The Enemy

If we loved our enemies, then enemies would cease to exist.

We like to create enemies.

The ego is that part of our consciousness that when we were tiny infants, forms and informs us that we are a separate self – no longer a part of our mother, but US.  

This separation is necessary and healthy to developing an identity, but as we mature, we find that, like most things, there are pros and cons wrapped up in the ego.    

Eckart Tolle says that the ego is the part of our mind that needs an enemy to survive. 

“The content of the ego varies from person to person, but in every ego the same structure operates. In other words: Egos only differ on the surface. Deep down they are all the same. In what way are they the same? They live on identification and separation.

When you live through the mind-made-self comprised of thought and emotion that is the ego, the basis for your identity is precarious because thought and emotion are by their very nature ephemeral, fleeting. So, every ego is continuously struggling for survival, trying to protect and enlarge itself. To uphold the I-thought, it needs the opposite thought of “the other.” The others are most other when I see them as my enemies. At one end of the scale of this unconscious egoic pattern lies the egoic compulsive habit of faultfinding and complaining about others. Jesus referred to it when he said, “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?”   -Tolle

I’ve been in some conversations with friends recently where talk of “the enemy” came up.   In religious-speak, I hear this a lot.  Something bad happens, and it’s the “enemy”.   These friends had stepped out into a new realm spiritually recently and had started to explore spiritual places they’d never been before and give forms of healing to the world that they’d never given before.  Two got quite sick and one had very stressful issues arise in her family.  All three interpreted this as Satan (the enemy) trying to block their endeavors. 

It’s not just religious folk who use this frame.  We all do.   In our lives, we are just going along our merry way, relatively satisfied and something happens to upset our apple cart.  Maybe it’s something we initiated (as with my friends and their new spiritual endeavors), maybe it’s some tragedy or loss that befalls us.  Whatever the case, our sense of self is threatened, we lose our bearings, the rug is ripped out from under us. 

Our ego, in an attempt to recover our sense of self, will want to create an enemy to fight against, rather than allow some part of us to die so that something new can be reborn.    

Consciousness is like a deep, wide, swift-flowing river. On the surface many things are happening and there are many reflections; but that is obviously not the whole river. The river is a total thing, it includes what is below as well as what is above. It is the same with consciousness; but very few of us know what is taking place below. Most of us are satisfied if we can live fairly well, with some security and a little happiness on the surface. As long as we have a little food and shelter, a little puja, little gods and little joys, our playing around on the surface is good enough for us. Because we are so easily satisfied, we never inquire into the depths; and perhaps the depths are stronger, more powerful, more urgent in their demands than what is happening on top. So there is a contradiction between what is transpiring on the surface, and what is going on below. Most of us are aware of this contradiction only when there is a crisis, because the surface mind has so completely adjusted itself to the environment.

– Krishnamurti

 In our attempts to maintain our equilibrium, what enemies are created? 

Satan? 

The person who hurt us? 

God? 

Or perhaps we make an enemy of ourselves and become self-destructive through addiction.  For some, life itself becomes the enemy and depression sets in. 

It’s easy to get stuck in a cycle of fighting against one enemy after another.  In religion, we pray, we enact “faith” in an attempt to overcome doubt, sickness, sadness or grief.  Outside of religion, we may fight the enemy of loneliness with relationships (of many kinds).  We may fight the enemy of sadness with drugs, alcohol, recreation.  We may fight the enemy of boredom with entertainment, shopping, travel.   

Maybe you have your own set of enemies and weapons you use to fight them.

What if we actually LOVED our enemies? 

If we loved our enemies, then enemies would cease to exist.

What if there were no enemy? 

What if the thing you have placed in the role of enemy could be seen as a friend? 

In other words, what if my friends, rather than rejecting their sickness and stress, saw it as a friend that was arising from their depths as a teacher?  They had embarked on a spiritual quest, and had hoped to deepen themselves, and yet when two very powerful teachers – the body and relationships – spoke up and said, “here!  Pay attention here!  There is pain here and if you listen to it, it will teach you something profound and life giving,” they shut it up and shut it down.  

