Sizzling

It is the first day of summer in Tempe, Arizona, and for the eighth day in a row the temperature will reach or top 110 degrees Fahrenheit. For Bob and I, this is the sixth day without air conditioning in our home. Apparently, the top-of-the-line AC unit that came with our house eight years ago was soon discontinued because it was too complex; and today, few techs understand its inner workings. We’ve been hanging on with our tongues hanging out because a) we have been waiting for repairmen; b) we have pets; and c) we’ve had our travel trailer as an afternoon and night-time escape zone. For two days, the AC unit in the trailer was doing its best to keep up with the oven-like temps outside until I tried to use the trailer’s microwave oven as well; that simple mistake overloaded something, fried the extension cord we were using to connect the trailer to the house electric; and blew out a house power circuit. An RV repairman restored power to the trailer and got that AC unit working again until last night when, following a swim, we returned to the trailer to find no AC or electricity but the reeking smell of sardines (?), who knows why. Back to the house only to discover that the same strange phenomenon responsible for robbing us of the trailer’s cold air and leaving fish-stink also blew more house circuits. It is Saturday, the first day of summer; and before the day ends, the temperature will reach 115 degrees. Even if we manage to find a qualified AC repair person to come out and even if we choose to ask them to come despite holiday rates, will there be enough energy in the house to allow for a proper diagnosis of the problem or to run the AC if the system is restored?

The events of this week give me a great opportunity to consider the nature and flow of energy. I know very little about electricity beyond flipping switches, pushing buttons, and attaching yellow cords to yellow pegs on computers or stereos. I know only a few physical energy laws or tendencies such as the law of inertia and the law of conservation in a system. But the strange coincidence of so many unusual energy problems popping up in my home these days pushes the limits of happenstance to suggest some hidden link; perhaps, a wake-up call? I’m prompted to trace them house’s symptoms to their inhabitants’ psyches.

Energy makes possible all activity in world. The material creation and movement of goods, resources, ideas and emotions require and project energy. The cost of energy is on everyone’s mind these days as carbon fuel costs effect the cost of food, clothing, housing, and employment. Personal, professional and spiritual energy affects people who, in turn, use it to produce, create, communicate, educate, heal, and motivate others. When people feel “good vibes” of energy from other people, groups, interests, events, they are uplifted and motivated to share in that flow. Someone with good energy is thought to have a kind of charisma that works like a magnet. So, I wonder: if my magnetism is producing effects contrary to the desires of my heart, I have to ask what kind of energy is emanating from me these days.

The first symptom revealed by my house on which to base my internal diagnosis is this: “Lack of Power.” No matter how many times I push the button on the AC pad, flip switches, or even plug cords into outlets on affected circuits, nothing happens. Or, if something happens, it is temporary and of little consequence—a flash of power, then nothing. The same thing happens on levels of energy exchange in business transactions. I asked my home maintenance insurance company to send someone to fix the AC; they did, but the technician decided he could not work on that unit. I asked for someone certified to work on that brand of AC. They sent someone who also threw up his hands in regret. The RV repairman patched up our trailer AC and was about to install a new transformer, but the box of materials containing the new transformer lacked several items he needed to install it, so he had to delay the installation over the weekend which no doubt contributed to the following transformer blow out. Flashes of potential power, promised solutions, but in the end, no effect.

The second symptom is “The Blow Out.” It is a puzzle to us how that small trailer AC blew so many circuits in the house when we weren’t using much additional electricity: no clothes dryer, dish washer, no air conditioning (obviously), just a few fans and light bulbs. In addition, the extension cord was burned up and, eventually, the transformer blew causing the electricity in the RV to fail. A flip of the breaker switch won’t restore the power. Bob has been at the breaker box for hours this week, trying to figure out the problem, but to little avail.

Third, the stinky fish smell and the smell of the burning power cord lends an aura of lingering unpleasantness under the merciless hot temperatures. No power, dreadful smells, fiery blow outs, and excruciating heat. Hmmmmm. Sounds like Hell, yes? Not encouraging signs of a healthy energy system.

So how does this translate to the soul’s journey? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the “lack of power” symptoms signal some kind of powerlessness. Perhaps feelings of disempowerment and lack of connection to the Source applies to both of us. I know I have been slow to move into a second career. I have felt flashes of capability, zest and purpose only to fall back into. . . what? Laissez faire? A feeling that I need to be at home for Bob? Timidity, hesitance, a reluctance to move forward? I suppose it’s not easy to fight the laws of inertia when you get older. The months pass in a blur, and I’m still not bringing in any significant income.

