Mine? Oh, well mine takes place in infancy. I am lying on my back, staring up at a white expanse that I know now to be the ceiling of my parent’s bedroom. My eye catches a light that starts at one side just above the window, goes across the ceiling, lengthens and disappears on the other side near the corner at the other window. This phenomenon happens with some regularity and sometimes, there are three or four in a row followed by several moments of nothing.

There are bars all around me and I lay on a soft flat mattress with no awareness of my body. I am only aware of the periodic light that moves across the ceiling. Suddenly, I realize I am here. I mean “I” am “Here.” (okay, I’m not smoking pot) I think, “Oh shit. I’m in another fucking lifetime” and I start to cry. The lights continue across the ceiling. A man appears above me, smiles and slips his hands around me to pick me up. My memory stops there.

I imagine starting my spiritual journey book with this story. On my book tour I am interviewed on countless radio and television shows. One interviewer reads the story to me and asks with big wide eyes, “Is that true? That you became aware of yourself and felt the dread of being in another lifetime?” I say, “You mean another FUCKING lifetime?” Then I pause and look deadpan at her, shrug my shoulders and say, “By true, do you mean, did that really happen? Well, I don’t know if it really happened. It’s a memory. How can anyone know if the facts are right in a memory? All I can say now is that it was true at the time I wrote it. On another day, who knows?”

I’ve learned enough in my life that my perception of an event is simply that, my perception. What’s true is what’s true for me. I seek validation by telling my story and looking for someone to concur. Too often, I’ve had people tell me that my memory is inaccurate and even damaging, especially to family. But my memory is all I have and though I’m open to reordering the facts, how do I trust what’s true to someone else? I only have my own lens.

This particular memory stays the same every time it us unearthed. I believe there are moments that either get burned in as a result of their emotional intensity or as a result of repetition. The circumstances in this memory have not changed. I am lying in a crib and watching the reflection of the sun on the roof of cars going across the ceiling. I have a memory of being aware in that one moment that I am “I” and “I” am suddenly finding myself “Here” as if I were somewhere else before that moment. The one moment that changes periodically, is my perception of how I felt or if I felt anything when I had that awareness.

It was a flash of awareness that seems to have burned itself into my memory centers. As an adult, I get to change my reaction and the details as much as I want. The truth in the current perception is that I feel weary at the thought of being in this life at this time.

We get so caught up in trying to get the facts straight that we miss the essence of the images and feelings that arise. What’s your first memory? Let it come up. Feel it. Don’t manipulate it. Allow it to arise and go from there.

Recently, I was in a meditation / prayer moment desperate for some sense of direction and inspiration to solve the most recent crisis of my life- no finances because I’ve been too sick to work. Everything has run out and I am once again, on the edge both financially and with my health. With no other place to go, I went inward and upward. I asked for help.

At some point, while I was going on and on, I remembered that I should stop, be silent and listen. After all, how could any inspiration come through if I am expiring the whole time. I shut up. Actually, I said, “Okay. I’ll shut up now and listen.”

The room went still. I closed my eyes and went inside, partially afraid of what I might hear and afraid I would hear nothing at all. Settle. Quiet. Attention inward and upward.

In short order, I heard the words, “write your spiritual journey.” Like a loud-mouthed tourist in a sacred cathedral, I said, “WHAT? Did I hear you say, write your spiritual journey?”
“Yes,” was the answer.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you have any idea what I’m trying to say to you? I am OUT OF MONEY! I CAN’T WORK! There are BILLS to pay! And you want me to write me spiritual journey?! Do you have any idea how many stupid spiritual journeys are out there? Have you been in a bookstore lately? Everyone thinks they’ve got something to say that everyone else wants to hear. I’m not going to be that way! What is WRONG with you?!”

Then I remembered to be quiet again. Taking a deep breath, settling down wave by wave, I sat quietly again… and waited.

Nothing. I waited some more.

Nothing. Just the heater suddenly blowing through the duct and outside a car went by.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Write your spiritual journey.”

Sigh…

“Okay. But I still hope you help me figure out how I’m going to get by these next several weeks.” A calm came over me. I did not continue to argue knowing it was useless. I have lived long enough to know my circumstances are temporary, my feelings are temporary, my life will or will not go on and something will change to set me into the next direction.