Once we decide that something or someone is the enemy, we don’t have to listen to him.  We don’t have to respect, embrace, learn from or welcome her in. 

You are nothing. You may have your name and title, your property and bank account, you may have power and be famous; but in spite of all these safeguards, you are as nothing. You may be totally unaware of this emptiness, this nothingness, or you may simply not want to be aware of it; but it is there, do what you will to avoid it. You may try to escape from it in devious ways, through personal or collective violence, through individual or collective worship, through knowledge or amusement; but whether you are asleep or awake, it is always there. You can come upon your relationship to this nothingness and its fear only by being choicelessly aware of the escapes. You are not related to it as a separate, individual entity; you are not the observer watching it; without you, the thinker, the observer, it is not. You and nothingness are one; you and nothingness are a joint phenomenon, not two separate processes. If you, the thinker, are afraid of it and approach it as something contrary and opposed to you, then any action you may take towards it must inevitably lead to illusion and so to further conflict and misery. When there is the discovery, the experiencing of that nothingness as you, then fear—which exists only when the thinker is separate from his thoughts and so tries to establish a relationship with them—completely drops away.

– Krishnamurti

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFGs7HP15d4

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Mirror Mirror

life is created from death and decay, pain and suffering, every bit as much as from love

I was talking to my daughter the other day about relationships.  Marriage in particular.  In the conversation we were talking about how marriage, maybe more than any other relationship we have, is the one that holds a mirror up to us.  It shows us who we are and what we are made of.  It exposes our ego and attachments in ways that nothing else ever does.  It forces us to ask the really, really hard questions of ourselves and of life

If we let it.

That’s why it’s so hard.  That’s why it’s transformational.  That’s why it’s so sacred. 

I used to define sacred in terms of something pure, so for marriage to be sacred it had to be pure and undefiled. 

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to feel that everything is sacred and that there is no clear dividing line between pure and impure, sacred and secular, clean and unclean.    

Perhaps I could say that the sacred is that which brings forth life.  And life is created from death and decay, pain and suffering, every bit as much as from love.   It is sacred that death can be transformed into life in this way.   

In relationships, we can fake it with people we don’t live with.  We can fake it with our kids.  We can fake it with our co-workers.  We can even fake it with ourselves.  

But it’s pretty hard to fake it for any real length of time with our spouse. 

Sooner or later, the truth will out and likely as not, our spouse will react in that transformational, mirror-mirror-on-the-wall way that we all hate so much.  Pointing out to us what we are doing, provoking the very ugliest parts of us to burst forth, pulling out our deepest fears of abandonment and rejection.  It feels awful.  It can feel like a death of sorts. 

So, we avoid showing up with real truth and inviting real truth in relationships with the “if I don’t say anything, maybe he/she won’t say anything either” game.  We shut down those we are relationships with by blaming them and making our feelings and unhappinesses their fault.  We spray flat, black paint on the mirror, or we avoid relationships altogether. 

Transformation only occurs when something dies and something new is reborn and death isn’t easy.  Most of us fight against it with everything we have.  Most of us let go of our agendas in life kicking and screaming when life rips them out of our death grip.  Maybe that’s why they call it a death grip.  We are fighting with all our strength against the death of something. 

Funny thing is, when we do let go, something new is reborn. 

And that’s sacred. 

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Loving the “should” demon

nothing will grow in an inhospitable environment.

Recently I was in a day-seminar and the subject of hospitality was discussed.  Not hospitality in the Southern-hospitality sense, with lots of great food, a clean house and a pretty table setting (although that’s fun too).  Hospitality as-in welcoming strangers.  (You might be groaning inwardly, “oh no, are we really going to talk about hospitality?” Fair enough. But hang in there with me.)

The reaction in the room was as you would expect.  Fearful.  Defensive.  Groans (like you might be doing). But the discussion went on, and as you can imagine, the conversation went to a discussion of whether we SHOULD take personal risks when welcoming strangers.  Is it right or wrong to put ourselves and those we love in danger? 

Welcoming strangers sounds nice until you talk about a stranger coming to stay at YOUR house.  Where YOUR things are, YOUR loved ones are. 

Until you are taking a personal risk. 

