Tag Archives: pocket epiphanies

Watching the Ships on Shelter Island

This past week we visited friends in the Point Loma area of San Diego.  This being low tourist season, we got a room with a view on Shelter Island, which forms the northern shore of the harbor.  I’ve always been fascinated by the variety of vessels that pass through, so several times I took time to find a seat and enjoy the sights.  As I watched, I wondered: Why are they here?  What are they for?  What do they tell us about our life?

Sailboats — These come in all sizes.  I’ve taken sailing classes, but don’t know enough to tell a sloop from a sunfish.  When I see the smaller ones, I assume the owner uses it for the simple pleasure shared by humans for millennia: moving across water as skillfully as one can, powered only by the presence of wind. Like a hiker in the wilderness, one can get immersed in the moment-to-moment flow of navigation.  Larger sailboats require a crew, which means folks sharing a purpose and a task.  I have friends who delight in doing so.

Power Boats — These also come in an endless variety of sizes.  Some owners simply enjoy the exhilaration of moving on water.  Others use them for water skiing.  Many use them for sport fishing.  From where I was sitting, I could see the Coronado Islands in the distance; twice I’ve been on boats that went into the Mexican waters for yellowtail and albacore.  (I’ve yet to bring home a prize but remain a fan of tuna sandwiches.)

Commercial Fishing Boats: One of our friends grew up in a nearby neighborhood populated by Portuguese immigrants who brought their fishing heritage and Catholic faith with them; the area was known as “Tunaville.”  I remember attending mass at St. Agnes parish which had a fishing boat in the lap of the Virgin Mary near the altar.  Our friend’s father captained large commercial vessels that went around the world on voyages that could last many months. He was prominent enough to be featured in a Chicken of the Sea commercial at the time. Fishing, like farming, has been part of human life from the dawn of human communities; it’s exciting to see these vessels leaving the harbor wondering what their catch will be.  

Yachts:  We were near three yacht clubs.  Such clubs include a large range of boats, some quite modest and others that are like floating mansions.  (Jeff Bezos owns one valued at $500 million.) There is an ancient human desire to display one’s wealth and status; here one can see the different ways people satisfy that desire.

Navy Ships: Sometimes, while watching the private boats, you see something like this approaching:

When it comes closer, it looks like this:

              Two days earlier, I’d seen the nuclear carrier USS Ronald Reagan leaving port the same way. It brought back memories of when the Reagan had come to Santa Barbara in 2008, and a parishioner active in the Navy League arranged a tour for me.

              The tour was eye-opening.  The top deck is over 1,000 feet long.  The ship is 20 stories high with a crew of 6,000 sailors.  It is powered by two nuclear reactors that can operate for 20 years without refueling.  It can carry more than 80 combat aircraft. Toward the end, a young officer escorted me up to the bridge to show me the control room.  Then we went back down the stairs to the deck. 

              “So, what’s it like to be on this ship when it is on the move…say, heading up the Persian Gulf?” I asked. 

“We wouldn’t be on our own,” she said.  “We’d be part of a battle group…accompanied by a guided missile cruiser, two anti-submarine warships, two destroyers, submarines below us and helicopters and fighter jets above.”

I stood there trying to conceive what it would be like to be a fisherman in the Persian Gulf watching such a formation coming my way.  I doubt he could conceive of the sophisticated and destructive firepower ready to be unleashed if called upon.

Warships of this magnitude are entering and leaving San Diego harbor every day, headed to all parts of the world.  They pass by the little sailboats and outboards and pleasure craft and yachts – as well as people walking their dogs and vacationers sipping margaritas.  I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.

There are some whose spiritual convictions lead them to be pacifists. I have deep respect for those traditions and individuals, but I’m not able to share that perspective. 

