Pandemic postcard #4: Too much to think

TGIF. It is Friday, right? It's after noon and I am still in my PJs. I was online all morning, mostly scrolling through my social feeds, though I also managed some serious reading. At some point, hopefully as soon as I post this, I'll get dressed, wash the windows for the first time this spring, go for a long walk, and try to make something more of this day.

If there's ever been a time to practice compassion for ourselves and others, it is now, as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks stretch into months, with no clear answers ahead. Like many of you, I have harbored some ambitious plans for this period of isolation. Mostly, I'd love to read more, but my eyes can only read e-books for so long; I miss going to the library for physical books. I miss ballgames and seeing people and going to the movies. So I waste a lot of time reading random stuff online, doing social media, and trying not to should on myself.

There will be no sudden resurrection this year, and no miracles, and yet we can plan to easter this weekend--yes, Easter as a verb in the face of death and uncertainty. As the Rev. Scott Alexander once preached, "Easter is a decision to live with hope -- fully, recklessly, courageously -- even in the face of death and despair itself."  I haven't been able to locate his original sermon on the topic, but here's one he gave last year in the same spirit (and I may tune in for his sermon this Sunday to hear what he has to say on the topic of Easter in the time of pandemic).

I would love to be more productive and proactive and useful during this time, but other than a few volunteer shifts at the food bank and a few feeble attempts at finding paid work, I don't seem to have it in me. (I can't even fathom how parents and their children are managing. My blessings and admiration to all families.) I will use my weekly news and social media sabbath starting tonight to at least try to tap into my inner reserves of solitude (as opposed to loneliness) and creativity.

Maybe I will consider what would happen if I extended my weekend sabbath into next week, placing myself beyond the news and the endless stream of social media connection that is a lifeline, to be sure, but is also so much chatter and clatter. My absence and silence would mean nothing to the world; it could mean a great deal to me.

When despair for the world grows in me ... well, take it away, Wendell Berry

Easter as a decision

Last in a series for #UULent2018.

Easter is a decision to live with hope -- fully, recklessly, courageously -- even in the face of death and despair itself. --The Rev. Scott Alexander 

Today's #UULent word is anticipation. I grew up Lutheran, so it seems to me this would be a better word for tomorrow, the day before Easter. As a kid hearing the story of Jesus dying on the cross on what came to be called Good Friday, I sometimes wondered what was so good about it. Then again, we knew that the story had a happy ending on the way.

We can't always know that in real life, and the fact that Easter 2018 falls on April 1 gives the whole idea of happy endings a sardonic edge. But for decades now, I've thought of Easter as more of a verb--an idea introduced to me about 20 years ago in a wonderful sermon by the Rev. Scott Alexander. To Easter means to live in hope, particularly in troubled times.

And here I'd like to say a few words about baseball. The 2018 Major League Baseball season began yesterday, ushering in a six-month, 162-game odyssey that tests the hopes of its players and fans like no other sport. Baseball's Opening Day always brings huge anticipation that this year might be different (or the same, if you're the Houston Astros). But as I've written before, although a World Series ring is always the goal, a more realistic hope is to win more games than you lose--and have a good time along the way.

I finally made it to Cooperstown and the National Baseball Hall of Fame last fall, a few weeks after the 2017 regular season wound down. It was a bucket-list trip for me, and I  spent two days wandering its galleries and took hundreds of photos. (See more here, if you'd like.) Here are two I'd like to post today: a picture of the gorgeous spiritual home of baseball, Doubleday Field, and the hand-written lyrics of baseball's most famous song.

No matter what you anticipate in this season of resurrection and possibility, may you always experience joy in the journey.

Many, many thanks

Sixth in a series for #UULent2018.

Today's UULent word is gratitude. As I've noted a few times, I'm taking part in UU Wellspring--Spiritual Practices at my church. As befits our spacious Unitarian Universalist faith, we are encouraged to try any number of practices to see which ones work best in our lives. Back in January, we were encouraged to begin a gratitude journal: basically, to take time every night before bed to write down five things for which we were grateful that day.

