The Path of Listening

Many Paths

It’s been quite a fall.  I moved in August, and due to work and scheduling I have already missed Spirit Play twice.  I have missed writing this reflection a few more times than twice.  And so I sit today wondering about the intersection of responsibility and grace.  We begin again.  And we begin again.  We begin again in love.  Last time I was practicing church with our children we got to hear the story of “Many Paths to the Mountain” and this year as I sat in the classroom I was really wondering about one line of that story.  The traveler taking the river path speaks about how beautiful and refreshing the river is and how all the travelers will wish they came on the river path before they reach the mountain.  Each of the paths were intentionally chosen by each traveler and I wonder if they maintained their commitment to that path or if in their learning or their exhaustion they ever secretly did wish to be on a more lush journey.  I wonder if the traveler on the river path ever wished to be on one of the other pathways finding the river in reality not to be quite what she thought.

This week I was away again and missed the telling of one of my favorite stories about Listening for God.  The story traces many ways we can listen for what is right and good, what sings a resonant “yes” in our hearts so we know “how to love, what to do, and who to be”.  Sometimes that is such a challenge for us.  We make our way through our lives making decisions and doing our best and sometimes are confronted with such moments of confusion or broken-heartedness that we wonder if there’s any way at all for us to tell what our answer is to those questions?

How do we love?  How do we love within the confines of our lives, our understanding or when our love seems so small or in conflict with another’s wellbeing?  How do we love without condition and with openness?  How do we love in practical ways that matter?  What do we do?  In some ways this is the question that gets the most attention in our world.  Our discomfort drives us to action, to the path that feels like it might yield tangible results that we can see, that can shift and move our world in a way that budges it a little toward wholeness.  For me, if I jump right to what to do and skip the first step of how to love, I often miss valuable insight and spend my energy in ways that keep me busy, but aren’t necessarily nourishing for me and the world.  Finally, the question of who to be, which is always the truth of who we are.  We are a gift to the world.  What is the doing and being that reflects our gifts?  What do we joyfully put out into the world as our contribution?  What do we offer that comes from our truth and that the world needs?

For me as I sit in the transition time of this fall and so much change, I find myself sitting in this path I have chosen contemplating.  What is the path that feels true for me now?  I listen deep in myself, to my teachers and the world to try to answer those questions.  How do I love…myself, you, all of us, the path itself?  In light of how love wants to come through, what do I do… in myself, in relationship, in the wholeness of this life?  Who do I want to be in my loving and my being?

There is a long path ahead, to the mountain, or just on the journey and I notice myself finding the way of love in taking a moment to pause, to know this place where I am, to see the truth of my responsibility and my grace in the context of all the shifting and changing.  To begin again in love.  I don’t know what to do yet.  Some of it seems clear and some of it does not.  I suppose that means I should be patient with the pause, to take a bit more time.  If I can do this, be faithful to this place I am, then who I am will shine forth with it’s gifts of love and action in just the right way for myself and the world to keep wandering down the most beautiful path for us.  Thank goodness there are intersecting paths on this journey, places of pause and discernment.  I sit here in our community listening.

We are the story, we are the gift

What a gift!

The year has begun and as we move into the pace of fall, we re-gather our community of practitioners in Spirit Play.  Our first story was an introduction to the classroom.  “Let’s pretend that we are the story and let’s hear about the gifts our church has given us”.  In the story we tell the children that being in Spirit Play is like being in their birthday and that the classroom materials are gifts for them and our other Spirit Play friends to use.  This is true.  And it is true that the real gifts are all of us together, learning and practicing wonder, play and love.  Each child brings the gift of their being.  Each adult brings the gift of their being. We come together with intention to learn and grow.  We come to be in relationship.

The sermon in church was about being called and compelled to your vocation.  We each carry within us a gift for the world.  We are called by Life to bring the best of ourselves to our living.  When we live in this way, we create the world in which we are a gift and where life gives us gifts in return.  Where are we called and compelled?  Do we respond with joy or resistance?  Do we hear the calling at all in this busyness that is so much of our day to day?

