A fearless love of life

The most beloved compliment I've ever received was from my brother, John. He told me that he admired my "fearless love of life."

It has always stuck with me, perhaps because I've never seen myself as particularly fearless. (By the way, see my companion post from a few years back starting with this same compliment.)

Recently, a colleague of mine introduced me to a podcast called Invisibilia. It is produced by NPR and focuses on the invisible forces that shape our lives. The particular episode I listened to this evening was on the topic of fear. 

Not to overshare about the episode, because it is definitely worth a listen, but they come to the semi-scientific conclusion that people who are biologically more fearful are less likely to be involved in fear-inducing situations, yet see those fewer experiences as very traumatic. Conversely, people who are less fearful are less traumatized by the more frequent number of fear-inducing situations they experience.

That was the moment I became hooked; when they posed the question (after thoughtful, thorough and entertaining examples) of whether it is better to be fearful or fearless. 

I have always loved that one (and maybe all) of my big brothers saw me as being fearless. It was a badge I wore with pride once I was made aware of it -- and it was something that fueled me past my comfort zone when jumping out of an airplane, among other risky bets.

Perhaps I am biologically built to take on 'scarier' experiences with greater grace than the average Jo(sie). Though I was then made to question that supposition as I listened to the podcast explain that most fears are learned rather than inherited. For instance, kids are not instinctually afraid of snakes. The narrators take a fairly long byway on the snake topic but it's worth hearing the SNL-esque "Snake in a sock" sound effect, and the thought-provoking idea that snakes are "sailing around on currents of our fear" based on skydive sweat tests. 

Anyway, after the snake-subject meandering, I wasn't quite as confident that I was just naturally fearless. People can learn to conquer their fears. Which, I suppose doesn't negate that you might be born more, or less fearless than the next person.

But the really, really, really interesting part to me was when the podcast concluded. 

I sat in reflection and recognized how happy I was to have had my insight horizons broadened by this 60-minute podcast. Because I've given up pop music in favor of Christian music for Lent, the song that started playing in my mind was, "...Blest be the Lord, Blest be the Lord. The God of mercy, the God who saves."

And then I literally chuckled out loud when my inner speaker continued to the next line: "I shall not fear the dark of night, nor the arrow that flies by day."

Maybe my fearlessness is a bit natural, a bit learned, and a lot intentional blessing for the purpose God has in mind.

A Spirited Run

I’m not a runner. Well, technically I trained for a 5K and completed it with only a few walk breaks but I think there’s a reason you don’t see 3.1 car stickers. Anyway, because I’m not a runner I’ve never experienced the delightful-sounding “runner’s high.” That moment when you transcend sidesplitting, shin-aching drudgery to a Zen-like oneness with your path.

I have however known the enjoyment of being so engrossed in an enriching activity that it felt like I was “in the zone.” Things were just flowing, my body was an extension of my mind and they were in perfect harmony. Man, that’s an awesome sensation.

There’s also the uniquely satisfying feeling of epiphany. That aha moment when an insight strikes. Two previously uncorrelated ideas come together in a magnificent pairing that just makes sense. Once you’ve thought the thought, you can never un-think it.

What I find interesting about all of these situations is that they often follow what neuroscientists and human behaviorists would describe as a struggle-struggle-exasperation-burst sequence. When we quit trying to control the outcome and instead give in, that’s when the subconscious magic happens.

You’re running, you’re running, you’re hating life, you’re running, you’re running, and out of nowhere all is well in the world.

You’re encountering resistance to your project, you’re trying to find new alternatives, you get ready to start a new task and suddenly you find you’re knocking the project out of the park.

You can’t figure out the solution, you pull an all-nighter just turning the problem over and over in your mind, you finally opt for a shower and boom, the answer stares you in the face.

While all of this is fascinating (IMHO) you may be wondering what it has to do with spirituality. Indulge me a few minutes more.

It was Friday. Since I give up meat every day (though technically I’m vegetarian by choice, not as an act of devotion) I had decided that this Lent I would give up dairy and eggs on Friday as a special sacrifice; I’d be a Lenten Vegan.

While I wasn’t fasting per se, eating food without cheese is super boring so my lunch had been pretty basic. Then it was time for daily Mass at 5:30 and the act of kneeling plus fewer (and blander) than usual calories paired with a high-pitched hum in the back of church left me feeling tired. Exhausted, really.