In September my sister and I visited the “Resistance Museum” in Amsterdam, which chronicles the Nazi occupation and the ways in which the Dutch fought back.  Towards the end, an exhibit highlights the days when Allied troops set the country free.  My sister and I remembered with gratitude that our father had been a soldier in that liberating army that fought its way through Holland.

We know when there have been times when our armed forces have been used irresponsibly and unnecessarily, creating immense suffering. But in the imperfect world we live in, I believe there are times when the use of military force is necessary. 

Now I am back in Santa Barbara where one sees all kinds of pleasure boats and an occasional cruise ship, but nothing like the carriers coming and going off Shelter Island.  I earnestly hope that those in command of such power will always act with prudence, care, and sober judgement.

Where Were We?

              This past Monday I woke up before sunrise.  After coffee, I went into our backyard for my morning quiet time.  The days are becoming shorter, and it had been a while since I was outside before daybreak.  Ten years ago, I could see most of the night sky from my favorite spot.  But our oak tree and our neighbor’s sycamore have flourished in recent years, and now only a small section of the heavens is visible. As I settled in and looked up to see beyond the trees, the sky was dark; the moon was half-full and next to it was a bright star.  I was captivated.

Ten minutes later, the sun rose in the east, the sky began to brighten, and the star disappeared.  But the fascination with seeing light in darkness remained.

I remembered being in a downtown theater in 2011 watching the opening scenes in Terrance Mallick’s film, The Tree of Life.  It begins in darkness.  Then there’s sound in the background, almost like what you might hear if you are underwater listening to the ocean.  These words appear:

A mysterious image appears – like a flame, but not a flame; it moves and grows:

And then a voice whispers: “Brother, mother…it was they who led me to your door.”  The image fades.

              We see a young red-haired girl looking out a window on a farm, enchanted by what she sees.  We hear her voice: “The nuns taught us there are two ways through life…the way of nature, and the way of grace….”  The girl becomes a mother (played by Jessica Chastain), and her life unfolds.  Over the next two hours, we witness the innocence, joys, struggles, heartbreaks and spiritual searching of her family; interspersed are dreamlike images of nature, evolution, and the mysteries of life. (Given Mallick’s impressionistic style, there are some sequences which make it hard to follow — but it is always entrancing.)   What set the stage for it all is the passage from the book of Job.  After Job questions God why life is the way it is, the divine voice speaks out of a whirlwind: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?  When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?”

              Huston Smith once described an important difference between scientific and spiritual knowledge.  Both seek to explain truth in everyday terms we can understand, but sometimes that language is not sufficient.  With science, when the focus is the smallest scale of quantum reality or the immense scale of cosmology and ordinary language falls short, it turns to math – often very sophisticated math (which few of us can understand).  Spirituality, on the other hand, also offers many insights in everyday terms, but when it needs to speak of the deepest realities, it turns not to math but to story, metaphor and imagination.

              Some scientists say the Big Bang began with a “disturbance of the quantum field. ”One spiritual story says that in the beginning a divine force moved like wind over a dark void, and said “Let there be light, and there was light.”

              I choose to listen to both. I want to understand the science of life as much as I can (though I’m limited by my knowledge of math.)  But I also want to accept the gift of spiritual imagination with its stories and metaphors; they speak to my heart and resonate with the feeling of awe I feel when a star in the night sky shines before fading in the presence of a rising sun.

              Where were we when that quantum field was disturbed and the universe emerged out of nothingness, bringing into being all the elements of the periodic table, time and space?  Where were we when the foundations of the earth were set, and the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted with joy?  I don’t know.  But what we are began in those moments.  As did our capacity for wonder and our desire to understand.

              It was still and quiet when I watched the sky that morning.  But in my imagination, I could almost hear the morning stars singing and the first living beings shouting for joy.

If you want to get a sense of the mood of the movie, here’s the official trailer

Falling Leaves

              Earlier this week, I was up early and sitting quietly in my backyard. I’d been asked to speak for a group on spirituality and “wilderness,” and was mentally reviewing what I was planning to say.  Then, ten feet away, a leaf from our Eastern Redbud tree floated to the ground.  It looked like this:

I had noticed this tree had been shedding its foliage, but I don’t remember being present to witness one leaf actually making the transition.

