Devotion instead of To-Do’s

Jan 21, 2022 | Spirituality

If you grew up in a world anything like mine. Devotion(s) were something you did – religiously – if you were religious! They were a practice that usually included reading scripture, praying, and reflecting; a discipline that ostensibly kept you connected to your beliefs; an outward demonstration designed to strengthen your inner commitment, your faith, your spiritual life.

All good, yes?

Well, not so much. (You knew this was coming, didn’t you?)

For me, devotions were a required or at least highly-recommended component of my religious life. And though they were, at times deeply meaningful, I would not often have described them with words like dedication, sacrifice, promise, love, or loyalty. A more consistent description would be duty. And because of such, they had a dark side: if I didn’t do them, if I wasn’t devoted, then I felt insufficient, less valuable, uncommitted, wobbly, not faith-full. In effect, devotion(s) were a to-do; not devotion itself.

Now, outside of any religious tradition, the word “devotion” still circles in my mind and heart. It’s like something I catch a glimpse of, just out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn to see it straight on and clearly, it’s disappeared or at least blurred.

What is clear and in undeniable focus is this: I do not want devotion that is dutiful. I want devotion that is desire-full.

And this is what brings me to the distinction between devotion and to-do’s…

I do not claim to have any definitive answers, but I do wonder if perhaps the difference between devotion and to-do’s is its origin, the place from which it comes, what compels it. Duty or Desire? Responsibility or Grace? Expansive or Restrictive? Required or Chosen?

What I long for is an experience of devotion that is not something I “do,” but something I believe, trust, have faith in, hope for – all of which is profoundly sacred and spiritual.

Maybe, instead of pursuing spirituality or an experience of the sacred through discipline and to-do’s, it is devotion (unbidden and desired) that pursues us; that ushers in the spiritual and sacred itself.

When I approach the sacred or spirituality from a perspective of attainment (as though I can somehow “arrive”), I am immediately aware of to-do’s. The practices, beliefs, and right ways of being. The rules, doctrine, and dogma – even in the very best of ways. Exactly what has been prescribed to help me get there, get that, be that.

But when I let the sacred approach me, when I trust that it is ever-present, omniscient really, and hold fast to my desire for such in the most tender and cherished of ways, devotion will *just* appear, stay, deepen, and reside. And as I named last week, none of this has to be is hard; instead, very, very easy…(which means no to-do’s are needed at all.)

“Devotion is a place where you do not exist; life just flows through you as a certain sweetness and beauty.”

These words my Jaggi Vasudev sound about a million times better than duty or responsibility. They sound infinitely closer to what it means to be connected to and impacted by the sacred. And they perfectly acknowledge that we are spiritual with nothing (not even to-do’s) required of us for this to be true.

What if devotion is like breathing? A natural and autonomic response to the sacred, to the spiritual, which is within us, around us, ever-present, and always in pursuit.

No effort required. No discipline needed. And certainly no to-do’s. Just desire.

But…but…but…

What am I supposed to DO in order to experience devotion?
What kind of devotion is required in order to more deeply engage with the sacred?
How can I hope to strengthen my spiritual life through devotion if it’s something that pursues me?

These are the questions I begin asking at rapid speed in the face of uncertainty, to be sure! Inherent within them is my deeply-ingrained proclivity for to-do’s. They show how deeply committed I am to doing, mastering, taking the right actions, knowing exact ways to move forward, focusing all my energy on efforts that promise to help me grow and deepen.

To-do’s. They comfort me and plague me at the very same time.

But what I want, truly-deeply-madly is devotion. And that means that I need a different route, an undoing of what I’m familiar with, and yes, an allowing for uncertainty.

I know: deep breath.

At the start of this post I said this: we are far more clear about to-do’s, far less so about devotion.

