How Could You?!

Jill died in 1975.  She was 10 years old.  I was away when she died, across the country at a spiritual retreat.  “How could You,” I cried!  “How could You take her while I am away, striving to do Your will, striving to come to know You better, how could You take my daughter from me?!! “  

Jill had epilepsy.  She had seizures that would last from a few minutes to several hours in a raging nightmare of non-stop seizures called status epilepticus.  She had her first seizure when she was a year and a half, chasing her new puppy across the back yard.  Suddenly she fell forward with a force that looked as though she had been thrown.  By the time of her death she had been to every doctor and hospital in the surrounding area.  There was no help for her; only an increase of medications that made her listless and unable to walk, looking more like a drunk on a sidewalk than an 8 or 9 year old child.

And yet... “How could You?”

What faith I had was sorely tested.  Gradually over the years I began to find I could almost accept her death.  There was never a time that the thought of her would not bring me close to tears or at times be ravaged by the sudden memory, clear and golden, of her beautiful face and shiny bright blue eyes.  And then the struggle to regain any sense of faith or meaning would ensue.  But gradually, I began to find a semblance of faith and trust returning.  But there was always that final place, that hidden center that would shrink back when touched... could I ever really, fully trust Him again?

And then in my sixties I too began to have seizures.  First only moments of disorientation but gradually full seizures during the night, which my husband witnessed but I only knew by my swollen tongue or bruised lip when I awoke.   For nearly five years I watched as this illness progressed aware that medical science had nothing further to offer me than it had offered my daughter but eventually, through the grace of Allah and deep tawba, these seizures stopped.  And it was then that something began to open.

In prayer one morning I began thinking about this healing and feeling such deep gratitude.  In particular I remembered thinking because these seizures had only happened at night, I had been able to keep driving.  If these had been daytime seizures I would have had to stop driving, a particular trial since my husband and I had just moved to a farm out in the country, 30 miles from the nearest town.  And as I thought about this grace,  I began thinking about Jill.  She would never have been able to drive or to have a child—how could she even give a child a bath if at any moment she could be rendered unconscious leaving the child to drown?  Jill’s life would have continued to be a series of woundings, both emotional and physical as she struggled with this debilitating illness.  And slowly I became aware that her death was a mercy for her, a gift of release from this suffering and in that dawning awareness I saw too that her death was also a mercy for me.  Who suffers more than a parent for their child?

Later, someone asked, “If this was a mercy, then why did she have epilepsy in the first place?”  My only response is that God knows who I am and who He created me to be and He knew that this trial was the only way I could come to love and trust Him from the deepest level of my soul.  And so I am grateful for His love and mercy that surrounds me and fills me and keeps us both safe.

Two Stories

Sissy-Pie Face

I just got in from a walk and am sitting in the window seat in my office, my sanctuary.  The sun is shining in over my right shoulder and I am finally writing. My Jilly-doll is holding my phone so it will not vibrated on the window ledge should it ring or a million text messages, or FB posts come through.  So I will not be disturbed here while I write.  

I called my sister, Jini, this morning to read her the story from “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott about the young boy who, when asked if he would donate a pint of blood to his younger sister who had leukemia and might die, said he needed to think about it over night and then the next morning said he would donate the blood.  In the hospital the nurse drew a pint of blood from him and as he watched, dripped that blood into his sister’s arm.  When the doctor asked how he was doing, the young boy asked, “How soon until I start to die”...  

I cried when I read the story to myself and felt an immediate need to call someone and share it.  John was getting ready to leave for his Arabic class, so he was not available.  I did a quick inventory of who might be open enough, present enough or willing enough for an emotional up-ending.  I knew how intense this bit would be to someone new to Anne Lamott or to my emotional response to her telling this story, so it had to be someone who could take the intensity cold turkey.  Jini was the only one who could be immediately and fundamentally open to receive, so I called her.

Just out of bed, barely awake, she said, “Sure, go ahead, read it.  Do you mind if I pee?”  No problemo!  So I read her the story and she grasped it, gradually at first but then full blast and we both cried.  Then I told her about the Bill Moyer interview with Wendell Berry that I had listened to the day before and as I exclaimed how beautiful, reassuring it was, she logged into her computer and pulled up that interview.  We listened together for a while, her on her computer, me listening through my iPhone, until one of her dogs had an accident on the floor behind her as she petted his head.  Jini, being a long time dog owner and dog sitter, was not overly distraught. She laughed and said she should go and we hung up.

