Itineraries 2013 Vol. 3: The Final Bow

Contents:

Itineraries Takes Its Final Bow by Bolton Anthony

Fierce With Age by Carol Orsborn

Plunging Inward for the Giving Words by Ellen B. Ryan

Releasing the Past by Ron Pevny

Earth Elder Initiation by Randy Morris

The Dance of Spirit in Later Life by Bolton Anthony

Peace Through Peaceful Means by Betsy Crites

Two Halves Becoming Whole by John G. Sullivan

Accumulation of Days – A Poem by Linda Beeman

Itineraries Takes Its Final Bow by Bolton Anthony

For a decade now Itineraries has been a “regular” publication — an increasingly hefty digital tome which appeared quarterly with a measure of predictability and which over the years has featured articles by over 150 contributors.

In recent years many talented, generous colleagues stepped forward to serve as guest editor for an issue with a particular thematic focus. Writer, weaver, sculptor, and teacher Penelope Bourk, who edited the 2013 issue on TRAVEL AND TRANSFORMATION, is the most recent example.

Sometimes a “theme” held our attention for an entire year. In 2011, with help from four guest editors, we focused on THE SPIRITUALITY OF LATER LIFE. We first explored AGING IN COMMUNITY in 2010 with Gaya Erlandson editing all four issues, then revisited the topic in 2012 with an issue edited by Janice Blanchard.

Readers of Itineraries have also enjoyed the many book reviews which Barbara Kammerlohr contributed over the years and the regular contributions of Second Journey’s “philosopher-in-residence,” John Sullivan, whose thoughtful essays have accumulated in John’s Corner and spawn children of their own.

This current issue — the last “regular” issue — revisits the theme of spirituality, focusing on PRACTICES FOR WAKEFULNESS; it includes essays by two new contributors and by three of the four 2011 guest editors.

Itineraries now becomes an “irregular” publication — or in library parlance, an occasional publication — dependent for its continued appearance on the initiative of colleagues and the “gathering to a greatness” of unsolicited essays.

Why? Three reasons.

First, I will be 70 on Valentine’s Day. I have steadfastly tended Second Journey for 14 years — one-fifth of my life and twice as long as I have ever done any one thing. The academic world has something called “phased retirement.” I need to devise an equivalent to that. More importantly, I need to be about what Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi calls “winter work.” (If you don’t know what that phrase means, perhaps some colleague will demystify it in some future, unsolicited essay!)

Secondly, the online quarterly has “spawned children” of the print variety. Three books — 200–300 pages each — during 2013 alone, with a fourth due out in February. It seems overnight we have become a publishing house. But a publishing house WITHOUT A BUSINESS PLAN. A bit like discovering you are pregnant in the eighth month. Click on the image to the right to see what I mean. The books are all beautifully designed; the writers who contributed the excellent essays that fill them deserve a wide audience. We need to stop producing new books and figure out how to market those we have.

Finally, my own interests have in the past couple of years become increasingly local. Though Second Journey has made its home in Chapel Hill since the winter solstice of 1999, we have done so almost as if we were in a witness protection program, daring only rarely to conduct programs in our own backyard. That began to change when we partnered locally with the Seymour Center on THE HEART’S DESIRE, a series of “films for later life”; now in its third season, that series continues in the spring. Then came last fall’s citywide series of public forums on Aging in Community — again with local partners; that series also continues in the spring. Finally, I realized it was in my own self-interest to walk my talk: if Lisa and I wished ourselves to “age in community,” it behooved us to give some energy to making our own neighborhood “aging friendly.” So we have both become involved in this effort; and, depending on your interest, you may read occasional dispatches from the field in The Heronbridge Chronicles: Imagining What Might Be.

So, the long and the short of it is, even letting go of Itineraries, my plate remains quite full. I may not yet have gotten the hang of this phrased retirement thing!

This has been a lot of information (more than you are ever likely to read, Lisa warns me), but — so far — no ASK, as fundraisers would say. Well, there isn’t going to be one. I’ve come to believe that systems are self-organizing; and if Itineraries is meant to continue in one form or another, that will happen.

I had a conversation 10 years ago with Reb Zalman. I had just turned 60; he was approaching 80 and intending to “retire.” I knew he had begun his work with “Sage-ing” when he was 60, and I expressed the hope that I also would have 20 years to complete my work. He told me, “I will give you a blessing — a blessing which carries all the good will of all the ancestors who have made me who I am. May you complete your work in 10 years and have 10 years to enjoy it! ”

About that same time, I had written about my work with Second Journey:

A number of people have thanked me for “holding the space.” It’s as if I’d arrived early for the picnic, staked out a lush spot by the river and put dibs on the place by scattering blankets and chairs all about. I do not have THE VISION; no one person does. It is scattered in pieces among us, and we will find our way into the future only by coming together in community and delighting in the different treats we each bring to the celebration.

So it is for you I have been holding this place. What would you like to bring to our potluck? What are your thoughts about where Second Journey should go, and what role do you wish to play, what contribution do you wish to make? What kind of organization or container do we need to create TOGETHER, to hold and direct this energy?

Yes, I have been holding this wonderful space beside the river for YOU! It’s now time for you to take your place there, time for Lisa and me to welcome greater spaciousness into our lives, and time for all of us to enjoy the feast of life.

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Bolton Anthony, who founded Second Journey in 1999, has worked as a teacher of English and creative writing to undergraduates, a public librarian, a university administrator, and a social change activist. In 1998, he was privileged to lead a year-long community effort to solemnly commemorate the Wilmington (NC) coup and racial violence of 1898. He is the editor of Second Journeys: The Dance of Spirit in Later Life and the host of THE HEART’S DESIRE, a local film series now in its third season. He lives in Chapel Hill with his wife, Lisa.

Fierce With Age by Carol Orsborn

I’ve got an invitation for you that you won’t be able to refuse. It’s a multiyear, in-depth course that is designed to strip away your ego, confront you with ultimate questions about meaning and purpose, and give you the opportunity to come to terms with mortality while learning to appreciate the present moment.

It’s called aging.

If you are fortunate to live long enough, you won’t have a choice about whether or not you will be confronted with losses, challenges, and diminishments that accompany growing older. You will have the opportunity to choose whether you will become a victim of age or, alternately, transform aging into a spiritual path that at last offers the promise of fulfilling your true human potential.

When I refer to aging as a spiritual path, let me be clear. I’m not just talking about peace and serenity here. On the contrary, conscious elderhood demands a level of commitment that often seems to require more of us than we think we have to give. For starters, we need to fight the ageist images of growing older that we, ourselves, have internalized. We need to confront, grapple with, and ultimately transcend the dread and even revulsion that has sadly become the hallmark of the mainstream attitude about aging. Coupled with this, we must simultaneously resist the urge to romanticize or whitewash aging, defying an antiaging society’s denial of both the realities and promise that is the truth about growing old.

Central to this is questioning the myth of “serenity” as the chief characteristic and goal of what is known in the gerontology field as “successful aging.” To place serenity in its contemporary context, we need only trace its modern-day origins to the years following World War II. During the war, the young men went to battlefields around the world, leaving women and the elderly behind to keep the home front functioning. Older people and women worked the fields, ran the factories, and stepped up into leadership roles in every industry. At war’s end, it became their patriotic duty to step aside to make room for the returning warriors. In its place, Madison Avenue offered older folks the promise of romanticized suburbs, gated communities, and retirements of leisure — on the golf course or in a rocking chair. The “geezers” who resisted marginalization were portrayed as “eccentric” or “disloyal.” Serenity, in other words, was a way of marginalizing and dismissing older people. Serene people, after all, “make no trouble” and slip graciously out of sight and mind.

Of course, there is a place for serenity in our lives. But the mystics of many traditions have a much broader understanding of what it means to walk that spiritual path. While I have been a lifelong student of mystical and spiritual literature from a broad range of traditions, it wasn’t until I was personally confronted with my own aging and mortality that I transcended both the dread of growing older as well as romanticized fantasies of the future and replaced them with a more prophetic relationship to the divine. There are still times, of course, when I am quiet and peaceful. But I have learned that with six decades behind me, I am rabble-rousing more than ever. I am not above standing on the mountain top and shaking my fist at God, nor do I think there’s something wrong with me when I have sunk into the dark night of the soul. I have come to realize that as long as we keep growing, there will be anxious moments, regrets, and self-doubt. But there will be transiting, transforming, and overcoming, too. As a result, I have put being at peace farther down on the list of aspirations as I age. At the top is to be fully alive, no matter the consequences. This is the essence of what I refer to when I describe my current orientation towards life as having become “fierce with age.”