It seems to me that this is the point:

A devotion bound in certainty (and managed or attained through to-do’s) is not devotion at all. It’s the not-knowing, the mystery, the letting go, the wonder, the questions, and yes, the doubts that invite devotion (and the sacred) into our midst in the most intimate and personal and love-filled of ways.

May it be so.

*****

To get all my latest writing, SUBSCRIBE to my Weekly Letter. Truth-telling. Wisdom. What I most believe in (and fight for) on behalf of a woman’s “one wild and precious life.” Including yours.

Why I’ve Given Up on Prayer

Dec 17, 2021 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I grew up in a very strong faith tradition, so have always had a clear understanding of prayer: its purpose, its subject, its object, its how-to, its requirement, and my obligation.

But in leaving the church, I left prayer, as well.

I am skeptical about considering it, about offering it, about stepping into its once-felt comfort, given how closely it was linked to the doctrine of my (then) religion. I’ve rarely even allowed it as option, for fear of it hearkening me back to all that I’ve worked so hard to release and reframe.

Still, its absence is felt.

*****

A number of years ago, when my daughters were still teenagers, my youngest stepped into a season of struggle (to put it mildly) that stretched me beyond capacity, hope, or reason. There were moments in which I couldn’t decide if I should call 911, her therapist, my therapist, or just hide under the covers and let her do the same. At its worst, I wrestled with what felt like the real possibility of losing her altogether. I won’t keep you in suspense: today she is an amazing young woman — aware, wise, hardly naive, clear about what it means to struggle, able to offer levels of empathy and compassion to others ; she continues to astound me. But before this “ending,” there was the beginning night of awareness of just how bad things were. No sleep. Only tears. And a memory that feels like it was yesterday:

I sat on the edge of my bed and sobbed, more deeply aware than ever before, just how alone I was as a single mom, more afraid than I’d ever felt, and more-than completely unequipped for what was happening in the mind and heart of my precious girl. Through tears and snot and not nearly enough Kleenex, I remember wishing that I still believed in prayer. It would offer a panacea I no longer had at my disposal. How convenient and pleasant: to hand all this off somehow, to feel like in surrendering, in turning it over to God, that surely all things would work together for good.

Not believing this anymore left me feeling even more alone and more afraid. I wanted to pray, but knew that to do so would be little other than my desperate wish and a frantic grasping at anything that might ease my pain but do nothing to lessen hers. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t.

In the more than 10 years that have passed since that night, I have thought back on it many times. I have sussed out my cynicism, my anger, and certainly my angst. But still, my resistance to prayer has remained. It was a crossroads, to be sure: deeply longing for solace, but with seemingly nowhere to turn except within; to blow on some barely-lit fire inside me that somehow-but-barely enabled me to get up in the morning, fix her breakfast, send her to school, and hope and hope and hope.

I realize that all of this sounds dark and dreary. And at the time, it was. Now I remember it with endless gratitude. Yes, because she made it through that particular season of crisis. But also because I did: not broken or desolate, but more aware than ever before of what it meant to walk through “the valley of the shadow of death,” completely present to everything I felt.

In not praying, in not seeking some kind of divine respite or answer or fix, I discovered something else entirely: desire.

Not some whimsical temptation or luring sin. Not that kind of desire: tepid, temporary, lite. No.

This desire was blazing, intense, undaunted, and undying. It was (and is) a full and unrestrained expression of everything within me. And a far cry from anything I’d ever known in prayer.

The Upanishads capture this, at least in part:

“You are what your deepest desire is. As your desire is, so is your intention. As your intention is, so is your will. As your will is, so is your deed. As your deed is, so is your destiny.”

It seems to me that this understanding of desire, and its expression, is everything. It is also far more sacred and more spiritual than anything I’d been taught to recite, intercede for, enact, or even believe.

Now, in lieu of prayer, I choose desire. Who it’s being articulated to is not important to me; rather, that I hold nothing back, that something wild and untamed and passionate dwells within and comes forth, that this — above all else — is the sacred, is the spiritual. Nothing less will do.

