This I Believe - 2008 and 2015

Seven years ago, I wrote and read a "This I Believe" essay at The Rudyard Kipling. Today, I wrote one for tonight's Finding Our Voices event. What has changed in seven years? Only that I continue to know less and less. I can't wait to see what I write (i.e. learn) in another seven years.

The face of my savior is the face of a young girl I met in Haiti when I was fifteen years old. Her eyes were warm and wide-set above a shy, genuine smile, her head crowned with springy dark braids that glistened in the tropical sun. I knew her for only a few days. I cannot remember her name, but I will never forget her shining face, nor the way her voice stirred me as she whispered my name in her beautiful lilting Creole, calling me to a moment of transcendence that revealed to me the deepest truth I’ve come to understand in my short life. As we gazed into one another’s eyes, the barriers of division put in place by the world melted away: we were neither white nor black, poor nor rich, young nor old. We spoke not the same language, except that poetry that now danced between us, the wordless expression of commonality, of shared humanity, of belonging to the world and to one another. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, knowing that we both understood. In that moment, I felt that I could sense every heartbeat on the planet, every pulsation of every creature in the air and the sea, each breath of every tree, the stars swirling in the cosmos. I would feel this way almost exactly a year later as I hugged a homeless man at the St. Vincent de Paul shelter right down the street as he cried that he couldn’t express the gratitude he felt knowing that someone saw him as more than a bum, a nobody. I sensed this as I fed a paraplegic man at Active Day two summers ago and he grasped my hand, looked into my eyes and said, “You are a very beautiful girl,” and I realized he saw his own beauty reflected in our simple act of taking time to be present to one another. I am liberated in the same way as I sit quietly under a canopy of trees or dig my feet into the sand and gaze out across the ocean, recognizing that I and my sisters and brothers of every species belong to this earth, and it is all one.

This I believe: we are here for one another. Dissimilarity is an illusion. We must come to grasp our unity through short lives lived in a world into which we are seemingly born apart; it is our deepest and greatest spiritual challenge. Thomas Merton once said, “In the end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything.” I am ever grateful for the gift my Haiti-sister and savior gave to me: a life of ever-present redemption through relationship, a life lived in reverence of the oneness that connects us all."

- Mandy Zoeller, "This I Believe" Essay         The Rudyard Kipling, 4 June 2008

~*~

The face of my savior looks back at me with my own brown eyes and smiles with his father's chin. He came into the world because his father and I longed to be as close to one another as two humans can be. He originated in mystery; he grew in secret; all the while, I felt him as myself. By stretching the most vulnerable places in me so far I did not think I could hold together, he opened a doorway to the infinite. I did not hold together. His birth caused me to die...and be born anew.

My body and soul expand as he grows. My breasts and belly are carved by a tracery of sacrifice and surrender. My breath, my pulse, my life rhythms no longer belong to me. They never belonged to me; they were given from an ancient lineage of ancestors who hurt and bled and birthed and loved. Now, I give to him. Because I carry my son in my heart, I am reminded each moment that life comes from death comes from life. His arms around my neck, his breathing "Mama" in my ear - an inhale. His little feet carrying him away to some new adventure - an exhale. Every day is an end and a beginning in the story we write on the cosmic tablet of time.

This I believe: only our children, the Life that comes from and continues beyond us, can save us from ourselves. Each beguiled giggle, each sharp tear of knowing pain, each wonder at the complex art of the world unfolding marks a stage in his journey of becoming something I will never know. My son belongs to a world I cannot inhabit and can only cultivate in his tending. I have known no greater teacher, no more humbling master, than the little one who looks at me with my own brown eyes.

The only response to his lessons is to change my life. My being is heavier because I cradle the question: What will his world be like? How can I prepare the way for what he is meant to be? Loving him has compelled me closer to everyone. In such radical intimacy, our collective destinies come together in the simple commandment: Hold on to one another. Walk through the infinite doorway. Give up your life for love.

- Mandy Olivam, "This I Believe" Essay                    The Loft, 28 August 2015

CONNECT - Listen.

Written as a reflection on CONNECT at Bernheim Arboretum and Research Forest.

"Listen."

Under the trellis, hung by a string, floated a paper with the image of an ear and this simple invitation written on its visible side. My curiosity piqued, I reached out and turned it over to read more - "What are the closest and farthest sounds you can hear?"

My body responded to the question before I could make a conscious decision to comply. The human chatter from a nearby beer tent; the rattle of insects; distant drumbeats; my little boy's delighted exclamations at the wonder of plants and people all around - these came into sharper focus as my awareness honed to my body's particular portals for Sound. I felt my oft relied-upon sense of vision muted in favor of a different vibration. I closed my eyes.