So, several days later, with an empty bank account, I sit down and begin writing my spiritual journey. It will be messy and boring and profound and wordy and all sorts of things. But mostly, it will be my own truth as only I can express it. If anyone decides to read it and even maybe find it useful, great.

Here we go…

I feel as if I’m slowly returning to my old self while also noting the impossibility of that.  There has been a death on many levels and though it’s the season of new life and resurrection, mine is halting and unsteady.  It’s not without joy, however.  There are lots of small joys in a day and they are noted and somewhat treasured.  

The joys are small because my life had to become small- miniscule even.  There’s just not enough energy for the grand plans and big dreams.  There’s not even a lot of energy for much forward movement at all!  There’s just enough energy to get through a day as long as there’s a nap somewhere in there.  So I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating the value of simplicity and pairing down all that is extraneous.  Not an easy feat.

I feel as if I was sailing along in the middle lane of a 5 lane highway.  There were plenty of cars sailing faster and I was going at a steady clip but not too fast.  Then the car suddenly stopped working and I had to get off the road fast!  Now the car has restarted and I’m on a very, very long onramp wondering if I should just stay on the shoulder for a while.

In the meantime, I’m questioning everything- even the value of keeping up with everyone else.  And what does keeping up mean anyway?  I see a lot of busyness but not a lot of meaning.  So much seems without purpose.  And on days when I have the energy to be busy, I get that it feels good just to have accomplished something- even if it’s something rather meaningless.  Accomplishment itself is of value.  It feeds the spirit somehow.  It furthers the cause of my life somehow.

Of course I recognize the illusion of “moving forward” as if there was a “forward.” I often have to catch myself as I think I’m progressing toward something – even if that progression is backwards toward an “old” self .  None of us have an “old” self.  We just have a self that keeps being present in the moment while the rest of us muddles along in illusions.  My self is my self no matter the state of the extremities of my body or my life.  Is that true?  I don’t know.  I have to think about that.

What are we all progressing toward?  Death- and the final moments just before death when we think we will have time to reflect on our lives.  What would count? What do we want to be able to say about how we lived?

I want to say that I went to the bank and the post office and helped out in my community. No not really.  I really want to say that I had fun and I loved – maybe even that I loved well.  I think I want to say that I made a contribution in the healing of others.  But that goes under the “loved well” category.

So if this is the last day of my life, am I loving well?  Hmmm, better work on that.

I used to think my patients could only work with me, that I was the only one who really understood them and knew how to treat them. I used to be more involved with their overall care. I used to wonder how they would manage if I were to die.  I was also involved in many large issues and efforts and thought of myself as indispensable to my community.

Then I got sick. Three years ago, I had to abdicate my self-coronated throne and leave life for a while. It was an incredible struggle as I worked to get better as fast as possible. I knew that so many people needed me. I couldn’t let them down.

The weeks and months wore on and I slowly discovered that I was not nearly as important as I thought. My patients found other practitioners or found that they actually could manage without my therapy. The PTA was limping along before I took over and continued limping along after I left. People either stepped in or things went undone. Either way, life went on. It was quite an ego smasher of a time.

I thought often about how we are like footprints in the sand. Not like that old, worn out Jesus story, but more like the actual print in the sand. Our presence is so temporary and obvious for a time. When we leave or die, our presence fades and washes away, eventually leaving no trace. it made me question life’s purpose.

Our attachment to “leaving a mark” is all about making sure that our footprint stays clear for all to see and even to trip over. It’s unbearable for us to think that we could be forgotten or unacknowledged for having lived. It’s too hard to consider that generations will go by and all but a few will become completely lost among the millions of names in the graveyards of the world.

As I was in vacate mode without the vacation, I realized that I could see all of this as a living tragedy or I could see it as a liberation. This choice showed up over and over again as time went on and as I couldn’t resume my former life. I had to face the fact that whatever importance I held for people or organizations, I was not so important that they couldn’t live without me. Not that I would ever say that, but deep inside I think that’s what I really wanted to believe. I think I wanted to believe that something or someone would really fall apart without me and that I had to heal for their sake. I was THAT important.

But – no.

Everyone carried on. Space was filled. Arrangements were made. Ego smashed.