On Sunday I was aware that these children are a gift to me, that the teachers are a gift to me, that the staff and the congregation at Unity are gifts to me.  I don’t always remember this.  Sometimes I enter the space and just need to get my kids there on time, just need to stay centered when they protest and resist.  Sometimes as I cry in worship, as I do most weeks, I feel a little self conscious and want to hide out and be noticed all in the same moment.  I forget.  I forget my belonging.  I forget that this is my community and we are there to learn and grow.  I am called and compelled in my life to remember this all the time and to remind others.  I want to remember that there are journey guides and helpers to receive my children.  I want to remember that my tears are given space to be and are noticed during worship.

This moment is pure gift, my work is gift, the people I am in community with are a gift, my breath is a gift.  All of everything is a gift.  It’s a little overwhelming to sit with the truth of it; to sit in the grateful knowing that there is so much possible.

I come to class partly to remember.  I come to be a gift and to receive.  I come to practice love, to practice church.  I come to create and experience my belonging.  Listen?  What is your gift?  Where is Life calling you?


And the First shall be Last

Joys and Sorrows

It was a family Sunday last week and the sanctuary at 9am was full of families.  My children were off for the weekend camping with their Dad and as I made my way to worship, a parent asked if I would accompany their child to worship so they could go teach our spirit play children who were gathering for class downstairs.  “Yes”, I said.  And “Yes”, said my heart.  This child had been in my spirit play class a few years ago and we talked about that and about how I looked very familiar to him.  We sat together and when KP told us a story about the first being last, my friend joined the crowd and afterwards made his way to class.  I sat in the warmth of community.  This is the community that I want at Unity and I had just been able to participate in it’s creation.  So many layers of yes.

I went downstairs myself pondering and wondering about the lesson, the second in our life cycle series.  I was curious and excited because one of our teachers had played around with the story and was presenting it creatively.  I smiled to hear that the story went well.  I listened in a different way.

The moment of class that stuck with me however was the circle time at the beginning.  We always sing and greet one another and then we go around the circle to share our joys and sorrows.  The storyteller this week decided to begin in the opposite direction of our usual flow.  Right away our insightful children reminded her that we usually go the other direction.  I know one of them, at least, had picked her seat hoping to go first.  The storyteller explained that this time we would go this direction and next time we could go the other direction.  Since I had just heard KP’s story, I observed this moment closely.  There was some delight on the part of the children who unexpectedly got to share first.  There was some disappointment and protest from those who thought they had secured the first spot, but ended up being the last to share.

I identify with both positions.  While I hardly ever position myself hoping to be first, sometimes when I have been very excited to lead and share, I too have felt the disappointment of feeling passed over.  The practice for me when this happens is to try to stay out of my story about what it means to meet a reality different from my expectations and to trust that everything is ok, no matter when my turn comes.  This has taken some practice.  Most of the time I can hear the voice in me grumbling about how my insight was so wonderful and it wasn’t honored in the way I wanted.  I hear it grumble in anger about how it isn’t fair that I didn’t get my way.  And I let it go.  This is easier on days where I am rested, secure and calm.  It is much harder when I’m tired, hungry or cold.  It takes practice to let go.  I want to practice this skill because those voices block out my ability to listen to whoever is going first.  The grumbles remove me from the present moment.  They definitely aren’t supporting me in living my life in integrity, service and joy.  And so I practice gracefully letting go so I can stay here inside what’s happening and witness the life that is always emerging.

While I frequently find myself going last, I occasionally find myself first in an unexpected way.  This can feel just as disorienting as its opposite.  I have sometimes felt put on the spot or unsure when I have been invited into the first place.  The practice for me when this happens is to try to stay out of my story  about what people expect of me when I’m first and to trust that everything is ok, even if I’m surprised.  This takes even more practice.  I far more often get swept away by these voices who push at me and tell me that I need to be quick and wise and step up.  They tell me that others are watching and listening and so this better be good.  I hear these stories and I try to let them go.  On good days I can do it, on challenging days, sometimes not.  I have learned to take a breath and take extra time when I’m suddenly first.  I give myself permission to pass.  I want to let go of the voice because, again, it blocks out my ability to be present in this moment with all it’s invitation and openness.  I practice gracefully letting go.