 I’ve thought about when I’ve opened myself up and when I’ve closed myself down.

 When I was nineteen, I was a house parent to eight emotionally disturbed girls.  Their house became my house - sort of a reverse hospitality, I guess. These were violent girls and I guess they could have hurt me or stolen from me.  It wasn’t that I was more noble than the next guy, I just never considered that.  I was young and naïve mostly. 

I’ve invited a few people who were in need in one way or another to live in my house over the years.  A teenage girl who was being abused by her parents, a single mom who was being abused by her husband, another teenage girl whose mom died suddenly, who wanted to finish out her senior year at her school before moving to another town to life with her uncle.  These were all women and it felt relatively safe to take them in.  I never thought about them stealing from me.  But then again, I didn’t really have anything of value at the time anyway. 

I realized that these opportunities seldom come my way anymore and I wonder why.  Is it because I am not opening myself up to communities that reach out in these ways?  Probably.  My husband and I have talked about taking in refugees, hurricane victims.  He’s not comfortable with it. 

And that’s OK.

I mean, real hospitality can’t be about whether or not we SHOULD take personal risks in welcoming the stranger.  It really can’t be about what’s right and what’s wrong.  When it becomes an act of legalism, we aren’t being hospitable to ourselves.  Hospitality has to start inside. Welcoming the “other” inside ourselves.  Our fear, our reservations, our recoil, our tiredness.  Hospitality has to extend to the people we live with.  Their fears and reservations as well.   If we can’t open ourselves up to the parts of ourselves that we don’t like, or the parts of our loved ones that are different than we are, what makes us think we can open up to persons outside ourselves that we don’t know and might not like?  I feel certain that when we open ourselves up to the other out of some sense of moralistic “should”, the other person can feel that.  They feel like a project or a charity case, they feel put-up-with, or endured, or patronized, not welcomed or loved in the real sense. 

Maybe if we start first with hospitality inside of ourselves.  Then, when we are ready to open ourselves up to the other, it is a genuine act of hospitality. One that comes from a heart that WANTS to bring them in. 

I’ve been thinking about when I’ve opened myself up and when I’ve closed myself down.

I’ve always thought that maybe hospitality was one of my gifts. I can practice hospitality if it means welcoming people into my home, throwing a party, feeding people, getting to know them, listening to their story and sharing my story with them. And yet, I know that I also need more than the average amount of time alone.  I have a pretty big space bubble.   I have a much harder time with hospitality of personal space and the body.  Hugging, touching, being in my SPACE.   At first, as I was thinking about this topic, I thought to myself in my typical “what should I do?” fashion: “I need to open up my space bubble and practice hospitality of my body”.  I tried it.  I wanted to crawl even further away.  I thought this was interesting to observe.

I’ve thought about when I’ve opened myself up and when I’ve closed myself down.

I wondered why body hospitality is different for me, and harder for me than other types.  I thought back to the seminar that day. As we discussed hospitality, it was no surprise that those persons with the most push-back toward hospitality were those who had been taken advantage of, hurt, or someone close to them had been hurt.  One woman’s mother welcomed a stranger into her home and was murdered.  One woman opened her home to a homeless teen and was robbed.   That makes perfect sense.  And it’s the same with the body when it has been intruded upon, taken advantage of, or worse - violated.

In nature, nothing will grow in an inhospitable environment.

Here’s an illustration from nature (because if you know me, you know that biology is my spiritual reference point for most things).   We are in a topsoil crisis in our world today.  Experts estimate that the world could have as few as 60 years of harvests left, due to the fact that we are killing our topsoil.  Deforestation, paving over the soil, and chemicals are some of the ways that we are doing this. Around the world, experts say, about 40 percent of soil used for agriculture is already considered either degraded or seriously degraded, meaning that in this 40 percent at least 70 percent of the topsoil is gone. In total, in the past 150 years, half the topsoil on the planet has been lost.   How is this related to hospitality?  Modern agricultural practices are all about making the environment inhospitable to the enemy.  Weeds, diseases that affect crops, insects.  What we aren’t thinking about is how the practice of making the environment inhospitable to the “enemies” of crops is actually, in the long run going to make the soil – the very thing that we need to grow crops at all – inhospitable.  And then where are we left?   Jesus talked about letting the weeds grow up with the crop.   It’s about grace, and hospitality.  It is a good principle to live by in nature, in our relationships with others and in our relationship with ourselves.