I've fitfully kept gratitude journals before, as far back as 2005. This time, though, I've done it faithfully nearly every day since starting January 3. Two weeks after I started, I wrote, "This was a good exercise. It helped me recognize how grateful I am for my life as it is right now and that little things mean the most."

I like the idea of going to sleep with a grateful heart, but I've found that it's easier for me to write my gratitudes as part of the quiet mornings I enjoy most days: often before I read a while, sometimes after. Either way, it helps set the stage for a grateful day.

Gratitude journals past and present

The waiting is the hardest part

Fifth in a series for #UULent2018.

Today's UU Lent word is patience. Lord, it's a long, long road.

I had the privilege of seeing Tom Petty perform live twice: once back in the 1980s with Bob Dylan and again last summer at Safeco Field. None of us there for his concert last August knew that he had fewer than 10 shows remaining and that he'd be gone six weeks later. It was all about the moment and the power of music. I'm sure it was the same five weeks later for the people who saw his very last show at the Hollywood Bowl.

Petty's death, especially coming hours after the heartbreaking day in Las Vegas, was a wake-up call for many of us. That's a cliche, but it's true. Stop waiting. Start living.

I've been doing a lot of waiting lately. The client that gave me the largest amount of editing work last year won't need any freelance help for a bit (and even that's not guaranteed). Meanwhile, I've been sending out article queries and essays and letters of interest. It usually feels like these are going into a void and, given the amount of email most of us get these days, I rarely expect a reply.

I have exactly one assignment at the moment, and it's not going well. I need to interview a handful of people in their 50s or 60s who've moved to Edmonds, Washington, from beyond the Seattle area, and I've sent several dozen inquiries to people who might know of such folks. So far, I have found none. Fortunately, I still have about a month until my deadline, so I'll start walking the streets of Edmonds soon in hopes of randomly finding my people. It's not a big place, and wandering its charming downtown is a fine way to spend time, so this isn't exactly a problem--and my inquiries elsewhere may yet bear fruit. Still ... it's more waiting. (And if you or someone you know recently relocated to Edmonds from outside the Seattle area, please raise your hand.)

So my writing and editing work is a big ball of waiting right now. But many other things are just fine. Baseball starts soon, and I'll be back for a third season as an usher at the ballpark. I've had more time to meditate, read books, run errands, do spring cleaning, help my partner, and take long walks. I also have more time to do my favorite thing in the world, and that's travel. My sweetheart and I have a train trip planned soon, and I'll be going to the wild edge of Scotland a month after that, volunteering to get garden beds ready for spring and taking inexpensive room and board in trade for my efforts.

I left full-time work again just over two years ago because I value time more than money. It's a hard way to live at times, and patience has never been my strongest virtue. I get better at it all the time, though, and I'll keep practicing--and living like there may be no tomorrow, or thousands of tomorrows.

I want to be in the room where it happens

Fourth in a series for #UULent2018

We’re living in a time when it’s possible to experience anything from a concert to a face-to-face conversation with friends in real time online, no matter where we are.

It’s amazing, but it’s still not the same as being there in person, without a screen as intermediary. Of course, I am writing this on my phone while sitting on the bus. But I’ve been blessed to have a few indelible in-person experiences in the past few weeks.

I traveled to Twin Falls, Idaho, earlier this month for the 25th anniversary party of the Unitarian Universalist fellowship I helped start there in 1993. It was a joy to see people I hadn’t seen in years—both from the Magic Valley UU Fellowship and from the Boise UU Fellowship, which brought its choir and other congregants along to help celebrate.

Earlier that day, I was able to check in on a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. She was diagnosed several years ago with cognitive decline, so I wondered whether she’d remember me. She did, and we had a lovely visit—one we couldn't have enjoyed on the phone. It’s true her short-term memory is gone; she asked me the same questions over and over, as I expected she would. But she has sweet memories from decades gone by, and she is able to appreciate a favorite painting as much as she ever could. And interestingly, she told me how much less stressed I seem these days than when I was younger and always in a hurry. Hmmmm ...

