Holding On & Listening

A short time after returning from pilgrimage, I was confronted by the very thing that had haunted my thoughts of coming home.  I had just returned from a challenging trip with the new interns, one where I visited many places that now held bittersweet memories and where I felt a tiring tension between my new role as mentor and my desire to connect as a friend.  I didn’t have any energy left for socializing, so I sat alone at dinner.  Then my former crush sat at the table behind me, bubbling with anticipation over seeing his new girlfriend.  An impulse rose in me to run or to implode – anything to escape what felt intolerable.  And then I remembered the power I had felt flow through me in India.  My fork froze mid-air, my eyes closed, and I felt my energy lift up and out through my forehead.  My third eye warmed, I felt an effervescence in my veins, and a sensation of peace began gathering near the birthplace of laughter.  “I am free, I am free,” I thought, “Blessed spirit, I am free.

My father has been reading my blogs since I began writing, and he emails me his thoughts after every post.  It has been a blessing to connect with him in this way, and a gift to share notes about our unique perspectives on life.  After my series about India, he urged me to write about how we can hold onto sublime experiences like the ones I had.  What happens to us when we return from an archetypal hero’s journey and try to reintegrate into the world that continued on without us.  When we face all the demons that lay patiently waiting for our return, how do we maintain our momentum?  I found myself at a loss on how to reply, because I don’t think we can hold on.  All I think we can do is adopt the same attitude that brought the experiences to us in the first place: one of willing openness and faith.  And in that way, India has stayed with me.

My life has changed significantly since I returned to Ananda Laurelwood.  My experiences on pilgrimage brought me the clarity of knowing that this is my home, and when I met with our spiritual directors about the best way I can make a life here, I was supported in officially taking on the development of our internship program.  I have stepped into leadership before.  I understand that moving from peer to leader can be vulnerable and isolating.  But what is new this time is that I am making this shift not just at work, but at home.  Living in community means being “on” all the time, except for a few short minutes in my room before bed.  And being “on” in a program geared towards supporting spiritual growth means often having no idea what’s needed and simply showing up to that ambiguity with kindness.  I welcomed the challenge because I knew that I needed that level of accountability to keep me from slipping back into old patterns.  And I knew that what I was unmotivated to do for my own good, I would whole-heartedly do to help others, or at least to my best to ensure I did not cause harm.

The weeks that followed revealed wave after wave of conflicting realities.  As I talked with residents and community leaders about their vision for the program, some were more rigid and some were much gentler.  As I worked to win the trust of a new group of interns who had spent their first three weeks bonding with each other before meeting me, I found that what they shared with me would often vary significantly from what they shared with others.  And some would not confide in me at all.  Trying to create a schedule of activities that met each of their needs often conflicted with the needs of the center and what other residents wanted to experiment with.  And some residents insisted I had said things that had never passed out of my mouth.  After gaining so much clarity on pilgrimage about who I was and what I had to offer, and being so willing to take a stand, I felt completely disoriented and increasingly anxious over how to navigate the bubbled stew I moved in from 7am to 9pm every day.

Then a conflict arose between two interns, I took the action I felt was right, and one of them left the community.  One part of me fully accepted the blame.  I hadn’t prayed for guidance before a crucial conversation.  I was not a truly neutral party because their story held echoes of my own.  But the community overwhelming understood that sometimes part of being a leader is taking the blame, and that once something has been done, all we can do is give it back to god and trust that the larger flow is simply not clear to us.  The vulnerable part of me that was sure I would be rejected for my mistakes, that wanted to run away so that my imperfections couldn’t hurt anyone again, gave way to the stronger part of me that knew I had been given this task because I could take the heat and retain my compassion.  I listened to his pain.  I apologized for the part I knew had been my mistake.  And then I gave all my gratitude and my doubt back to god, trusting that my part had ended and that what was left was for others to do.

I know this is my community because it holds everything I’ve tried to run away from, as well as all the tools I need to finally overcome it all.  This work is mine to do, regardless of my preferences, because its familiarity shows me where part of me is stuck and unable to move forward.  I am back in a leadership position in an organization with a beautiful vision and imperfect people, trying to make everything work right and protect everyone from harm.  I am feeling myself becoming exhausted and constricted.  But I also know that a line of gurus are there to help free me, that they respond the moment I invite them in to work through me, and that everything flows more smoothly when I do.  I see how every challenge I face is an invitation to do what I have done before in a new way.  I am but one part of a larger whole.  The only character I play is myself, and harm comes to me and others only when I try to do what isn’t mine to do.  The best piece of advice I’ve gotten since my return was to let go of managing all the pieces and just focus on what I bring.  If I get my own energy right, everything else will fall into place.

It is ironic to me that it took me leaving a 10-year career in volunteer management to finally start to understand what it really means to serve.  It isn’t about fixing or producing or coordinating or even planning.  Some of the most apparently disorganized programs I encountered during my career were also some of the most successful.  I am starting to hear echoes of their philosophy in the community around me, as crazy as it all sounds to the part of me that wants to decide on a destination, gather up my resources, and chart a straight course.  Life in its rawest, most creative, transformative, and awesome form doesn’t work that way.  It waits for the right moment, which comes in ever-shifting whirlpools of unexpected elements, and if we aren’t there – present, listening, and responsive – it passes.  The essence of service is letting go of who we think we are, what we think needs to be done, and what we think people need, and just do what we can do to address the needs of the moment.  And then do what’s next.  With all our senses attuned as much as possible to everything around us.

“You aren’t listening!” he shot at me, exasperated.  He had been talking about how some people listen and others liiiisten, and I had asked him about the difference between the two.  I flushed with embarrassment.  Of course I hadn’t been listening.  I had been too wrapped up in being cheerful and intellectual attempts to take the conversation to a deeper place.  And doing everything I could to interfere with the moment instead of simply being present with everyone as we are.  I realized how terrifying that is for me – how deeply I believe that if I don’t have a plan I’m working towards, everything will go hay-wire.  And so I swallowed the sting in my heart and tuned into his need for space, his need to be trusted.  I felt gratitude for his willingness to rebel against me.  And I felt that vibration in me, that strength in my spine, reminding me that I can withstand criticism, that I can be wrong, and that I can reconnect and begin again.  As many times as it takes.  Because what brings me joy is not what I do, but what comes through me and outward towards others, when I am willing to get out of the way.

My sister mentioned a grounded lightness in my voice when I first returned.  At our reunion, a fellow pilgrim told me that something in me felt purer.  In front of so many shrines, holding the ashes of saints, submerged in the unique and powerful vibration each held, I prayed for the experience to burrow inside of me, to infuse my darkness with its light, and to re-emerge when I needed it most.  I knew I could never hold onto the experience with my mind.  And now I find my body remembers that vibration, my mind bows more readily in reverence to it, the faces of our gurus shine with the sweetness of familiarity, and meditation has become a place of tender solace, of coming home.  The habitual thoughts still pull at me with their giddiness and anxiety, but there is a deeper understanding in my core that these things pass, and that just behind them is a far more fulfilling reality.  I am not my grief and fear.  The good fortune, beautiful views, and smiling faces I encounter are merely filters for an eternal ocean of lightness and joy pulsing just beyond my mind.  India led me to that shore.  All I really need to do is become still and listen to its sound.

Nancy

“If our destiny is to grow on and on and on, into some far more beautiful creatures than we are now, that means that we need to have the shells broken quite frequently so that we can grow.” – Frank Laubach