Be still
and know
the joyous Freedom
of belonging in God.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Uncurable Wounds
Sometimes my wounds are dormant. Sometimes they rear their ugly heads. Some of my wounds are minor and some quite rotten. When they're active, eruptive like a seething volcano, I battle them with blood, sweat, and lots of tears of frustration because they never fully go away. I cry out that I can't cure them! Why, oh WHY does the Divine not help me finally cure these old sources of soul torture?
And then a thought comes-- a whisper of an answer: Perhaps these ugly wounds are not meant to be cured.
If these wounds are kept alive, I am rendered humble. I must face that I am utterly human, flawed, no better than anyone else.
And then a thought comes-- a whisper of an answer: Perhaps these ugly wounds are not meant to be cured.
If these wounds are kept alive, I am rendered humble. I must face that I am utterly human, flawed, no better than anyone else.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Groupees of the Sacred Feminine Held Hostage
Well, if there were ever a blog entry that showcased my edginess, here it is. I'd like to apologize in advance, but it would be insincere. You see, I have a bone to pick. (Uh-oh, fasten your seat belts; here it comes . . .).
As you can tell by the entire point of this blog, my own spiritual platform is to advocate for a "real" spirituality, one that both admits and allows for warts, wrinkles, and half-baked commitments, yet still strives for spiritual betterment. If my version of spiritual development were a graph it wouldn't be a straight line shooting upwards, it would look more like a heart monitor's spikes: up, down, but still progressing however slightly. Spiritual perfectionists need not apply. And this brings me to (drum roll, please):
The very unique group of usually Christian women who are into "The Sacred Feminine." While there are outliers and exceptions, I too often have experienced that these women bother me. There, I said it. (Where is the lightning bolt that will now strike me down)? And so, I have decided to hold them virtually hostage until they cave to my list of mischievous demands:
1. Speak normally --not in a whispery voice as if you are the heroine of a Victorian novel who is in love with your own words.
2. Love womankind without demanding that everyone massage each other's feet or meet to dance in the moonlight topless.
3. Find new phrases and metaphors that don't involve feathers, quilts, or being vivifed and renewed.
4. Confess something really naughty, not just stealing a cupcake.
5. And for Pete's sake, embrace a bit of bawdy passion. For example, instead of always using the clinical term for genitalia, just call it a "pecker!"
As you can tell by the entire point of this blog, my own spiritual platform is to advocate for a "real" spirituality, one that both admits and allows for warts, wrinkles, and half-baked commitments, yet still strives for spiritual betterment. If my version of spiritual development were a graph it wouldn't be a straight line shooting upwards, it would look more like a heart monitor's spikes: up, down, but still progressing however slightly. Spiritual perfectionists need not apply. And this brings me to (drum roll, please):
The very unique group of usually Christian women who are into "The Sacred Feminine." While there are outliers and exceptions, I too often have experienced that these women bother me. There, I said it. (Where is the lightning bolt that will now strike me down)? And so, I have decided to hold them virtually hostage until they cave to my list of mischievous demands:
1. Speak normally --not in a whispery voice as if you are the heroine of a Victorian novel who is in love with your own words.
2. Love womankind without demanding that everyone massage each other's feet or meet to dance in the moonlight topless.
3. Find new phrases and metaphors that don't involve feathers, quilts, or being vivifed and renewed.
4. Confess something really naughty, not just stealing a cupcake.
5. And for Pete's sake, embrace a bit of bawdy passion. For example, instead of always using the clinical term for genitalia, just call it a "pecker!"
I will hold this group virtually hostage until these demands are met and until they engage in rip roaring laughter in which most wind up peeing in their pants.
How did women's spirituality become a dour, academic, perfectionistic, and overly mature thing? Being in the flow of uninhibited, childlike joy is my kind of Sacred Feminine spirituality.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
This is IT? THIS is my life?