Later that same wonderful week, I finally saw Hamilton onstage at Seattle’s Paramount Theater. It was all I’d hoped it would be; I still have earworms 10 days later. For weeks before the show, I'd been enjoying the original cast recording, but hearing and seeing this landmark musical in person was one of the best entertainment experiences of my life—made all the sweeter because I was able to share it with people I love.

Technology is a fine way to reach out to people and to experience the world. But being physically present—at least some of the time—is priceless.

More will be revealed

Third in a series for #UULent2018.

Sometimes in life, we choose things without really knowing why, trusting that we'll figure it out as we go along. Such was the case for me when I signed up for another year of UU Wellspring--a program for spiritual deepening--late last summer.

The first time I applied to be in Wellspring, for the 2015-2016 session, I was extremely intentional about it. I'd heard great things about the program from past participants, and I went into it feeling it might be useful as a discernment tool. Wellspring was helpful as I addressed the question of whether to stay in a job I liked but did not love, and it wound up being valuable in many other ways.

Still, when I got an email last spring asking whether I wanted to sign up for a year of further inquiry into spiritual practices, I demurred. I didn't think I'd have time enough to focus on what Wellspring ideally requires (a friend likens it to "graduate school for the soul," albeit without tests and student loans), and I was thinking about taking part as a mentor in my congregation's Coming of Age program. But another call for Wellspring went out late last summer. They needed a few more people to sign up if it was to proceed. I decided to go for it, and I'm glad I did.

Two-thirds into this year's program, Wellspring continues to give me a widening and deepening palette of spiritual tools. My final project for the 2015-2016 year was a collage featuring a "palette of practice," on which I included the many components I use on my eclectic spiritual path. (You can see it at the bottom of this blog's home page.) They include gratitude, nature, partnership, music, community, walking, meditation, attention, hospitality, and discernment.

Those are all still in play for me, but it's interesting to watch how they wax and wane. For example, two months ago, our Wellspring assignment was to begin a gratitude journal--something I've done occasionally over the years, but never faithfully. For whatever reason, I'm able to do it more regularly now, and I'm getting a lot out of it.  If I had to redo my palette now, I think I'd add one practice that doesn't seem to fit in with those I drew two years ago, and I'd call it "possibility"--as in, being open to possibility. In fact, I'd probably rename my work a "palette of practice and possibility."

In addition to our twice-monthly sessions and in-between homework of various kinds, Wellspring participants are asked to meet at least monthly with a spiritual mentor. At each session, my mentor asks whether I want to choose a little angel heart stone from a basket she has nearby. Most have words on the back, but the one I chose last week had no words: just the angel, arms outstretched, with a spark for the heart. It's the stone of unlimited possibilities, my mentor said.

Possibility is something I've written about before and something I sense stirring for me again. As a writer and editor, I must constantly think about where to place my professional energy and whether or not I'll earn money in the exchange. (That's not something the average mechanic or doctor or plumber needs to consider when plying their skills.) At times, this makes me resentful when I choose to write for no pay (as I do here on this blog, for example), or for less than I ought to earn. I also know that as someone who has freelanced most of my adult life and as someone of modest means, I'll need to use these main skills of mine for many years to come, for love or for money, ideally for both.

It's here that the sense of possibility keeps me going--that, and the flexibility I have as a self-employed person. Hearkening ahead to another word coming up on the UU Lent calendar, I find myself more curious than I've been in a while about where my writing may take me, and I feel open to possibilities I have not considered.

Learn more about UU Wellspring here. And if you'd like to support my work, consider buying a copy of Surely Joy (the book!) or even hiring me as a writer or editor for your project. You can learn more and reach me via LinkedIn. 

In defense of surrender

Second in a series for #UULent2018. 

Today's #UULent word is surrender, a word that has such a negative connotation in our culture: of defeat, of compromise, of being wrong, of giving up and giving in.

I've come to defend surrender.

