Mari’s Blog

The first hard frost. I can see it this morning. It’s there on the path as I head out to turn on the heater in the cabin and then back in for the feeding of the cats and the coffee and, this morning, for peanut butter. Just now I realize I didn’t put the cat dishes up and that Sam will have at it already – no use running back inside now. That’s one of those mindful things I wish I’d remember.  But I did make it through a whole day yesterday without fully closing the door that sticks and having to climb through the cabin’s window!

The stars are more magnificent than the other day. Just stunning. The moon looks like a new moon but I don’t think it is. It’s there in that crescent shape, surrounded by stars. I mean they’re everywhere this morning. It’s the clearest morning ever.

Angie walked her friend George out to meet me yesterday and we talked about the stars and how he was out evening and me morning just glorying in them. He said the time he spent beneath them made him want to put a message on Facebook that everyone needed to get out and look at them. He’s Angie’s guy “friend” and I hope it lasts. He seemed perceptive. He looked at the cabin as if it held clues and asked me about my painting.

I don’t understand people who don’t do that – don’t look for clues to knowing a person, don’t get elated by discovering some small treasure in another human being, don’t delight in idiosyncrasies. I know my dad taught me that through his own sheer enjoyment of odd characters. Maybe some people were taught reserve and to respect privacy, or maybe it’s just hard to retain our curiosity about people and life as we age.

I just heard from one of the young women from the Institute.  She’s a fellow writer and I was taken by her right away. We didn’t have a single big conversation or anything like that, but she was called to read a bit of her writing and it let me in. I guess that’s what I’m talking about…the ways people let us in even when they might not know it. How people can speak to us in all kinds of ways if we’re paying attention, or are curious.

I was so appreciative of being let in by this young writer that on the last day I gave her a copy of The Given Self. She wrote to tell me that it was just what she needed, that in her spiritual inquiry she’d felt subtly discouraged from what was unique in her. She said I had given her permission to be herself.  She is such a beautiful young woman that it is hard to conceive of anyone believing that God or the world would want anything else from her; that she’d think something else was required. But I understand how this happens. I think we all do. We can probably all remember the wonder of taking in that stunning message in A Course of Love, the permission giving, that invitation to be who we are and share who we are.

I’m writing this as I work my way up to responding to her without gushing. Reading what she wrote I had one of those moments…a moment akin to when I read Elliott Robertson’s poetry and felt that if I’d truly encouraged him toward it, as he said I did, I could die happy. Sometimes in the incredible gift of such a moment, it all feels too good to be true. And I get reminded that what is true for this person whom I have somehow had the grace to encourage is true for me too. And that I can’t forget, for a moment, the bravery it often takes to “be who you are.”

I think this necessary courage (which we all must have until we no longer need it) may be the reason why, when we meet a “real” person, someone who lets us in, or someone who invites us to let them in, we feel humbled.

Today I started to clean my car in preparation for my trip to Illinois and the Institute for Sacred Activism.

I found two of my church’s hymnals in the trunk.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked out of church with the hymnal in my hand.  I didn’t realize these were still in my possession until I started this “cleaning out the car” project, but I have corrected my ways. Now, if I find myself unlocking my car door with the book under my arm, I take it right back inside. This is not some little collection of papers but a real book, and the two of them in my trunk gave me pause. If I bring them in the house will I ever get them back to church? And if I don’t bring them in the house, do I want them traveling to Illinois with me?

This was a pleasant little pause on a fine and sunny fall day. I’ve had others as I ready myself to go, and since I just responded to a friend who asked me why I was going, I thought it might be a good time to follow up on my post about Creation of the New with the story of how it relates to my desire to attend the Institute.

To set the scene of the writing of Creation of the New, I have to tell you that it came at the end of my period of solitude. That period began in late 2003 when I first felt myself drawn to its orientation if not the full-out practice of solitude. This happened pretty much through recognizing, as I read a Thomas Merton essay on the subject, that I was indeed being called, and had been for a while. This was a great relief, and I took it very seriously, in large part because I figured nothing else was going to sustain that feeling of relief.

It wasn’t until the summer of 2006 that I actually experienced prolonged periods of solitude though.  That was the summer that my husband completed the building of my cabin in the woods behind our yard, and the first summer that our coffee shop was fully out of business.  I was able to quit doing just about everything other than taking my mom to church on Saturday night, and I sometimes would describe my solitude by saying I rarely got in my car more than once a week.