This year I would have choked to death if it weren't for my husband, who thankfully was not away on business, but happened to be next to me. I had gotten up to comfort my son in the middle of the night, went back to my bedroom, put a square throat lozenge into my mouth to quell an annoying cough, and the square slipped down my throat and cut off my airway. I woke up my husband who tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver but performed it incorrectly: he did it using open hands instead of making a fist with one. I tried to tell him but he didn't understand. Over a minute passed with his failing efforts. Since I wasn't helped quickly, I had to wonder if "this might be it."
It actually wasn't my first near death experience (the other being a bad car crash years ago), but it was the first time that in the midst of it, I had time to think in surreal, slow motion. An odd and very sad thought came during this suspended moment. I thought incredulously, "This is IT??! THIS was my life?"
I hadn't made my mark, left my legacy, made a difference. My life was dull, mundane, average. To cut it off at that moment would have been akin to pulling the plug on the television during just some inane commercial for hemorrhoids. That was IT? No "on the verge of greatness?" No crowds left behind to wail and mourn? My life was like a tiny light switch that Fate was about to randomly flip to the "off" position. No big deal.
I've sat with the unsettling experience for a few months. It subsided, but now resurfaced with a vengeance because I'm hitting my first, official midlife birthday. Apparently, approaching midlife raises those questions all over again. What is my life about? Is this it? I revived my old panic again because midlife is in some ways a continuation of that near death experience. Once again, I get to think in surreal, slow motion about my life as it takes a turn toward the end.
It actually wasn't my first near death experience (the other being a bad car crash years ago), but it was the first time that in the midst of it, I had time to think in surreal, slow motion. An odd and very sad thought came during this suspended moment. I thought incredulously, "This is IT??! THIS was my life?"
I hadn't made my mark, left my legacy, made a difference. My life was dull, mundane, average. To cut it off at that moment would have been akin to pulling the plug on the television during just some inane commercial for hemorrhoids. That was IT? No "on the verge of greatness?" No crowds left behind to wail and mourn? My life was like a tiny light switch that Fate was about to randomly flip to the "off" position. No big deal.
I've sat with the unsettling experience for a few months. It subsided, but now resurfaced with a vengeance because I'm hitting my first, official midlife birthday. Apparently, approaching midlife raises those questions all over again. What is my life about? Is this it? I revived my old panic again because midlife is in some ways a continuation of that near death experience. Once again, I get to think in surreal, slow motion about my life as it takes a turn toward the end.
Before I depress anyone, let me state this quickly: I have come to peace with this haunting fear about my little life being totally insignificant in the large scheme of things. Of course, my spiritual panic ought to have been quelled by doctrinal, religious assurances, but instead I find my comfort in something practical, utterly this worldly, and ironically mundane.
I am no longer undone by the utter averageness of my life because I realize that an average life is a deeply privileged life. Millions of people wish they had "just an average life." Is my life just about cleaning and cooking? Oh but how many wish they owned a vacuum, or a washer, let alone a home? How many wish they had food to cook every day? Is my life just about engaging in an ongoing power struggle with my child? How many bereaved parents wish they had just one more day to hear their child's voice? Is my life's excitement just a good book, an interesting conversation, a scenic drive, or a new bud on a garden plant? If I could have asked my parents when they were growing up in Europe in World War II, they, like many others, would answer that they could certainly appreciate the luxury of a completely quiet, uneventful life.
And so, is this it? Is THIS my life?
It is.
This is my life. . . and I am lucky to have it at all.
Monday, November 10, 2008
I'm Glad It Happened to Me
I believe it may have been a good 15 to 20 years ago, when I glimpsed on the news a woman who was being interviewed due to the rare but fatal illness she had. She was older, but not old. She had wild gray curls, was a bit chubby perhaps, and had a young smile. While my memory fails to recall the details of her name, location, or even what type of disease she had, I explicitly and clearly remember one thing:
In response to the question about what it's like for her to have this disease-death-sentence, she earnestly said, "I'm glad it happened to me and not to someone else who couldn't handle it like I can." To this day, her response stuns me into humbled awe.