This knowledge was hard won for me. In my recent memoir, Fierce with Age: Chasing God and Squirrels in Brooklyn,¹ I recorded the ups and downs of a tumultuous year spent facing, busting, and ultimately triumphing over the stereotypes of aging. Having landed a yearlong project in New York too good to refuse, my husband Dan had enticed me away from my beloved cottage in a Los Angeles canyon to move to a high-rise apartment in Brooklyn. As the year unfolded, I nurtured a love-starved friend through a doomed affair with a younger man, dealt with my own physical and social changes, and sought to regain my passion for life at the side of my squirrel-crazed dog, Lucky. One of the most disconcerting challenges I faced was that in the process of transiting out of my comfort zone and into the wild space beyond midlife, I’d somehow forgotten who I was and how to restore my faith in life.

One moment, I’d been a smart, high-achieving spiritual woman at the peak of her game. The next moment, it was as if I had forgotten everything I’d learned over the course of my life. Shockingly out of control, I could not get things to go back the way they were, complete a grieving process, or martial my internal and external resources to greet a life-threatening diagnosis. Apparently, I had entered a new, prolonged life stage: one that our entire society — in an effort to trivialize the stage — either denies, reviles, or sentimentalizes. In short, I had become old.

I learned a lot about myself, aging, and life over the course of the year. And as our year in New York was coming to an end, once again surrounded by packing boxes, I found myself with my faith renewed. Because of everything I endured, I began this new phase of my life journey no longer ashamed or depleted about aging — curious and excited instead. While the contours of this wild terrain beyond midlife have not yet fully revealed themselves to me, I am clear that rather than experiencing myself at an ending, I have most definitively embarked upon something profoundly and unexpectedly new.

Happily, I am not alone. We have role models who hail from a broad range of religious and spiritual communities who are pointing the way. Here’s a wonderful quote from Henri Nouwen: “Aging is the gradual fulfillment of the life cycle in which receiving matures in giving and living makes dying worthwhile. Aging does not need to be hidden or denied, but can be understood, affirmed, and experienced as a process of growth by which the mystery of life is slowly revealed to us…The elderly are our prophets, they remind us that what we see so clearly in them is a process in which we all share.”²

John C. Robinson, in his illuminating The Three Secrets of Aging: A Radical Guide, asks, “What if people began to experience age-related changes in consciousness as essentially mystical in nature?”³ Harry R. Moody writes, “In the most profound mystical tradition, the way of transcendence entails at its highest point the ‘loss of the self.’”⁴ You will find prophetic assertions equating aging with fulfillment in writings of Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, Sister Joan Chittister, Buddhist priest Lewis Richmond, and many more.

I leaned heavily on these and many other pioneers of the conscious aging movement while I was in the heat of my own transition to the wild side of midlife. And in the months following, I felt called to draw upon all my skills as a scholar (with a doctorate in religion and masters of theological studies), teacher, spiritual counselor, and retreat leader to help others utilize their own psychological and spiritual resources to more fully re-vision what this age and stage of our lives can mean for us.

Central to the spiritual practice of aging is a common theme: letting go of the illusion of control. Of course, most of us prefer the notion that we are calling the shots in our lives, applying ourselves to making things turn out the way we want, and feeling that we have mastery over our circumstances. But, the daunting part about aging is this: Some and eventually all of our old tricks no longer work. We realize how much of our sense of mastery over our fates has always been limited, at best.

As it turns out, when viewed through the lens of psychological and spiritual maturity, this is a good thing, Virtually every spiritual and religious philosophy centers on the shattering of illusions — be it the Hebrews tearing down false idols or the Buddhists seeing through the maya of surface manifestation. When we strip away the impositions, the fantasies, and the denial, we begin to view aging as holding the potential for activation of new, unprecedented levels of self-affirmation, meaning, and spiritual growth.

As I said earlier, this psychologically and spiritually healthy vision of aging does not feel like serenity. The truth is, as long as we keep growing through life, there will be anxious moments, regrets, and self-doubt. But there will be transiting, transforming, and overcoming, too.

In place of the stereotypes of aging, this prophetic vision of aging beckons us to take into account both the light and the shadow side of growing old, neither romanticizing nor reviling the years beyond midlife. This is no small order. In fact, waking up to ultimate concerns while maintaining both a hopeful and realistic vision of the aging process requires a level of spiritual maturity that is a challenge to the best of us. But it is also the stripping away of illusion and a thinning of the veil between our ordinary lives and the divine. This is the essence of the mystical path: the promise of aging as the fulfillment of our true human potential. In fact, rather than dreading age, we have the opportunity to become fierce with age.

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The Opening Exercise

In answering the call to help others confront, face, and transcend the stereotypes of aging, I developed a retreat that I now take into churches, the aging community, and healthcare organizations. The retreat, which is also available in an online version, begins with a “wake-up” exercise. In this opening exercise, I begin by asking participants to consider their judgments of individuals their age and older. Here’s the exercise, for you to follow along.

So who do you think is an example of someone who is aging well — and someone who is aging badly? What I’d like you to do is make a separate list of characteristics for each of your examples. What adjectives, qualities, and characteristics best describe the essence of the individual you chose as someone who is aging well? On a separate list, what adjectives, qualities, and characteristics best describe the essence of the individual you chose who is aging badly?

The essence of this first lesson is this: The lists you came up with say as much about you as they do about the person you selected. The list that describes someone who is aging well gives you a vivid, concrete profile of the aspirations you hold in regards to aging. Not every adjective you put on the list may apply to you, but the list — as a whole — will provide you with interesting insights about yourself. The list that described someone who is aging badly also provides you with insight, but in this case you are provided a portal into what it is you most fear about aging: your concerns and your issues.

For the purposes of this exercise as an illustration of what it means to become fierce with age, we are going to be concentrating on mining the wisdom from your list of attributes for the individual who is aging well. So begin by taking a look at the list of adjectives, qualities, and characteristics you used to describe the individual who is aging well. To mine the lesson from this assignment, go ahead and circle every item on the list that is NOT necessarily dependent on one’s circumstances. As you circle the items that are not dependent on circumstances, keep in mind that the items you choose to circle will often require a judgment call on your part. For instance, we can probably agree that a person can have a great sense of humor more or less regardless of whatever else is going on in their lives. If you agree, you would go ahead and circle “great sense of humor.” Items like “resilient” and “has an optimistic attitude” would fall into this category.

Now let’s take another example: “Has a great job.” Having a great job is not always a matter of personal control. People get laid off or retire, companies merge, individuals develop a disability. Yes, we can do whatever we can to keep our jobs or make ourselves as employable as possible, but we cannot guarantee that we will have great jobs for the rest of our lives. I would suggest that you not circle this item.

How about “healthy” or “athletic”? Yes, we can influence our health and level of physical fitness — but we cannot guarantee that we will never develop an ailment or face some manner of physical challenge down the road. I would suggest that you NOT circle “healthy” or any of its variations. If you are confused or conflicted about any particular item, don’t circle it.

What you are left with is two buckets. In the first bucket are all the circled items: items that you admire and that you are clear are under your control to cultivate in yourself, regardless of the circumstances of your life now and down the road. In the second bucket are all the uncircled items that are certainly or potentially dependent on circumstances beyond your control.

Knowledge is power. Your original list provides you with a vivid and concrete picture of your aspirations for the future. Chances are you will have the good fortune of aging as graciously as the individual whom you have identified as aging well. You are way ahead of the game, knowing what it is you would like for yourself and using this as a spur to do whatever you can to make this vision your reality. But here’s something important to think about. The more uncircled items there are on your list, the more likely you are to be feeling unsettled about the future. If this is the case, it is because on some level you already suspect that you are placing faith in that which is ultimately undependable. Of course we should do whatever we can within our power to influence the circumstances of our lives, but there is a cost to denying that our power is limited. The good news is that once we break denial, we gain immediate access to the entire range of our abundant internal as well as external resources, to begin to build a spiritually and psychologically healthy vision of aging that can be counted upon to go the distance.

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Key Take-Away Message

A key take-away from this first exercise — and the foundation of the discipline of viewing aging as a spiritual practice — is that those of us who can grow large enough to embrace rather than deny the shadow side of aging can organically have what the eastern traditions call an “awakening.” We don’t need books to help us understand the transitory nature of life. We are living it.

If this were all there were to it, however, we’d all be mystics basking on the river bank of old age. We all know, however, that getting older does not necessarily guarantee spiritual attainment, wisdom, or even peace. Who hasn’t encountered bitter, cynical, or resigned individuals who see aging only in terms of what is being taken away from them? As I said earlier, the truth is that the aging process requires a level of ongoing spiritual commitment that is a challenge to the best of us.

By continuing to immerse myself in the conscious aging literature, practice, ritual, and conversation, most if not all the negative connotations of being old have dropped away for me. I have stopped seeing age as illness and imposition, and have begun seeing it as increased freedom and activation of new, unprecedented levels of self-affirmation and spiritual growth. So now, when I say “I’m old,” this represents the overthrowing of the stereotypes and the reclamation of the integrity of the fullness of life I now see as my God-given right. In fact, I am excited about exploring this new stage of life. This initiation of a fresh life stage bears with it the hallmarks of all the previous life stages combined: the high anticipation, the celebration, and the bold, outright terror. In other words, aging has become transformed into a spiritual path, not only a continuation but an acceleration of the journey towards fulfillment of the true human potential.

