bed, alone in the dark -- facing the terror of a long night, just waiting for dawn. If I continued -- without turning, I stayed in the warm sunshine, reading from fragile pages, until morning. At some point, I just stopped turning to see who was with me.

As childhood turned into young womanhood, the presence of this "other," was something I actively sought out when darkness threatened. If I thought that I would even catch a glimpse of "him," I would close my eyes to avoid waking. I wanted nothing to interrupt those hours of peace where I was wise, innocent, and free.

Then in 1971, I was hiding away -- tucked into the crooked arm of a tree, my little aqua transistor radio playing as I read -- when Simon and Garfunkel's 1965 hit, Sound of Silence, came on. I can't explain why I'd never caught the lyrics before -- perhaps because I'd really only heard it on the car radio with 5 other siblings talking and screaming in the backseat with me -- but for the first time they spoke directly to me. I'd been there too -- on those narrow streets, during restless dreams. I felt known.  And I felt not so alone in the universe.

I can't tell you what all this means. I only know that, suddenly,  I wasn't so lonely and afraid of my life anymore. You see, no matter how many times I'd been told that God loved me, I didn't believe the person saying it really knew what they were talking about. They were referring to a God that I could accept was loving and good. But they didn't know me, and all the darkness I had faced.  

They didn't know all the terrible things that had changed me from a little girl, to a creature who escaped her nightly terror by retreating into dreams of ancient villages and make believe stories.  I could believe all they said about God, but not that He could possibly love me.  But the "other" that I walked with in my dreams was warm, kind, quietly present.

It would be another 30 years before I would have the courage to open my eyes in a dream, and look into the face of the person who'd shadowed me during those long walks down the narrow streets of a warm village. I was not disappointed.

I guess what I am trying to say is, don't be afraid. You are not alone. In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy makes this remarkable -- and deeply compassionate -- statement of encouragement:

"Whatever inspires
with wisdom, Truth, or Love 
— be it song, sermon, or Science — 
blesses the human family
with crumbs of comfort
from Christ’s table,
feeding the hungry
and giving living waters
to the thirsty." 

Those dreams, and later the song that made me feel "understood," were crumbs of comfort from Christ's table for me. Now, when these dreams come in the night -- they are sweet reminders of God's love for the little girl I was, and the woman she was allowed to become.

You see, you just never know where someone is, what they are facing in the darkness, how they are navigating the narrow streets, or who they are being chased by in the night.  And you never know whether it is the "waking dream or the sleeping dream," that seems more terrifying to them.  But if you can just "be there." Silently when needed, and sometimes without a face -- but always with a prayer, there will come a time when they will find their way into the light. And they will remember -- and give thanks. I promise.

offered with Love,

Kate

"the quiet sanctuary…."

"no one
dared disturb
the sound of silence..."

Today, I discovered this haunting rendition of Simon & Garfunkel's, "Sound of Silence," by Emiliana Torrini. There is something raw and lovely about it. It seems to speak to my inner most longings.

And it fit perfectly in the context of this scripture:

"Commune
with your own heart
upon your bed, and be still…"
 

It took my breath away. I'd read this Psalm countless times before, but this morning it felt like everything.

And to discover that it was followed by Mary Baker Eddy's statement from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"In the quiet sanctuary
of earnest longings,
we must deny sin
and please God's allness…"
 

made me weep.  I felt known, understood, encouraged.

One dictionary gives the etymological root of the word sin as "to sunder." For me, to sunder, or to separate our sense of anyone -- or anything -- from it's divine source is to believe in sin.  On the other hand, to see the all-presence and all-power of God in all things -- and at all times -- is to live with vision -- and with a holy purpose.

I have to admit, I spend a lot of time in "communion with my heart, upon my bed, in stillness."  A lot. Hours a day - in fact. It is where i do my best work. It is not on the phone, at a desk, or even in conversation.  And when I am in this space -- a bed, a chair, behind the wheel in a traffic jam -- becomes a holy place.  It is in this still space of a silent heart -- that I listen for God's influence on my heart and in my life.