A clinical cynic might say, "Well, she clearly had processed through the stages of denial, anger, and grief and simply accepted her condition." I'm sorry, Cynic, but it is one thing to accept your horrid situation and quite another to be glad of it for altruistic reasons.
Whoever she was, she stands in my memory as an inspiration. I share the story, so that perhaps she can continue to be an inspiration for others as well.
In response to the question about what it's like for her to have this disease-death-sentence, she earnestly said, "I'm glad it happened to me and not to someone else who couldn't handle it like I can." To this day, her response stuns me into humbled awe.
A clinical cynic might say, "Well, she clearly had processed through the stages of denial, anger, and grief and simply accepted her condition." I'm sorry, Cynic, but it is one thing to accept your horrid situation and quite another to be glad of it for altruistic reasons.
Whoever she was, she stands in my memory as an inspiration. I share the story, so that perhaps she can continue to be an inspiration for others as well.
Thanks for the Sh--!
Somewhere, I've read this simplistic but difficult message: Instead of just being grateful for what you think is "good," be grateful for the "bad" stuff too.
In practice, this is a very tall order, but not if you start out small. I embrace my spiritual-kindergartener status: I must begin with saying, "Thank You!" after getting a knock to my funny bone. You know what? Being grateful for the bit of pain was oddly freeing.
I try again. This time with a much, much harder challenge for me: traffic. After I curse the driver who cuts me off (sorry, but I'm not yet able to restructure that bad habit), I calm down a minute and then through clenched teeth I utter, "Thank You for that asshole that cut me off." And then I laugh at my resistance. But the laughter means something is working here! That's exactly the point of being grateful for the bad stuff: lighten up & suspend judgment of what you think is so bad.
I may never be able to exhibit gratefulness for the really big stuff, but that's okay. Life is made up of mostly the little stuff anyway.
In practice, this is a very tall order, but not if you start out small. I embrace my spiritual-kindergartener status: I must begin with saying, "Thank You!" after getting a knock to my funny bone. You know what? Being grateful for the bit of pain was oddly freeing.
I try again. This time with a much, much harder challenge for me: traffic. After I curse the driver who cuts me off (sorry, but I'm not yet able to restructure that bad habit), I calm down a minute and then through clenched teeth I utter, "Thank You for that asshole that cut me off." And then I laugh at my resistance. But the laughter means something is working here! That's exactly the point of being grateful for the bad stuff: lighten up & suspend judgment of what you think is so bad.
I may never be able to exhibit gratefulness for the really big stuff, but that's okay. Life is made up of mostly the little stuff anyway.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Spiritual Mentor
His name was Harmon Hartzell Bro http://www.answers.com/topic/harmon-hartzell-bro . I met him back in seminary when he came to guest lecture for a class on mysticism, taught by his close friend, Merle Jordan (author of Taking on the Gods: The Task of the Pastoral Counselor ).
He was elderly and kind which could have been a detriment as my attention span may have kicked into snooze drive. Instead, I oddly found him captivating despite his Reader's Digest aura. In fact, he stands as the only person I have ever met that could have talked about the dullness of dirt and I still would have felt enthralled by him--- or by Something that radiated through him. He had IT. Staring at him, I knew without any academic doubt that he had IT.
I had a bizarre moment while listening to him in class. I "saw" a column of something like the pixelated fuzz of a programless channel on t.v., but transparent. This column of energy (?) began at the width of his shoulders and moved upwards toward the ceiling. I felt this was his visible connection with God. And then I thought, "He's so connected, he won't be here much longer." I turned out to be right. He died not long afterwards.
Years later, when I stumbled across JFK Jr's compliment of Mother Teresa, I thought of Harmon Bro. JFK Jr. said that just being in Mother Teresa's presence, you knew there was a God. Harmon Bro was that kind of person too. Being in his presence, I knew there was a Loving One. I wish I could get to a point in which I could have this sort of presence and connection.