I am playing with this idea lately about the relationship between the world as it is and my response to it.  I am striving for that place of non-attachment, or active indifference which finds center and opens to life unfolding as it is.  It is an attitude that attempts to remain in the present moment no matter what that moment offers.  How can I rest in being primarily and be first or last secondly?  How can I rest in being primarily and be present to what is surprising or unexpected?  How can I be grounded and joyful, first, last and everywhere in between?  I’ll keep practicing.  When I do it gets easier and I build the trust that I am ok in every moment and it’s ok to be really present here all the time.

My adopted family

The last few weeks in spirit play we have been playing with the idea of family (if you haven’t brought in your family photo yet, there’s still one more week).  What makes a family?  How are families the same and different than each other.  How is church a family of families?

This week’s lesson focused on adoption.  We read a story about a boy and his adopted family as they expected to adopt a new baby into the family.  The kids were antsy and eager to move and play.  I was the door teacher and eager to sit and be still and sink into witnessing our classroom.  It was a good day of interaction with children, a visiting family and lots of energy and laughter.  I had come from the service where Rob had talked about sin and Christian rituals re-imagined and used powerfully with Unitarians.  We also sang, “Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child” which moved around in me and stirred things up.

Unity is my adopted church.  I was raised Lutheran and am grateful for the community in which I grew and learned.  It was also a place that did not seem to nourish my desire to seek a deep relationship with the Holy.  I was thrilled to study religion in college and wrestle with all that I had been given.  For a long time I found no nourishment in Christian spaces and when I desired to be a part of a worshiping community, I first adopted the Quakers and then I adopted you.  It has been a joy to be among fellow seekers where the path to our own answers is honored and informed by the gathered community.

These past few years have brought an unexpected twist to that journey.  To use the metaphor, my birth parents found me and we have been re-establishing a relationship.  Suddenly what I had felt lost feels profoundly found.  My original belonging to Jesus has been transformed and is meeting me now, exactly as and where I am.  Sometimes, though, it does feel like I live in two worlds a belonging both to my birth family and my adopted family.  Both in Christian and Unitarian spaces I can feel like a motherless child.

This is one of the reasons I show up each Sunday to be with your children.  I want them to feel that our community is their home, that they are loved here.  I want them to know by the attentiveness of their teachers that someone other than their parents see and love them.  That we are all family.  I want our belonging to each other to help us feel less alone and more willing to explore in the safety of our church home.

I have adopted Unity because it offers me the possibility of belonging to something honest, true and resonant for me.  I adopt Unity because I want to offer that belonging to others in our community.  I want our home to be hospitable and mutually inviting.  If you have come from some other place, why have you adopted this community?  If Unity is your birth family, why do you choose to stay?  Our freedom to come and go creates an authenticity in our community that I haven’t experienced in other congregations.

I believe our freedom in the classroom to sit where is comfortable, to pass if we need to, to play alone or with friends, creates a different version of authenticity that helps our children practice their choice making and gives them skills that all seeker’s need:  a sense of play and safety, a sense of courage and risk taking, the ability to try on new things, the practice of allowing for difference and the honoring of difference.

My hope for us is that we journey together in our exploration, that we adopt each other and care for each other in turn, that we follow our hearts desire and reach out to each other for support.  I hope that if and when we feel like a motherless child, that all our adopted family are there to welcome us home.

Between Two Worlds

Spiritual Awakening

I live the depth of my life in two layered worlds.  I have been deeply formed by the Christian message and the life of Jesus.  My life has been dedicated to my conscious and active choice to model my living after this great sage.  It is also true that I have journeyed to find fellow travelers seeking authentic relationship to the Universe, and that journey has moved me beyond Christianity into the broad world of enlightenment and spiritual awakening.