Desire takes courage. And faith. There is no promise of an outcome we long for. No guarantee. Just sheer determination, firm belief, and an endless acknowledgement of what thrums within us in the deepest and most persistent of ways. It persists. It perseveres. It burns.

I know: one could apply every bit of this to prayer. But I see it differently, distinctly. Unlike prayer — where words, emotions, longings, and hopes are being offered to a Divine listener — desire is an expression and end in and of itself. It is both object and subject. It is raw and visceral and embodied. It is not something “done” and then forgotten, uttered and then released. It stays. It simmers. It blazes. Yes, it burns. And for me, that is a very long way from what I learned of prayer, experienced in prayer, or was ever told was allowed.

Not surprisingly.

Most of us are profoundly ambivalent about desire — others’ and our own. It’s understandable, really, that we prefer the safer, more acceptable term of “prayer.” We have been taught (over and over and over again) that our desire is dangerous, that pursuing it only upsets the apple cart, that it cannot be trusted, that we’ll definitely get burned (as will others), that we’re better off tamping it down. *sigh*

In her book, Untamed, Glennon Doyle tells of hearing the creation story from her 5th grade teacher at church:

“…Eve’s original sin is inside of all of us. That sin is…wanting more instead of being grateful for what we have, and doing what we want to do instead of what we should do.”

Though we’ve been told that money is the root of all evil, we are far more prone to believe it is desire. And beginning with Eve, that is what has been reinforced within us (over and over and over again). Don’t want more. Don’t do what you want; do what you should. And be grateful about all of it. In fact, offer prayers of gratitude, offer prayers of repentance for wanting at all, offer prayers of supplication that you will only do what you should.

If our desire is bad or wrong, what then is prayer?

A bit later in her book, Doyle says this:

“If women [and men] trusted and claimed their desires, the world as we know it would crumble. Perhaps that is precisely what needs to happen…Maybe Eve was never meant to be our warning. Maybe she was meant to be our model. Own your wanting. Eat the apple. Let it burn.”

Trust your desire; claim it. Follow Eve’s lead. Own your wanting, eat the apple, let it burn. Compared to: Don’t want more. Don’t do what you want; do what you should. And be grateful about all of it. My desire among these two choices is clear.

*****

That night when I sat on the edge of my bed, wracked with worry and at the end of my rope, I couldn’t yet see that everything I was feeling was my desire. I couldn’t yet acknowledge that it was a flame, a sacred roar, a holy bonfire, a veritable volcano on my daughter’s behalf. I couldn’t yet appreciate that there was no easing it, no peace that could comfort, no verses to quote, no promises to lean on that could begin to lessen its presence, its power, its blinding force. I couldn’t have yet known that it’s strength and presence would carry me through all of this and then some, undoubtedly more to come.

I’ve often wondered if I’d have done anything differently, if I’d have been any different, had I known of and allowed my desire as catalyst, as sacred expression, as everything.

What questions might I have asked my daughter about her desire? What permission and space might I have created for her to rage and scream and articulate everything (instead of it only feeling expressible in self-harming ways)? What conversations might we have had about injustice and grief and God that were avoided because no “acceptable” answers sufficed? What world might we have demanded together — where our sacred expression, our fiery hearts, and our deepest hungers were honored?

I cannot know, of course. But now, unlike then, I am confident that acknowledging my desire, allowing it, and certainly feeling and expressing it — nothing withheld, no restraint, and yes, wild, untamed, and passionate — is as close to prayer as I can imagine or hope. Not to God, but into the world. Not released, but held tight, compact, and with infinite force. Not a cup of cool water, but match to flame. And though all of this might sound somehow unresolved or too angsty or just too much, that is the very thing that lets me know I’m on the right track — following Eve’s lead, letting it burn.