I've been thinking a lot this winter about the Buddhist concept of "not knowing." It arose in the wonderful book my UU Zen group has been reading over many months, If You're Lucky, Your Heart Will Break by James Ishmael Ford. It came up again in my book club's February selection, This Is How It Always Is by Laurie Frankel. Not knowing. The middle way. Comfort with ambiguity. Deep agnosticism, as Ford put it.

In this context, surrender needn't mean defeat. It can mean acknowledging that you don't have all the answers. Should I leave my job with benefits to start a business? Should I marry this person? Should I participate in this clinical drug trial?

Surrender can mean moving ahead without having all the information you'd need to make what many people would call a rational decision. No matter how many Google searches you do, no matter how many friends you consult (on Facebook and face to face), no matter how many studies and self-help books and op-eds you read, no matter how many TED talks and YouTube videos you watch, no matter how many pro-con lists you make, sometimes you need to--or you might simply want to--follow your gut or your heart or your soul and move forward, despite the not-knowing.

Surrender can also mean giving up the idea that you must have an opinion on everything. It's the realization that you need not judge every person, every situation, and every circumstance you encounter. That form of surrender can be incredibly freeing, especially in the political and cultural climate we have today.

If you're reading this blog, odds are good you've read or heard "The Guest House" by the 13th century Persian mystic Rumi, but I'll include it here to refresh your memory (and if it's somehow new to you, you're welcome!):

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival. 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, 
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all! 
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out 
for some new delight. 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing, 
and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes, 
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond. 

In other words, if I'm understanding Rumi (as translated by Coleman Barks), you don't need to rail against every politician with whom you vehemently disagree or curse every jerk who makes your life miserable. Nor do you need to sacrifice your ideals and values. But judicious acts of surrender can free you to have new insights, new experiences, and new delights that you may not be open to if you are consumed by the unhappy dogmas, habits, and plagues that are continually being visited upon us as part of being human.

Being comfortable with ambiguity, uncertainty, and surrender takes practice. (I figure I'll be practicing it for the rest of my life.) Since this is Lent, I'll end with a few more verses from Rumi (these are from "A Necessary Autumn in Each"):

There's a necessary dying, and then Jesus is breathing again.
Very little grows on jagged

rock. Be ground. Be crumbled, so wildflowers will come up
where you are. You've been 

stony for too many years. Try something different. Surrender.

Humility, humanity, and the art of adulthood

"It's hard to be humble when you're as great as I am." -- Muhammad Ali

I really hate making mistakes, and I recently made a bad one: In a book review, I relayed another author's quote about the work, but I mistakenly wrote that the person I was quoting had died last summer. My goof was the result of seeing an obituary in a too-quick Google check of the person's name. It didn't help that the still-alive author had the same name and birth year as the person who'd died, never mind the fact they both lived in the same city. Oy.

Mistakes will be made. They're never easy. I'm human, and I admit I goofed here.

Speaking of obituaries, John Perry Barlow died a few weeks ago and I enjoyed reading about his life. The one-time lyricist for the Grateful Dead was also the co-founder of the Electronic Frontier Foundation. Among the artifacts that circulated in remembrances of his life was a 25-point typewritten document titled "Principles of Adult Behavior."

A healthy ego is a good thing, especially leavened with a sense of humor. I can be full of myself at times, and also full of it, so it's a useful corrective to be proven wrong once in a while.

Here's Barlow's list ...

P.S. Thanks for reading. This is the first of what I hope will be weekly posts over the next few weeks in observance of #UULent 2018.

Successful failure

Today's #UULent word is failure. A joke about UUs is that we read ahead in the hymnal to make sure we agree with the words we're about to sing. Well, I've been reading ahead on the list of words we've been asked to ponder, and today's is one I'd rather skip. (Especially coming a mere five days after mistakes last Friday. But we learn from our mistakes. Failure seems less noble, somehow. And isn't this a blog about joy?)

Still, I know it's spiritually useful to face the things we'd rather ignore. So this morning, as I consider failure, I'm thinking about two things: baseball and politics. Spring training opened yesterday, and my team won 7-0. Exciting! Success! Being an 18th-century Brit, Alexander Pope surely didn't have baseball in mind when he penned the phrase "hope springs eternal," yet it's perfect for a pastime that makes its annual debut in sync with this sublime season of newness.