For his part, Bob has shared his growing dissatisfaction with our current situation. I think it must be dreadful to feel compelled to take over the role of major breadwinner when he feels unwell and no longer has the location and convenience of operation that he once had. I don’t want him to feel that pressure or take on that role. He says it doesn’t bother him; he’s just angry that we uprooted ourselves from a place he liked only to have to have been unfairly treated in our new location. I know this weighs on him. He regrets the move. He doesn’t feel well. He has lost weight; he’s been diagnosed with stress-related hyperventilation and with iron deficiency anemia. He doesn’t like having to go through so many medical tests.

The “blow outs” that occur between us have become almost daily, at least this week. We have been, as Bob puts it, “overloaded” just like the circuits, and we snap, snarl, make false assumptions, jump to conclusions, blame others for our problems and take everything personally. And for me, some of this extends outside the home to insurance company personnel, for example, who aren’t responsible for making company policy or for keeping me on hold in excess of twenty minutes, but who are carelessly rude in the range of my withering patience and sharp wrath. I’ve even stooped to “flaming” the sender of a forwarded, anonymous political rant—a dear friend and relative who didn’t deserve it . . . . well, no one does.

While it’s easy to place some of the blame for these outbursts of negative energy on the excessive heat, in truth it lies with my/our choice to let such circumstances take control over our minds, bodies, voices, and wills as if we were nothing but firecrackers waiting for a lit match.
Thankfully, the anger doesn’t last, but it can’t be good for our relationships. As to the unpleasant smells and the excessive discomfort symptoms, there isn’t much to say except that Universal Spirit must be sending us a message that we simply can’t ignore. We need to change: not for fear of burning in Hell in the next life, but of making our lives a hell in this one. Perhaps we both need more time in meditation and prayer to recognize that our lives are in Divine Order and that the Power we seek is unfailing and within us--closer to us than hands and feet; closer to us than breathing.

Over dinner, in a cool restaurant, we discuss these coincidences, what they symbolize, and, more practically, how we’re going to pay for a new ac/heat pump. We decide that if we can learn something from experiences like these, we’re becoming wiser. In my heart, I have already resolved to seek out the true Source of energy more frequently and remember to channel its Power more carefully. This alone has made me feel more relaxed, open, sensitive—less quick to argue.

We count our blessings: no fire occurred as a result of the blow-outs; the refrigerator is on a circuit that allows it to crank out ice; the swimming pool remains a cool and clear refuge; and, so long as the air remains dry, we can sleep in wet t-shirts with doors open and circulating fans moving the air over our bodies, provided that we sleep in separate spaces so body heat can’t accumulate. Our poor dog, Joey, manages with shade, water, fans and lots of panting—he won’t go near the pool. Bandit, the cat, on the other hand, thinks he was born on a savannah and relishes every degree of heat—despite his heavy fur coat. He climbs to the storage-shed roof only a half-hour after the shade of evening drops and, as if to mock us, lies down on his belly and switches his tale in a grin.

Coincidences don’t end with the day. At the spiritual center on Sunday morning, Rev. Charles devotes the entire service to various aspects of energy. In the meta-basics lesson, he tells us that recent energy shifts in the universe and on the planet make it easier these days to manifest thoughts and emotions into reality. He cautions us to remember that the law of creative manifestation has two sides. Positive thoughts and emotions projected as energy into the universe have a tendency to manifest as positive experience. The projection of negative rational and emotional energy into the universe will likely manifest as negative experience. Metaphysical laws or tendencies are as impartial as laws of physics. Peace, harmony and love are as possible and accessible as war, strife and hatred if we but collectively focus on projecting those energies into the world.

I reaffirm my resolutions.

In the second part of the service, Rev. Charles offers exercises for physical and mental energy focus, balance and harmony. A demonstration in itself! The exercises are taken from the Dennison’s educational kinesiology techniques called “Brain Gym” http://www.braingym.com. Testimonials for these techniques from the teachers and educational administrators in our group impress us and the exercises are simple and fun. Some people note their similarity to certain exercises in Tai Chi and other martial arts; others see a kinship to Touch for Health techniques. I’m looking forward to getting my own copy of Brain Gym’s Teacher’s Edition and making these exercises a part of my daily routine.