I offered up my fatigue and acknowledged that I had enjoyed more food, more sleep and less stress than many millions of other people in the world that day. I kept on “churching,” and suddenly the hum became an energetic vibration resonating within my very being. The feeling of exhaustion became surrender and I released that pesky trait of trying to keep the whole world in order all on my own.

My hunger and tiredness became an invitation to experience the Mass differently. In that moment the scripture readings took on a different tenor, the pleasant smiles of others in the pew took on greater warmth. My environment was changed because I was changed. I knew that I was unequivocally at the right place at the right time. Or more truly, at His place at His time.

It wasn’t a complete transformation. Let’s be honest, about 35 seconds after this blissful moment my stomach growled, my back ached and I pulled my coat around my shoulders to fight off the chilliness of a sparsely attended church.

But I could still savor that moment when I let go, and let God. It was the taste of a spiritual runner’s high. (And for the record, it was way better than cheese.)

Where have all the Prophets gone?

Late-90s singer Paula Cole pondered about the loss of rugged cowboys. My question is less relationship-related and focused instead on the mouthpieces of God. Those great, enlightened sages like Isaiah and Ezekiel. Judging purely by the antiquity of those names I'm led to ask, Where my prophets at?

Spoiler alert: The answer is under your nose. Literally below it by about an inch.

Most tales of the prophets may be just that; tales. Exaggerated fish stories. I don’t say that to diminish the importance of prophets nor their message. My point is simply that prophets, like Jesus, were humans. Dudes and dudettes placed on this very Earth. 

What was unique about prophets was their ability to share the revelations born of their relationship with God. We’ve heard that God has spoken through the prophets (heck it’s in the Nicene Creed) and I believe that. But should we assume that prophets were extra-holy? Extra-human? Free from error?

Surely there are examples of prophets contradicting one another. So, what? Does that mean God is a flip-flopping hypocrite? Or does it mean that just like recording a song and playing it back over MP3 versus LP versus Spotify, the replay quality degrades. It’s imperfect. When God speaks through humans it’s not God “live” – it’s God “on-tape.” 

So how do you get access to a live recording? PRAY!

Each one of us can call upon that ultimate holy musician and listen quietly for the sometimes imperceptible (though sometimes booming and clanging) voice of God. And then we go out and tell our story. We talk about our relationship with God and the promises it reveals. We become prophets.

Now I’m sure scholars would argue (probably accurately) that I’m using the word “prophet” too loosely. And maybe I’m not even using it correctly at all. Though a quick Google search educates me:

Maybe I’m not so far off, or maybe the more proper word is “evangelist” or who knows. Mea culpa. If my words fail it’s because they’re human words. If my meaning sticks, it’s because it’s God’s message. 

I guess in summary, being a prophet doesn't necessarily mean a life lived on the corner of main streets with a cardboard sign. It may not mean leaving your career and family behind. Being a prophet means following the call God sets out uniquely for you. For me, it was publishing this post. For another prophet, it might mean sharing a smile with somebody discouraged or taking an extra moment to show kindness to a stranger. 

If you are inspired to proclaim God's will in any shape or form, then according to Google and my rationale, YOU are a prophet. May the Lord help each of us to earn that title daily.

Bad day rant

I am having a really bad, no good, terrible kind of day. Okay, it’s actually not that bad – I have buckets to be grateful for and nothing has actually gone wrong.

Yet I just feel so “bleh” and dejected. What’s up with that?

The most interesting part is that I don’t care to make myself feel better. I could rattle off a million things I could do that would put me in a better frame of mind. I have all sorts of coaching tips and tricks to knock me over the doldrums fence. And I have prayers galore that would instantly raise my spirits. But I’m not interested. I am such a happy, up, all is great-all the time kind of gal that I’m finding some strange satisfaction in being unhappy. Now really, what is up with THAT?

Maybe it’s actually an act of compassion. Because I am usually so positive myself, perhaps it is sometimes difficult to relate to others that were born with a more pessimistic (or as they would likely say, reality-driven) streak.

Maybe it’s an act of surrender. If God and the stars and nature and whatever other voodoo-jou-jou is conspiring to make me have a rough day, then I’m best to just accept it. Why fight the toxicity when you can just let it flow right past.