Agreed: fire can be dangerous. And prayer should be dangerous, yes? Otherwise, why bother? Perhaps it’s why I don’t. But desire? It is a burning, endless source of inspiration and heat and truth that I’m more than willing to fan into flame. It sounds far closer to the Psalms, to Gethsemane, to Golgotha. And it draws me far closer to an experience of and with the Divine than anything else: wild, untamed, and passionate.

There are days and times when I feel a lingering ache for prayer’s comfort and solace. But less and less. I don’t need to be soothed, but enflamed. I don’t need to surrender, but rise up. I don’t need to find answers, but to take action. And my desire is what compels all of this and then some. Endlessly burning… one might even say without ceasing.

On hope (via Emily Dickinson)

Nov 5, 2021 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality

I have always loved these stanzas by Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops-at all

I’ve repeated them multiple times to myself. They speak to me. They make sense. They somehow “explain” the unexplainable nature of hope itself.

I’ve been asked, more than once, why I remain a hopeful person — often despite circumstances that would be more logically explained by desolation or despair. I never have a very good answer.

There was a time, decades ago, when I would have attributed it to my religious tradition — a fruit or quality or characteristic that was inherently mine to hold on to, to grip, to cling to no matter what. But that is not what I’d say today.

I’ve left religion, but hope has not left me.

Hope is a given, a truth, a “thing” that just is. Not a choice or some kind of mood that I fall into, hope is gritty and raw and fierce. Ever present. Mine to claim, stand in, and trust.

It is highly possible that you don’t see or experience hope this way at all, that it is far more often fleeting and distant than stable and felt. It is also highly possible that you have lived through (or do still) circumstances that have caused any hope you might have once known to dissipate and disappear — at least to wane. Believe me, I understand.

If either/both of these are the case, I’d invite you to consider the possibility that maybe hope is nothing you have to hold on to, or try to find again; maybe it was never lost in the first place. I’d love for you, like Emily Dickinson, to at least entertain the idea, even if just for a moment, that your hope has never stopped — at all — ever.

There are two more stanza’s to Dickinson’s poem…that I often forget about:

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet — never — in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of me.

Sometimes, a moment, a glimpse, a crumb, is all we need to return to hope — as our steadiest and most enduring companion along the way.

May it be so.

Belief: Then & Now

Jul 2, 2021 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality

There was a time in which any question about what I believed merited a simple, obvious, and expected answer. After all, I grew up in the church, went to Christian summer camps and later, a Christian college, was a missionary (!!), married a pastor, led Bible studies for women, even went to Seminary and got my Master of Divinity degree. I had a definitive understanding of who God was – and wasn’t. Until I didn’t.

In the midst of all this, I divorced the pastor and left the church. I stopped teaching bible studies (though I do still tell its not-honored-enough-stories of women). And hardly definitive, I have an ever-shifting understanding/perception of the Divine. Which is exactly the way I like it!

Distance from past beliefs, even from religion itself, does not mean disconnection from belief.

I still need and want to believe. NOT because I’m ailing or unmoored without such. NOT because I need something or Someone to rely on. But because what I believe in, how I believe, belief in-and-of-itself is what compels and shapes my story, my life, my world.

What has changed, of course, is the what and who – subject and object.

Now, what and who I believe in is me.

In many ways, the world in which I was raised taught me just the opposite. I learned to place my full reliance in the God that dwelled outside of me (at best, in my heart). I learned that I couldn’t trust myself or my desires. I learned that my body/feelings/thoughts were unreliable. I learned that I needed to be forgiven in order to be worthy of God’s saving. Until I un-learned all of these things.

There is no need to choose between belief in the Divine and belief in self.

Here is what I believe today:

I believe in the Divine that dwells within me.
I believe in (and trust) my desires.
I believe in the wisdom, knowledge, and intuition present in my body, my feelings, my thoughts.
I believe I am worthy; I don’t need saving.