It is Sunday, June 22, 2008, the second day of summer, and the temperature is to reach 112 degrees or more. Tomorrow, Bob undergoes an endoscopy exam; the RV repairman will hopefully fix the AC in the travel trailer; we will begin the search for a new AC/heat pump, and attempt to convince the home maintenance insurance to help pay for it. In the meantime, I will remember my resolution: to meditate, pray, to do some brain-body energy exercises and then go with the flow of Spirit—knowing that which is for the greatest good for us, and for all concerned, will come to be.

And so it is.

Who am I This Time?

In the “Points to Ponder” segment of services at TCNT, Rev. Charles Reynolds often chooses a brief but profound question that challenges our spiritual reflection. Questions like, “Who are you?” Or “Why are you here?” prompt us all to look beyond the usual consideration of self-image, cultural identities, and life roles to a reflexive examination of inner promptings, desires, affinities, and challenges. When asked the question, “Who are You,” in this context, I suppose that I approach it as a test-question. Having spent so much time in the classroom, I want to give the right answer, so I repeat some New Thought concepts: I might say: I am spirit having a physical experience. I am a beloved child of God, or of the Universe or of Divine Mind. I am a whole and complete portion of what I conceive as an Almighty, all-Loving Intelligent, Creative, Energy Source and I contain a full set of its DNA. I am One with all that is. I am (as spake the burning bush), that I am.

But, even as I believe those concepts, they remain concepts to me. Concepts are logical, mental constructions of a thing’s characteristics. Concepts cannot be felt; they can only be understood. In order to fully experience their meaning, I must also feel them and that requires full consciousness—not only ideas but images, emotions, memories, senses, in short, individuation—the individual experience of these concepts as “me, here, now” that is, in a form of life called “Linda.” So, the ponderance of the point becomes a paradox. I am One with all there is—connected to you, to a stone, to my computer, to my dog, as my little finger is connected to my thumb, as my heart is connected to my rib cage, as my sexual excitement is related to my lover’s touch—all through the energy of Divine Being. And yet, like most of us, I experience that Oneness in my human form as an individual who, for all the energy between us, feels separate from you, the stone, my computer. To wrap my mind around the question: “why I am here” while attempting to foreground my Divine attributes and obligations but not at the expense of human experience, then, is no small task.

Who am I, as Linda, on this planet, at this time? What is my purpose? Well, it doesn’t seem to matter whether we’re studying one religious path, any spiritual path, or none, life seems to ask of us certain things: to love, to learn, to act, to create, and to serve. And I cannot think of anything that humans do more willingly, at least as children. Our Divine purpose, then, must surely include those things that we are most qualified to do, and that we do most joyfully. As human cultures and societies structure and limit our native urges to love, learn, act, create and serve so that we can survive and thrive within them, we experience the pains of acting inappropriately, loving in vain, serving as an obligation rather than a joyful gifting, but the innate pleasure of those DNA—divine natural attributes, as Rev. Jackie calls them—never goes away completely.

I have read enough books on finding one’s purpose in life and listening for, or answering the call to know that I, like most, have more than one purpose in life and not all are tied to the way I make a living. Yet the question looms large for me at this point of retirement from academia as I seek other means of income. I am no longer teacher, scholar, colleague, but I am not yet what I will become. I am in process, in a state of what anthropologist Victor Turner calls “liminality,” a threshold state of betwixt and between, that is not so mysterious as the cocoon full of inarticulate fluids that embody the metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly, but more like the graduate who hasn’t landed the first job. I’m feeling a bit akin to Harry, the innocuous hardware clerk in Kurt Vonnegut Jr.’s short story, “Who Am I this Time?” who has no personality outside of the roles he plays on the stage of the community’s little theatre; or better, one of the characters in Pirandello’s play, Six Characters in Search of an Author.

Once, when my adult nephew, Scott, was about five or six and I had been teaching for about seven years, we were playing with a pendulum as a divination device. When questions were asked, the triangular-shaped crystal on a string would swing horizontally to indicate “no”; and vertically to indicate “yes.”

“Let’s ask it if I’m going to be a fireman,” Scottie said. We did and to his delight it said “yes.”

I said, “Let’s ask it if I’m going to be a . . . .,” but I was promptly interrupted.