About midway through this lovely summer, as I was doing a private retreat based on the 40 Days of The Dialogues, I had one of those amazing experiences that don’t sound like much when you tell about it, but that feel nearly miraculous as they happen.

I was journaling, as is my way, about my retreat feelings. What I often did, and still do, is address Jesus as I journal. I call him friend or brother and write “to” him, and every once in a while I would feel a response well up.  I’d call these my “conversations with Jesus.” But this time, the message that arose felt like it would be the end to these conversations. Perhaps I was reading that day in The Dialogues that asks if we are beginning to hear the many voices of the dialogue.  My message, at any rate, was clear. It was time to hear the voice of Christ everywhere and in everything, and to hear the Christ voice within myself as well.

Shortly afterwards I began to write Creation of the New, in a way that felt almost as “receptive” as had A Course of Love, even though it was not the same at all. The voice, for one thing, was not the voice of Jesus, but my own. The feeling of receptivity was more about the flow of the writing and the content, as if they were of one piece. I didn’t stop and “think” about what I was writing, I didn’t have a clue of where it was going, had no intention of starting a book – nothing like that. It was more as if there was a vision that needed to come through me…and was coming.  It was most peculiar, both in method and content.

The vision felt, at first, very cataclysmic…so much so that on the first day of writing…as the initial pages drew to a close, I ran in the house to turn on the television and see if something was going on.  That was the way it made me feel – as if something was happening – as if at any moment the air raid sirens would go off and there’d be some “end of the world” announcement as of a nuclear attack. And strangely enough, when I turned on the TV, which had last been on the History channel, there was a program on about the apocalypse. I was flabbergasted and shaken. It was just one of those documentary type deals, but merely the fact that it was on in that moment felt eerie.

The rest of the writing of Creation went on much unchanged although the feeling of imminent catastrophe began to leave me.

I was about halfway through with Creation when Andrew Harvey comes in, and it wasn’t “in person” or anything like that, it’s just that the day after sharing Creation of the New with my friend Mary, she brought over her copy of “Spirituality and Health” because an article in it, about his vision, sounded just like mine. We sat on the floor of my cabin and she read out loud to me. His language, but even more than that the feel of what he was saying, corresponded so precisely that we both had goose bumps. I’ve wanted to meet him ever since.

This summer, almost exactly five years later, I began to feel compelled to publish Creation of the New. Then, as I began working on it, I happened to see that I could tune into an interview Andrew Harvey was giving. As I listened to him, I felt absolutely certain that it was time that we meet, as well as more certain than ever that it’s time to share Creation of the New.

Creation of the new is spoken of a lot within A Course of Love.  The urgent need for our return to who we truly are is mentioned more than once. We’re charged with elevating the self of form, and told we are to be forerunners of the new. If Creation of the New had come in the voice of Jesus as the fourth volume of the series, I wouldn’t have been surprised, and I would have published it much sooner.  That it came as it did was a big surprise. It took some time for me to work up the nerve to publish it.

Still…it makes some sense to me. If we are to be the voices of the new…well…I guess we have to start to listen to each other.

I didn’t get the formatting right on my first try with Creation of the New. (My friend Terry’s cover was perfect the first time!) I won’t tell you the details of the frustration this additional round of formatting became, only that I got it done and I sent it off. The second proof was to arrive today and I checked outside my front door more than once as I’d ordered it via special delivery, then left to pick my grandson Henry up at school.

It was at the door when we came back. We’d gone on an after-school trek to the library and were later than usual and hungry. I started supper and then, believe it or not, put on a rubber glove. I’ve got the kind of hands that leave smudges on everything anyway, and I’d been making dinner. I just wanted to crack it open and see if, at a glance, the formatting looked okay.  I could only find one glove so I handled the book with the gloved hand and used a towel to hold it. I think I got it right this time. Tomorrow I’ll go through it page by page.

A new book feels like it deserves a sacred ritual. I could recount stories of all my first sightings of books, but I won’t, at least not tonight. I will tell you that none of them were any better than tonight’s look-see, and that is only because what you’ve got to do, soon after the first glance, is sit by yourself and hold your book lovingly, and pat it, and not wear gloves. You have to sit in a chair and read every word. That’s the sacred ritual.  It’s not too unlike a new mother counting fingers and toes once she’s out of the delivery room and has her first moment alone with her new baby.

But it’s a little different each time, and the self-publishing takes away some of the anticipation. Each of my traditionally published books were a surprise. The covers were done with someone else’s creative talents. The interior was set-up by another person’s craft.  The books arrived in a box the size of a crate – author copies they are called. This one came as a lone book and has the word PROOF stamped on the last page.