He offered me a practical, concrete, vision of my spiritual goal. He was sweet, laid back, nonjudgmental, light-hearted and this worldly, yet just radiated (perhaps literally) a kind of healing warmth that could only come from One place.
I think how terribly far away I am from that goal --given my list of neurotic fears and defenses. It makes me sad, but perhaps I'm better off than most: At least I've seen and experienced what it can look like to be a down home, "real" person who has a deep connection with Life, a connection that cannot help but radiate the lovingkindness that is meant as gift for all.
He was elderly and kind which could have been a detriment as my attention span may have kicked into snooze drive. Instead, I oddly found him captivating despite his Reader's Digest aura. In fact, he stands as the only person I have ever met that could have talked about the dullness of dirt and I still would have felt enthralled by him--- or by Something that radiated through him. He had IT. Staring at him, I knew without any academic doubt that he had IT.
I had a bizarre moment while listening to him in class. I "saw" a column of something like the pixelated fuzz of a programless channel on t.v., but transparent. This column of energy (?) began at the width of his shoulders and moved upwards toward the ceiling. I felt this was his visible connection with God. And then I thought, "He's so connected, he won't be here much longer." I turned out to be right. He died not long afterwards.
Years later, when I stumbled across JFK Jr's compliment of Mother Teresa, I thought of Harmon Bro. JFK Jr. said that just being in Mother Teresa's presence, you knew there was a God. Harmon Bro was that kind of person too. Being in his presence, I knew there was a Loving One. I wish I could get to a point in which I could have this sort of presence and connection.
He offered me a practical, concrete, vision of my spiritual goal. He was sweet, laid back, nonjudgmental, light-hearted and this worldly, yet just radiated (perhaps literally) a kind of healing warmth that could only come from One place.
I think how terribly far away I am from that goal --given my list of neurotic fears and defenses. It makes me sad, but perhaps I'm better off than most: At least I've seen and experienced what it can look like to be a down home, "real" person who has a deep connection with Life, a connection that cannot help but radiate the lovingkindness that is meant as gift for all.
I'm Not Coming Back!
I'd like to say that what pushes me along the path toward spiritual development is my concern for others, my wish to worship the Divine for Its sake, or my deeply ethical commitments. Sadly, none of these loftier ideals constitute my spiritual spine.
What motivates me to try to be a better person is the following. In case the Hindus, Sikhs, and Buddhists (and some Christians like Edgar Cayce) are right about reincarnation, then I am trying to do the right thing in this lifetime because: I'm not coming back!
Don't get me wrong, I've spent decades in formal study; so, I love learning, but this whole human-to-human relationship stuff is hard work. I'm old & I'm tired. I'd like to be done. I don't want to keep coming back to get it right, to try to finally learn the very same lesson my thick, rigid, ego wouldn't learn the first ten thousand go arounds.
Intellectually, the concept of reincarnation makes sense to me: it takes a long time to grow closer to God, to let go of all resistances and live in conscious awareness of the Divine. But let's face it, I still haven't learned to eat healthy let alone come close to understanding the most important purpose of life.
While reincarnation seems sound, I prefer the concept of grace. Given our innate flaws, how could any of us ever hope to finally learn anything about Life all by ourselves? How could we ever live enough lifetimes to repay the debts of our errors? We can't. And so, if Spirit is biased towards the good, then there must be grace: the chance to start anew even if we never merit it.
Yet even with this insight into grace, what keeps the fire to my toes is reminding myself that I no longer want to be stuck spinning my wheels in the spiritual equivalent of preschool. I want to graduate, not to a higher level, but to THE final level. I do NOT want to repeat a grade!
And as "punishment" for these thoughts, I'll probably have to come back a few more times until I learn to accept the whole, slow process . . . with grace.