“No, no, Aunt Lala, no,” Scottie said. “You can’t ask that. You already ARE.”

He was right, of course. Still a child, Scott had already grasped cultural grammar and knew who gets to ask what questions. Kids could ask what they might become. Adults were already fixed, set, baked and well-done. True enough, but still, like Oliver Twist in Charles Dicken’s novel, some of us line up at the soup pot in the poor house and dare to demand of the Universe: “Please Sir, I want some more.”

What I want is simple. Like most of us I seek to realize my talents in ways that serve and delight others and me, prosper others and me, and, as an extension of Divine Being, manifest Good (any combination of peace, harmony, love, joy, kindness, comfort) in the world.

David Spangler’s book, “The Call” reminds us that even if we are not summoned to be a great scientist, philosopher, artist, governmental or spiritual leader, we are always getting calls to service. The primal call, he tells us is to love. That is our purpose, the reason we chose to be on this planet, at this time. Taking every opportunity to answer the little calls to provide service to one another, with love, prepares us for The Call that may last a lifetime.

So with that, I believe it’s time to serve lunch.

The Law of Circulation

Weaving together ideas about the spiritual Law of Circulation yesterday morning at Trinity Center for New Thought, our group was challenged to reflect on Life’s comings and goings-- the taking in and the weeding out, the accumulation and dispersal of resources, energies, talents; the holding on to and letting go of objects, careers, relationships, and finally, physical life itself as we travel along our spiritual paths. No small task, right? Well, we touched on all of it. With Rev. Jackie’s leadership, and Rev. Charles’ Points to Ponder, we must have talked about the Law in all its manifestations—the changing of the seasons; earning, spending, tithing; cleaning out our closets and garages to pass along what we no longer use, making room for new abundances; the loss and acquisition of jobs or income; children born or adopted only to leave their parents with empty nests; and finally, how to bear the emptiness that comes with the death of friends, parents, spouses as they make transitions into new forms of life.

When we were asked to consider what “death” meant to us, I realized that I had been thinking about the subject more than usual lately. Not in a morbid way of seeking or anticipating it, but it’s been on my mind, perhaps prompted by watching Ken Burn’s documentary, The War. I started watching it with my husband, Bob, his sister, Marge, and her husband, all of whom lived through that time—Bob having served in the Navy during the last year of the war; his brother-in-law, Tony, served in the Merchant Marines like my uncle, Johnny Peters. My dad, Charles Park, was in the army and nearly lost his arm in the Battle of the Bulge. My mom, Marguerite, did war work at Boeing Aircraft. Everyone was involved.

There were spiritual aspects of my family’s war stories: My dad thought that his arm had been lost. It hung from his shoulder by a few threads of tissue and he didn’t know it was there until he felt something slapping his leg as he walked back from the front lines. You see, Dad had stood up to throw a grenade and as soon as he let it go, he told us, something urgent inside told him to turn. If he hadn’t heeded that inner voice, he would have taken a machine gun blast straight in the chest. It likely would have killed him. His heart would have stopped then; not 36 years later during open-heart bypass surgery. He would not have become a dad; I would not have been born, at least not in this form with any of his blood, genes, talents, strengths, and weaknesses. All in my family have been grateful for that still small voice, and for my father’s attention to it. To everything, we hope, there is a season. Yet, watching Burns’ documentary, I can’t help but think that there should have been more seasons, many, many more seasons for the countless soldiers, sailors, marines, medics, nurses, workers and civilians throughout the world whose inner voices weren’t so insistent as Dad’s.

When Dad died on that operating table, it was something akin to a war death for those of us who remained. We had been told that he might not make it through, but we were completely unprepared when the news came. Others, people more severely ill, in fact, had survived such surgery, and Dad was only 61 years old. Besides, Dad was a fighter, a survivor; he believed he would survive, and so did we. But he did not come back to us. The prayers and the belief did not, at that time, manifest into physical reality. I want to think that he got a better offer when he was “out” (under anesthesia); that his inner voice didn’t fail him anymore during surgery than it did in WWII. It just said something different this time.

I said, “he did not come back to us” but that’s not quite true. When we were being informed of the aneurysm which killed him, he apparently came to my sister, Becky, as a small voice, or just a presence, perhaps, letting her know he trusted that she would take care of my mom. Or, maybe that she should take care of Mom. I don’t know. But both Becky and Mom have joyfully accepted the assignment and have bonded ever closer over the past twenty seven years since his death.