These worlds, for a time, seemed quite separate.  I couldn’t find seekers in my church communities and it was hard to find devotees of Jesus exploring other traditions and spiritual teachers.  These worlds have been coming closer together inside my own journey for the past two years.

It started when I began studying a Hindu meditation style and wondering about what a guru was.  Quite clearly in my meditation, Jesus reminded me that my dedication to him made him my guru and there was an invitation to go deeper.  And so I did.  Jesus and I had been in a strained relationship for years, even though I still modeled my life choices after his example and teaching, so I made amends, got back in my Bible and started to pray.

The experience for me was like the colors after a rain storm.  The text was vibrant in a way it hadn’t been before.  The teachings were wise beyond any reading of them I had done before.  I had eyes to see the meaning now.  I had ears to hear.  I can’t explain how profoundly those scriptures, that had been living in my bones for years, transformed into teaching that explained the process of spiritual awakening.

The Lord’s Prayer was one of those texts that blossomed before my new eyes.  I could see that if I held Jesus in the light of enlightened spiritual teacher, everything changed.  I wondered why everyone didn’t appreciate Jesus more?  I don’t know about you, but I can have intelligent conversation just about anywhere about a teaching of Buddha without fear, but Jesus seems to trigger defensiveness.  It occurred to me that I’ve never had anyone say to me that if I didn’t believe in Buddha’s teachings I’d go right to hell.  Unfortunately, many Christians have stated that if I don’t believe in Jesus, that’s exactly what would happen.  It’s so sad.  That kind of judgement masks the message of love that I feel is the only reality of the Universe.

For these next several weeks I will be offering a daily devotional looking at the intersection of spiritual awakening and the teachings of Jesus as found in the Lord’s Prayer.  Open your eyes anew to the vibrant and relevant teachings of Jesus.  Join me as I knit the worlds together and open our sight and hearing.

The devotionals start tomorrow February 28th.  Please Sign Up to read and pray along.

On the Edge

No edges?

This Sunday I was on edge.  It maybe started even before I began my day.  The service left me in tears several times.  It was just that kind of day.  Janne preached about praying for each other, to be really for each other, not just with each other.  It made me wonder about my place in church.  I do pray.  The formless void silent meditation kind and the kind where I put voice to my intentions.  I hold your children in my prayer, for their joys and sorrows and for the inspiration and challenges they bring me.  Sometimes you are in my prayers whether I know you or not, intending for your great good and the realization of your beauty and wholeness.  I wondered though, who might be praying for me?  And like I said, I was on edge.

The edge for me on Sunday was that feeling of separation that is illusory, but sometimes feels real.  I was the only one signed up to teach and didn’t know who else might come.  I had a strange interaction with my co-parent in the parish hall that made me wonder if I was missing something.  I thought about the worship associate who spoke of friends and strangers helping her in a time of need and wondering why I was so hesitant to ask for that help last year when I was in need.  It was because I was on the edge.

It seemed like it took me the whole day to come back from that edge.  Two teachers showed up to help me practice spirit play.  When I got home I journaled and came up with a list of people in our community who are praying for me, if not in a formal way, in an informal way without a doubt.  A subsequent conversation with my co-parent brought us back into balance and I remembered and was grateful for all those friends and strangers who did show up and help me when I was in need.  I came back home in myself; back into right relationship.

There was a gift on the edge in addition to all the gifts I found when I moved away from it.  We had a wiggly class on Sunday and the children had a hard time listening to the story.  They could hardly make it through the wondering questions.  When I asked them, they would give me answers like, “nothing in this story was the best part”.  And then other kids would parrot that answer.  At one point I stopped and told the class that I was feeling sad that they weren’t participating thoughtfully and asked them to please participate with their whole selves.  When the next child made the flip answer that nothing in the story was important, I looked at her and asked her again.  And her eyes wavered.  And she looked at the story.  And she answered the question.  A small bit of connection.  A small meeting right at the edge.

