Notes from an Open Life

Faith and frustration

"If you're going through hell, keep going." - Winston Churchill

I have a lot of blog ideas that start out as just the beginnings of ideas. I jot them down as draft posts and then forget about them. They sometimes come back around and resonate with me again, and then I finish them up and post them. This is one of those. 

I was raised Catholic, and, as I tend to say, it didn't quite "take." That said, I feel like I've gradually built a fledgling, practical spirituality based more on my life experience. From that perspective, I use the word "faith" in the sense of: no matter how dark and difficult things might seem right now - no matter how much I can't really see how things will turn out well - things actually will turn out well if I simply have faith and allow it to.

Which has led to the title and topic of this post. 

Faith that things will actually turn out OK is, of course, hardest when it feels like exactly the opposite - that everything will NOT turn out OK, but spectactularly and permanently badly. Which, I suppose, is exactly the point and definition of faith. As they say, it's easy to have faith when things are going well.

And so it occurs to me that the experience of faith - faith in its truest action - is not necessarily a positive experience. While the word sounds uplifting ("FAITH!!"), the experience itself is not uplifting at all. Faith in true practice is actually a maddening mix of a positive outlook, along with sadness, anger, frustration, and, at its deepest, elements of despair.

Because why does one need faith if there seems to be some positive solution to a situation? If there is even a glimmer of hope, it's relatively easy to have hope. It is only when there seems to be no hope, no solution, no end - when there is despair, deep in the soul - that faith becomes one of the only options (other than compounded despair, dissociation, breakdowns, psychotic breaks, or self-harm, among others).

Is this a new concept? No, of course not. But the experience and the realization seem new to me. In the face of overpowering and unexplained occurrences and emotions, where one's basic beliefs come into question - what is one to do? When one doesn't FEEL as if everything is going to turn out all right? Where does one turn? 

There seem to be two options. Follow that feeling of despair and descend into that dark and deep pool. Or repeat to oneself, even as some part of oneself screams and cries against it, "everything will be OK."

Maybe even "everything IS OK".

In writing this down, this seems overly simplistic. Living the experience - getting to the point where one is truly not sure whether one will ever get out of that pool of despair - draws out the awful paradox of this.

Life change happens one small step at a time, with simply doing something different. Thinking something different. Believing something different. For a moment. For a day.

This is at the heart of change: proving to oneself, in very small steps, that perhaps one doesn't know or understand the full plans of one's life - which is what ego wants to believe. Or perhaps not proving anything, but simply being willing, for a moment, to believe that things can be different, despite current appearances.

Having the courage, perhaps, to let go of the thought that one knows what's going on, and allowing life a small chance to lead you someplace new.

The Journey - revisited

Life is full of changes. Today is Sunday, August 7, 2011, and I was just remembering a draft blog entry I wrote almost two years ago now.

I'll let my two-year-ago self riff on this first, and then add a bit:

So at a quarter to two this afternoon, October 20, 2009, this huge thing dropped into my head - or maybe my being. It was one of those moments where everything comes together. It's like a framework falls into your life and suddenly helps you make sense of so many things.

And today it was the image/icon of the journey.

My life has been about journeys. I love road trips. My good friend Greg and I took an iconic road trip across the US in 1988. When I was in high school and in my early 20s, I would often go on long trips in the car, often by myself.

But the journey is more than just travelling. For me, it's a way of being in the world. I love to start new ventures, to try something I haven't tried before, to journey in and be the student, the learner. I get bored with what seems to me to be the same old thing.

There are so many ways the journey echos through every stage of my life. Moving when I was young, exploring, even my dreams echo this. A common dream theme for me is going someplace. Usually I don't even get to the place I'm trying to go in the dream - I just am on the way there.

And that's as far as I got back then.

So the image/concept of the journey is back in my head and my life again. What I would add to this entry is that, for me, the journey is not necessarily about the destination. It's about the trip. I often times enjoy myself so much just getting to where I think I'm going. It makes me smile just to think about this.

Another thing that popped into my head recently is a quote that really resonated with my father (who has since passed away). It's from James Thurber, which surprised me, as Thurber is one of my favorite authors, and this quote surprised me.

All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.

Apparently this is written on a wall somewhere in Cambria, California, which is where my dad saw it. I always used to think the quote was kind of trite, and to some extent obvious. Yet it seems to resonate with me now, or at least more so, and I think it's worth another look.

I don't know that I have anything else to add at this point, except that I think I'm on some kind of psychic/spiritual journey right now. My life has changed so much in some ways since October 2009. I've completed my Masters in Counseling degree. I've experienced success through my business. I've grown in ways I really never could have foreseen. I've opened myself up to the world and found it a truly wonderful place. It's truly amazing. And this journey, obviously, isn't over yet.