None of these are at the expense of belief in the Divine, in the Sacred, in every-and-all things spiritual. These beliefs, when in place and practiced, are the Divine, the Sacred, the most spiritual presence and expression possible. Said another way, this:

We see, know, and experience the Divine, the Sacred, every-and-all-things spiritual when we are truly and fully ourselves.

And that? You and me living truly, boldly, out loud, full of desire and fully ourselves? Well, that might be enough to start a revival…or at least encourage a couple conversions!

May it be so.

Sit still. Be quiet. Feel.

Jun 15, 2021 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

Now that both of my girls live miles, states, and flights away from me, I find myself transitioning into what it means to be alone.

I have done this more than once:

After my divorce when the visitation schedule began. Every other weekend, the girls would be picked up from school by their dad on Friday and I wouldn’t see them until sometime Sunday. It was excruciating.
When not just one, but both girls were in college and I simultaneously ended a 2+ year relationship. The house was quiet (and immensely clean). I had no plans. There was nothing that needed to be done or managed or cooked (or cleaned). It was excruciating.
Last August when my youngest daughter, after 6 months of being back home because of Covid, returned to her life in Montana. It was quiet (and clean) all over again. And yes, excruciating.
Last September when I left my corporate job. From endless Zoom meetings and work-to-be-done to nothing but quiet and time and space. It was excruciating.
Last November when I moved my oldest daughter from her apartment and life in Bellingham (just 90 minutes from me) to Lexington, KY (a day of flying from me). Even though she hadn’t been living at home for years, that return flight from KY to WA was excruciating – and days following, to be sure.
Every time I fly to visit one of the girls. Each return flight and for days after, I wonder what I’m doing so far from them. It’s excruciating.

I should be quick to say that there is much goodness in all of the above, as well. It’s lovely to have a clean home, far fewer responsibilities, less tension, more quiet and time and space.

But here’s the thing: when in receipt of quiet and time and space (whether that is attached to being alone, or not), I don’t seamlessly move to gratitude and appreciation. I am jumpy and distracted and irritated. I can’t settle down. I don’t feel at all myself. And I’m highly committed to distractions.

I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one.

It’s why scrolling IG and FB, watching Netflix or Amazon Prime, online shopping, eating, drinking, and any number of dissociative techniques are what we default to instead of the quiet and time and space we often wish for. (Believe me: this post is hardly a critique of such; more, a confession!)

Years ago, when the visitation schedule kicked in, I talked to a very wise woman about what all of this felt like for me. I told her about how I was scattered and frenetic, frustrated and tense, “off” somehow. And this was her advice:

Sit still. Be quiet. Let yourself feel.

Uh, no thank you! That’s the last thing I want to do!

Except that I did. And it was hard. I felt a lot. It was uncomfortable and sad and often filled with grief. Sometimes anger. A long list of unanswerable questions that, when looked at more closely, led me to deep fears – which I didn’t like feeling and wanted to avoid (by getting up from the couch and making popcorn and pouring a glass of wine and turning on Netflix).

Despite her wisdom and even the years since that I’ve been following her counsel, I still lean toward the distractions. They’re always right there – like a bowl of potato chips – calling my name. (Sometimes the distraction is a bowl of potato chips!)

Thankfully though, my recovery time is getting quicker. Only because I continue to do what she said. It’s not my first impulse, even my second; but eventually I turn within, to the wisdom that resides there, to what is underneath and underneath and underneath – all of which deserves to be heard…and felt.

I do sit still. I can be quiet. And even though it often-and-still feels daunting and scary, I let myself feel. (Just so you know: it’s far less excruciating than it once was.)

I ask myself the following:

What do you feel, exactly?
Can you name it? Will you?
What’s underneath that feeling?
And what’s underneath that feeling?
What will happen if you let yourself stay with the feeling underneath that one instead of jumping up to avoid it?

Easier asked than answered, to be sure.

To actually feel what we feel, to give our deepest heart the gift of space and time, is scary and daunting (and potentially unraveling).