As I conclude in my memoir: “Plummet into aging, stare mortality in the eye, surrender everything and what else is there left to fear? The way is perilous, danger on all sides. But we can be part of a generation no longer afraid of age. We are becoming, instead, a generation fierce with age.”

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18 Spiritual Truths About Aging

1. Others’ rejection is your freedom.
2. You don’t always get to take a leap of faith. Sometimes, you are pushed.
3. You don’t have to be a victim of your circumstances. You can, instead, become a witness.
4. The more willing you are to tell the truth, the stronger foundation upon which to build.
5. The greatest gift you can give your adult children is to get on with living your own full life.
6. Ultimately, hope is more important than peace.
7. You can learn to dance with, rather than struggle against, the essence of who you are.
8. The past influences but does not determine the future.
9. When you are truly doing God’s work, you are not the judge of your success.
10. The breaking of denial, even when it initiates a period of pain, is the only path for which you yearn.
11. To be fully successful, you must first be fully alive.
12. The gift of longevity provides ample opportunity to not only grow old, but to grow whole.
13. Regret is God calling you to forgive more and love with fewer conditions.
14. Fulfilling the greater human potential includes taking risks.
15. The less of whom you think you used to be, the more room there is for God.
16. When confronted with ultimate concerns, it helps to be more curious than afraid.
17. You have never been better equipped than you are now to face life as it arises.
18. You can’t always stop the bad things from happening, but you can’t stop the good things, either.

Excerpt from Fierce with Age: Chasing God and Squirrels in Brooklyn.

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Notes

¹ Mettacenter.org.1 Carol Orsborn, Fierce with Age: Chasing God and Squirrels in Brooklyn (Turner Publishing Company, 2013).

² Henri J.M. Nouwen and Walter J. Gaffney, Aging: The Fulfillment of Life (Image, 1976).

³ John C. Robinson, The Three Secrets of Aging: A Radical Guide (John Hunt Publishing, 2012).

⁴ Harry R. Moody, “Conscious Aging: A New Level of Growth in Later Life.”

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Carol Orsborn, Ph.D., is Founder of FierceWithAge, the free monthly Digest of Boomer Wisdom, Inspiration and Spirituality. Carol, who earned her doctorate in religion from Vanderbilt University, is the best-selling author of 30 books, including The Spirituality of Age: A Seeker’s Guide to Growing Older (co-author Dr. Robert L. Weber), winner of gold in the category of Consciously Aging, Nautilus Book Awards 2015. Carol’s blog — Older, Wiser, Fiercer — is available at CarolOrsborn.com.

Plunging Inward for the Giving Words by Ellen B. Ryan

Old age brings change, more losses than gains, and an increasing awareness of death. Older adults can follow a path of growth in wisdom and compassion, or we can stagnate in isolation and despair.

One spiritual call in later life is to review our lives, seeking wisdom and a sense of wholeness. Another is to contribute to our world, especially to younger and future generations.

Writing can help us to clarify and meet these challenges. Writing is a spiritual practice through which we can contemplate, listen for quiet insights, be drawn to a sense of purpose, and engage in mindful service.

Current models of vital aging focus on healthy eating, physical exercise, mental exercise, adapting to losses, incorporating gains related to life experience, and engaging with life. The inner work of spirituality deepens our motivation to take on these responsibilities. Studies of centenarians highlight characteristics such as faith, hard work, family values, resilience, sidestepping adversity, and a sense of humor. We can develop motivation to live all the days of our lives by creating meaning at various life stages from active post-retirement to frailty and finally to dying.

Journaling, writing for ourselves, can be central to spiritual practice in later life, a vehicle for reflection and prayer. In addition, some men and women may choose to write as part of their service to others. Here I will tell my own story to illustrate the importance of writing in later life, both for personal development and for contributing to society. The possibilities are endless, unique for each person responding to the invitation to write regularly.

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It is looking at things for a long time that ripens you and gives you a deeper understanding.

—  Vincent Van Gogh

You need only claim the events of your life to make yourself yours. 

—   Florida Scott-Maxwell

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Writing and Inner Work

I began keeping a journal while recovering from a car accident some years ago. Double vision and vertigo limited my ability to work and left me adrift. I could read for only brief periods, usually with enlarged font and text-to-speech computer adaptations. For pleasure reading I learned to listen to talking books. I felt especially cut off because I found myself physically uncomfortable in church for liturgy and could not do my accustomed spiritual reading.

My academic writing projects stalled. I was plagued by a recurring nightmare in which I searched madly for words while getting lost in a huge field of sunflowers. I could no longer spread papers out to consult while I wrote. Now I had to delegate reading and writing tasks to colleagues and students.

A friend introduced me to Julia Cameron’s morning pages from The Artist’s Way — write three pages each morning on any topic, just keep the pen moving. At first I wrote with big colored markers on every other line. Later my eyes allowed me to write more normally with a fine-tip marker in a spiral notebook. Soon writing and thinking with the journal became my way of organizing each day as well as contemplating my life.

At first the pages filled with all sorts of complaints. Gradually, some perspective emerged. I began to write about how my situation could be worse, about all the supports I enjoyed, and the potential for learning valuable lessons through these experiences. Unable to pray much at the time, I began to listen during my writing sessions for spiritual insights — and the more I listened the calmer and more trusting I became. My enforced solitude and quiet non-reading life became a gift of time for my journal — paying more and more attention to the moment, nature, myself, and other people.

After a while I could read a couple of pages a day. These were selected from books increasingly well-chosen for their readable fonts and stimulus for contemplation. I scribbled away, reflecting on the few printed words I had managed to absorb and their applications to my current life, to my life as part of humanity, to all life on earth. I learned later that reading in small doses followed by reflection has a long spiritual tradition — “lectio divina.” Through this process, I faced my feelings, counted my blessings daily, and asked myself more and more fundamental questions. As Doris Gumbach wrote in her late-life memoir, “Keeping a journal thins my skin. I feel open to everything, aware, charged by the acquisition of intensity.”

Since then, journaling about other spiritual practices after each episode — prayer, liturgy, long walks, physical exercise, church groups, meditation, volunteer work — has deepened and supported these disciplines over the long term.

Life review is central to personal growth in later life. Writing regularly about the highs and lows of our lives — past, present, and possible futures — can lead us through the inner work needed to claim that life, that evolving self. Looking at ourselves in this manner gives us a foundation for reaching out to others. As I continued to dig for memory treasure in my life story, I became more aware of the Author of life.

Through Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way and Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, I discovered that writing exercises would take me repeatedly into life review. Stirring my imagination and heart, these starters move my pen ahead of my thinking mind. I started to incorporate sensory details, metaphor, and word play. Kathleen Adams’ Journal to the Self offered enticing suggestions about making lists (e.g., where I would like to travel, my favorite celebrations), writing letters (to be sent or not), and composing dialogues between myself and another (e.g., mentor/parent, God, nature, a specific author or an inanimate object).

After months of journaling and using writing exercises, a half-waking dream made clear to me that I should learn to write poetry. During the dream I realized how well poetry would fit with my ongoing reading and writing impairments — just a few words, with plenty of white space. I awoke from the dream calmly confident that I would be able to say what I needed to say through this unfamiliar medium.

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The Road Now

Retiring from paid work
I stop to see where I am

follow the echoes
of projects heralded
for grit and wit

touch the ribbed weave
of disciplines colourful
in their crossing

sniff the ricochet
of novel thoughts
tearing through
tough peels
of assumptions

taste the chocolate cherry joy
of collaborations where
three minds surpass
possibility

What road now
worth the pilgrimage

— Ellen B. Ryan

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Not knowing how to proceed, I wrote about the dream in my journal, and realized it would be wise to take a course. Ironically, the course I chose did not involve the anticipated lectures. Participants were expected to bring 15 copies of their poem to a workshop for critiques by group members and by the leader/poet. Instead of learning about iambic pentameter and poetry of the ages, I was soon writing for the group’s gentle critique. My entry into creative expression with the mutual support of a writing group was exhilarating.

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The Day Dad Died

Someone making coffee, lists,
phone calls.

Yesterday’s completed crossword puzzle
beside library books marked in progress;
jars of crab apple jelly on the counter,
varied hues of first-time experimenting.

Garden grey in November bleak,
plants shrunken into earth, yet
on the anniversary rosebush, barren all summer,
two yellow blooms.

— Ellen B. Ryan

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My experience of writing poetry has been spiritual. I write in my journal, participate in a writing group, use writing exercises, pay close attention to nature and people, make lists of images and startling words, and listen for the muse. Creating a small database of colorful verbs (e.g., juxtapose, catapult, scrounge, trumpet) has been a special delight. Yet, when a poem begins to emerge, it comes as a gift of words from God. For me, creativity is both listening prayer and expressive prayer. Once I have the initial skeleton of a poem, I am learning strategies to craft ever better final versions. Stretching myself in this new creativity is nourishing. Some of my poems appear in this book.