The journey is wonderful and amazing and terrifying all at the same time. In its entirety, the journey is beautiful. It can be no other way. Because our journey is ours, and ours alone. Don't get me wrong - everyone in our lives is part of our journey. That's why they are there. But the beauty we create for ourselves is what makes the journey worthwhile. Worth every minute of it. I'm really glad to be here. I hope you are too.

The value of crisis

Occasionally I get together with a colleague and friend of mine, John Creighton, to talk about topics like community, change, schools, libraries and social networking, among other things. I am also fortunate to sit on a Colorado State Library advisory council, discussing the future of libraries, in Colorado and beyond. And, as you likely know, I'm also involved with the Special Libraries Association (SLA).

In my conversations with John and with the council, the topic of crisis continues to come up, in one way or another. In some ways, the conversation around the future of libraries is spurred by crisis. SLA, like many associations, is dealing with crises of revenue, membership and sustainability. The budget discussions for Colorado schools is framed by crisis. The economy in general is in a state of ongoing crisis, it seems.

I think that as a society, we'd rather not have crisis. The passing of regulation and legislation is an attempt to control crisis, and reasonably so. We can't live long in chaos. Prolonged crisis takes its toll on us as individuals and as a society.

But the value of crisis is that it is a catalyst, as reflected in SLA CEO Janice's speech at SLA. Despite the harsh nature of crisis - and our prolonged struggles to avoid it - it is through crisis that we become our most flexible and our most creative. Only in crisis are we able to let go of the old things that we need to let go of, and embrace the new things that we need to pursue in order to move forward. 

You can see this in many contexts: in the economy, in our myriad budget struggles, in the reduction of resources, in natural disasters: fire, flood, earthquakes. In our personal lives, we have crises: the loss of loved ones, addiction, sudden changes in our circumstances.

Crisis is, by its nature, devastating. It is shocking. It is difficult to comprehend. We often can't see how we're going to move through it. And when we shake off the initial shock, it refocuses our priorities on what is important now.

Crisis, navigated successfully and as thoughtfully as possible, brings forth our strengths and our resourcefulness. It brings us back to our connections with others - those we know and love, and those we didn't know, but who help us nonetheless. Ultimately, crisis renews us. 

Whatever the context - SLA, libraries, schools, economy, personally - once we've recognized the magnitude of the crisis, let's not get stuck in the crisis itself. Let us recognize the losses, and what we must face, and then look for the opportunities that await us.

Limits, or limitless?

For many years of my life, at one point or another, I've lived in California, and most often near a beach (or something resembling a beach). At some of the lowest and highest points of my life, I've gone out to the beach, or the ocean cliff, and stared off into the ocean - in the daylight, at night, at dawn, at sunset. I feel like I've seen the ocean in a variety of moods - or rather, being myself in a variety of moods.

And there have been many times when I've gone to it because I'm at my limit. I need some time away. I need a different answer. I need to get away. I need a view that is away from the land, a view that is away from humanity, and from the reflection of all my foibles.

I was thinking recently that this was the only time I went to the ocean - when I needed an escape, when I was at my limit.

But then I was reflecting on the times when I've relied on the ocean as a different view. I go to the edge of the land, the land's end and stare into - what? Am I really looking at my limits, or am I staring off into the limitlessness? What is the possibility that I see out there?

Once we reach our limit, do we experience at the same time our limitlessness? 

That's what I realized I experience at the ocean. It's a gorgeous and freeing experience. Living in Colorado, I get the mountains, which are their own experience and which have been powerfully moving in their own way.

I get to see the ocean only once or twice a year now. And I still feel that delicious, encompassing pull of the ocean. I miss the unique experience of staring off into the vastness, the flow, the endlessness of the ocean and realizing I'm staring into myself. Or staring into that endless part of myself.

Fear, worry, hope and faith, part 2: Practical spirituality

So let's talk about religion first before we move into hope and faith.

I sometimes refer to myself as a "recovering Catholic" - I think to the offense of some of the people I interact with - because that's exactly what it feels like. My understanding of my family history is that my parents actually converted to Catholicism before they got married. My siblings and I are still puzzling over that decision, and unfortunately, my parents are not here any longer to help us out on that.

My own experience with Catholicism was not necessarily unpleasant, just illogical. James W. Fowler developed a model of stages of spiritual development, which essentially says that kids don't really understand spiritual experiences as adults do - they understand stories, they understand rules, they understand a clear-cut sense of justice. It's all about conformity - storytelling, almost. But the stories I heard in Catechism didn't make any sense. I remember a Catechism teacher telling me once that the Devil was uglier than all the movie monsters put together. Even at that age, my reaction was, "Whaaaaat?"