It could be an act of prescience. Maybe this is just the wake up call I need to realize some ailing element in my life. I may look back at this day in weeks to come and recognize that my bad day was the sign of some major change.

Perhaps it’s an act of observation. An opportunity to watch it, question it, examine it – but not attach to it. How very Yogi of me.

Or maybe it’s just a not-so-bad, not-so-great, not-so-terrible day and one should not waste timing writing about in a blog. And instead move on to whatever the next moment holds. Because maybe it will be joy or it will be sadness, but this current bleh moment is moments away from being in the past.

My Thermostat: Is Seeing, Believing?

Living in the Midwest has been interesting this summer. More articulately, it’s been hot. Record heat, dramatic drought, it’s definitely been trying. And so thank goodness I’m fortunate enough to have an air-conditioned home; even if I keep the thermostat set high. I like the heat, but I do have a limit.

It seems my air conditioner had a limit, too. Somewhere around the fourth consecutive day of 105+ degree temperatures I noticed my home was warmer than usual. It was in the evening and the thermostat thermometer read 79 so I decided to sleep on it and see what the next day brought. (Rookie homeowner mistake.) The next day I was met with unquestionable heat and a thermostat in the 90s. The repairmen were booked for the day, “Oh, honey you should have called last night, you know we book up all our appointments the evening prior.”

I sweated through another balmy night and the next day the repairman arrived, replaced some stuff and voila! cool air was once again blowing through the vents. At this point it was afternoon so my house had been baking in the sun and had no intention of cooling off quickly. Cut to later that evening, the thermostat now reads 87 but surely the house couldn’t still be that warm. I hold my hand up to the air vent and yes that is definitely cool air. I think it’s cool air. It seems cool. Hmm. Well, it’s definitely air moving. I ask my friend who has braved the sauna-house and she confirms it doesn’t feel like 87. But maybe it’s just because it’s so hot outside? Hard to tell, really.

Finally, after the sun set and my house had a fair chance in the fight to cool it, my thermostat returned to its usual temperature and the house felt ‘right’ again. As I settled into bed, comfortable for the first time in several days, I reflected on how strange it was to “feel” something but to “see” something else. My senses were telling me cold air was blowing and that the house was cooling off and yet my brain was processing a numerical figure and trying to make right the dissonance.

Oftentimes with faith we ask to see so that we may believe; “Just give me a sign, God.” But sometimes what we see makes us question what we believe; “How could a loving God do that?” As a perpetual optimist, I’m often slapped with the comment; “You simply see what you want to see.” And as a Catholic who sometimes struggles with the institution; “You only believe what you choose to believe.”

Maybe it’s a classic “both, and” situation. Both the house was hot, and the air was cool. Both my brain, and my senses were ‘right’ in their judgment. Seeing is both believing, and doubting. Just as faith may be both anchoring and releasing.

The Slinky: A Study in the Spectrum of Sin

I recently had an insight (while searching for an alliterative headline) that the Slinky proves an excellent analogy for the spectrum of sin between good and bad that I have been noticing lately. If you will, imagine a slinky from your childhood and label one end “good,” or right relation and one end “bad,” or sin.

Now think about that Slinky when compacted and held tightly together. The distance between the good and bad is very, very short – perhaps an inch. Or if you imagined a metal version versus the plastic kind, that distance may be even less.

Next, consider the Slinky extended wide, accordion-style with one end stretching long to the other end with good to bad being very, very far apart. I think this helps me understand how before, within an inch you could cross from good to bad. But now with the distance of an inch, you are simply one inch away from good. You might even be six inches away from good but still be on the healthy side of the good to bad spectrum. This comforts me when I see where I stand on an issue compared perhaps to where my peer group or family stands on that issue. Even though I may be more liberal or farther away from the “good” starting point, I still haven’t crossed over to the sin side.

Then I also think about a Slinky sitting at the top of a staircase. With just a simple push the Slinky is sent on a collision course of top over bottom, good over bad, good over bad. I’ve also felt like this before in my sin life. Like I’m tumbling over and over and unsure which way is up.

Or, imagine when you hold the Slinky ends in both hands. You lift your left hand, everything cascades to the right. You lift your right hand, everything cascades to the left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Good. Bad. Good. Bad. Just when you think you’ve lost a particular dirty sin, habitual momentum brings it right back.