Jini is always ready to play.  Years ago she coined the phrase “sissy-pie face,” a term of endearment for her sisters and ever since all Druliner sisters are sissy-pie face.  She is always ready to jump in with both feet into whatever might be afoot, one of her most resilient  charms.  She is older than me by three years and recently began having problems with her heart which twice put her in the emergency room. These events have cut to my core.  I am not ready Lord, to have her return to You!  

She has always been and continues to be one of my most stalwart supporters, my touchstone in stormy weather.  When in desperate need, I turn to her; her voice, her demeanor, a stabilizing presence.  My mom’s voice was never as comforting as my sister’s.  My mom had a lot to carry so no wonder she could not be there in a heart beat, but Jini can!  So let her heart continue to beat!  Let her familiar voice continue to be one I can turn to day or night, and just a phone call away.  

***

Heart, Mind, Soul, Body and Spirit

Yesterday as I was dressing and preparing for the day, I imagined saying to a group gathered to write that the heart, mind, soul, body and spirit are all levels we need to care for in ourselves.  Care of the heart, is the love, the sorrow, the longings; care of the mind, is seeking understanding and wisdom; the soul, finding our way to what is deepest and most true inside us; the body, caring for what we eat, what we see, hear, taste, touch and smell; and spirit, is that which is beyond expression yet unites us.  These are the things that need our attention, our help, our work.  There is no one aspect that can be denied or overlooked.  However, it seems that writing synthesizes all the parts, brings them out from behind the veils that distract and deform our sense of what is important or real.  Writing seems to clarify our deepest understanding of who we are and what this whole life experience is about.

When I was walking up the Farm road today, I could not contain, nor should I, the glory, the majesty, the beauty of the clouds against a pure blue sky, or the orange-gold leaves amidst the still verdant green, or the red bushes and parched green grasses and filaments of purple weeds waving in the cool breeze.  I could not grasp it nor open myself wide enough to receive it and let it consume me so that I ceased to exist.  I wanted to.  I wanted to let go of my meness and merge and disappear into this magnificence.  But I could not will it; I could only be grateful for this exquisite rendition of a perfect Fall day.  To what felt like thunderous applause from the beauty around me, all I could say was thank you; all I could do was to feel gratitude for this sublime moment.

And here I am, still sitting in the window, sun pouring in over my right shoulder, hearing the sounds of silence and pen scratching on paper, my Jilly-doll still holding my phone and my heart still longing to reach you and knowing at the same time that this is you.  All this is you.  And I get to know you in heart, mind, soul, body and spirit.

And Dance I Will

Perhaps because I think it is all up to me

I fall down in a helpless lump

Despairing and waiting for the hammer blows.

Is there something learned at an early age

That I didn’t learn:

To have confidence in oneself and God?

But how do I manage now

Without that network of experience

To support my daily efforts?

Each step is an act of faith and surrender

Learning to dance while in free fall

Learning to dance on the wind.

And dance I will

And dance I will

July, 2003

Jamila Davies

Oh My Gosh!

When I drop inside to write, it is silent, quiet, almost serene, except for the anxiety of what to write now that I am on the clock!  “Whose clock,” you ask, “Yours or Allah’s?”  Both!  His clock is not one I can read or set or adjust.  His timing is His alone.  My clock on the other hand is one I set.  “I am going riding tomorrow at 9AM, or to yoga Monday, Wednesday & Friday also at 9AM.” And I have found  I can be on time places.  And I have finally—not finally—nothing is ever finally until Allah calls time; but I have finally learned what is required to get places, any place, on time. Amazing!  I have not been able to do this most of my life but now it seems there is a prescription--always add an extra 15 minutes before departure for the “oh my goshes.”  You know, the “I was supposed to take some flyers with me” or the “where are my keys, wallet, purse, phone, etc?  Or how about all the things you take with you out to the car which takes time to gather and then to carry:  the recycling, the yoga mat, the water bottle, the dry cleaning and the cup of coffee.  And what if it rains, do you need your umbrella?

So it takes an extra 15 minutes for the “oh my goshes” and then the time you figured it takes to drive to your destination will actually work.  But if you forget the “oh my goshes” in your planning, you will be 10 minutes late—every time.