 The more we try to oust the part of us that feels like a threatening stranger, the more we just end up killing the part of us that gives life along with it.  And the same is true with others.  Anytime we force something upon them rather than allowing it to open naturally, we are creating an environment that is inhospitable to the growth of the very thing we are hoping for.  How can we expect anything good to bloom from an inhospitable environment that we’ve created inside ourselves, or inside our homes, with our children, spouse, neighbor, enemy? 

“Shoulds” are just that - inhospitable.

In that light, hospitality is not one of my gifts.  I have drunk deep from the “should” well most of my life.  I have been working for literally YEARS to rid myself of the “should demon” who sits on my shoulder.   And yet, maybe rather than trying to oust the “should demon” I should learn to welcome and be hospitable toward the ‘ol boy.  Give that legalistic asshole some grace for a change.     Grace is hospitality and hospitality is grace.  The opening up to giving the “other” the freedom, and the forgiveness to be a complete asshole – even when that “other” is inside ourselves.  Because here’s the deal:  that asshole inside ourselves robs us and murders us.  It steals and kills our joy, our peace, our relationships, our health.   And yet, if we don’t learn to love it and extend hospitality to it, I’m not sure we can ever extend it to our neighbor, our spouse, our child, our ex-husband or our enemy.

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Burn it down

Sometimes life tears us down and destroys us. It consumes us like a fire.

Today is Ash Wednesday. I’ve been trying to connect more to liturgy out of a sense that spirituality is not mainly accessed through thinking, but more through experiencing.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

This is what is said on Ash Wednesday. I’ve always thought about this as being about death and dying. When we die, we will return to dust. But, it’s also about life isn’t it? Sometimes life tears us down and destroys us. It consumes us like a fire. We are dust. Then life breathes back into us and we are resurrected, only to be burned down again in the fire and return to dust and ashes once more.

Over and over.

I used to rage against this reality. I wanted nothing more than to remain on stable footing. I spent a lot (and I really mean A LOT) of energy trying to maintain some kind of homeostasis in my life. I was angry at the chaos and the fire. I wanted nothing more than simply a life of peace and tranquility.

Ironically, it seemed when I finally accepted that whatever reality is happening in my life at this moment; when I finally decided that reality is not something to be judged, or raged against, but something to experience, and something to drink in; when I opened up to it and welcomed it in, I found the peace I’d been trying so hard to capture all those years.

It is reality, it is the “I Am-ness” of life, that is more God than anything else I know.

Make no mistake, sometimes that reality is like a fire. It burns me down and leaves me choking and crying as my own ashes blow into my face. Then, it breathes life back into me and something new is created.

Over and over.

Jesus said, "I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!"

I read some commentaries on this. Some said this fire was the fire of judgement. Some said it was the fire of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. I didn’t find any that said that this was about the fire that deconstructs and destroys us from within; the continual tearing down and remaking of our egos and our very souls. Religion likes to take spiritual things and make them external rather than internal. But I think that the fire that Jesus came to bring is the fire that immerses us and blazes through us and turns us to dust. And not just us, societies, institutions, principalities and powers. It burns them down too in the hopes that something new will be reborn. That baptism by fire, that death, counter-intuitively is the very thing that brings life.

We are ashes,

grey and cold;

choking and dry,

all that is left.

We are ashes,

all that is left,

after all is lost.

We are dust,

then life’s bellows pour breath back into us,

life dancing around in us.

The next match is struck and burns us down,

or we light the fire ourselves,

or truth kindles a fire in us and burns us to the ground,

destroying everything we thought we knew,

upending our tables.

To dust we return.

We are ashes,

blown by the wind,

becoming one with the soil and the sky,

swimming and floating in the water.

Drunk by the deer and the goat,

taken up by the dandelion,

to become life again.

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Out of the mouths of babes

It’s easy to think that the goal is to be happy.