He came to me in a dream several months ago. He was driving what we called the “high wheeler,” a jeep-type vehicle on tractor tires that he bought to drive through the worst of the high North Dakota snow drifts on his rural mail carrier routes. In the dream, he stopped for me and I got in. I don’t remember knowing where we were going, but in the snowy dream, I felt happy, safe, and comforted. Then, I woke up. When I learned soon afterward that I would require open heart surgery for the replacement of a stenotic aortic value, I wondered if he had come to help me in my transition in case I didn’t make it through the surgery. Or perhaps he brought the high wheeler show me he was there to help me through this obstacle on my life path as he had used it to plow through the high snow banks that drifted over the roads on his route. I chose to hold on to the latter interpretation since I’m in no rush to move on; yet, both are comforting to me.

If this sounds a bit romantic and spooky, you should understand that messages from the beyond were not automatically disdained in my family—only considered with interest and curiosity. My maternal grandfather was a bit psychic, and wasn’t afraid to share his experiences. He knew, for example, when my dad, his son-in-law, was shot in WWII; he woke my grandmother to tell her. And he knew Dad was not mortally wounded. When Papa (my grandfather) had a heart attack (his second) one night close to Christmas of 1965, he said he felt himself floating out the window. But then, he said, when he remembered that he hadn’t said good-bye to my grandmother or given her his Christmas gift, he thought, “I must go back,” and blacked out. Just then, my grandmother turned as if in response to a sound he made and said, “What, Fred?” only to see him collapsing on the sofa. My aunt, Corky, also in the room, said she first looked up when my grandmother spoke. Papa, she said, had made no sound. Later, after the doctor had revived him and he had spent several more comfortable days at home; and after he’d given my Grandmother “Pete” her gift, he peacefully slipped away.

And so, I appreciate these messages and have no real fear of death as much more than a slipping out, a slipping into something else, a change of scene, a ride on a high-wheeler over the hills of snow. That will not, of course, keep me from speaking out against war, against capital punishment, against death by corporate greed. If life is a classroom, then I feel strongly (perhaps as a former teacher), that no one should drop out or fall out or be flunked out; rather, everyone should have a right to try and graduate, no matter how long it takes.

When, before his surgery, Dad and Mom tried to make sense of his illness, this heart health challenge, this problem, he surprised me by laying it to “the war” rather than to diet, cigarettes, genes. But seeing this documentary, and acknowledging what he faced, I understand that comment far better than before. Perhaps that particular war was “justified,” but it took a tremendous toll. The wounds he experienced went deeper than I had realized, and the cost of his and others’ pain has been borne for generations. In the fifth segment of the documentary, a fighter pilot said, “We are all casualties.” I recognize he rightly referred to all those who fought in what he called that “world of death,” but to some extent, at least, the casualty lists of wars, all wars, go on well beyond the building of monuments and making of documentaries.

There is so much work to be done on behalf of the Law of Circulation to cleanse our world of wounds suffered without and within. We are reminded in our services at TCNT to forgive, to go back to painful memories, to bless and let go. Not to forget, lest we fail to learn the lessons of the experiences, but to let go of our emotional investment in our wounds, losses and grief—including guilt, hatred, anger, resentment, pain. If we are, indeed, all One, then I cannot afford to hold a grudge, against even myself, against even my worst enemy, against even those who declare war and order others to kill and be killed, without re-energizing old pains and inflicting new wounds on myself, my beloved family members, friends, and the whole of Being for generations to come—delaying not only our own but the whole world’s spiritual progress.

New Thought tells us that forgiveness has little to do with the other party in some dispute or conflict. It has everything to do with us. We may or may not harm or heal someone else by withholding or granting forgiveness, but we definitely will harm or heal ourselves by our choice. By cleansing ourselves of resentment, anger, fear, and doubt, we return to our Divine Nature—comforted, healed, refreshed, capable, and as we feel Divinity in ourselves, so we recognize it in everyone.

Reverend Jackie Garner’s affirmation for forgiveness goes something like this:
“I refuse to let the pain of the past interfere with the joy in my life today.”

Sounds good to me.

Now, in order to make room for greater good to come, it's time for me to do battle with some clutter from the past that’s been hanging around my desk.