And so, my advice to you, dear self, is plan an extra 15 minutes into every trip; otherwise the “oh my goshes” will come back to haunt you, as the flashing lights of a police cruiser in your rear view mirror calls your attention to the abundance of speed at which you are driving to make up for lost time: “Oh My Gosh 75 in a 55!”  That’s going to hurt a lot worse than leaving that news article half read on the kitchen table in order to get out the door on time.

Loving the Places that Hurt

We are hard on ourselves.  We say, “Shape up!  Get a grip.  Grow up!”  Rarely do we say, “Oh sweetie, it’s OK.  You can cry.  Snuggle up here and let your heart break.”

If your little child came running in with a scraped knee or shin, you wouldn't tell them to “Buck up!”  No, you would pick them up and rock them in your arms, cleaning their wound with a soft cloth and putting something gooey and healing on it and then making them a cup of cocoa.  Wouldn't you?

So why not give yourself love when you are falling down weeping and inconsolable?  Why not take ourselves in our own arms, holding and rocking ourselves, cleaning the wound with the soft cloth of mercy and applying something gooey like love to the place that hurts?  Maybe make yourself a piece of toast or a cup of tea?

The places that hurt are simply expressions of our own heart’s longing to be held and comforted.  “Get over it!” is not the prescription for a broken heart.  Rather, embrace it, smoother it with kisses.  Let your heart cry and weep and heal in the comfort of your love.

When you love yourself, something magic happens.  Something loves you back.  Or put another way, “When you find the love, you find yourself.” – Sidi al Jamal

Who is the Farm of Peace?

The Farm of Peace is an oasis, a place of rest and refreshment.  It is a hope, a dream, a prayer.  It is a sanctuary.  We create it for ourselves, for our friends, our brothers and sisters, our children and their children, for the world’s children.  It is a quiet place away from a dizzying world.

Who is the Farm of Peace?  We are the Farm.  We carry the message.  We carry it in our hearts and convey it in our thoughts, our words and deeds.  We come to the Farm to drink and to refresh ourselves, our sense of purpose and our connection; and we carry that into the world.

We are stewards of this beautiful gift.  Those who live on or near the Farm and all those who visit, strive to honor the deep commitment made to this vision and to keep the physical place vibrant.  There are roads to maintain, clear, plow and resurface.  There are animals to feed, lambs to birth, and sheep to slaughter.   There are bees to raise, honey to extract, eggs to gather, gardens to hoe, plant, weed and harvest.  There are fruit trees to nourish, protect and enjoy.  There are berries to plant and pick; pies to make and muffins to bake.  There are lessons to plan, children to teach, games to play and hikes to take.  There are trees to fell, logs to split, wood to carry and fires to build.

And then there are hearts to mend.  There are workshops to hold, announcements to make, mailing lists to update, newsletters to write, messages to send, phones to answer.  There are windows to wash, beds to change, floors to mop, laundry to wash, dry and put away.  And there are meals to prepare, shopping to do, menus to plan, tables to set and kitchens to clean. There are practices at dawn and prayers five times each day, dhikrs twice a week with Jumuah on Friday.  And there are special events each summer when our holy guide pays us a visit or children come to play in week-long camps. 

And all this is done in service to the vision, to create a place of peace and renewal for all those who wish to come.  But the land in Warfordsburg is not the Farm.  We are the Farm.  Each of us is the Farm.  The Farm of Peace, the non-profit is you and me and we are what make up the Farm of Peace.

Our Sweet Bonnie

Words are such helpless little mechanisms for trying to convey the deeper emotions.  They are great in baseball: “And the hitter smashes one out of the park!” No doubt we all know what that looks and feels like.  But loss is a whole other ballgame.

Loss is so personal, so individual.  There is no one but you who knows those moments you cherish or when those moments will come roaring to the surface tearing at the fabric of your day, leaving you weak and weeping.  Only you know the personal, intimate details of the life you shared with your beloved.  So no comfort I can offer will every really hit the mark, only this.

Those moments of searing memory are a blessing and in time you will welcome each as an honored guest because in those moments your loved one is fully present; not just a memory but alive and real and tangible in your heart and mind.  And secondly, you will come to know that you are never really separated; you will come to know her in every branch and leaf and limb, every blue sky and white cloud, every sunset, every sunrise, every smile that says love to you, every gesture that was hers and hers alone.

I wish I could be with you on Saturday, in person, but will have to simply be there in spirit in the love and shared memory of our sweet Bonnie.  So as my mother said to us each night as she tucked us in, “May God bless Your Heart,” may God bless each of you as you remember, release and let go because Bonnie has just hit a home run!  