Today in church, there was the kind of prayer moment where the minister asked people to speak their prayer requests aloud. People spoke out prayer requests for sick loved ones, our country, the homeless, prisoners, and the like. Prayers for health, happiness, freedom, justice. Prayers that we will be freed from sadness and suffering and those around us will be freed from sadness and suffering.

And then a young boy asked for this, “I pray that those of us who are happy can have some sadness so that we know how to help those that are sad.”

It’s easy to think that the goal is to be happy. Somehow that boy knew there is an even more profound goal.

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What will I be?

The following is taken from Ram Dass with the pronouns changed:

At some point you learn to have less certainty about what the future holds, of who you’ll be when you grow up, or how it will all come out.

Fifty years old

Because, when I look at my life now, there is nothing - 25 years ago, 30 years ago …. everything I thought about who I was and how it would come out has no similarity at all to the way it is.

Three years old

The who I am now hardly recognizes the who that was … who I am now feels great compassion for who she was then.

Seventeen years old

I doubt if we’d be much of friends. We would have very little business with one another. She would be very judging of me, which would be very poignant.

Me as a young mother 22 years old

So, I have learned, since i have gone through many transformations of who I know myself to be and how it is, that I must assume that those will continue. There is no reason to assume they won’t, although they may not. Because I can’t know that.

Thirty years old

So, I’m not planning to continue to be who I am forever. It will keep changing.

Forty years old

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In the moment

Maybe it’s just semantics, but it seems that when people say they are living for the moment, there may be regrets or a hangover in their future.

It seems to me there’s a difference between IN the moment and FOR the moment.

Living FOR the moment - is just doing whatever the hell you feel like with no regard to the consequences. Probably not conscious.

Living IN the moment - is paying attention to what is going on in this moment. Being present. Conscious.

Maybe it’s just semantics, but it seems that when people say they are living for the moment, there may be regrets or a hangover in their future.

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Your body is the temple

Is it possible that when the Bible says “your body is the temple of the holy spirit”, it is not saying that we should leave, suppress, and repress the body and find holiness in the mind; but rather go into the body to find god

A temple has historically been a place that cultures have set apart as sacred. A place to go to commune with the Divine. A place to meditate, to rest, to lay down burdens and to worship the source of life, to listen to words of peace and love, a place to heal and to restore the soul.

In the New Testament book of Corinthians, embedded in a paragraph about sexual immorality is this:

Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.

When I was growing up in church, that verse was always used to shame me into right behavior. Don’t do bad things with your body or you will pollute the temple of God.

Blah, blah.

When I did a google search for a picture or a meme for this post, I typed in “your body is a temple”, almost all of the results that came up were about purity, or taking care of the body:

“your body is a temple, not a visitor’s center”

“your body is a temple, keep it pure and clean for the soul to reside in”

“your body is a temple, take good care of it”

“your body is a temple, honor it”

Maybe there’s something more interesting here than just the enforcement of purity or the promotion of clean living.

Maybe there are things that are in sacred writings that are profound in ways that the author had little idea of. Not just the author, but people in general. It’s easy for religion to get so caught up in the business of fear, control or self improvement that they don’t dig any deeper.

Religion communicated to me that the mind and soul were the way to god and were separate from the body. The body would get me (and others) into trouble if it were not tamed, suppressed and silenced.

But what if the body as the temple of god is about understanding that our BODIES are the very place where we will find truth, healing and connection with the Divine.

What if we thought of our BODIES as:

Sacred.

A place to go to commune with God.

A place to meditate.

A place to lay down burdens and to worship the source of life.

A place to listen for words of peace and love.

A place to heal and to restore the soul.

For me, the focus was on using the mind to commune with the sacred. Thinking the right way and believing the right things. Prayer was about talking to God and thinking about God. Worship was about thinking about the majesty of God. Meditation was about thinking about scripture, or some other sacred thought. There was bible study, and reading the right books, and having the right beliefs. Church was about good songs and good sermons and the right theology and the correct practices.

