An Excerpt from "Wild Woman, Holy Woman-A Spiritual Memoir"

A Deeper Journey

India overwhelmed me at every level. I was confronted with my own insignificance in the mass of humanity surging through narrow city streets, clinging to doors, windows and roofs of passing trains and buses; the crush of humanity as hundreds of bodies pressed against me while riding the train into downtown Bombay.  Thousands living in barely constructed shacks of sheet metal and plywood held together with string and hope; men, women and children squatting to defecate on the side of the road.  I had no defense against the thousands I encountered daily going about the arduous task of eking out a living in a culture that seemed to be teetering on the edge of survival.  And yet in the midst of the chaos there was an ancient continuity that flowed through those narrow streets, a seeming river of grace that flowed beneath the surface, an acceptance of life as a gift and a blessing.

Early one morning as our train pulled into Bombay, I saw a row of sleeping forms under the cover of the station’s awning.  As the train came to a stop, one of the ragged piles began to move, and a woman sat up in the midst of that dishevelment.  Her face was a silky tan, with dark black hair and brows defining her exquisite, deep set eyes, perfect mouth and long neck.  As she gathered her handful of rags and the thin, cloth sleeping pallet, she turned and looked toward the light beyond the metal covering of the train platform.  The light suffused her face and I found myself starring into one of most beautiful faces I had ever seen.  This contrast symbolized for me the inescapable contrasts of India; it epitomized the struggle I was having adjusting to this complex and beautiful culture—like the Taj Mahal, glorious and pearl-like in its perfection, made more glorious in contrast to the litter and poverty in its immediate environment.

But the real story of India is where my heart and soul travelled while there.  It has taken me years to recognize the deeper story that began before India but became more substantial in that experience.  Did saints really walk past me there?  Did the holiness of Indian culture transmit to me the eons of spiritual longing and seeking that my 1960’s hippie culture only pretended to touch?  At what point did God step in and shift the balance, His influence always there subtly directing me, nudging me but in India did He become my charioteer?  When did I first surrender my will to Him?  Was it while riding in the back of an open air jeep, sick with multiple infections, weak and unable to sit up, so instead, lying on the hard metal bench, hot and breathless, as the driver wended his way through the swirling mass of traffic, horns blaring, cars swerving and suddenly hitting a pothole and I rise off the metal bench a foot or so and as I smash back down, find the universe opening before me and Your holy face smiling back at me into my soul.  Is that the story to tell?  Is that the history of me?  Did You step in then my Lord, did You take the reins then or did I just suddenly notice it was You all along who held my heart?

I became a part of this immense river of human life.   I began to sway with the movement of the crowds as I walked, tapping into that deeper rhythm.  Looking back to the earlier events of my life, I see the evidence of a loving presence guiding me, helping me and keeping me safe.  But in India that presence emerged, vibrating and shimmering with the force of love and beauty from behind the seeming chaos.  Like looking at a picture of miscellaneous objects and suddenly seeing that the objects form something greater, seeing the image that was hidden by the detail; suddenly a much bigger picture appears.  India had pulled away a veil and showed me myself.

Silence Suffices

Allah is the Constrictor.  What is that quality? (Al-Qabid). He has shown me His face.  That’s all I asked for today in prayer, “Let me see You—see You in my heart, my life” and then talking with John about budgets, I finally articulated the juxtaposition between You and my nafs (ego). My nafs feel like the bad guys—arguing, resisting, condemning me, my inability to see and then I am shown that I am not closed! I am completely open to Your constriction.  I am completely surrendered to Your protecting care, keeping me close; keeping me safe.

I described this state to my sis the other day saying I felt as though I was wrapped in strings or rope and as long as I struggled or tried to get loose, the ropes or constriction got tighter and I felt more and more desperate.  But if I surrendered to my states, accepted where You had put me, kept me, held me, then I am immediately at peace.  If I fight back against S., I am agitated and angry but if I see her as trustworthy, capable of being given my trust, then I am at peace.  And the same for our finances: if I accept the sudden lack of cash flow, accept our situation, I feel abundance and peace. 

When I first saw our financial state, I felt an old familiar sense of panic.  All those years alone, with two little kids, all those years growing up and then that stupid marriage—I take that back!  The marriage was perfect—look what it produced—two beautiful children.  OK!  Got it!

Still the old memory of fear of lack or fear of money came back.  But then, I said, “You have always cared for me, taken care of me, loved me and I am certain in this moment, in this situation – now – you are caring for me as well.”  And the fear diminished and what came was peace—peace in constriction, as though wrapped securely in Your arms, You holding me close.  My heart and soul at rest; my nafs feeling a bit shaky but the cure or salve for that wound is trust, trust and reliance!

I asked to see Your Face.  Thank you!  I asked to be shown how to see You, and You showed me You as me.  You unfurled Your wisdom & knowledge before my eyes as I stood in front of my husband and said, “I am not in constriction!  This is not my doing!  Allah has put me here.  He has made this possible—this place of stopping, readjusting, return and redirection.  I am not at fault!  I am not closed!  My heart is not shut!  I am fine!  I am in Allah’s hands.  He is my guide and protector!  He is my Lord!”