Writing is an act of discovery. The regular discipline of journaling stret­ches the spirit and opens my mind, reduces my fears to mere words, and highlights my blessings. Through journaling, I return repeatedly to basic questions of identity and to basic values, especially awe, gratitude, and love.

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I wanted to choose words that even you would have to be changed by.

—   Adrienne Rich

  Words lead to deeds … They prepare the soul, make it ready, and move it to tenderness.

—   St. Teresa of Avila

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Writing as Service

Writing can become a calling, central to how we choose to age with spirit. Journaling usually combines inner reflection with decisions for action — in the domain of writing and beyond.

Once the inner work progresses, we may wish to express our social voices. This can start with more thoughtful letters to family and friends, may extend to letters to the editor or newsletter/Web site contributions. Personal writing can progress into memoir, history, essay, poetry, and fiction to share with friends and relatives or to publish in magazines, Web sites, and books.

When I took early retirement, I deliberated at length in the journal about my post-retirement calling. Over time, I developed the goal to learn new kinds of writing. I had already begun to address storytelling and storywriting of elders in my academic research, partly because I could no longer focus on my usual complex analyses. Partly, however, this was a natural late-career shift from the theory underlying problematic communication with frail elders to application: how to facilitate mutually rewarding communication.

Eventually, I identified my passion for these years: “writing to learn, teach, and inspire others.” I am committed to improving my poetic skills and to submitting poems regularly, if sparingly, for publication. I edit the Writing Down Our Years series of inexpensive publications highlighting the writing of older adults, especially memoirs, grandparent–grandchild stories, caregiving stories, and poetry. I offer writing workshops and initiate writing groups.

With colleagues and students, I continue to explore creative ways to elicit and write down the stories and poems of elders who are physically and/or cognitively frail. My writing for professionals fosters enthusiasm for hearing, reading, and eliciting such stories. Finally, I host a Web site on Writing, Aging and Spirit for a broad audience of older adults and aging professionals to foster hope and connections through story.

When we write as service, we can be entertainer, chronicler, historian, social commentator, educator, advocate, and/or activist.

In conclusion, writing is working as a spiritual practice when it enriches our sense of self in community and invigorates our service to others.

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Now I Notice Sea Shells

Age ten I charge surf at high tide
leap with thunder and roll
hours in swarming-cousins heat
Set aglide by curl of longed-for wave
I yearn for next year stronger, faster
Conch shell calls, horizon beckons

Age sixty I wade along low-tide beach
pants rolled up, jacketed for off-season cool
Seagulls and sandpipers scurry ahead
Pelicans swoop, sunset shadows stretch
colours shifting as sky reflections ebb
Conch shell woos me deep inside

— Ellen B. Ryan

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Ellen B. Ryan is Professor Emeritus at McMaster University in Hamilton, Ontario. Her psychological research demonstrates how empowering communication fosters personhood and aging with spirit. She has created the Writing Down Our Years Series of publications to highlight the many ways in which writing life stories can benefit older adults and those with whom they share their stories and poems. She is co-editor of the anthology Celebrating Poets Over 70 and webhost of the blog/website on Writing Aging and Spirit: www.writingdownouryears.ca.

Releasing the Past by Ron Pevny

The journey into a conscious elderhood is one that very much involves recognizing and dealing with both dying and living, ending and beginning. In the journey we recognize that these powerful dynamics are intimately woven together, as we concurrently prepare for two endings and two beginnings. Both physical death and the passage into conscious elderhood are, for the psyche, a death to an old way of being. And they are both doorways into new chapters in life’s journey of growth.

One of the core tenets of conscious or spiritual eldering (two names for the same transformative inner work) is that the work that prepares us to be at peace as we leave this life is the same work that prepares us to become conscious elders. It involves healing our past and leaving behind our self-identification with our previous life stage. Once done, we can move without encumbrance into the mysterious next chapter that awaits us.

Whenever we reflect on our mortality, death, and what may follow, most everyone hopes to die in peace. We want to be able to feel that our lives have been well lived, that we have done our best to use our gifts, that we have loved and been loved, and that we can let go of this life with grace and without regret. In her poem, “When Death Comes,” the poet Mary Oliver, captures this desire exquisitely:

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.1

Yet, many people do not die “frightened or full of argument.” Colleagues, friends, and participants in our Choosing Conscious Elderhood retreats who work with hospice all say that those who die the most peaceful deaths are those who come to their deathbeds unburdened by a lifetime’s accumulation of resentments, regrets, dysfunctional relationships, unhealed grief, and closed hearts. Besides manifesting as emotional turmoil, such unfinished business often results in prolonged physical agony while the dying person clings to a life that feels incomplete and unfulfilled. Often the greatest gift that hospice spiritual directors give to those in their charge is help dealing with unfinished business so that the patients can let go of this life with hearts that are more open to love and peace.

A practice called The Death Lodge draws upon powerful imagery to bring together various aspects of the inner work of healing the past. Because the work of this practice feels so very freeing and enlivening, some of our retreat participants prefer to also call it The Life Lodge. Choose whatever name you prefer.

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The Death Lodge Tradition

I first learned about the Death Lodge many years ago from my teachers Steven Foster and Meredith Little, the pioneers in the modern rite-of-passage movement. Their book on vision questing, The Roaring of the Sacred River, describes the Death Lodge as “a little house away from the village where people go when they want to tell everyone they are ready to die.”¹ Foster and Little attribute the Death Lodge concept to the Cheyenne tribe of the Native Americans of the Plains. To begin to understand the power of this practice, imagine you are an indigenous person who has grown old and weary of this life and knows your death is near. You attend to those practical matters that need to be done at the end of your life such as passing on your belongings. Then you leave village life behind to enter a special place, the Death Lodge, where you will focus on reviewing your life, repairing or completing your relationships, and preparing to move from this life into the mystery beyond.

In the Death Lodge you remember the important events, dynamics, and people of your life. Situations may look very different from the perspective of your approaching death than they did at the time they happened. You reflect on how you have used your gifts. You acknowledge your strengths and weaknesses, and forgive yourself for the harm you have done to others. You explore your relationship with the Great Spirit, throughout your life and now particularly at this point of nearing your passage into the great unknown. Then, when the time feels right, you invite those in your village who have played important roles in your life to come visit you, one at a time. This is the time for bringing your relationships to completion. You and each of your visitors do whatever needs to be done so that your relationship feels complete, with no unfinished business. Now, with death approaching, the dynamics of these relationships may appear quite different than previously. You thank and honor each other for the role you have played in each other’s lives, and you say goodbye. Once this work is complete, you are at peace with your life, your community, and your God and are ready to move into the world of spirit.

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The Death Lodge Practice as a Rite of Passage

We obviously live in a very different world than the indigenous societies where the death that happens at life’s major passages is acknowledged and honored as part of the cycle of life and is consciously prepared for. Our modern world has few, if any, true rites of passage that require a conscious death to our old sense of self as a prerequisite for moving into life’s next stage. However, deep inside each of us is an indigenous self that remembers that nature’s cycles of life and death, with death being necessary for new life, are also the cycles of our lives. Conscious eldering is very much a process of becoming conscious of these rhythms as they operate in us, making way for the birth of new possibility when we begin to leave midlife adulthood. I believe that one reason the Death Lodge practice resonates so deeply with our retreat participants is that its imagery taps into that wisdom in us that knows about how to align ourselves with the cycle of life and death.

The following is my recommendation for how you can employ the Death Lodge as work to support your passage into a conscious elderhood. By doing so, you will also keep your inner work up to date as you draw ever nearer to life’s final passage. First, be aware that Death Lodge work is not something you do one time and then it’s complete. It is best viewed as a practice that you periodically revisit as part of your commitment to your inner growth. I encourage you to view Death Lodge work as a sacred ritual done with care and intention. If possible, do it outside in a natural place that will help align you with nature’s cycles. Give yourself enough time to do focused inner work without distraction. Ideally, find a small area that has the feel of an enclosed little house or lodge, such as a spot in a grove of trees or a cave-like space amid rocks or under overhanging bushes.

Before you enter, offer a prayer or state an intention that the sacred, however you name it, be with you supporting and guiding your work. You might bless and purify your Lodge with incense or bring in some flowers. Be sure to bring along your journal and perhaps an object that you consider sacred. This work is most profound if you approach it imagining, as best you can, that you have only a few weeks left to live and that you are indeed preparing to die. You never know. That may indeed be the case.

Once inside your Death Lodge, be quiet and wait to see what type of life-completion/life-healing work feels most alive for you. Are you aware of a painful experience that needs to be examined, felt more deeply, and reframed so you can understand how it contributed previously, or can now contribute, to your growth? Are there regrets that disempower you and diminish your sense of self-worth and the worth of your life? If so, how can you change the way you relate to these regrets? Are there experiences of joy or accomplishment you want to spend time reliving — and perhaps reviewing as a way to remember your strengths and gifts? What is the state of your relationship with the Spirit (however you name it) that is your source and essence? You might want to spend time focused on gratitude for all of the incredible journey that is your life.