              My life isn’t as busy as it used to be, and I’m grateful I have more time to just observe events like this.

              As I thought about this moment, I remembered times when people found meaning in fallen leaves.

              In my time at Hospice of Santa Barbara, we had an extensive program dedicated to children and families following the death of a parent. I asked one of the counselors what she did with young ones.  In addition to drawing pictures, stories and conversation, a common activity was to go outdoors and observe the natural world. – noticing things that were alive and those were alive no longer.  Then they’d bring their treasures back to the room and talk about the fact that all things that live someday will die.

              At Hospice we had quarterly art shows.  We choose the work not solely on artistic merit, but primarily on the meaning of what the artist was focusing on and how that related to our mission; common themes were healing, transformation, and personal insights.

              One of our presenters was a local artist name Jan Clouse with a show called “Fallen Beauty.”  Here’s a description:

Clouse’s artwork honors the beauty that comes from aging and the natural cycle of loss. By focusing on leaves, twigs, branches and other bits of vegetation that have been shed or fallen to the ground, she concentrates on life cycles present in nature to draw connections to the regenerative cycle of life.

“While most botanical artists capture the beauties of living blooms, I concentrate on detritus, such as pods, seeds and leaves starting to lose living color and taking on a broad range of subtler shades,” said Clouse.

Clouse’s drawing helped her come to terms with the loss of her mother. After her mother’s death, Clouse found a spiritual connection to her mother through her artwork, as it made her focus on the larger picture of life. While visiting her mother, father and grandparents’ graves, Clouse gathered some oak leaves and other bits of vegetation that had fallen nearby. She began to paint these leaves, and found the experience to be meditative while she came to terms with the loss of her loved ones.*

              I am grateful that I am still in relatively good health and hope to be part of the Tree of Life for some years to come.  But the older I get, the more I realize what I have strived to accomplish in my life is becoming less and less visible to me or anyone else.  But I also understand that doesn’t diminish the value of our labors.  I like to think of our lives as having the honor of gradually becoming compost; the fruits of our labor still give us meaning, but it’s more and more about what we have contributed to the life that’s coming after us.

My leaf reunited with its companions.

*Press release: https://www.independent.com/2011/01/21/jan-clouse-featured-artist-hospice-santa-barbara/

Lead image: “Buckeye,” Jan Clouse

Small Moments to Savor

As I was planning our trip to Europe, I explored the possibility of staying in a hostel instead of a hotel. I knew I was too old to sleep in a dorm room but wanted to experience the open and hospitable spirit I had known as a young backpacker.  For the stay in Berlin, we booked a place at the “The Circus Hostel.”  It’s a five-story building in the “Mitte” (central) section of the city, close to many points of interest.  They had a 2-bedroom apartment on the top floor available. My sister agreed we should try it.

              In the basement they have their own pub and small brewery.  On the ground floor is a café and reception area.  Upper floors are for the bunk beds and apartments.  As we settled in, I began noticing the posted signs.  On the sliding glass door leading to the balcony:

The notice to set out when you want maid service:

On the wall next to the elevator call button:

A similar playful spirit was on display in nearby cafes.  French fries are very popular in Belin, and a busy place across the street had this window:

I didn’t go to Berlin expecting to eat Mexican food, but appreciated this sentiment:

Not far from Sigmund Freud’s Vienna home and office where he probed the hidden recesses of the human psyche, we found a brewery/pub that offered more than two dozen pitas with your choice of pizza-like filings (including tuna, camembert, cranberry jam, turkey, olives, sour cream, onions, hardboiled egg, tomato sauce, etc., etc.).  On the wall was this timeless question:

I don’t know if Freud pondered that dilemma – for him a bigger question might have been about how many cigars were enough.  But after hours contemplating tragic historical events and staring at modern expressionist paintings, these were “welcome signs.” Small moments to savor along with new tastes and friendly places.