What motivates me to try to be a better person is the following. In case the Hindus, Sikhs, and Buddhists (and some Christians like Edgar Cayce) are right about reincarnation, then I am trying to do the right thing in this lifetime because: I'm not coming back!
Don't get me wrong, I've spent decades in formal study; so, I love learning, but this whole human-to-human relationship stuff is hard work. I'm old & I'm tired. I'd like to be done. I don't want to keep coming back to get it right, to try to finally learn the very same lesson my thick, rigid, ego wouldn't learn the first ten thousand go arounds.
Intellectually, the concept of reincarnation makes sense to me: it takes a long time to grow closer to God, to let go of all resistances and live in conscious awareness of the Divine. But let's face it, I still haven't learned to eat healthy let alone come close to understanding the most important purpose of life.
While reincarnation seems sound, I prefer the concept of grace. Given our innate flaws, how could any of us ever hope to finally learn anything about Life all by ourselves? How could we ever live enough lifetimes to repay the debts of our errors? We can't. And so, if Spirit is biased towards the good, then there must be grace: the chance to start anew even if we never merit it.
Yet even with this insight into grace, what keeps the fire to my toes is reminding myself that I no longer want to be stuck spinning my wheels in the spiritual equivalent of preschool. I want to graduate, not to a higher level, but to THE final level. I do NOT want to repeat a grade!
And as "punishment" for these thoughts, I'll probably have to come back a few more times until I learn to accept the whole, slow process . . . with grace.
Parking for the Spiritually Handicapped
Many times when I see a handicapped parking space, I mentally joke with myself (my best audience) that I am entitled to the spot since I am emotionally and spiritually handicapped. I've searched http://www.beliefnet.com/ for a religious community for those spiritually handicapped like me, but have not found it yet. For some odd reason, I can't find a community in which the religious dogma includes answering the question, "Do you desire with your whole being to follow the Way?" with a hesitant, "Uh, yes? that's a definite maybe? "
Why am I spiritually handicapped? I'm not one to have a spiritual cliched answer for every problem. There are many out there who do, but for me, things are unfortunately more complex. On the one hand, I envy those who appear to be spiritually strong, certain and competent. On the other hand, I feel closer to the strugglers, to those who have moments of inspiration, but many times of doubt and darkness too. I most appreciate spiritual folk who are "real"-- those who show their flawed, human side. They give me permission to feel okay when I need to park in a spiritually handicapped spot. Rather than urge me to finally "graduate" to a fully-abled spiritual being, they inspire me to try to reach just more moments of inspiration, meaning, and inner peace.
And so, cruising around the parking lot for the spiritually developing, I will bypass all those spaces meant for those who walk upright and righteously. I will clench onto my ego crutches, peak out of the one good eye that is not blinded by the log that's in it, and park my weak willed spiritual spine in the spot that's left for people just like me. ----But I console myself with the thought that my lot can't be all that bad since all handicapped spots are closer to their intended Destination.
Why am I spiritually handicapped? I'm not one to have a spiritual cliched answer for every problem. There are many out there who do, but for me, things are unfortunately more complex. On the one hand, I envy those who appear to be spiritually strong, certain and competent. On the other hand, I feel closer to the strugglers, to those who have moments of inspiration, but many times of doubt and darkness too. I most appreciate spiritual folk who are "real"-- those who show their flawed, human side. They give me permission to feel okay when I need to park in a spiritually handicapped spot. Rather than urge me to finally "graduate" to a fully-abled spiritual being, they inspire me to try to reach just more moments of inspiration, meaning, and inner peace.
And so, cruising around the parking lot for the spiritually developing, I will bypass all those spaces meant for those who walk upright and righteously. I will clench onto my ego crutches, peak out of the one good eye that is not blinded by the log that's in it, and park my weak willed spiritual spine in the spot that's left for people just like me. ----But I console myself with the thought that my lot can't be all that bad since all handicapped spots are closer to their intended Destination.