For many people, the most important work of the Death Lodge involves bringing healing and completion to relationships. In your Lodge you have the opportunity to spend time, in spirit, with people who have been significant in your life. What needs to be said to bring completion and, if needed, healing to each particular relationship? What need is there to forgive, and are you willing to do so? What contribution has the other made to your life and growth that needs to be acknowledged? How can you best honor the other before you say goodbye?

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Who to Invite for Relationship Completion

There are several different possibilities for who you can invite into your Death Lodge (and sometimes you may find someone knocking at the door without an invitation — a clear indication that they belong there).

• You can become aware of others who are alive, with whom healing needs to happen, and with whom a face-to-face conversation is possible if you make the effort. You can use the Death Lodge to practice what you will say to them and to make the commitment to try your best to meet with them in person.

• You can invite others who are alive but with whom a face-to-face meeting is an impossibility for whatever reasons. Picture them in your Lodge with you and imagine yourself talking to their spirits — to the best in them — saying what you need to say and hearing their response. Using your journal for such conversations can help make this process more tangible. The Gestalt process of moving back and forth from one seat to another is also helpful for some people.

• You can invite people who have died with whom you have never had or you missed the opportunity to share what’s in your heart. Does grief need to be expressed? Anger? Gratitude? Forgiveness? A request for forgiveness? Again, speak to their spirit and imagine what that wise, loving essence in them has to say to you. If you cannot connect with a sense of what their spirit has to say, only remembering their personality selves which may have been hurtful to you, that’s OK. Speak the truth of your heart, doing your best to recognize and honor their role in your growth while acknowledging the pain they may have caused you.

• For many people, the most important and difficult Death Lodge work is the work of forgiving and honoring themselves — or, to be more precise, those parts of themselves that have made errors and poor decisions, have hurt others, are weak, are imperfect. Nothing is more disempowering — closing our hearts and filling us with conflict — than self-loathing. Here we have the opportunity to forgive these parts of ourselves for their weakness and to thank them for what they have taught us about our shadows and our values. From the perspective of our conscious and aware selves we can dialogue with and extend love to these parts of us (using our journal can be very helpful) with the goal of reintegrating disowned aspects of ourselves. The more we do so, the more whole we become.

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A Retreat Participant’s Healing Experience

I have been privileged to hear from retreat participants many stories about their use of the Death Lodge, on retreat and as a regular practice in their lives. I’d like to close by sharing the deeply transformative Death Lodge experience of Annette, as related in her own words.

There was a moment in time that excruciatingly split my life into the “before” and “after” — a recalibration of time that set that moment as the moment relative to which all prior and subsequent events are now remembered. The zero on my X-axis of time: June 17, 1999.

The phone rang. A voice said, “Molly has shot herself.” She had been at her father’s house. In a blur of events I found myself at the emergency room hearing a physician say the words. She is dead. She was 15. My daughter was brilliant, beautiful, happy, precious, and so very loved by so many people. So loved by me. A moment of drama over a boy, an argument with her father, an available loaded pistol, and she gave up every sweetly anticipated experience of growing into adulthood on this earth.

My son, my living daughter, and I lived in a stunned and painful silence, patient and tolerant of each other’s process in grief, absorbing our new reality. A woman from the funeral home brought me a small velvet bag with Molly’s jewelry: a watch that I had bought her, a silver butterfly pendant on a chain (the symbol of her closest girlfriends), and silver earrings. She had worn these when she died. The velvet bag held these precious objects. I held it for many months.

Four years later, around Thanksgiving, I began to feel human, and my son and I remarked that we were smiling.

Twelve years later, a colleague sent me a link to a retreat on conscious eldering, to be held at a small retreat center near Mt. Shasta. I was put off by the rude suggestion that I might be aging and that I might need to deal with it in a thoughtful way — a clear sign that I needed to go. We were to bring to the retreat significant objects from our lives to create an altar, objects that we felt identified us in some way. The thought of Molly, ever present, kept a lump in my throat and the sorrow just slightly beneath the surface. Suicide is different from any other death. There is a stigma. It is impossible to explain, but only other parents of children who have taken their own lives seem to understand the complexity. I took a photo of Molly.

My conscious eldering cohorts were loving, gentle, and experienced in a variety of ways, each bringing a rich perspective to life and life’s cycle. I was prepared for my day of solitude and fasting on the mountain, and content as I approached my little sanctuary of solitude. The snow had melted enough to leave patches of dry earth, on which grew burgeoning wild grasses and plants pushing their way to the sun. I sprawled on my back to watch the clouds and feel the mountain. It felt safe. It was beautiful. I spoke to a bee. I explored. I came across a circle of stones that had been laid around a small pit, an indention in the earth as if scooped out to form a bowl. This place, previously created for some sacred moment in another’s life, became my Death Lodge. Shasta offered the perfect blending of death and renewal. Felled trees, rotting where they landed, created swells in the landscape, changing the flow of runoff, adjusting the topography, forever changing the landscape by their death. How perfect. The beauty and symmetry of life amidst decomposition prepared me for my Death Lodge work.

It felt odd, speaking aloud to my deceased family members — grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends who were so dear. There were many with whom I shared this moment, saving Molly for last. I spoke to my friend, Ann, who had promised as she lay dying that she would find Molly and let me know, if there was any way possible, that she was okay. In my Death Lodge I loved talking to Ann about what she had meant to me in life and in death.

Then came my friend Bob, who had shared his death from pancreatic cancer with me just nine months before. His friendship was transforming. A few months before his death, I had been seated next to him in a pew at 18-year-old Brian’s memorial service, with the strange understanding that his service would be next. Bob’s remarks had been profound: “How perfect. Brian was in a perfect place in his life. Why do we get hung up in the idea that more is better?”

Bob’s death a few months later was intimate and tender, filled with grace and love, as he denied fear with the words, “Why would I be afraid when I get to fall asleep, relieved of pain, and awaken staring into the eyes of my God?” I spoke to Bob in my Death Lodge. I thanked him for taking me with him down that path of transforming fear, as far as I could go. He gave me, in his death, the ability to see life more clearly. All those who were present for me in my Death Lodge had all felt receptive to my gratitude and amends. Now I was ready to speak to Molly.

For the first time in 12 years, I felt her presence. I spoke to her, and then with her, about my love for her, my horror at her death, and my struggle with the permanence of her choice. I wanted, yearned, for her to have lived out her life — to have survived that painful moment and to experience all that life has to offer — and to find the peace and joy that come from maturity and self-acceptance. I wanted just once more to hear the sound of her voice. I wanted her as the receptacle for immense love and devotion that had welled in my heart with no place to go for so many years. I asked forgiveness, for what I do not know. I told her that if I had hurt her, I no longer remembered having done so and wanted her to know that I had to quit trying to figure it out. She understood. I then heard Bob’s words: “Why do we dwell on the thought that more is better?” Indeed. I had lived for 15 years with this precious, clever, beautiful, spontaneous, loving child in delight and yet spent almost all of the following 12 years in pain over her death rather than in awe of her life and the gift of her creation in my body and birth into my family. I felt the weight lift in an instant. Tears rolling down my cheek, I pledged to honor her by living in gratitude for her life rather than in misery over her death.

Then, a butterfly appeared from the trees and fluttered through the death lodge, encircling my head and gracing me with its beauty. As she flew away, I said, “No, come back!” and then caught myself in a smile, chuckling at my own compulsion to want more. From that day, I have loved Molly in joy more than sorrow. My tears are now of gratitude. I miss her terribly. I am so fortunate to have had her in my life.

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Notes

¹ Steven Foster and Meredith Little, The Roaring of the Sacred River (New York: Prentice Hall, 1989), p.34.

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Ron Pevny, M.A., has for forty years been dedicated to assisting people in negotiating life transitions as they create lives of purpose and passion. He is Founding Director of the Center for Conscious Eldering, based in Durango, Colorado. He is also a Certified Sage-ing® Leader, was the creator and administrator of the twelve-organization Conscious Aging Alliance, and has served as the host/interviewer for the 2015, 2016 and 2017 Transforming Aging Summits presented by The Shift Network. He is author of Conscious Living, Conscious Aging: embrace and savor your next chapter, published in 2014 by Beyond Words/Atria Books.  Ron has presented many conscious eldering programs at Ghost Ranch and other retreat centers around North America over the past fifteen years.

Earth Elder Initiation by Randy Morris 

with Frost Freeman

The time is ripe for elders to reclaim their rightful role of speaking for Earth and future generations.

— Fred Lanphear

A revolution of elders is taking place. Older people are accepting the responsibility to gather together in council and community to consider new visions for the role of elder in our culture. As conscious elders, some are choosing to step into this role by preparing themselves psychologically and spiritually through a rite of passage ceremony into elderhood. Of course, in past ages, elder initiation ceremonies were woven into the fabric of the culture, but in our current mainstream culture, we have lost the thread of these ceremonies. How can we revive the tradition of elder initiation in a culture that has forgotten its roots?