Where To Plant Your Tree

              I once attended a day-long retreat at La Casa de Maria, “Introduction to Meditation,” led by a well-respected teacher in the local Buddhist community. I’ve attended quite a few similar events over the years and I’m always curious to see how the leader presents the material.

              On this day, I was impressed by the leader’s ability to make the material simple, clear and practical: how to get in the best posture, why your hands can be open on your lap, how to align your spine, what to do with the mental chatter, what to expect over time, etc. 

              At one point in the afternoon, he spoke about why one would commit to making this an ongoing practice.  He noted the personal benefits to our health, both physical and emotional.  He then posed a classic question: if you think of your life like a small house with a fenced front yard, where do you plant your tree of spiritual practice?  Do you locate it close to the house and away from the street so the fruits will be harvested only by you? Or do you plant it just inside your front fence, so that some of the branches grow inward and the other half outward, beyond your property line, inviting neighbors to share in your harvest?  

After taking some time in silence for us to consider the question, he suggested that one of the most important measures of the value of our spiritual practice is how it impacts other people.  The more calm, thoughtful, clear-minded and compassionate we are, the more we can benefit the life of others, not just ourselves.

This seems important to me.  Our contemporary Western culture often focuses entirely on us as isolated individuals; many popular spiritual practices assume that our highest and sole purpose is to find personal peace and enlightenment.  I think that is short-sighted.  I believe spirituality can become a shiny word for narcissism.  We may begin our practice with a focus on ourselves, but true spirituality draws us beyond ourselves toward serving others and the world.

When I began my ministry, I was living in a low-income area.  A couple came to me wanting to get married but could not afford to pay the usual fees.  I offered an option: instead of paying me or the church, they could do ten hours of community service together for a nonprofit of their choice, then report back to me.  The couple chose to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity.  When we next met, they told me how rewarding the “assignment” was.  I encouraged them to remember that the purpose of marriage is not just to benefit the two making the commitment, but also to be of use to the broader community in which they lived.  Looking back on my career, I wish I would have encouraged that practice with many other couples.

The most fruitful lives I have seen are those that include a commitment to serving others; the paradox is we can find deeper personal fulfillment doing that just endlessly focusing on ourselves.

 A Portable Presence

As I was approaching 60, I wanted to do something memorable to mark my six decades on the planet.  I was grateful I had “made pilgrimage” to some timeless places in the world — Jerusalem, Galilee, Buddhist and Hindu sites in India, the Guadalupe shrine in Mexico City, Ellis Island, Wrigley Field in Chicago and Fenway Park in Boston — and thought about where else I could go.   But my work at the time did not allow for ambitious trips abroad.  I decided to turn inward and identify six places in Southern California that had been important in my life that were within a day’s drive.  My plan was to go to each spot, reflect on what I had experienced there and what it meant to me in the present.  Here are the places I visited:

  • My childhood home in San Bernardino: the house had burned down, and a new house had been built on the lot.  I drove to the street and parked. Childhood memories came back, but all the families we’d known were gone.  I felt nothing.
  • The high school I attended: I drove by slowly; it was summer and not in session and the buildings felt lifeless.
  • The beach in San Clemente where our family spent many summers: the shoreline had shifted somewhat; the horizon, ocean and breaking waves were familiar. I was grateful for the joys we shared there, but also aware those times were long past.
  • The apartment in Isla Vista where I had lived in my junior year in college: I sat on a bench across the street thinking about how I had let myself become deeply isolated and self-absorbed that year.  I remembered how lost I had been.
  • The chapel in San Diego where my spiritual journey had taken root: I parked at the curb, went up the stairs and found the door was locked.  I went to the church office and explained to the church secretary why I had come.  She let me in and left me.  I looked around, breathed the air, summoned some faint memories but nothing else came to me.
  • The Goleta church that had brought us back to California: I parked in the lot and walked around the buildings.  I was grateful for all we had experienced there, but also aware that my life had moved on as had that of many people.