This is where I am clearest about what is true. It is where I am rebuked by a loving Parent. It is where I am encouraged by my dearest Friend. It is where I find the courage to go forward, and the grace to stand still.

At camp each summer we celebrate our most cherished tradition, "Alone with Your Thoughts." Camp comes to a stop, and every staff member, counselor, and camper -- regardless of age -- takes an hour alone in nature. No books, no media, no cameras, no inspirational material -- just time alone with your thoughts.

It is for me, without question, the most important tradition we have at camp. It is the activity most remembered by campers. It is the activity that has one of the most lasting effects on all of us. Year, after year.

It is encourages a relationship with the divine that can only be found in that "quiet sanctuary." It reminds each of us that wherever we are, whatever our circumstances, we can resort to this place -- this kingdom within -- to find peace, comfort, direction, encouragement, joy. On a mountaintop or in the depths of despair -- we can find refuge in this stillness.

This is the place of "I am…" This is the space where we find the power to bless. This is where we are one with all creation.  This is where we share a common inner landscape, one which we all must navigate.

Deepening my relationship to this space is the most valuable gift I can give to myself, my family, and my world. When I think of Cap and Marianne Andrews' greatest contribution to the world, it is this nurturing of "alone with your thoughts," in girls and boys, young men and women, who will go out to bless humanity.

As much as I love our horse programs, or rafting adventures, and our mountaineering expeditions -- it pales in comparison to what I see "Alone with Your Thoughts" do in the lives of campers and counselors, year after year.

Those adventures and activities are simply the laboratory for deepening one's relationship to this space of spiritual stillness.  This is the place of unlimited adventure. This is camp - no matter where we live, no matter who we are with -- it is always with us. Just as it was with the boy/king/psalmist David. Just as it companioned with Mandela in prison, and Jesus in the wilderness. It is always there for us -- at any moment.

I am so deeply grateful that - as a child - I was exposed to this practice. I am even more grateful that our children have been nurtured in a love for the importance of time "alone with your thoughts," in navigating the course of their day. To know that wherever you are, whatever decisions you must make, whatever guidance you are seeking, whatever challenges you may be facing, you have a place where you you can retreat for answers and solutions -- this, this is everything.

offered with gratitude and Love,



Kate

"a vision softly creeping…"

"Hello darkness,
my old friend.
I've come to talk with you, again..."

Something about Nouela's cover of Simon & Garfunkels' "Sound of Silence perfectly captures the tone of my most recent night-ponderings.

Last week, an encounter with persistent, acute pain afforded a wonderful opportunity to explore my beliefs - and what I thought I understood - about the nature of pain. I didn't back away from the lesson, nor did I try to just "get it over with." I walked right into the invitation to probe perplexing questions more thoughtfully.

Doubt tried to hijack many moments of genuine peace. "What if the pain really did have meaning, and I was foolishly ignoring it? What if it never ended, and I could never, ever think a truly peaceful thought again?" And most aggressively, "What if the pain was really part of me, and had taken up residence in my body -- like a noisy tenant?"

But as I was pondering these questions, another thought quietly invited me to consider its veracity. If pain actually has meaning -- if it means that there is something amiss at the site of the discomfort -- how do you reconcile that, with the concept of phantom pain?

Phantom pain, is pain that one feels at the site of a limb that has been amputated. Discomfort that seems to come from a body part that no longer exists. Many amputees report feeling sensations of movement, tingling, or pain in an arm or leg that was surgically removed.

I had never given this much thought until this recent injury left me in acute pain. Everything tried to say, "This pain means something about your body. Pain is a message, and you need to heed its meaning. You should take it easy, or have it examined to find the root cause -- so that it can be addressed and treated."

But then I thought about phantom pain. When an amputee feels discomfort in a limb that no longer exists, he/she quickly dismisses it as "phantom pain," with no meaning. They know that there is no injured leg to be diagnosed or treated -- and so there is no need for alarm. They don't need to go get the arm checked out.  There is no arm to examine.  They aren't fearful or impressed.