I know that my team will lose 80 games or so this year. Everyone wants to win the World Series, but honestly, finishing over .500 is a more attainable goal. Along the way, the best hitters will succeed only a third of the time, and the best pitchers will lose at least a handful of games. But it's OK. Even the worst team in baseball will delight its fans 60 times or so before the boys of summer head home this fall. In sports, even amid failure, there's plenty of success. (Take it from Michael Jordan.)

Ten years ago, I was working as one of the nation's first paid Congressional campaign bloggers. On Election Night 2006, my candidate lost, as Democrats almost always do in Idaho -- but we had fun along the way, as this button attests. (I also remember walking in many small-town parades that summer as part of the Grant for Congress Clean-Up Crew, with our mops and brooms.)

From the candidate on down, we were a team of talented amateurs who'd suddenly turned pro. We really didn't know how to play the game, so we made a lot of mistakes. Yet on Election Night, we came within 5 percent of winning (in a district where the Dem is routinely beaten by 20 percent or more), and we helped pave the way for another, better-funded candidate with more Machiavellian management to win the next cycle.

I worked in politics for another six years, and it usually wasn't so fun. I experienced moral failure even amid victory, and many failures of imagination. I got out of the political game for good three years ago, blessed with an opportunity to return to journalism, and I won't be going back because I know that (for me, anyway), it is not soulful work.

Today, as I think about failure, I'm also thinking about a podcast I heard a few months ago with Elizabeth Gilbert and Brene Brown in which they tackled the topic at length. Brown mentions how her question used to be "What would I do if I knew I couldn't fail?" but it had evolved to "What's worth doing even if I fail?" Gilbert agrees and says we ought to let go of the idea of "it worked or it didn't work; it was a success or it wasn't a success." Of the creative life -- which of course is all of life -- Gilbert also suggests that it's better to be a trickster than a martyr. (That's another post ... or five.)

I know this baseball season will be a success because we'll all have fun along the way. I feel the same way about my return to independent writing.

My life has been a lot more joyful when I've been a trickster -- and when I've understood and embraced the concept of successful failure -- than when I've taken things way too damn seriously. I wish the same for you.

Giving life the shape of justice

Spirit of Life, come unto me.
Sing in my heart all the stirrings of compassion
Blow in the wind, rise in the sea;
Move in the hand, giving life the shape of justice
Roots hold me close; wings set me free
Spirit of Life, come to me, come to me.  

-- Spirit of Life,  from Singing the Living Tradition
words and music by Carolyn McDade  

Today's #UULent word is justice. Life is pretty random, yet it has an arc, and sometimes we can see and feel that arc bend toward justice. The Civil Rights movement of the 1960s was one such time. We have at least two progressive epochs unfolding in our own era: the slow-then-rapid realization of marriage equality, and now the #BlackLivesMatter movement.

Who, or what, gives life the shape of justice? All weekend, I've been hearing passages from To Kill A Mockingbird read in tribute to Harper Lee, who passed away Friday. The reclusive Alabama author helped give shape to a burgeoning civil rights movement when her novel came out in 1960. Inspired by his white ally Bob Dylan's Blowin' in the Wind and snubbed at a Holiday Inn, Sam Cooke risked his career for the same cause with A Change is Gonna Come.

And the beat goes on: Macklemore, Ryan Lewis and Mary Lambert helped advance marriage equality with Same Love. Kendrick Lamar's Alright and Beyonce's Formation are high-profile musical manifestations of black pride circa 2015-2016. Lin-Manuel Miranda is the toast of Broadway with Hamilton, of which Miranda says, "Our cast looks like America looks now."

Black artists and topics were snubbed by the Oscars this year, but 12 Years a Slave won Best Picture in 2014. The mere nominations of Spotlight and The Big Short as Best Picture nominees for next week's Oscars are victories for justice, with the latter film an especially smart and gleeful blow against the empire, far more bracing than anything that's happening in our savagely dysfunctional politics.