I am grateful to be a part of our community.  I am grateful to work with adults and children to explore the joys and struggles of life.  I am grateful that I am a part of this whether I feel myself on the edge or not.  It is wonderful to move away from that space and realize it was just something inside of me seeing separation and that the more true story is that I was totally surrounded by love and connection the whole time.  This realization turns this story from separation into invitation.  Who else is on the edge here at Unity?  How do we reach out and remind them that we are connected and not alone?  A potent question for me in this political landscape.  Who is on the edge?  Can we invite them into connection?  What story do we want to create?

Show up Flexible

Building a yes

It’s a new year.  I have been happily anticipating moving from the storyteller role into the door teacher role.  Thankfully another teacher really wanted to tell the story consistently throughout the spring.  And so when I showed up to class two weeks ago and again last week to absence, I found myself looking at my own expectations.  This is a big part of my journey in Spirit Play and shows up in many different ways.  It’s that moment when you show up with one idea and then something totally different happens.

And so I came to class having not prepared to tell the story and then needed to decide how to meet the moment.  Since I taught the story role all last year, I knew the stories, or at least their basic outlines and after a quick consultation with my fellow teachers, I assumed the storyteller role.  I can imagine another time where this quick change would have un-centered me and where I would have been disappointed.  I can hear the old script in my head creating unhappiness because I wanted something different to happen.  Things didn’t go my way.  But, they did go a way and gratefully, I was able to go the way that the moment was going.  This is that moment of “yes” that improv is famous for.  The rule is to say yes to whatever story line is presented to you and continue on.  This is a spiritual principle too.  To accept the present moment as it is allows one a certain peace and freedom.

This aspect of flow or allowing the fullness of the moment is also an aspect of delightful play.  How many times have we heard our children build a story by saying yes to each other and, of course, heard tears and protests when the action of play is stopped by a no.  How wonderful to be in that opening and surprising place of being able to say yes.  I have a friend who works in a middle school.  There are many times where she needs to say no in her work.  Instead of no, she is trying to say, “yes, and….”.  She says that this sometimes works beautifully, calling both parties into a creative process rather than a power struggle.

In our spirit play class, we try to wonder in the spirit of yes.  We try to gently call each other into respectful speech and action by finding the yes in the situation we’re in.  We try to say yes when we show up to what we don’t expect.  We try to find some kind of yes so that we can fully experience what is unfolding and don’t get stuck seeing everything through a lens of disappointment or resistance.  Where do you find yourself in a space of yes?  When you want to say no, is there a way to play around to find a hidden yes?

The Real Story

This week we gathered to learn the real story of St. Nicholas.  My favorite line in the story is,

Gifts of St. Nicholas

Gifts of St. Nicholas

“Nicholas was loved for one reason. He loved. He loved God and God’s people so much that he would do anything for them”.  Nicholas was known and remembered for his great love.  I arrived at class having assumed I was the storyteller and it quickly became clear that another teacher was also prepared to tell the story.  Love in this moment was me saying clearly that I would appreciate it if my co-teacher told the story.  I wanted to be the door teacher.  And love in the next moment was coming back to center and witness as I observed thoughts coming to me about how I might have told the story differently.  Love was letting go of the idea there is any right way to tell the story and instead watching and hearing how the story was told and listening for what was there.

This past week has been challenging for me.  I have ridden up and down on waves of real and made up stories.  I have felt fine and noticed that my behavior was indicating otherwise.  I feel very sensitized now to seeing multiple layers in the stories I hear and tell.  I am seeing very big moments reflected in very small moments.  Above all I am struggling to deeply align myself with Love.  I want to love that Mystery we sometimes call God.  I want to love all beings.  I want to be like St. Nicholas.  In this desire, everything feels important.  So when one child took a toy out of another childs’ hands during our circle and a fist was raised, I walked calmly over, held the hitting hand and said I would help.  I asked for the toy back.  The child refused.  I took a breath and repeated that I needed the child to give me the toy.  I felt the urge to copy the offending behavior and with my greater strength, power and authority, to take the toy out of the child’s hand.  And I stopped.  I asked for the toy again and it was given to me.  I asked the other child if I could keep the toy safe till the end of our circle and he willingly handed them over, an action he had earlier refused to do.  This was a good interaction.  We stayed safe physically.  I exercised facilitating restraint and held the tension of compassion for all three of us.  I also clearly stated what was ok and what I wanted to happen.  We made it through together.