Why then, do we think that pain has a direct correlation to the site where the sensation is seemingly occurring? Why do we think that pain is a reliable or infallible indicator of our state of health? Why -- when we feel pain in our hand -- do we go and have the hand checked for injury or disease? Why do we react to discomfort in any location by having an examination, to see if there is something wrong? All of these questions flooded my consciousness, sweeping away any concern that I'd been harboring.  Concern that pain had information for me.  Washed away in a coursing river of timeless Truth.

Or, more subtly, we think pain is telling us something about its location -- something that can help us heal it "spiritually." For example, we are feeling discomfort in our elbow. Well, an elbow is a joint. A joint is the coming together of two parts of our arm. Hmmm -- this must have something to do with a relationship. Well yes, I have been having a challenge with that colleague. So, I think I will look up every spiritual article I can find about healing a joint. Gotcha!

We have to be alert to what we think is informing us. We aren't led to healing truths -- or testimonies about healing -- by a shared localization of pain or the details of a problem. We are attracted to spiritual statements of Truth, because of what they are reminding us about God - His love for us, and our trust in Him. Not because of a shared experience with localized pain, fear, disease, or injury.

I am starting to see that all pain, is phantom pain. Just as the pain in an amputated limb is not in the limb, any discomfort we feel is not localized. It has no localized cause, and therefore, a cause - or solution - can't be found by examining the site to find the point of origin, in order to fix it or treat it.

And it's the same with phantom anger, or phantom frustration. Phantom resentment, or phantom fear. We think we feel fear, frustration, anger, or doubt, and then we try to trace it back to a locus of origin. If I feel angry after a visit to the grocery store - where I had a long wait in line -- it must be that I am an impatient person. Then I go after my impatience as if it were the real cause, of my real anger. But it's not. That anger, is just a sensation. One that is trying to get me to look for a cause -- other than divine Love -- as the source, and condition, of my angry identity.

I don't have to fix the anger to become a patient person. I am a patient person because that is the way that God made me. I am not self-created, self-determinted, self-diagnosed, or self-fixed.

Here's what often seems to happen with physical discomfort. Perhaps I feel pain when touching a spot on my arm.  I wonder what caused it.  It's a subtle invitation to think back, and trace it to a recent time when I may have stumbled in the middle of the night, and put my arm in direct contact with the doorjamb. Well then, I conclude, I must be clumsy, vulnerable, and easily bruised -- arm, feelings, human history. Or perhaps I'm stumbling in the middle of the night because I'm getting older and losing a nimble sense of balance and recovery. Or, what if I am getting up in the middle of the night too often? What if…. Soon I am spiraling down a vast vortex of self cross-questioning.

But, all pain, is phantom pain.

Just as darkness cannot fully eradicate the presence of light, but only suggest its absence. So pain tries to convince us that there is an absence of peace -- of God, good. And that, perhaps, this absence is localized, and connected to a particular bodily location. And because we now believe that there could ever be a spot where good is absent, we are left feeling vulnerable, exposed to the possibility that we could even further capitulate into disease, doubt and despair.

But these suggestions of pain are phantoms. They have no location. They are causeless. Peace, however, (the opposite of pain) is a self-assertive power that cannot be limited, contained, or localized. It is All-in-all and therefore indicates the presence of all that is impartial and universal -- Spirit, God, good, harmony, peace, joy.

In her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy states:

We are sometimes led to believe
that darkness is as real as light;
but Science affirms darkness
to be only a mortal sense
of the absence of light,
at the coming of which
darkness loses the appearance
of reality.

So sin and sorrow, disease and death,
are the suppositional absence of Life, God,
and flee as phantoms of error
before truth and love."
 

Something about this insight - into the phantom nature of pain, anger, frustration, and doubt - has left me feeling alive to our inalienable right to feel free from the lie that pain holds information or meaning about our lives, our bodies, and our hopes.

It's time to disconnect pain from having cause, location, meaning.  Refusing it any power to alarm us. Pain is phantom, disembodied -- without a body or a home. It throws its voice like a ventriloquist. But it doesn't have the power to take up residence or even gain entrance into the kingdom of God -- within us.

offered with Love,
Kate