"Listen." This time, the invitation came near musicians' strong rhythms. The pulsations curved palpably through the air, turning each body and tree into a percussive instrument of attention. As I reflexively received the guidance of the beat and thoughtlessly altered my gait, I wondered what systems the pulse of my heartbeat may direct day-to-day by simply doing its work. I swayed in tune.

"Listen." On a bustling path through the woods, the word spang from the sea of leaves and people curtaining an approaching bridge. The still forest and serene lake startled me with their silence in contrast to the milling crowds. The word lingered there, insistent, drawing me into the paradox. I let go of my distraction and fell into the question. Suddenly, I felt transported into the old trunks and ancient waters, vessels for deep resonance. "It isn't just about identifying what you think you can perceive," they whispered in language beyond what my ears could hear. "Sometimes, it's a matter of noticing what you don't know you can sense."

"Listen." As the day slowly darkened, the shift happened without my help. The sunset colors gave way to the muted shades of moonlight on clouds, and my ears began to ring with insect song. My vision dimmed; with every step, the night seemed to be calling more clearly: listen, listen, listen. Soft lights flickered all around, but the blackness steadily narrowed my focus to my most immediate sphere of connection. Soon, I could not even see my child's face - I could only feel his weight in my arms and hear his sleepy breathing. His ear pressed against my cheek.

Sound transcends barriers to light by allowing communications from what we may not see. The calls of distress or delight from creatures upon which we may never lay naked eyes can become a map for kinship with more diverse Life. As I made to return to my familiar habitat for sleep, I felt that my body carried a heightened sense of all things near to me and a memory of all things far, enabled through a slower wavelength. My cells reverberated with the unique, fresh frequency of being alive and engaged.

"Listen," I heard, as I drove home in quiet.
"Listen," whispered
Woods by the road,
Trees by the highway,
Stars above the city,
River below,
Rabbit in the grass,
Moth in lamplight,
Oak tree over our house,
Boy sleeping in his bed,
Moon shining in the window,
Earth, my cradle,
my heartbeat as I closed my eyes.

Scenes of Paradox and Illumination, and What Lasts Forever

...getting stopped by a slow train at the end of a long day, feeling anxious to finally arrive home and rest...then looking up into the majesty of a black line of geese floating on ribbons of pale blue and pink clouds, which I would have missed if I had kept going.

...speeding along, driving through the internal and external traffic patterns that distract and numb me from true attention...then glancing over at just the right moment to see a lone deer nibbling grass in a quiet field behind the trees.

...noticing the slender girl just entering her womanhood curled up in the arms of a tall, thin boy at the bus stop and wondering fearfully to myself what possessive power he exerts on her...then understanding that their limbs construct a tender Pieta, that their posture is a prayerful icon, that her weariness and his protectiveness are sacred in their palpable humanity.

...seeing billows of smog trailing from the garbage truck making its early rounds, loathing its ephemeral poison and even more my own habits that keep me complicit in the planet's destruction...then marveling at the mystical beauty of the smoke's suspension in air, the refreshment of cool morning breezes, the wonder that anything exists at all.

...looking across the dinner table and realizing I will never fully know the depths of the one I made my life partner, nor will he entirely know mine...then looking into his eyes and feeling the ebb and flow of love's waters on our separate shores, remembering that the multitudes are not what we contain, but what we share - what contain us.

...watching work into which I have poured my heart and hope be put to rest or forgotten, tasting labor's bitter futility...then discovering the tools to make something new from the embers of my inspiration and seeing that it is all part of collective evolution.

...realizing that life's labyrinthine pathways lead to the same places no matter how far I think I have come, that progress is cyclical, that many have been where I am and will be where I am going...then sighing at the gift of claiming my particular part, choosing it, and trusting the Greater Work unfolding in and as All Things.

...gazing into my son's eyes and feeling the familiar terror that I will miss significant stretches of his life, that he will have such heavy burdens to bear with the other children left to heal what is harmed, that I cannot protect him from his fate...then being filled with awe by the force of his spirit, the steadiness of his destiny, his tenderness to my fear, his directive toward connection, his innate knowledge of a world I will never see.

...surrendering to today's dark sleep full of unresolved questions and incomplete offerings...then rising tomorrow as something new to begin my work again.

Flower Life

Summer, autumn, winter, spring -
season-petals, Flower Life -
destined path of every thing.