In past ages, new elders were chosen by initiated elders to undergo a rite of passage. But in a culture with few initiated elders, how does one get chosen? According to the principles of conscious eldering, a person of a certain age must choose to “heed the call” to eldership. This call is archetypal in nature; it springs from the instinctual, animal body of a human being who is in touch with themselves and with a “sacred other.” It can be discerned in dreams, visions, strong emotions of grief and joy, synchronicities, epiphanies, and other manifestations of the unconscious, what the great ecotheologian Thomas Berry called the “spontaneities” of the earth. To be able to perceive this call and respond to it requires that one be conscious of the very possibility of a “sacred other” and attentive to the voices of the more-than-human world. To be conscious in this way is to be spiritual, because it requires the ability to perceive, through heart-based capacities of intuition and feeling, the will of “unseen powers” at work both within the human psyche and the earth itself. This is one reason that conscious aging encourages encounters with the natural world where silence, solitude, and reflection open one’s soul to the voices of the earth. In principle, the ability to perceive the call to elderhood is the birthright of every human being who is consciously engaging the life cycle with integrity and meaning.

To become a conscious elder requires that one experience a calling. But then what? How does one answer the call? Here is where the importance of modern elder initiation ceremonies becomes apparent. Initiation ceremonies are transformative rituals that have the power to reorient the individual will around a new set of values. While there are many different sets of values around which any elder initiation may be organized, an Earth Elder initiation espouses three specific values.

First, an Earth Elder recognizes that we are living in the time of a “Great Turning” when the future of the planet is in peril and human beings are called to serve the life-affirming powers of the earth. As Thomas Berry said, “The glory of the human has become the desolation of the earth; the desolation of the earth has become the destiny of the human.” An Earth Elder is able to recognize the role that his or her own destiny is to play in the larger destiny of the human species.

Second, Earth Elders are aware of the “Universe Story” that tells of a new cosmological origin myth, beginning with the great “flaring forth” and evolving through the eons of life on earth to produce the unique gift of human consciousness. One implication of this new story is that human beings are now cocreators in the ongoing development of life on this planet. Without the cooperation of human beings, the trajectory of life on this planet will be tragically altered.

A third value of Earth Elders is a profound awareness of the “partnership of generations” that exists among the spirits of ancestors who have come before us, human beings who are alive in the present and the spirits of those generations yet to be born, generations who are counting on those of us who are alive today to make their lives possible. The capacity to experience the yearning of future generations requires a sensitivity to what the Gaian teacher Joanna Macy calls “deep time.” These three values — the Great Turning, the Universe Story, and the Partnership of Generations — provide the core images around which an Earth Elder initiation is organized.

So what does an Earth Elder initiation look like? I am reminded of a principle of ritual spoken to me many years ago by another mentor, Stan Crow. He said, “ We’re going to do this ritual the same way they’ve been doing it for ten thousand years: We’re going to make it up as we go along!” Of course, there are certain principles of ritual design that exist in every ceremony. There is the moment of separation in which we depart from the everyday world and step into another world characterized by imagination and longing. In this liminal space, various ritual gestures are made to assist the initiate in their encounter with sacred powers. And then the initiate returns to the everyday world with an elixir or gift to share with their community, thus encouraging the community to embrace new life. Having witnessed several Earth Elder initiations, and in the interests of encouraging many, many more, I would like to describe one such initiation ritual that took place recently in my community.

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An Earth Elder Initiation

Separation¹ — Frost is a 65-year-old woman who has lived a rich life of service in her community. Among her many activities, she serves as an elder for youth participants who return from a vision quest. She listens attentively to their stories and mirrors to them the rich messages contained in their experience. Last year she experienced a “call” to undergo an Earth Elder initiation. At first, she resisted this call. It was just too much attention to call to herself. Who was she to declare herself an Earth Elder? In this early stage of her initiatory process, she experienced a great deal of “ritual tension,” a sure sign that she was on the right path. She writes in her journal:

Mid-June: For 12 hours I’ve been looking out at the bay and where it meets the inlet, sitting in a driftwood-and-old-curtain sun shelter. I could say I am preparing for my coming elderhood initiation/ celebration, but I could also say I don’t know what I’m doing. I brought things to write and draw, and a couple fruit jars of water. I thought I’d do a lot of uninterrupted thinking and writing. It’s been more like uninterrupted not-thinking. I’m amazed I can not-think for so long, and hope it’s a positive sign. I was here at first light, watched the shadows turn, as if I’m sitting in a sundial, and now the sun and the western mountains are getting closer together. Suddenly the shelter falls apart around me. Well, I guess that’s a sign! I pack up and go home. Next day I am full of energy.

Late June: Fear, fear, fear, fear, fear. I keep alternating my gladness and excitement about this coming event with dread and anxiety. Fear seems to have a full closet of guises. These are the two that keep coming up so hard. My heart beats harder, my eyes close with dread. Will this be too “out there”? Will some old friends never … Should I be doing this in front of virtually everybody I know and love? Sometimes it doubles me over. Later, another aspect surfaces: I am dying to who I have been, and am becoming not someone else, but another version of my true self. Oddly enough, knowing that leaves me calmer than the other fears. Still, the ego who rents out part of my mind is freaking out about it, “reasoning” with me while fanning the flames of the dread and anxiety. Back and forth, back and forth…

But after a deep conversation with a friend who reminded her that she was not doing this ceremony for herself alone, but for the sake of her whole community and the earth, she felt encouraged. Just after that talk, she took a walk in a nearby city park during which she encountered two owls in a cedar tree in the middle of the day, a very rare natural event that made her feel that her calling to become an Earth Elder was being blessed by the more-than-human world. She called together a group of friends to form a “wisdom circle” to help her design her ceremony, and she committed to a date in August for her Earth Elder Initiation. She writes:

Late July: I have been going through every photograph I own, and there are thousands. Some are for the 20-minute slide presentation of the path my life has gone; the rest will be for displaying in a special place for the celebration: other lifetime photos, ancestor pictures, teachers who have been important to me. Velda has offered to make me a garment to wear for it. I don’t know what it will be like. The circle of friends who are putting their time and hearts into bringing all this about let me know that I’m not in charge of it now, and that I will not know everything that’s going to happen. Randy and I have lunch and spend a lot of time talking about all this: fears, practicalities, being between two worlds, what being an elder might mean, how this event will affect other people besides myself… We walk in the park and find two owls, in full daylight, sitting about 6 feet above us. They spend quite a long time with us. You can only feel grateful for that, and things that go beyond words.

Early August: My “wisdom circle” meets. They give me tasks to do for the coming day. One is to be able to state my intentions for the rest of my life; in a few words, not goals, but guiding intentions. Second, to decide on three things that I would be willing to let go of once I cross the threshold of elderhood, and to make some artistic representation of each one that can then be burnt, buried, torn, etc. and to recognize what could emerge in their stead. Third, once I have crossed the threshold and been accepted into the elder circle, to have some words to say — wisdom that I’d like to share from my new place. It feels good to have some direction.

Day Before, August 24: I have everything ready. When I look out the window in the 6 a.m. fog, a coyote scents the air. Oh man! What does this mean? It turns and goes the way it has come and slips into the woods. Several of us are at the Garden Club early, to start decorating. Sara and Zhalee work long, hard, and sincerely, and Roseanna helps with the baby and more ideas. I am again so touched by what all are putting into this. Velda brings my dress. It’s beautiful! Full of greens, silk and cotton, with hand-beaded neck and moonstones sewn along a crocheted cord “path” in front. My son arrives from Minnesota, bringing his cousins from Seattle, Raksha and Sarah. Raksha draws out a henna design she has made for me, onto my arms and hands. I love having them overnight.

Morning of: The youngers go to help decorate some more, and will stay there. I am alone. Suddenly all the fear comes up again in a slightly different guise; the dread has been mostly gone for a couple weeks; this is sheer physical fear, fizzy bloodstream, dizzy legs, breathing not matching heartbeat any more. I do what I can. Velda returns, and helps. We go.

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Initiation² — Frost’s initiation ceremony took place in a beautiful rustic setting: a garden club meeting room that had been decorated with flowers and filled with pictures and artifacts of her life. She invited about 40 friends and family members, most of whom had no idea what an elder initiation was. The “wisdom circle” that helped Frost design the ceremony made sure that there was an element of surprise in the ritual. Frost knew that the program would begin with an invocation of the spirits of the seven directions and various blessings by her community members. She knew she would tell her life story in a 20-minute slide show, describing how the key turning points in her life could be re-mythologized as preparation for her elderhood. And she knew that after a closing song, she and all of the guests would retire outside, while the wisdom circle members would rearrange the room for the heart of the initiation ceremony. Frost was asked to prepare in advance three ritual gestures. First, she was asked to be able to state in concise terms her intentions for becoming an elder. Second, she was asked to create symbols for three things she was prepared to lay down and sacrifice before she entered the elder circle. Furthermore, she was asked to be able to name the new gift she would be able to pick up in the vacuum created by her sacrifice. And third, she was asked to prepare an “elder speech” that she would address to her community upon her recognition as an Earth Elder. The rest of the ceremony was meant to be a mystery to her, so that the spontaneities of her mythic consciousness could be invoked.