This was a beautiful and difficult small moment, a blip of time in our class, but it reflects for me a larger story.  Who I hope to be in the world is a person who can enter conflict and hold all of us in love until a new way opens for us.  I want to take that extra breath when I feel anger or fear before I act in unskillful ways.  I want to bring trust and love into places of strain.  And it was challenging to do that with pre-schoolers.  How will I do out in the world?

I am wearing a safety pin on my shirt these days and let me tell you, it scares me a little.  I am wearing the pin because I want to live into an identity of being a safe person.  What might happen if someone truly calls on me to be that in the world?  What happens if I don’t take that extra breath in when I feel fear or anger rising?  What happens if I try to offer love, protection and safety and I fail?  What if the forces roll right over me?

I want to be like St. Nicholas.  I want to love us, all of us, so much.  I want a world of more love; real love.  The love that penetrates us so deeply that we blossom.  A love so powerful that we offer our service to others and for others.  How we do it matters.  This is what changes lives and changes the world.  And so I guess I’d rather wear the pin and take my chances than try to avoid risk.

My daily spiritual practice has been a lifesaver for me this week.  It brings me back into seeing things as they are, it seats me squarely in gratitude and ignites a longing in me to bring the fullness of our connections to light. That is what I want to live in the world.  One area of practice is with our children.  I know my own shadow emerges with them first and is a place to learn about my growing edges and reaffirm how and who I want to be.  I don’t know what happens next, but I want to go the way of love, so I’ll begin where I am and wonder what might happen next.


This week’s reflection starts long before the classroom.  I woke up Sunday morning and started my morning meditation.

The Rocky Path

The Rocky Path

When it was time to wake up my children, I called to them through the door to their room so I wouldn’t have to open it and disturb the blanket fort they were sleeping under, it’s corner wedged between the door and frame.  I started to get dressed and think about breakfast when I heard my children talking and then yelling and then screaming at each other.  I called through the door again hoping my voice would disrupt their anger and retorts, but it didn’t.  In fact, I could hear that the argument had turned physical and they were hurting each other.  It was time to come in, fort or no.

These moments prove to me some of the most difficult parenting situations I encounter.  I want to protect both of my children from being hurt physically or emotionally.  I want the yelling and fighting to stop.  I want to bring calm to the situation, but their anger tends to fuel my anger, especially when they are more intent on continuing their argument than in listening to me.  I found myself getting louder and louder and more frustrated and soon we were all yelling and unkind to one another.  Embarrassingly, the melee ended by me tearing down the blanket fort and separating the children.

As I prepared breakfast and took some time to calm down, I marveled at how fast that situation had gotten out of control and how disappointed I was in myself.  I not only didn’t manage to bring calm to the situation, I added to it.  That is not the kind of parent I want to be.  Parenting is a spiritual practice for me and it truly breaks my heart when I fall short.

I first decided I needed to apologize to my son, who had built the fort.  I told him that I wished I hadn’t taken it down and I would help put it back together.  I apologized to my daughter for yelling.  We ate breakfast.  And then I built the fort myself, fixing the blankets higher than they had been which was a welcome improvement according to the kids.

And then we went to church.  It was story Sunday so we all went to the Sanctuary together and sat down.  Even though I sat between them, they started to poke and pick at each other disturbing those around us.  I stood up for the first hymn and noticed they were drawing a line on the pew delineating whose side was whose.  And then they started drawing a line up my back.  This was a sad moment for me.  I don’t want my children to feel scarce with my love and attention so that they need to claim their part of me.  I want all of me to be for both of them.  Listening to Jessica’s sermon asking us to please have mercy on ourselves for our moments of failure was just the balm I needed.