Lessons

What should have been a fun family walk to the park tonight became difficult and challenging, then full-out stressful. It happened because, first, I didn't listen to my own feelings and respond accordingly. When my sweet husband asked how long of a walk I was up for, I should have said a short one because the day had been tiring. Instead, we took the long walk. I felt too tired. I snacked on a little of Oak's orange to tide me over until we got home.

Then, I didn't listen to Robby. He knew it was too far to go to the playground at the opposite end of the park, but I was so fixated on my understanding of what our time would look like, I couldn't stay flexible and receptive enough to do the right thing. I also had no idea it was already almost Oak's bedtime. As a result, poor Oak was way overextended - he had to sit too long, we didn't have much time to play, and then it was really late when we walked home. And his mom had stress-eaten his snack-distraction. Then, he hit his head on the stroller when we went over a bump on the sidewalk. Cue meltdown.

Strained energies and sleepiness made the tearful walk home almost unbearable. When I am not in a good place, I tend to project my perceived insufficiencies in a moment as the reasons why anything that is hard or unclear in my life is hard or unclear. Pumping my sore legs and pushing with sweaty hands, I fought back my own meltdown the whole way home. It helped that my gentle husband carefully corralled the dogs and tried to be positive and patient, but I felt even worse for messing up this chance for a nice time together.

I got my act together once we were home and my boy was tended to and fast asleep. First, food to take care of the dizziness. Then laying down to rest tired body and spirit. Some tears to relieve the stress. A kiss to my hubby and gratitude. Then a pause to reflect on my lessons.

They sounded simple, even rudimentary, when I considered them: Trust yourself, Mandy. You know best what you need and want. Listen to people who know you well. Trust your intuition and understanding. When in doubt, be less ambitious and more present. Remember that everyone has times they disappoint themselves and their family. Remember that you are doing the best you can.

As I slipped into judging the reality that I am still learning these lessons, I suddenly recalled sitting in the grass at the park, hot and frustrated, wrestling Kairi and Roxas on their leashes, and huffily looking at the playground for Robby and Oak. I thought of the moment I spotted them:Robby with a big smile, holding up his arms for a push, and Oak flying with joy in a swing, rising higher and higher into the air with mounting delight. They took my breath away.

Their complete happiness readjusted my internal posture in that moment. Tears, happy tears, sprang to my eyes. Those are my precious boys, I thought, my dear, beloved boys, so fully in the *now* and captivated by the fun that they aren't worried about getting it right or wrong. And the mistake I made in pushing us there led to a moment of beauty. My puppies even enjoyed watching them play. Mercy glowed around me like the setting sun and the love of my two, wise teachers.

Thank goodness I have a lifetime to make mistakes, find the small graces in the paths they create, and walk with companions who help me to see what it's all about. What a gift, this bittersweet, long walk of a life that makes our bodies ache but leaves our hearts full. How poignant it is to struggle and enjoy, then fall into rest with the knowledge that the spectrum of experiences come part and parcel to one another, and it is good.

Sweet dreams, one and all, and mercy on you tonight.

Limitless

In the dark, we stand in the small room between his bedroom and mine and his father's. The doors are open to our left and right, giving full sight of each adjoining space. He reaches intently around my neck and turns his face toward me; his cheek rests on my shoulder, my chin rests on his little arm. Our ears press together and, like trying to hear the hidden seas in a shell, we listen to the common rhythm of our breath.

Suddenly, my feet are resting on sand as I hold my child and gaze upon the roiling ocean, black beneath the night sky. Comets fly overhead to the roaring waves, unrelenting in their ancient motion. Our upright stance unites Earth and Stars, Sea and Sky - earth, fire, water, air, elements that comprise our complex mortal bodies. In that space where there is no end to any direction, the limitless universe makes itself known again.

I feel my son's weight in my arms and the awe of our human task to give meaning to the beauty. Our alignment connects the parallel matters of infinite depth and breadth. Blessed be you, Holy Matter, which leaves me more aware of the certain light we humans bring to the harmony of things. This place of gratitude - for the night and the water, for my son and his tenderness, for imagination and mystery - is, like our spirits, neither wholly immaterial nor perfectly substantive. As far as we know, it is a new frontier in the galaxy.

As I settle my child back to sleep, I find myself whispering an abridged bedtime story: "You are the universe become conscious of itself." Moonshine bathes him in cosmic light. I leave him curled in the soft comfort of a blanket like a turtle resolutely leaves her nest of eggs in the sand: hopeful of the life that will find its way again to the Source, of another generation to carry us deeper and farther.