When members of the community were called back to the room, it had been arranged as a spiral leading to an archway. On the other side of the arch were six chairs for six elders — three women and three men. Each member of the community was asked to write down the date of their first encounter with Frost and to arrange themselves in chronological order along the spiral. Once this spiral was complete, the ritual began with the six elders speaking out loud amongst themselves, wondering who they would need to call from the spirit world to assist in the initiation of this Earth Elder. They decided that they would need Crone, the third member of the sacred manifestation of the Great Mother — Maiden, Mother, and Crone. And so they called for Crone to enter, and there she was, dressed in diaphanous blue robes, ready to be of service. The elders consulted themselves again and agreed that they would need to call on the spirit of Death itself to be present, since the awareness of death is so integral to the wisdom of an Earth Elder. So they called on Death, and out of an adjoining room swept a dark figure in black robes, rhythmically swaying and ready to join the ritual. With the scene set, the elders called out to Frost, and through the windows we could see her striding up to the door, resplendent in her ritual clothes and ready to enter the room. In Frost’s own words:

Zhalee comes outside to conduct me to the doorway. This is what I see. Heavy rope forms a spiral path to the center, where a threshold stands, on the other side of which are seated six elders. The room is dim, lit by candles and twilight. All guests are seated along this path, in the order in which they met me in my life. The Crone meets me at the door, and by this time, I’m not thinking, remembering, or relating. Death is crouched on the other side of the door. They say things. We are all in Someplace Else now, a place between two worlds. If I answer, or move, it’s from a much older or more timeless aspect of me. My day-to-day self is not there. I am asked my intentions, and speak them: aliveness; to increase my skills of mind, heart, and spirit; to make myself more visible as a mentor, teacher, counselor; and to invest in my curiosity. I have a basket and am invited to move along the spiral path toward the threshold of elderhood. As I go past my loved ones, they put into the basket notes of encouragement, thanks, blessing. Finally, at the threshold, I am asked what three things I am willing to leave behind.

For the past few months, ever since she was given this assignment by her wisdom circle, Frost had been thinking about what three things she would lay down, and what she would pick up. For each sacrifice, she created a handmade artistic representation. Here is what she said:

1. I let go of leftover SELF CRITICISM, even to condemnation. I know ways to do this, and as I do, the container that held the destructive is transformed to a container that holds the constructive: a power, a medicine bag that I now have the right to wear, for a lighter, more effective energy.

2. I let go of the belief that visible is vulnerable, INVISIBLE is invulnerable. This notion works well as a tool in the bag, but not as a way of being. I’m willing to be visible more often, and in contact with the world.

3. I let go of too much ALONENESS. I can offer great friendship and still maintain healthy boundaries, uncover seeds of new growth.

Once she lay down these three encumbrances and picked up their medicine, Death stepped forward and blessed them. Death was then asked to take her rightful place among the order of things. She went to the other side of the elders, opposite the threshold, and sat in an honored chair. Frost approached the edge of the threshold. Crone invited her, of her own free will, to step across. Frost paused, considered, and stepped across. She was greeted by Crone and gifted with Crone’s own shawl. At that point, three women elders came forward and gifted her with a “universe story” necklace that they had made for her. Each bead and shell represented some aspect of the universe story, something that could inspire Frost, and draw her into balance and wisdom. Then the male elders stepped forward to present Frost with a decorated “beaver-hewed” wooden staff that had been blessed with waters from the healing springs of Lourdes, France. She was then invited to sit in a sacred chair, and the whole community of guests and elders gathered around her, touching her shoulders, head, arms, and knees. Those who could not reach her were invited to touch someone who was touching her until a web of interlocking hands and hearts were formed. Together, they chanted four long OM’s as the elder blessings of her community were spiritually transmitted into Frost’s soul. When it was over, Frost stood up as an initiated elder, and spoke to us from that place. In a firm voice, she said:

I encourage you to do two things: honor your own life, and value happiness. I didn’t say indulge your ego; think about all it took to come together and bring you here, now. How do you mean to spend that? How much time do you think you have? Make it good!

And cultivate happiness. For centuries, we’ve been taught to put it last. Yet if you cultivate real happiness, you’re healthier, with stronger immunities, more contentment and gratitude, true friends, you work better, and get led into finer adventures.

But what about all the world problems? You’ll be far stronger if you have what I just described. The world will never be saved by fear and starvation of the heart and soul. Honor your own life. And cultivate happiness.

With this climactic elder speech, the ceremony was nearly complete. Another elder led the group in a sound of joy, the directions were released, and instructions were given to prepare the potluck that was to follow. The ceremony was done.

//

Return³ — One of the most difficult aspects of any earth-centered ritual is the reincorporation phase. Without an intact culture to mirror the transformations that individuals undergo, it is hard to maintain the changes, and many initiates are tempted to regress into old patterns. Fortunately, Frost’s wisdom circle was so energized by the work of preparing her ceremony, they wanted to keep meeting on a regular basis to consider further aspects of elder initiations and to serve as a support for other elders in the community. This was a good reminder that we don’t consciously choose to be an Earth Elder for ourselves alone. The whole community benefits as the ties that bind are strengthened through heartfelt and intentional communal actions.

Two weeks after the initiation, Frost writes:

The first day I only rested, alone. The next day I was moved to speak to a friend about a concern I had, and spoke AS an Earth Elder — a surprise to me, since I wasn’t used to thinking in that term. I felt confident, and also aware that what I was saying wasn’t “done” yet. I needed to get to a more useful place with my feelings and thoughts. Other days: I rest a lot! I try to think through what I’d like, and get stuck. What’s up?? We (the circle) have a meeting scheduled to debrief, talk about how it was for us all. I find myself saying I seem to get stuck in what I want to “get done,” and am no longer sure what I WANT to do. There is a difference between the two, and I’m becoming aware of it. What a mystery! Something is trying to arise in me that’s in line with my intentions and shared wisdom of that day: it has to do with curiosity, aliveness, cultivating happiness, etc. and, I have a feeling, doing things without knowing entirely why I’m doing them. “If you build it, they will come.” That covers a lot deeper and wider ground than setting goals. Meanwhile, the rest of the circle has been so deep into the whole process that when it’s suggested that we might keep meeting as a wisdom circle for each other, there’s a lot of agreement. The Youngers wonder whether it would be an elder circle they wouldn’t be part of, but we quickly decide that we want these Youngers in it. It will help keep the elders with “fresh water” coming in to our thinking, and it will help “raise” the Youngers as they become elders.

Frost finally came to understand the significance of consciously choosing the role of Earth Elder:

This was intended to be more far-reaching than one person’s celebration of life. We hoped to make clear to people that they had choices about how they lived and aged, many more choices than they realized. It has even gone beyond that, and we’re truly on a continuing journey now!

We know that an initiation ceremony does not automatically transform the initiate into the full wisdom of an Earth Elder. There are many stages of learning yet to come. But it does serve to orient the initiate in their lifespan and set them on a path to wisdom that is recognized and blessed by their community. By all accounts, Frost’s Earth Elder initiation ceremony was a great success. Of course, it was only one way of designing it. As we experiment with a revival of elder recognition ceremonies in a diverse and pluralistic culture, there is no single “right way.” Much of the joy of the revival is in the design process itself, as the initiate and their beloved community talk and plan and play together. In this way, meaning is generated within the community itself and radiates out from there. If you were to call together your “wisdom circle” and plan your own Earth Elder initiation ceremony, how would you do it? As we pave the way for a “Revolution of Earth Elders,” it is good to remember Fred Lanphear’s call: “The time is ripe for elders to reclaim their rightful role of speaking for Earth and future generations.”

//

Notes

¹  The three abstract illustration in this articles are paintings from the RITES OF PASSAGE Series by visual artist Jamy Kahn, whose Web site URL is http://www.jamykahn.com/. The title of this painting is  “You Tell Me,” (Acrylic mixed media on canvas, 37″ x 82″).

² “Forest Unseen,” Rites of Passage Series (Acrylic mixed media on canvas, 22″ x 66.5″) From the Web site description: “Mirroring the eruptions and ravines that characterize geographical terrain, Forest Unseen metaphorically magnifies the often overlooked crevices of human emotion. The frames move from dark to light and from cold to warm, sensually approximating the experience of venturing into unknown territory.”