Finding God: Deep Thinky Thoughts vs. My Dog
As a pastoral counselor and psychology professor, I am aware that the way a person experiences God or the divine depends on the person. A great book about this (based on the Myers Briggs Personality types) is called, Who We Are Is How We Pray: Matching Personality and Spirituality by Charles Keating.
So, that said: Who am I? Well, I enjoy what my momma once termed, "deep, thinky thoughts." I could dive into abstract, intellectual discussions as if they were a calorie-free, vat of Nutella. I am innately and utterly drawn to those deep, thinky thoughts BUT are they the right route to spiritual development for me?
I'm thinkin' no. God, for me, has to be an experience, not an intellectual exercise. I can't access the spiritual in my head-- no matter how many dusty, old academic treatises I've read.
In comes: my dog. Perhaps like most, I glimpse Goodness and Grace through my pet. As an adult, I rarely have the feeling of losing myself with reckless abandon . . . UNLESS I am playing with my dog. That's FLOW for me. [See Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi]. That's tapping into the Tao in my world. Any other time I try to be in "flow," my heady, neurotic side ruins it, by constantly asking myself, "Am I in flow? Is this it? What about now?" and then I'm not in it.
My cat also communicated a bit of "what it's all about." When I first got her, she was a little rescue kitty that I couldn't bear to leave. I was alone, living in a rural area, in between jobs. She was IT for me. Then I had a collicky child and added a tasmanian-devil of a puppy to the mix and my poor cat was relegated to the bottom of the attention rung.
Now that my son (FINALLY) plays by himself a bit, I felt like I actually have a moment, a breather. So, I picked up my cat and it was just us again. Then it hit me with shame: it's been nearly five years since I've cuddled her and showered her with baby talk. (Luckily, my husband had picked up the slack). She was so grateful, so amenable, just appreciating and fully enjoying the moment.
I sadly realized that would NOT have been my reaction. I would have held a big, fat grudge: "You think you can cuddle me now after years of neglect, lady?" Whack! Tail up; strutt off with a "humpf!"
I've been spiritually outdone and humbled by my cat.
So . . . Learn from our wiser, furry friends: Enjoy the moment and dive into some Flow with reckless abandon.
So, that said: Who am I? Well, I enjoy what my momma once termed, "deep, thinky thoughts." I could dive into abstract, intellectual discussions as if they were a calorie-free, vat of Nutella. I am innately and utterly drawn to those deep, thinky thoughts BUT are they the right route to spiritual development for me?
I'm thinkin' no. God, for me, has to be an experience, not an intellectual exercise. I can't access the spiritual in my head-- no matter how many dusty, old academic treatises I've read.
In comes: my dog. Perhaps like most, I glimpse Goodness and Grace through my pet. As an adult, I rarely have the feeling of losing myself with reckless abandon . . . UNLESS I am playing with my dog. That's FLOW for me. [See Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi]. That's tapping into the Tao in my world. Any other time I try to be in "flow," my heady, neurotic side ruins it, by constantly asking myself, "Am I in flow? Is this it? What about now?" and then I'm not in it.
My cat also communicated a bit of "what it's all about." When I first got her, she was a little rescue kitty that I couldn't bear to leave. I was alone, living in a rural area, in between jobs. She was IT for me. Then I had a collicky child and added a tasmanian-devil of a puppy to the mix and my poor cat was relegated to the bottom of the attention rung.
Now that my son (FINALLY) plays by himself a bit, I felt like I actually have a moment, a breather. So, I picked up my cat and it was just us again. Then it hit me with shame: it's been nearly five years since I've cuddled her and showered her with baby talk. (Luckily, my husband had picked up the slack). She was so grateful, so amenable, just appreciating and fully enjoying the moment.
I sadly realized that would NOT have been my reaction. I would have held a big, fat grudge: "You think you can cuddle me now after years of neglect, lady?" Whack! Tail up; strutt off with a "humpf!"