Justice sometimes happens in the courtroom and the corridors of power. But first, it moves in the hands and the hearts and the heads of our artists, our writers, our musicians, and filmmakers -- and then it moves us: to laughter, tears and applause, and then to commitment and action.

Space of infinite possibility

Today's #UULent word was fear. As a professional writer for 30+ years, I have no fear of the blank page. But blank calendar pages? That's another story.

I'm leaving my current job a week from tomorrow. I gave notice back in November, and my last day is almost here. This photo is of my planner a month from now, the third week of March, a time of the month I've been in production as a magazine editor these past two years. But next month, I'll have no deadline to meet. My successor will be putting her first issue to bed, and I'll be three weeks into not having a paycheck.

My challenge will be this: Can I overcome my fear of having nothing to do ... of hitting up my savings account ... of sitting with the blessed but somewhat scary spaciousness of the independent life?


I had a dream last night. I dreamt I was doing one of those little plastic puzzles we used to get in birthday party goodie bags when I was a kid. You'd slide little tiles around to get the numbers in order, which meant there had to be an empty space so the tiles could slide. But in my dream, there was no empty space, so there was no room to maneuver.

I love my planners, and these past two years, I've used something called the Passion Planner. Its creator, Angelia, is an amazing, inspirational -- and very young -- success story. But I found myself writing "NO" next to her tip of the week last week: "This week, try to fill as many time slots as possible. Schedule out everything from sleep, to meals, to time for yourself." The idea, she continued, is to track where your time is going, "allowing you to assess your productivity and truly be present during each moment."

No.

I've been keeping lists and scheduling my time and and assessing my productivity for decades. I'm at a point in my life where I just want to live. These days, being truly present means putting aside my compulsions to make endless to-do lists and plan every last thing.

There's something else on each page of my 2016 planner, something that resonates much truer for me. It's the Space of Infinite Possibility. Angelia is speaking my language here.

I am confident that, a month from now, these pages won't be blank. But my wish today is that I not fear the open spaces ... that I embrace these spaces of infinite possibility and not be in a rush to fill every last spot on my agenda. Because I have a feeling that it's through sitting in the so-called empty spaces that I will find the work -- and the play and the leisure and the meaning -- that is most true for me.

Hearts full of soul

It's the first Sunday of #UULent. On my Instagram feed, I am posting a photo each day to represent the word of the day. On Sundays, we are called to reflect, embody and enact the word, too. And of course, today's word is love.

I woke up this morning with the famous 1st Corinthians:13 passage in my mind, "Love is patient, love is kind." There's more before and after that, as you've likely heard at many weddings, but really, the first two phrases of that fourth verse say it all.

Love is patient. 
Love is kind. 

The rest is commentary.

I've been in love a few times in my life. Today, my sweetheart, Tom, and I celebrate our third Valentine's Day together. For us, love is patient, kind, frequently passionate, rarely prickly.

Most of all, it's companionable.

This box arrived last year filled with chocolate-covered strawberries. When it was empty, I decided to fill it with memories. It's filled over the brim already, and we're just getting started.

Romantic love is wonderful, but today, I'm also feeling love for my daughter. When I arrived at church, the early service not quite done, I opened the door and saw a mother quietly nursing her baby, just the two of them alone.

"That's true love," I said to her. I mentioned having happy memories of that experience, then noted that my "baby" will be 22 this year.

"They sleep through the night by then, right?" We both laughed.

Maybe not, but it's not for me to know. My daughter is living her life. It's the life I gave her; it's now fully her own, but she'll always be part of me and vice versa.

And there is even more love somewhere. As people gathered for the service, I happened to see -- and talk with -- a half dozen or more people with whom I've shared a bond in our faith community, through a Covenant Group last church year and Wellspring in this one. Shining faces, smiles and waves of recognition. I've only been part of my current congregation for two years, but I feel the love growing there. As usual, the more you give, the more you get.

Love starts within, and it ripples outward. May it ever be so. Meanwhile, got a date ... have to run ... :^)