I’ve used my body as a tool and a workhorse to accomplish things. I have pushed it hard. I have tried forcing it into a box that society has created for it. I’ve ignored it when it wanted to sleep. I have punished it when it ate too much. I have ignored its voice when it said “no” because I lacked the courage to speak on its behalf and use my voice to say “no”. I have said hateful things to it because it wasn’t as lean or as beautiful as I wanted it to be. I have hidden it away as it has gotten older and lumpier. I have used it as an object of consumption, commerce, and production.

I was taught to control the body but not how to connect to god through my body.

I’ve not used my body as a temple or a sacred space.

Is it possible that in the story about Jesus clearing the temple, there is a lesson about not using the body as a means of production and consumption and commerce? Is it possible to imagine that clearing the temple can teach us to reclaim our bodies as places of spirit rather than simply machines for the making of money and the building of empires? Or even worse, as objects to be feared, subdued and shamed?

I’ve been renewing my meditation practice these past couple of years. I don’t find rest in my mind or thoughts, on the contrary, I find rest through the body. Through the breath, the senses, the feel of the cushion beneath me, or the hum of the fan in the room.

Is it possible that when the Bible says “your body is the temple of the holy spirit”, it is not saying that we should leave, suppress, and repress the body and find holiness in the mind; but rather go INTO the body to find god. Walk into the temple and sit awhile. Rest with your beating heart, your breath going in and out and feel of your pulse.

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Life is the dancer

it is quite spectacularly beautiful.

In his book "A New Earth", Eckhart Tolle says that life is the dancer and we are the dance.

Life, god, the ground of being goes on and on, bubbling up in various forms.  It has done so for millenia and will continue to do so long after I am gone.  I am just one of the little bubblings.

When my husband and I were in Iceland we walked along a beach that had little bubbling geothermal pockets here and there.  That heat, that energy, that life was underneath all along and everywhere and just burst forth unexpectedly here and there.  The Icelandic people made the best of it; hot pools to soak in, energy to heat their homes, we even saw them bake bread in the ground using the geothermal "bubblings" as ovens.

A lot of the time, I get it backward and start thinking that I am the dancer and life is the dance.  I am the poet and life is the poem.  I am the writer and my life is the story.  It's a lot of pressure to write the script of my life.

Turns out I write tragedy.

But life is the dancer.  It's dancing through me for a little while and dancing through you in a different form.  Life is the playwright playing out a scene in my life and a different one in yours.  Life is the poet writing a poem through me and another through you.

And life, love, God, the universe  - whatever you name it - writes a much more beautiful story than I do.  Overall, it's a story of life, diversity, beauty, and wonder.  Have you ever just looked at nature and thought how amazing it all is?  The colors?  The weirdness?  The wonder of it all?   Oh, sure, it has its moments of tragedy, pain and death, but over the course of the entire show, it is quite spectacularly beautiful.

For we are God’s masterpiece, his work of art, her dance, his story, her poem. God has written us anew through using the word that was there from the beginning, so we can be the dance he planned to dance through us long ago.  Ephesians 2:10  (Paraphrase mine) 

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All philosophical

My heart rises in my throat and I think I might just choke on the sadness of it.

These past months I’ve waxed philosophical about death and how it’s bound up in life.

I’ve thought about evil and how it’s bound up in good.

I’ve stood with my arms firmly planted on my hips in the face of suffering and declared that it’s often just a story I am telling myself and I could tell a different one.

I’ve tried to be all zen about the mess of life, and the tragedy of watching my parents pass away in front of my eyes, little by little, bit by bit.

Most of the time, I’ve been dry-eyed.

All cerebral and philosophical.

And then I read a story about a mother dolphin in New Zealand who is grieving over her stillborn baby and is carrying the body of a her dead calf on her back through the waters  for days and days unable to let it go.

And my heart rises in my throat and I think I might just choke on the sadness of it. That mother dolphin. Who can’t get all philosophical about her suffering. All she can do is experience it. And she carries it for days and days.

I’m haunted by her and I can’t breathe. So I push her away because I’m not as courageous as she is. I can’t hold on to it like she can. I have to let it slip into the depths so that I don’t.

https://people.com/pets/mourning-mother-dolphin-carries-dead-baby-for-days/

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