I had hoped that going to those places would give me some exciting new insights into my life, but that was not the case. 

Some months later I decided to trade in my Prius for a Honda CRV.  On the day of the transaction, I cleaned out my personal items from the Prius and drove it to the dealer.  A salesperson inspected it and gave me the keys to the new car in exchange for the Prius keys.  I started to walk away, then stopped to look back at the older car.  It had served me well for five years, but now I was leaving it behind and it seemed like an empty shell.  I wondered, “Is this what it’s like when our spirit leaves our body?”

Maybe we look for our personal presence in particular places, but it’s not there; it’s always with us, it’s who we are.

Lead image: Pacific Coast at San Clemente; sanclementeshoreEDIT.webp

Checking In

This month we have been spending time in the mountains…first the Sierras and now near Mt. Shasta. I’m not doing any writing, but will share a few photos.

Our six year old grandson waiting for his turn in his dad’s kayak, Lake Mary, Mammoth.
Cloud formation at sunset over the town of McCloud (population 945) near Mt. Shasta. Fifteenth year we’ve stayed here.
Panther Meadows,Mt.Shasta, 7500 feet.

I hope you are finding moments of rest and reverence.

“Pain Passes, But the Beauty Remains”

                  In the last years of his life, the French Impressionist painter Jean Renoir continued to paint despite intense pain and physical limitations from rheumatoid arthritis.  At one point he said: “Pain passes, but the beauty remains.”[i]

                  His pain ended with his death, but the beauty of his work lives.

                  I’ve participated in many memorial services in my life.  In such times we have a deep instinct to look for the best in someone’s life, which we hope will transcend whatever pain they endured.  If the person has been able to live a full and meaningful life, this can be easy.  But if the person’s life was marked by tragedy, the desire to focus only on the positive can feel inauthentic — perhaps a way to avoid our own pain and doubts.

                  This week I spoke at a memorial service for a man who died in his late 80s. He’d gone in for a heart procedure that was intended to give him several more years of vitality.  But things happen, and he died at the hospital.  Yet at the service, we reviewed the span of his life, the legacy of his love, and the many joys he knew; all this was far more important than the way he died.

                  This week I also knew a person whose life was drawing to its completion. She had a life of many adventures and much love, but this last year was marked by personal tragedy.  I don’t want to look away from the tragic elements, but I see even more clearly the splendor of her life.

                  From the pain, I want to learn empathy and compassion.

                  From the beauty, I want to practice awe and reverence.

                  Perhaps this drive for transcending suffering is ingrained in life.

A friend who is vacationing in the Caribbean posted some photos this week and commented: “I took a walk on the beach in Barbados tonight and found four turtles coming to shore to lay eggs. I spent about an hour watching one come out of the surf, on to shore and then digging a hole to lay eggs. Incredible.”

                  Patience.  Endurance. Hope. Don’t we all wish this for ourselves and for others: “Pain passes, but the beauty remains?”

Lead image: Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Self-portrait, 1899, Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, MA, USA.

[i] When Art Hurts”

The Remembrance of Things Past

              I led many a meeting over the years. If it was a new group, I would often begin with a question for everyone to answer.  The one I used most often was, “Where did you grow up, and what did you like best about it?”

              I’d wait a minute or two, then offer my own response as an example.  “I grew up in San Bernardino, California.  What I liked best about it was our neighborhood.  It was at the base of the foothills and there were lots of kids on our street.  We spent countless hours getting together to play games like hide and seek, cops and robbers and whatever sport was in season.”

Then others would respond.

“Every summer we’d go back to our grandparents farm for a month.”