So thank you Beloved, for opening my heart to You; for letting me see Your face.  Thank you for Your generosity in answering my sincere request to know You better.  Thank You for everything!  Such a paltry way of praising you—‘thank you for everything’ but how else can I, would you have me say thanks?

It is amazing to me to find you so responsive, so near.  And knowing You are here I am at a loss for words—would sunshine be enough, or green leaves, or warm feet, or silent witness, or Mother Divine—is there anyway to praise You that You have not already created, accepted or felt?  Is there any praise that I can give that will suffice to penetrate Your majesty? Silence is one; silence inside, silence outside—silence suffices.

Are You A Writer?

Are you a writer?  There are as many reasons to write as there are people who write but so often we believe that writing is something only professionals do and this belief stops us.  What is the impulse that has you want to sit down with pen and paper and pour your thoughts on the page?  

I write to quiet the voices of discontent and to gain access to a resonance with the world and my place in it.  I write for the pleasure and the honesty it demands.  I write to discover the secrets buried beneath the surface and to glimpse the perfection unveiled by listening.  Why do you write?  On the other hand, why don’t you?

Writing for me is a process of opening to what T.S. Eliot calls "the still point of the turning world," opening to the world of imagination where words appear on the screen of my mind, like bubbles rising from a pond... Those words connect me with the wholeness of my true being, with my own center in the world, where center can be so easily lost.  I love the sensation of sitting at my desk, pen in hand or computer open, and letting those thoughts, feelings and emotions run amok, all over the page, and then discovering in that flow the very essence of who I am.  

Whether you write every day, once in a while, for publication or simply to know your own thoughts, those who write know that writing is a doorway inside, to the realm of self-knowledge and inner wisdom.  Come stand at the doorway and listen; hear the quiet whisper of your own loving heart.  

Come join me in a journey of self-discovery through

Writing from the Heart

Tools for the journey: a pen, a notebook and a prayer.  

Please see http://www.suficentereast.org/programs-3/writing-from-the-heart/ or contact the Farm of Peace at 717-573-4722 for more information.

Trinkets and Things

Jini called me yesterday or Thursday to say she’d spent another night in the ER; her heart was beating out of control.  My sister is three years older than me; about 50 pounds heavier and so full of life I can’t even begin to imagine the world without her.  It’s probably not necessary to go there yet; her doctor says she’ll be fine as long as she takes her meds.  But ever since that second call I’ve been almost holding my breath, waiting for the next call, the one from the doctor or hospital that tells me to come pick up her body.  Bloody hell, someone dying is bad enough but the aftermath is so much more painful. 

Tuesday night I raced to the bedside of a 90-year-old woman who was unable to get out of bed; in so much pain she couldn’t move her legs or her bowels.  She wanted a healing first and then if things didn’t get better she would go to the hospital.  I sat with her for about an hour, doing healing work and prayers.  When at last she relaxed enough to sleep, I felt relieved; she would be OK.  She didn’t need to go to the hospital.  But still as I sat there in her small one bedroom apartment and saw all the pieces of her life that would need to be managed should she die or even if she didn’t die, should she move into a retirement home, I was distraught.  Boxes and boxes of things to be wrapped and stored away or given to sons, friends, or Good Will: the detritus of life. 

Yet we all have those things, boxes and boxes of things that will need to be sorted, boxed, given away.  And it made me feel so desperate.  What is the point of all this accumulation?  I remembered when E. died; Kathie had several dozen boxes of clothes, shoes, suits, belts, ties—all profoundly beautiful, of the highest quality that had to be sent to Good Will because no one else could use suits or shoes in the size that E. had been in life.  Heartbreaking.  And Kathie left with little or nothing at his death due to policy cancellations made necessary by the extravagant spending on clothes and suits and shoes.  Kathie was fine but I wasn’t.  It bothered me, just as all the sweetness of Ruth’s treasures bothered me.  Who will receive these treasures?  Will they be valued as tokens of her sweet life or sent to Good Will to gather dust on some trinket-laden shelf?  It seems so sad.

So what’s so sad?  That we/she lived a rich full life?  That the things she treasured are of no real value.  What is it?  I am writing all around the issue but not really finding the concern that concerns me.  Dave Wilcox wrote a song about being upset for a metaphorical reason.  Am I upset for a metaphorical reason?  Not sure what the metaphor would be here…. 

I’m upset because we simply die and fade away.  That our memories—no!  Not our memories, but the memory of each of us fades away as quickly or more quickly than the trinkets we cling to as a token of who we are.  We live and we die.  That seems to be it.  Pretty much sums it up.  And so why am I pissed about that?  What is it that’s got me knickers in a knot?

There is a momentary, reoccurring thought that surfaces and then ducks and hides; a sense of something familiar where all these questions and contradictions find resolution and completion—just a hint or a glimpse and then nothing… or everything.