First Day

As the many First Day of School pictures fill my newsfeed with joy, I have been moved to tears by the innumerable faces beaming with anticipation and excitement. We begin again with a new year, a fresh start, another chance for teachers and students, parents and children, for our systems of education and those who influence them, to get things RIGHT. What a precious and sacred space in-between what is and will be.

As I gaze upon the face of each child, my heart breaks because, while I know the possibilities are endless and the potential is brimming, I also know we will, once again, not fulfill the promise. I know that these bright children will all, at one point or another, be disappointed or let down. I know that the students will be limited by unfit standards or inadequate resources; they will be weighed down by poverty and violence. I know that teachers with the best intentions will be limited by beaurocracy and politics. I know that loving parents will be strained and harried with too much to do. I know that those who affect schools with power and influence will be distracted from the deep questions around the necessary restructuring of our education systems or will grow apathetic as the barrage of needs desensitizes them.

But behind each child’s face, I see the striving Being of Light longing to flourish in the world. I see artists and scientists, prophets and poets, architects and anthropologists, dreamers and doers, seekers and creators of a world made new. My mentor and friend, whose birthday happens to be today, reminded me yesterday: “Remember: there is always space.” There is space for us to do it right. There is space to begin again. In fact, we need not wait for a new school year – each moment is an opportunity to manifest space for growth and hope, for awareness and intention, for justice and peace. May we hold this space of enthusiasm and wonder in such a way that it permeates today…and rises with us tomorrow as we again say “YES” to the promise of what can be.

For the 70th anniversary of the U.S. dropping atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki

I watch puddles catch raindrops, ripples widen
like my boy's arms spreading in surprise,
water reverberating like his laughter, rings of interference
emanating to the edge and disappearing.
His small hands receive the gray sky's offering.

Across the planet, mourners gather and feel
vibrations through time from a different Little Boy, another Rain
of Ruin. That billowing cloud brought fire, burned
children, scarred and slaughtered.
When I look in my son's brown, bright eyes, I see
the millions screaming for their mothers
or born in bodies marred by invisible evil.

Can my tears or grief heal anything, cleanse
or consecrate the horror? Thunder cries in the distance.
I close my eyes. My son and our children look
to me from their past and future places, stand
in the humble wisdom of innocence. They teach me
The Task of All Ages:

"Let memory rise in you with strong wings
of crane's flight, ancient and elegant.
Be guided by the lanterns of The Children's destiny.
Sound ringing bells that herald peace and possibility
so new vibrations of love can be those we call our heritage."

As the wind picks up and the rain soaks our thirsty skin,
I carry my son over the grass, under the dogwood tree, to the house.
Together, we look up, then at each other.
Together, we step through the door.

Come Home

Come home, weary one.

Set down the instruments of productivity that clutter your crowded arms.
Turn down the loudspeaker of old stories and dissonant half-truths that muddle your mind.
Stop; take a deep, full breath the length of ten short ones. 
Remember that your heart is beating.
Remember that your eyes can see everything like it has come from another planet.
Let your shoulders drop, your brow unfurrow.
Smile.

Return to that soft, warm place of trusting you belong to the Earth.
You have eternal, enthusiastic permission to be who you are.
Do not be afraid, gentle creature of the night - the stars shine in your eyes.
No need to be timid, brilliant being of the day - your radiance could not be hidden if you tried.
Let the flowers blooming in unlikely places make you laugh in self-recognition.
Let the moon watching you with the face of a Mother make you cry with relief.
Let the silence of the trees carry you back to your green bed, and rest.

Your struggles and delights mirror those of millions who have come before you.
There has never been any one as wonderfully particular as you.
There has never been any thing that couldn't find a connection to a deep part of you.
You are never alone.
You are irreplaceable.
You are a part of All.

Be gentle with your delicate, light heart as you navigate the paths that lead us to one another, for they are meant to be walked slowly and always with a friend.
Be careful with your lovely, inquisitive mind, sweet one, for it works best when it stays open and curious.
Feel the step of each foot as you make your way.
Notice everything - your lesson is each moment.
Do not work too hard, my dear, for you will grow no matter what as long as you continue.
Be well, my love.

Come home, come home.
Earth yearns to nourish you, Her prodigal child, with morning dew and dawn.
She longs to lull you to sleep with dusk song that tells the story of who you are.
Every birth mark and wrinkle, every mistake and fear, every secret and mystery, every surprise and pleasure, every drink of water and breath of air, every blink of your eye and beat of your heart is an intimate knowing of the Universe.
Nothing is ever gone or lost.You are always seen with Eyes of Love.
Let go and be found.

Come home, weary one, and find rest.