“We had a cabin by a lake, and we’d go there for our vacation.  We had every day free to hike, fish, and play games.”

              “In my neighborhood, there was a big vacant lot at the end of the street, and the neighborhood kids would meet there every day and come up with something to do.”

Over time, I saw two common themes.

  1. Almost every treasured memory had to do with extended periods of unstructured time. Alone or with others, children were free to follow their imagination.
  2. As people shared their stories, they became relaxed and happy; they were re-experiencing a joy they’d known unconsciously as a child.

This came to mind as I read a recent article in the New York Times, “Racing to Retake a Beloved Trip, Before Dementia Takes Everything,” by Francesca Mari.[i]  It’s a personal story about her journey with her 72-year-old father who has advancing dementia. He lives alone in Half Moon Bay, and she teaches at Brown University in Rhode Island.  Mari’s mother died when she was 10. Her father never remarried, and she is an only child.  She describes the challenges of caring for a parent with dementia.  Before it gets worse, she decides to take him to Switzerland and Italy, retracing a trip he had with his parents when he was 14 as they visited the village of his grandparents. She hoped this might be a positive experience for them both.

This is a well-told-tale, and I will not try to retell it. Suffice it to say that, despite many challenges, they find his family’s ancestral home in a small Swiss village. Along the way, listening to Beatles’ music in the car and seeing new sights, her father summons up many warm memories, many which she has never heard before.  In some ways, he comes alive again.  Interspersed with their adventures and discoveries, Mari shares insights about the power of nostalgia and reminiscing:

In the 1950s, the tendency of old people to reminisce was thought to be a sign of senility. The first long-term studies of healthy elderly people began at Duke University and the National Institutes of Health’s Laboratory of Clinical Science only in 1955 — and it wasn’t until the early 1960s that Robert Butler, a psychologist then at the National Institutes of Health, realized that nostalgia and reminiscence were part of a natural healing process. “The life review,” as Butler came to call it, “represents one of the underlying human capacities on which all psychotherapy depends.” The goals of life review included the righting of old wrongs, atoning for past actions or inactions, reconciling with estranged family members or friends, accepting your mortality, taking pride in accomplishment and embracing a feeling of having done your best. Interestingly, Butler noted that people often return to their birthplace for a final visit.

Butler believed life reviews weren’t the unvarnished truth but rather the reconciled one, more like the authorized biography. The edited narrative is born of psychological necessity. “People who embark on a life review are making a perilous passage,” Butler wrote, “and they need support that is caring and nonjudgmental. Some people revise their stories until the end, altering and embellishing in an attempt to make things better. Pointing out the inconsistencies serves no useful purpose and, indeed, may cut off the life-review process.”

…. memories must travel between people. Without pollination, they wither. Families collectively remember, they maintain narratives, fill them in and round them out and keep people close long after they’ve left…

I remember listening to my father reminisce in his later years. My mother died 20 years before he did. Growing up, my siblings and I remember many good times, as well as the ways in which they frustrated each other.  But as time went on, dad’s retellings did not include any reference to their differences. Instead, he only saw her in the light of the love he had for her.  Who were we to correct him?

I have been fortunate to spend a great deal of time listening to older peoples’ memories, stories, and lessons they’ve learned.  Now that I am a Medicare-card-carrying-member of this age group, I understand the desire to try to make sense of the lives we’ve lived.

In April, I went back to my hometown to visit the cemetery where my ancestors are buried, including ones who died before I was born.  There was nothing there but gravestones, but something led me to kneel, touch the marker, and thank them.

There is a famous phrase of Shakespeare’s, which, as I discovered, opens his 40th sonnet:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought…

The poem continues with verses describing grieving lost friends, then ends with:

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end.

              May we be willing to honor those who reminisce and be grateful for the friends and families with whom we can “pollinate” our fleeting memories.

[i] “Racing to Retake a Beloved Trip, Before Dementia Takes Everything” (If you cannot open the article but want to read it, email me and I’ll send you a PDF copy.)