Take a breath. Start again. Maybe a little lighter this time. Maybe a little more free of care. There is a focus on healing now that is more liberating as I get to discover new dimensions, new corners of me I didn’t know were there. It’s more fun this way.

But what’s the purpose of life then? Well, I think it is simply to follow our nature, whatever that may be. A tree does not seek anything but to be a tree. It stays for a time until it’s ready to fall over and become food for the rest of the earth around it. It doesn’t need to leave a mark. It is not attached to how other trees see it. It just stands there and waves in the wind, reaches for the sun, and bears its own fruit- until it doesn’t anymore.  Kind of simple.

After the most recent brush with death, I came back not wishing to leave a mark really quickly before I die. Instead I began feverishly getting rid of things, working to be sure my family is taken care of if I should go a little sooner than I expect and to disappear quietly without a trace. I’ve saved so many things to mark my life; journals, art, books, junk. In the face of death, it’s all just a lot of junk for someone else to clean up.

I want to live more like the zen monks who did their level best to simply disappear without a trace and to live without attachment to their place in the world. Their collective mark is felt by those of us who yearn for a simpler life where we chop wood and carry water and lie in the grass watching clouds go by. It’s not a tragic life. It’s a poignant life. And then it’s not. Simple.

I awoke thinking about Moses. You know he was reluctant to accept his calling from God too. He wondered how he could be chosen to be any sort of spokesperson for the Almighty since he was just one guy and had likely had a speech impediment too. God told him all that he was to do, which included getting his people to believe that he had a direct line to the Almighty, calling everyone to change 30,000 years worth of not so nice behaviors, oh- and moving for years and years across a desert to some land that was supposed to be full of milk and honey.

Moses was reasonably reluctant. He begged God to send somebody else. “Anybody but me.” But God had made his decision. So Moses becomes a spokesperson and leader and follows God’s prompting each step of the way. It was years of walking in faith with his God.

I’ve looked at this story a thousand times before. I’ve even done a lot of teaching from a theological viewpoint about Moses and his relationship with God. What came up for me the other day was God’s response to Moses when asked, “Who should I say has sent me?” God replied, “The God of your ancestors.” Moses said, “Yes, but what’s your name?” God replied, “I am. Tell them I Am has sent me to you.”

What occurred to me is that the story is told in such a way that it is assumed that God really said this rather than that this is what Moses heard. In any case, it’s a brilliant response. Well- I guess that would be true because, after all, God came up with it. It’s a brilliant response for anyone who has practiced meditation or deep prayer because it is that very feeling that we are all trying to achieve. It is the great sense of “I am.”

Isn’t it interested that God did not offer a “rest of the story” as it were. There was nothing to follow the word Am. It is a statement of total being-ness and nothing more. Identity had nothing to do with roles, behaviors or qualities. God is a state of Am-ness. God just “IS.” It’s a very Taoist concept actually.

I remembered when my mom passed away, I did the eulogy for her. I sat for many hours trying to come up with ways to describe her. For every word though, there was a contradiction. She was kind but I could think of many times when she wasn’t so kind. She was funny and often not. Over the course of those days, up until the time I had to speak, I realized that I could not find a way to describe her that would truly capture her essence. Maggie just “was!” But she was fully, “Maggie.” There was no other like her, yet all the qualities I could come up with were rather universal: funny, fierce, kind, etc. Then I realized that the same was true for everyone. It’s so hard to pinpoint anyone and really capture their unique way of being in the world. We are no two alike and yet we are all alike.

I am. I keep wanting to finish that statement. I keep feeling compelled to complete it somehow as if it weren’t complete. Ask me who I am or who you are. It’s a tough one. I simply am. What makes me want to add more? My ego I guess. I want you to know me. But it’s experience with me that has you know me. I could do all the descriptions I want and you won’t have any idea what I’m talking about. You just have to experience me. Even then, all you will have is your own experience of me. It still won’t be who I am. I am who I am. Maybe that’s the part of us that is God.

So what if we trusted that?  What if I trusted that the way I am led, deep from my heart, from that still, silent place- what if I walked with that trust and spoke the words that came to me- even if I stutter a bit.  What if I allowed myself to say yes- YES. I AM!

Wow. Deep thoughts. And I’m not even smoking anything!