Our lesson in class was about the Persevering Ant who goes on a pilgrimage to find what is biggest and most powerful, ending up in conversation with God who was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.  One child said that the piece of fabric under the story was the most important part because it held all the other parts.  All the pieces were included.  And it made me think about one of the greatest powers of Love, to hold all things, even the things that we sometimes find difficult or painful.  To have mercy on myself means that the power of love can draw me back to my center and give me the strength to apologize.  It gives me the desire to wonder why I behaved the way I did this time and what I might do differently next time.  It gives me the assurance that there is more than this;  more than my painful learning as a parent, more than the smaller forces of fear and tiredness and hurt.  There are more chances, more relationship, more love and more mercy than I can exhaust by my mishaps and missteps.  This is truly good news and worth practicing again and again and again.  What does the power of love call you to?  Where do you need to have mercy on yourself?


We had many joys in our class on Sunday and only 3 sorrows.  The scale was tipped and weighed down with joy stones, but two of the three sorrows were about death.  One a fish, one Grey Papa.

This week in Spirit Play, we listened to the story of The Buddha and the Mustard Seed.  In this story, a mother’s son dies and she appeals to the Buddha for help.  He sends her house to house looking for a special ingredient to make a medicine; a mustard seed from a home where no one has known death, sadness or sorrow.  Our storyteller went around the circle asking the children one by one if they had ever been sad.  One child looked down and said, “Yeah, lots of times”.  None of us had a seed that could help.  The neighbors in the story didn’t have one either.

I was ready to have an interesting wondering conversation about what helps us when we face death, sadness or sorrow, but what emerged was Buddha.  With giggles, one of the children whispered, “It’s funny.  Buddha.  It sounds like booty.”  Hmmmm.

A balanced stack

A balanced stack

In our work time I found myself on the rug with a child who was stacking nesting blocks to make a tower.  We have two sets and he was trying to stack them all together.  This was difficult to do as boxes of the same size slipped off each other, larger boxes covered smaller boxes and the last ones were tippy and above his head.  I smiled while I watched him stack and re-stack as blocks shifted and fell down.  I reached in and placed a block on it’s side leaving the opening facing out.  This changed the whole possibility of the the tower.  Suddenly there were pockets to nest other blocks in.  Suddenly things stabilized as the opening shifted.

Sometimes I feel this illustrates the story of my teaching (and my parenting).  I want to stack the blocks a certain way.  I want them to line up straight.  I want to make them tall.  I want to comfort those two children with big sorrows and instead, the blocks tumble down; instead there are giggles and silliness.  The opening isn’t where I expected it to be.  But in every moment there is the possibility of finding all we need.  Maybe the simple act of hearing everyone in our classroom say that, yes, they too have felt sadness was a comfort to our children’s grief as it was for the grieving mother in our story.  Maybe the laughter was it’s own healing medicine. Maybe playing with what is here creatively in the moment is enough to steady what is uncertain and open the possibility for a new thing.

In service on Sunday we celebrated our community by hearing the collage of voices that we have been creating for the past several weeks in worship.  Hearing our many poignant and sometimes humorous voices say what we find here in our church felt like a pilgrimage similar to the grieving mother.  As she wanders door to door looking for a house with no sorrow, she finds community and compassion.  And as we come to Unity we find others here with broken hearts, with joyful songs, with tears and laughter.  We find others who have a desire and willingness to make their own lives and our world more loving.  We hope to be a place to find and keep our balance.  And my guess is we also find here things that surprise us and challenge us and open us in ways that we didn’t expect.

So this week I am looking for where the opening really is, even if it doesn’t look like what I expect it to.  This week I am trying to look beyond my ideas of what I think the right or wrong way is and to see how the blocks are really stacked.  I want to look at them and wonder what might happen next?  I want to hear our voices, the voices of our children and our adults and know that this is the community of my belonging.  I am not alone.  I need you.  I need your laughter and your tears, your joys and your sorrows.  Let’s hold them all together and see what new thing emerges.