But here’s what is more true:

You have BIG and deep and powerful feelings. They matter. And to feel them is the bravest work you’ll do in a lifetime, for your lifetime (over and over again). When you allow them, they are the very things that invite you home to yourself and into the wisdom, courage, and strength that is already and always yours.

Yes, it’s scary and daunting (and potentially unraveling). Yes, any distraction feels far more desirable. And…self-awareness and growth and transformation and sovereignty is what we’re after, yes? Which is why these three simple steps become devotional practice:

Sit still. Be quiet. Feel.

I know. Deep breaths. I’m right there with you.

This is not for the faint of heart. As you let yourself feel, it is inevitable that you uncover places of harm and grief, emotions you’ve learned to repress, patterns you’ve developed that keep you safe – understandably! To let yourself feel – without restraint or censure – is brave and amazing. Choosing to stay present to every aspect of your story is the most beautiful and sacred work you can ever do. I promise.

May it be so.

*****

As always, I welcome your thoughts, your questions, your response, even your resistance (which I get, believe me!) I’ll definitely stop with the popcorn and cooking shows to respond!! I promise.

Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash

Changing Everything

May 24, 2021 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

If you want to learn about a culture, listen to the stories.

If you want to change a culture, change the stories.

This quote by Michael Margolis speaks volumes. It can be thought of on a wide-scale level: our culture, as a whole. But it is equally applicable and important at an individual level.

Maybe most concisely stated like this:

If you want to change, change your stories.

When I began working with the ancient, sacred stories I love, I became crystal clear about what made me crazy and super-frustrated with how their stories had been told over thousands of years: Deeply-ingrained patterns layered onto the page and in between the lines that shamed women who had opinions or used their voice, that believed women to be dangerous who were different, that kept women contained so that they did not disrupt systems of (or persons with) power.

When I looked closer still, something else became crystal clear: what made me crazy and super-frustrated with their stories was exactly what made me feel the same about my own.

MY story was made up of deeply-ingrained patterned beliefs that found me withholding my opinions and quieting my voice, opting to not be different (and certainly not dangerous), to not disrupt the system or upset the apple cart; instead, to play by the rules, be good, stay inside the lines.

That had to change. I had to change. Everything had to change.

Truth-be-told, I found it far easier to change stories that are thousands of years old, than to do the same with my own. I could endlessly talk about Eve (which I continue to do) – praising her for eating the fruit, listening to the serpent, following her desire, and honoring her own wisdom. But to do that for myself? To tell and live that story? Much, much harder. And…ongoing; a life’s work, to be sure.

As I’ve remained committed to reimagining, retelling, and redeeming ancient, sacred stories, I’ve worked to do the same for myself. And I’ve learned a few things along the way:

The stories we’ve been told, the way they’ve been told, live deep within us. Sometimes for good; sometimes, not so much.
Those stories (and the lessons within) turn into the stories we tell ourselves – the inner-voice that constantly reminds us we are too much, not enough, potentially both.
When we listen to these stories, name them, acknowledge them honestly, and choose to change them, we can then begin the work and practice of telling and living the stories we desire and deserve.

Every bit of this is sacred practice; responsibility, privilege, and gift. It’s also the most important thing we can possibly do.

When we change our stories, we change everything.

And perhaps it’s dangerous and disruptive to say so, but changing everything is what matters most, what’s required of us, what we’re called to – for ourselves and for our world.

May it be so.

*****

The process and practice I have developed with ancient, sacred stories (and my own) is probably the most concise way for me to describe what my 1:1 work is about: inviting you to name the stories that have made you you, then helping you reimagine and rewrite them in ways that empower, embolden, and, well, change everything!

I currently have space for new clients. Book a free, 30-minute call with me. No pressure or obligation – just a chance to chat (which I’d LOVE).

*****

Photo by S O C I A L . C U T on Unsplash

« Older Entries

Next Entries »