Spiritual Writing—Healing Through the Pen

“So it is time to begin.  Just open and let the words flow.  Listen for the inner direction, feel the sensation and write.”—Jamila Davies

This is the practice—writing from the heart—using the written word to open yourself to deep healing, something you can put on paper in your own words but linked to your soul. 

The power of journaling is that it allows me to express and release powerful emotions on the page and once on paper, to gain a perspective, something that isn’t always possible while the chaos rages around inside.  In her book Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg, says, “This book is about writing.  It is also about using writing… as a way to help you penetrate your life and become sane.”  Writing Down the Bones was first published in 1986 and revolutionized the way writing is taught in this country.  Nearly thirty years later it is still one of the top writing books sold. 

Writing for me has always been about writing to know what I am feeling, writing to get in touch with the deepest sense of my own being and deepest wisdom.  Judith Guest, author of Ordinary People wrote, “Writers do not write to impart knowledge; rather, they write to inform themselves.”

I have 40 years of journals in two trunks in my living.  Often writing is a chance to wail on the page to find my way to the truth, often a scorching, careening dive into the secrets of my soul.  Other times it is a “things to do” list, a prescription for getting my life together: diet, exercise, cut my hair, color my hair, fall in love, fall out of love, forget everything—do nothing! 

However, there are times when journaling is a transcendent connection to the energy of the universe.  I connect with something that is both me and beyond me and for those few moments, feel a connection to the very fabric of life, consciousness itself.  But these moments are few and far between, like a runner’s high, something that happens spontaneously and unbidden after years of running but only now and then. 

Now it seems I have found a way to tap into this transcendental connection more easily, beyond my idea of who and what I think I am, to the essence of who I am.  And that way is through spiritual writing or writing from the heart.

What is spiritual writing?  It begins with a practice called “Remembrance,” a Sufi practice of repeating the name of God in the silence of my own heart and opening to what is deepest in me in that moment and then beginning to write, using the principles Goldberg outlined in her book called “writing without stopping.” 

The combination of “Remembrance” and “writing without stopping” produces insights and breakthroughs not usually experienced without years of writing practice.  Even those who have been writing for years say the process allows for more insight and epiphanies.  Writing from the heart breaks down the barriers and allows me to connect to my most intimate self and to reveal that wisdom or insight on the page as if God is revealing Himself to me in my own words.

This shift in my consciousness, of opening my heart to directly perceive that deep voice of wisdom within me, allows me to more easily let go of my idea of how things should be and open fully to the almost magical experience of how things are.  Spiritual writing is a tool that helps me make this transition. 

My sister once said, after birding for hours on Sauvie Island, a beautiful wildlife refuge on the Columbia River near Portland, Oregon, that something shifted inside her and she became aware of a sensation that she described as “nuzzling the cheek of Power.”  In that open exchange between herself and the beauty she witnessed, she came face to face with that Divine essence.  The same is true of spiritual writing.  Through an open exchange with my own deepest self, I come face to face—I open the door and God steps in. 

Writing from the Heart

Today I was reading an article on Technology of the Heart about Sonic Theology which spoke about the Light of Allah being felt deep within the heart and expressed or translated by the mind into the spoken word.  Here is a partial quote from Dara O. Shayda and Hind Rifai’s work as excerpted from that webpage:

“Allah’s Kalima  (Word), as far as the relationship with the human being is concerned, is a Nur (Divine Light) that is lucent within the human heart. This Light is felt within and observed by the mind which may translate this luminosity from deep within the heart into spoken words…  The mind then is the ‘translator’ of Nur (Divine Light) from within the heart into human speech… “

So spiritual writing is not a euphemism—it is the actually connection of the writer to the light deep within their own heart where that light finds expression through their own words.  As the mind lets go of form and structure, the heart is left to flow in ways unexpected, connecting the writer with a self not encountered previously. 

As writer Patrick E. McLean's defense of writing longhand states “words can rush out in their raw, feral state when the pen is your tool.”  So true!  When writing longhand, there is an intimate connection between the hand and the deeper recesses of human consciousness—that “raw, feral state” where heart and mind come together and inspiration happens.  Spiritual writing or Writing from the Heart is practice in the art of connection.  

http://www.suficentereast.org/programs-3/writing-from-the-heart/