I've been spiritually outdone and humbled by my cat.
So . . . Learn from our wiser, furry friends: Enjoy the moment and dive into some Flow with reckless abandon.
Heaven Bound (based on Midnight)
The only time I am at my best is when I am completely alone (or with my dog). If I were to be judged for my heaven-worthiness, I'm hoping God looks at midnight. I'm good then.
My karma account looks great-- if no one is evaluating my actions, my thoughts, my speech, etc.
I am able to love the more annoying members of my family best . . . from great distances.
I have the tolerant compassion of a saint . . . when vicariously experiencing other people's problems.
When things are still and quiet, I exhale slowly and truly feel good thoughts towards all.
I pray to take those feelings with me into the world but they drop away faster than an infomercial's warranty.
What to do? Be aware. Keep trying. I'm not alone.
My karma account looks great-- if no one is evaluating my actions, my thoughts, my speech, etc.
I am able to love the more annoying members of my family best . . . from great distances.
I have the tolerant compassion of a saint . . . when vicariously experiencing other people's problems.
When things are still and quiet, I exhale slowly and truly feel good thoughts towards all.
I pray to take those feelings with me into the world but they drop away faster than an infomercial's warranty.
What to do? Be aware. Keep trying. I'm not alone.
Do you mind? I'm spiritually growing here!
Back in the steam room: It's my moment of quiet, a time to retreat inwardly to recharge my spiritual batteries. I look forward to being alone for once in my entire day.
But wait! She is in my private steamy sanctuary. I cannot feel free to do my diaphragmatic breathing with my gut ballooning outwards if she is here too. I cannot inhale super slowly without inhibition because now I must wonder if she thinks I'm some sort of heavy breathing weirdo. She is disturbing my inner equilibrium which I have worked hard (2 days at 5 minutes each) to obtain. Did I mention that her skinny butt is at least 15 years younger than mine?
In this already clausterphobic space the size of a walk-in closet, she is doing knee bends, squats, and lunges.
"Do you mind?! I'm spiritually growing here!"
For some reason, she leaves.
I resume: "I am a loving, spiritual person, in harmony with all creation . . ."
But wait! She is in my private steamy sanctuary. I cannot feel free to do my diaphragmatic breathing with my gut ballooning outwards if she is here too. I cannot inhale super slowly without inhibition because now I must wonder if she thinks I'm some sort of heavy breathing weirdo. She is disturbing my inner equilibrium which I have worked hard (2 days at 5 minutes each) to obtain. Did I mention that her skinny butt is at least 15 years younger than mine?
In this already clausterphobic space the size of a walk-in closet, she is doing knee bends, squats, and lunges.
"Do you mind?! I'm spiritually growing here!"
For some reason, she leaves.
I resume: "I am a loving, spiritual person, in harmony with all creation . . ."
3 Spiritual Steps in the Steam Room
Preliminary: Enter the steam room &get ready for the great spiritual changes about to take place.
Step 1: Sit with erect posture and do deep, diaphragmatic breathing, becoming one with the
entire universe.
Step 2: After a full commitment of 4 minutes, allow your fidgeting body to stand as you place
the hand of your claustrophobic self on the door pull. Moment of true grit: "one . . . more. . . minute." Total of 5 minutes. Outta here!
Step 3: Exit the steam room with a sense of great spiritual accomplishment (at least until having to wait in line for a shower irritates the crap out of you).
Step 1: Sit with erect posture and do deep, diaphragmatic breathing, becoming one with the
entire universe.
Step 2: After a full commitment of 4 minutes, allow your fidgeting body to stand as you place
the hand of your claustrophobic self on the door pull. Moment of true grit: "one . . . more. . . minute." Total of 5 minutes. Outta here!
Step 3: Exit the steam room with a sense of great spiritual accomplishment (at least until having to wait in line for a shower irritates the crap out of you).
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