I'm sure there are Catechism teachers out there that do a better job of this, but this is what I got. And, unfortunately, this started a run of cynicism about religion in general for me. In retrospect, I was looking for something intellectually satisfying, and that also provided a sense of spirituality.

Part of the problem was, I didn't have any distinction between religion and spirituality, and I don't think I really had a clear sense of what I was seeking from "a sense of spirituality" anyway. I got stuck in Fowler's stages of spiritual development.

I really feel like I'm still in a very adolescent stage of spiritual development. What does faith mean to me? I'm not entirely sure. I do have some kind of logical appreciation that there's no reason to expect that the universe will not take care of me. As I've heard it stated in 12-Step programs, "God didn't bring me this far to drop me on my ass." I really appreciate the realism in that (and the coarse humor). It's very no-nonsense and practical.

Another practical thing I've taken away from 12-Step programs is the concept of religion vs. spirituality. (Again, religious folks, please bear with me here.) There is a saying I heard early on that went along the lines of: "Religion is for people who are afraid of hell; spirituality is for people who have been to hell and know there's something better."

I get that.

So let me share my introduction into spirituality through my 12-Step program.

(Sidebar: It really is not my intention to promote 12-Step programs, though they've done well by me. I understand lots of folks have skepticism around them, and I also understand lots of folks don't think they're effective. They worked for me. Maybe I was just fortunate to have some awesome sponsors.)

Coming in with this baggage around Catholicism and religion in general, it was going to take a lot to convince me of a "higher power", even of some kind of "energy" or universal principle. But here's where the magic of some of this work took place.

My introduction to spirituality was really an exercise in gathering evidence again (as discussed in False beliefs) and putting that evidence to work going forward.

First: Could I look back into my past and see places where, possibly, something OUTSIDE myself was acting in my best interests? 

I won't go into much detail, but, sure enough, as I looked back, some events seemed to be likely candidates. Instances where I most surely could have died, but didn't. Instances where I somehow - not sure how, but certainly not due to my own intentions - managed to come out OK. As I looked back, I actually saw several instances where I couldn't fully, logically explain why things worked out as they did - even in situations where my own will and intention was driving toward a much bleaker outcome.

Yes, I suppose you could call this luck, or probability. In my earlier, more logical youth, I would have said that's what it was.

Which brought me to the second part of this exercise: Was I willing to try this going forward?

In other words, if situations came up where I had an opportunity to impose my will - or perhaps better, where my will wasn't going to have any effect at all - would I be willing to let go of my will and let something outside of myself take care of things? 

Well, sure, OK.

It's easy enough to let go of the little things. "You can decide where we go to dinner, hon." Look at that, a Higher Power brought us to a sushi restaurant.

But that's not where the true test came in. It was when I was in a situation where I truly didn't know what to do. What I decided to do, in the spirit of this exercise, was to ask two people that I knew and trusted for their advice, and to follow it, no matter how it felt to me. 

They both told me the same thing - and their suggested course of action felt wrong to me. But I stuck to my decision, and I gave up my will and I did what they said. And you know what?

It was the right thing.The outcome completely took me by surprise.

And that was my first powerful experience of:

Whoa. There's something more going on here that's way beyond me. That I don't know about at all.

I finally started to understand the limits of my own self, my own awareness - the limits of what I truly had control of. And, I began to grasp some kind of vastness out there beyond my own little world.

I started to realize how self-centered I had been for years. I also realized how consistently I had approached the world feeling as if I had to do everything myself.

As I've continued to practice this release of self-will and placing trust outside of myself, my life has truly transformed. Much of it has been a series of tiny steps, little everyday things. 

In some ways, it really is simply being willing to be open to the unexpected - being open to those things I can't imagine. I've come to truly adopt the following, mainly by proving it through my own experience:

No matter how much I've envisioned what will happen, good or bad, what will actually happen will be something I haven't thought of.

Which is wonderful and surprising and eye-opening. So now I have this visceral, experiential component that accompanies the logical component. I have this almost bodily faith that what will actually result will - on the whole - be better than what I can envision. 

That's powerful. And that is the essence of hope. It's experience, plus this reaching out to some unknown better state. Hope and faith. Very powerful components, and for me, rooted in actual experience.

And last, but not least, I experienced the relief of realizing that I didn't have to take care of everything myself. I could break out of the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" mentality. I realized that I didn't have to carry the weight of the world or my life on my shoulders. I could actually leave some of that (and ideally most of that) up to the universe, or God, or energy, or whatever, to take care of.

Because, in retrospect, I really had no control over it anyway. And, the outcome will be better than what I can imagine.

It's a truly liberating experience.