There’s something about working with words.  My friend Mary was over today, taking a break from the longest video she’s ever been commissioned to create and with as much frustration as I was feeling in the midst of my formatting issues. Her music wasn’t working and she didn’t know what to do to solve the problem.  These “technical” things are not so different creative project to creative project, but what is different with a book is the journey that it always is.  No matter what the subject matter, and no matter if it’s self-published or traditionally published, there’s a story behind why it was written and there’s another story about the process by which it became manifest and another one that’s totally about the “inside job” it is on your psyche.

At least for me it’s all story, story, story and I’m way too close to that story to stand back and evaluate anything other than formatting. I hold my breath fearing typos and it seems all about the literal written word, which might as well be the alphabet at that point. This is why you have to just read…as soon as you can…and see if it carries you anywhere, because that’s the real test. If you can be reading critically, checking for errors, and still get swept away so that you don’t notice or forget that you’re checking, then you can breath a sigh of relief.

I have no doubt this will happen to me with Creation of the New because the whole thing seems to be intended to sweep you away. It’s that kind of language. It’ll grip you or it won’t. You’ll be stirred up or you won’t. I don’t think there’s any middle ground, and I feel that’s been the way with most everything I’ve written. People really like my writing or they don’t like it at all. It’s easy to forget with a book that it has a quality that is like music, and no matter the content, some people won’t like the “sound.” Our listening, whether it is to the words of a book we’re reading or to a piece of music, is subjective.

I know I’m talking about this stuff that can’t possibly be interesting to very many people because I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I can tell you about Creation of the New without talking about the last five years of my life, and the state of the world, and of spirituality and of our souls. I call it a “vision” because it felt more like a vision than a book, and the words were simply about expressing the vision. It’s that kind of book. The kind of book a friend of mine suggested that I might now, as I join with others, begin to understand….

I’ll be joining with others at the Institute for Sacred Activism in less than two weeks. I wanted Creation done before I go so I can bring it with me.  I know it “fits.” It’s part of the literature for this new time. I may not find the right time or place to bring it up, but I don’t need to talk about it specifically to be in the milieu where my understanding may be enhanced.

But the way it “fits” is why this publication is tied to my decision to attend the Sacred Institute and my desire to hand this book to Andrew Harvey. I want to join with others and understand what it is that I created; what this work says, sort of apart from me.  Again, like a child that you someday have to separate from and see for him- or her-self, as she or he is, not as your creation. Not even as your love child. Definitely not as an extension of yourself. And yet at the same time, with no disclaiming. It’s a fine line.  I’m still straddling it with A Course of Love.  I still find it a fascinating thing to ponder, the kind of thing that’s at the root of so much that’s going haywire today.

This is about our ability (or lack of it) to understand and honor and be with what we’ve created, each and every child of our womb or spirit, and at the same time to stand back with enough perspective to find that transpersonal spot, the place a musician finds when the music takes over and is simply coming through to him the way it is to each person in the room, and hanging in the air, and somehow filling him up so that he is it even while it has its own life.

Art is like that to me, and so are spiritual writings. They’re Art with a capital A. Sweeping you away Art. The kind of Art that makes you wonder what hit you, and to scratch your head or rub your chin or gaze off into space and not understand … but feel. You can understand later. That’s where I’m at with this Creation of the New . . . just approaching the gate of understanding.

http://creationofthenew.com

I’ve been feeling the link between gratitude and joy lately.

It started with this moment of gratitude I felt in my kitchen. I was alone in the house, making myself leftover frozen lasagna to eat while I read. I was so overcome by how much I loved doing what I was doing. I felt as if I heard my truest self, or my soul, almost like a bystander, saying, “I just love this.” And I realized in a way I never did before (an almost embarrassing admission) that gratitude is joy.

You know how books and practices recommend gratitude – like Start your day with gratitude – Count your blessings…that kind of thing. That never moved me. Never. But when I realized that the joy I was feeling was gratitude, or the gratitude actually joy, I was bowled over.

And then this morning, walking out to the cabin in the early morning dark, with a light rain falling – the first in weeks – and that fresh smell!…I felt again the gratitude joy. And likewise this evening on the same walk as the smell had suddenly turned to the fall smell and yellow leafs were falling all around me. There it was. The feeling again.  Oh God, I love it so.

I’ve felt joy before, but I never quite got that it is always, always, steeped in gratitude, like a cup of tea that wouldn’t be tea without the steeping. And I never saw so clearly that the gratitude is all about love.