And then for those who’ve ever seen a toddler with a Slinky, or a Slinky that met its demise through an unfortunate encounter with the family pet, you can see how completely gnarly the spectrum of sin can get. You may be much closer to the opposite end that you realize, all the while thinking you’re comfortably sitting aside good.

All of this is to say that while good and bad may be concrete, defined, black and white concepts, the spectrum of sin seems to expand and contract. It seems to allow more room on some issues than on others and is much harder to pin down.

Corpus Christi: A Celebration of Non-Violence

In yoga, we talk about the notion of ahimsa, non-violence. And to me, that hits home when I am able to detach myself from the inner monologue and become a simple observer. In those moments I tend to detect the most violence I've had to endure. It is a battle waged against myself. As a rule, I think, we cut deepest with those whom we love most. Perhaps it’s because we know their weak spots or perhaps because we know they'll love us unconditionally. Perhaps it’s because they are the closest extension of ourselves. And like I said, the inner monologue is a place of great violence. Filled with insecurities and confusion, the turmoil of regrets and anticipations, the will versus the spirit. It can get downright ugly.

For me, ahimsa isn't something that happens on the street. It happens in my own headspace. And the beauty, I believe, is that when the violence stops inside, it seems to make the anger and judgment and attitude and righteousness and indignation stop on the outside toward others. If we can learn to gently accept the inner monologue, we can start to see the whole world as a dialogue.

Ahimsa is a Sanskrit word. Corpus Christi is a Latin phrase. Both are grounded in God. Jesus was the recipient of extreme violence while living a life of ahimsa – He called it “love.” In Eucharist we celebrate His body being broken for us through the breaking of the bread. Perhaps this Corpus Christi we can also celebrate the breaking down of violence both physically and in our own minds and see God’s pathway to ahimsa, to non-violence, to acceptance, to love. Love both outward and inward.

The VERBal Presence of Jesus

Having moved from St. Augustine’s parish in Oakland to return to my home state of Missouri, I found myself missing many aspects of the parish but especially the community I felt with my small faith sharing group. Several other members of the group had also moved on to their next professional or personal destination and so a few of us starting doing a Google Plus video ‘Hang Out’ once a week during Lent. We followed the same materials as the small groups gathering in Oakland but instead we were a virtual bunch, spanning four time zones to come together and share.

We didn’t know how it would work. Could faith translate across the Internet? Would it be awkward to share personal stories when you were sitting alone in your home? Would technical difficulties make the exchange feel robotic rather than intimate?

It was clear after our first session that those concerns were all unnecessary. God’s presence was as real had the group been gathered together physically. And perhaps that is because God typically reveals himself in actions. “Verbs not nouns,” as we heard Father Mark speak about last week – I had the good pleasure of being physically in Oakland for this homily but could have also experienced it over the webcast – Jesus comes to us in the breaking of the bread. In that action. In that verb. Faith is an active experience, it is not passive. Love requires action. God calls us to love others, to accept others, to appreciate others. Verb, verb, verb.

And so with the faith sharing group, God calls us to share. He does not stipulate the method or the delivery vehicle, just simply that we should commune with one another.

Lent for Life

Image: David Castillo Dominici / freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=3062

I was whining to my mother the other day, “I really sucked at Lent this year.”

After I took a harder look at the commitments I had made and how I had been doing, I realized I was perhaps being overly critical – which is common when Achiever and Maximizer are in your ‘Top Five’ strengths.

Even so, I couldn’t shake a woe-is-me feeling about Lent. Then it struck me; in year’s past I had given up things. I would go 40 days without beer or pizza (no small act of will) as a testament to my love of God and a desire to grow closer to Him. This year I had focused less on sacrifice and more on behaviors and actions that I hoped would become habitual, like praying the rosary or seeking to see Jesus in others.

Historically I was accustomed to a jolt of energy in the last week of Lent. A feeling much like nearing the end of a laborious workout. But building habits doesn’t have a finish line. And when one of your Lenten goals is to dissolve pride, a cry-baby ego asking for a pat on the back was proof that I would need much more than just another week to make good on what I’ve promised God.

So while I’ve been able to enjoy pizza and beer, it appears I’m taking the extended Lent course. And my ego will have to do without the high five, because Lent (and Life) simply isn’t about me.