Photo: The village of Treggia, Switzerland, where the author’s grandfather was born

It’s Ok to Re-Vise Your Life Story (You’re Not Testifying in Court)

              We live life within the stories we create about ourselves.  But, unlike testimony we give in a court of law, we can change our stories if we choose.

              In a writing workshop, Marilyn McEntyre encouraged us to revise our life stories as often as needed.  She points out that the original meaning of “re-vise” is to “look at again, visit again, look back on.” [i]  She encourages anyone (including the people with serious illnesses whom she works with), to not get stuck in our old narratives. You are the author of your life, she says. Events beyond your control may impact you, but you’re free to decide how you will respond, what role you will play, and who you become.

              Thinking about this reminds me of similar insights I’ve heard over the years.

In a blog post two years ago, I shared a comment attributed to Jonas Salk, the creator of the polio vaccine.  When asked what had enabled him to become a successful experimental scientist, he credited his parents.  If he would spill milk in the kitchen, Salk said, they would not get angry with him. Instead, they’d ask, “What did you learn from that?”  This perspective guided Salk in his scientific career, encouraging him to not be afraid to try things.  If we make a mistake, we can re-visit the experience, see what we can learn from it, and decide what to do differently next time.

I have also shared a comment Parker Palmer made about the term “disillusionment.”  When we say we have become disillusioned, we often say it with a sense of sorrow or defeat.  But, he said, think of what the word means: to be dis-illusioned means we realize we had an illusion and it’s been “dissed.”  Instead of feeling discouraged, imagine we’ve been liberated from mistaken assumptions, open to a clearer sense of the truth. 

Looking back on my life, there have been times when I have trusted some people too soon and too much.  When I eventually recognized it, I felt frustration for having been naïve.  But I can “re-visit” the experience and accept I was the one who created the “illusion” of what to expect.  I can be grateful my illusion has been dissed, and plan to be more careful next time.  (I’m still working on this.)

I remember a hospice study in which a medical team examined why some people die in misery and others — with the same illness — die with a sense of peace. One of the factors they identified was “Experience of a sympathetic, nonadversarial connection to the disease process.”[ii]  I can see cancer as a dark, malignant force that is attacking me as a personal aggressive act; if it “wins,” I have not only lost my health but been humiliated and defeated.  But I can see it from a different perspective: cancer is a common occurrence with living beings and there’s nothing personal about it. I will still do all I can to send it into remission, but cancer doesn’t define who I am as a person, nor will it ever be able to harm my spiritual essence which will survive death.  It’s not easy to navigate this process, but I have seen people “re-vise” their understanding of life and illness and find a sense of peace.  A new perspective is powerful medicine.

A common teaching in the spiritual traditions is to be honest about our short-comings and mistakes, but not be bound by them.  Instead, we accept the grace, compassion and forgiveness that comes from a source beyond our egos while remaining thoughtful about our own behavior. Re-vising our life stories does not mean we are avoiding or denying the facts of what happened; instead, we are finding a fresh perspective that can empower rather than diminish us.

[i] https://www.etymonline.com/word/revise

[ii] “Healing Connections: On Moving from Suffering to a Sense of Well-Being,” Balfour Mount, MD,Patricia Boston, PhD, and S. Robin Cohen, PhD; Journal of Pain and Symptom Management, April 2007 (Other factors named in the study: “Sense of connection to Self, others, phenomenal world, ultimate meaning; Sense of meaning in context of suffering; Capacity to find peace in present moment; Ability to choose attitude to adversity; open to potential in the moment greater than need for control)

Marilyn’s publications and workshops, including her work with people dealing with illnesses, can be found at MarilynMcEntyre.

Lead Image: “A Lady Writing,” Vermeer, 1665, National Gallery of Art; lower image: “Quadrangulus,” Milra Artist Tools, LLC