³ “Voix,” Rites of Passage Series (Acrylic mixed media on canvas, 20.675″ x 82.5″) From the Web site description: “French for voice, the word Voix has a visual simplicity that belies its complete connotations. Here, Kahn explores the explicit and implicit meanings of voice – to voice something is literally to articulate, and each frame in this painting articulates one letter. Yet voices also release internal, complex thoughts into the world, and the vigorous, fluid texture of Voix embodies that release.”

//

Randy Morris, Ph.D., is a core faculty member at Antioch University Seattle where he supervises a Spiritual Studies program and teaches classes on depth psychology, the history of ideas, and liberal arts. He is a vision quest guide and President of the Board of Rite of Passage Journeys.

The Dance of Spirit in Later Life by Bolton Anthony

The task of life’s first journey is to construct a competent ego that allows us to survive and succeed in the world: to find work — ideally, work that speaks to our deep passion and contributes to the greater good; to build mutually sustaining relationships with others and open ourselves to intimacy; and to nurture those in our care. The task of life’s second journey is to deconstruct the ego we have assembled with such care or — perhaps, more accurately — to slough it off. This sort of letting go is possible, because the ego is merely the creation of the mind; it “has no existence by itself,” as D.H. Lawrence writes, “It is only the glitter of the sun on the surface of the waters.”¹

Vision quest guide Bill Plotkin has called the first task our survival dance; and the second, our sacred dance.² Though we, of course, begin constructing our ego in earliest childhood, only at that first great transition point in life — when we move from adolescence to adulthood or, in the four Hindu stages of life, from Student to Householder — are we truly ready to learn our survival dance. When the student is ready, the dance instructor will appear. In traditional societies, the elders of the tribe always served as guides and teachers for this rite of passage that launches our first journey.

There is, of course, a second great transition point in life — when we are moving from midlife into elderhood (or from Householder to Forest Dweller). Now we are again ready to learn a new dance, our sacred dance. Here too, elders, in the guise of Sage, have served as guides for this rite of passage that launches our second journey.

Here are two famous literary examples of guides for this rite of passage:

Virgil appears in the first canto of The Inferno to guide Dante, a midlife pilgrim who has wandered into “dark woods, the right road lost.” Like most entering therapy, he wants help now! “See this beast driving me backward — help me resist,” he begs.3 But, again, the second journey is never about resistance — it’s always about letting go, sloughing off. And because “the way up is the way down”⁴ (more about this later), the path Virgil and Dante follow must first descend into hell.

It was in this same borderland — after another descent — that Odysseus, the long-suffering hero of Homer’s Odyssey, encounters his guide, the blind seer Tiresias. After accurately prophesying the many trials and years of wandering that will precede Odysseus’ return home, Tiresias lets him in on a secret: there’s more. The encounter with Tiresias occurs in Book 11 of the Odyssey’s 24 books; Odysseus remembers and recounts the seer’s prophesy to his wife Penelope in Book 23. At this point in the epic, he has come home to Ithaca, driven the suitors out, and been reunited with his wife, son, and father. This is the “happy ever after” ending of his first journey. The secret Tiresias shares is that a second, different journey awaits Odysseus at the end of his life.⁵

So, there is this pattern: the survival dance, then the sacred dance. Learning our survival dance is the task of our first journey in life; learning our sacred dance, of our second. You cannot begin the second task — or, to use mystical language, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven⁶ — until you have done the first.

But there is also this paradox: Though our survival dance is about constructing an ego that allows us to “succeed in the world,” if we wish to “graduate” and move on to our sacred dance, we almost always need to fail at the task.

That’s because, as Richard Rohr writes, “The way up is the way down. Or, if you prefer, the way down is the way up.”⁷ There is a story, perhaps apocryphal, about a patient that Carl Jung had been treating who would invariably show up for his sessions in the best of moods, everything going well, no complaints. This continued for some time, with the patient — in Jung’s eyes — making only minimal progress. Then finally, one day he shows up not doing well at all, a disastrous week, the world falling apart around him. Ah, Jung says to himself, Now we can get something done!

//

One of the [soul’s] best-kept secrets, and yet one hidden  in plain sight, is that the way up is the way down. Or, if you prefer, the way down is the way up… [It is] a secret, probably because we do not want to see it. We do not want to embark on a further journey if it feels like going down, especially after we have put so much sound and fury into going up.

—Richard Rohr

//

The film Zorba The Greek (1964) provides another wonderfully apt illustration. Basil, a young writer of Greek/English descent, arrives in Crete, having recently inherited a small cottage and a long-defunct lignite mine. Zorba — the figure of the sage guide in the film — attaches himself to the younger man, impressing him with his repertoire of indispensable skills, which he points out includes considerable mining expertise.

The Englishman is, of course, stuck — lost in midlife’s “dark woods.” His writer’s block, which he hopes the solitude of Crete will help him break, is the symbol of a much larger emotional paralysis. A series of unmitigated disasters follow — all of them building to this final cathartic scene:

Zorba has constructed a cable line to transport timbers, logged from the stand of trees on the mountain above, down to the entrance to the mineshaft; these will be used to replace the rotting timbers which support timbers in the mine. The whole village gathers, including the abbot and priests from the nearby monastery who provide the necessary rituals of blessing. At Zorba’s signal, the men at the top launch the first log, which gains speed as it travels down and breaks apart. But since it does make it to where Zorba stands at the head of the mine, he tells Basil, “Don’t worry,” and fires the rifle a second time. A second, larger log careens down the singing cable. People scramble out of the way, some of them diving into the sea where the log finally lands. Again (though with tempered bravado) Zorba reassures Basil, “It’s nothing,” and fires the rifle again. With the onslaught of this last log, each brace in turn gives way; everyone scatters, and the entire structure collapses in a dusty explosion.

Here is a litany of what has happened to Basil: The widow who invited him to her bed has died, stoned to death by the jealous villagers; his patrimony, the mine, has proved worthless; his small inheritance has been used up. All has collapsed in a magnificent, “splendiferous crash.” (Now we can get something done!) It is only at this moment — only when everything lies in shambles — that Basil can say to Zorba: “Teach me to dance” — not my survival dance, my sacred dance. “Did you say…‘dance’?” Zorba answers. “Come on, my boy!”⁸

“And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.”⁹

//

This article is excerpted from a much longer essay included in the anthology, Second Journeys: The Dance of Spirit in Later Life.

//

Notes

¹  D. H. Lawrence, Apocalypse (Penguin Books, 1974), p. 125.

²  Bill Plotkin, Soulcraft: Crossing into the Mysteries of Nature and Psyche (New World Library, 2010), pp. 84–85. “Each of us has a survival dance and a sacred dance, but the survival dance must come first. Our survival dance, a foundational component of self-reliance, is what we do for a living — our way of supporting ourselves physically and economically. For most people, this means a paid job… Everybody has to have a survival dance. Finding and creating one is our first task upon leaving our parents’ or guardians’ home.

 “Once you have your survival dance established, you can wander, inwardly and outwardly, searching for clues to your sacred dance… Your sacred dance sparks your greatest fulfillment and extends your truest service to others. You know you’ve found it when there’s little else you’d rather be doing. Getting paid for it is superfluous.”

³  Dante Alighieri, The Inferno of Dante, translated by Robert Pinsky (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994), Canto I, lines 1–2 and 68.

⁴  Richard Rohr, Falling Upwards: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life (Jossey-Bass, 2011), p. xviii.

⁵  Homer, The Odyssey, translated by Robert Fagles (Penguin Books, 1996), Book 11, lines 100–156 and Book 23, lines 282–325. Homer does not recount this “second journey” in the Odyssey, and Richard Rohr offers these reflections on why that might be: “The fullness and inner freedom of the second half of life is what Homer seemed unable to describe. Perhaps he was not there himself yet, perhaps too young, yet he intuited its call and necessity. It was too ‘dark’ for him perhaps, but he did point toward the further journey, and only then a truly final journey home.” See also, my essay “Second Journeys.”

⁶  In these matters, paradox abounds: The “heaven” is always and already here and now. And as we see will see in the story we examine next, the same can be said about “hell.” John C. Robinson, in his enlightening book on this topic, Finding Heaven Here (John Hunt Publishing, 2009) points to a further paradox: Though it is by way of the first dance that we lose the Kingdom of Heaven that we knew in early childhood, it is by way of the second dance that we find it again — a revelation that must be wisely managed in a spirituality matured by time and experience.

⁷  Rohr, p. xvii.

⁸  Click here to view the YouTube film clip of Zorba’s dance.

⁹  Lyrics from the song, “I Hope You Dance,” sung by Lee Ann Womack.

Peace Through Peaceful Means by Betsy Crites

Compassion and love are not mere luxuries. As the source both of inner and external peace, they are fundamental to the continued survival of our species.

— The Dalai Lama

I dimly remember that day in late August, 1963, when my parents and I walked across Memorial Bridge to join the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. We had just moved to the Northern Virginia suburbs the year before. I was 12 and still homesick for the farm in Colorado where I’d grown up, so more than anything I remember the crowds — I’d never seen so many people together. I later learned, neither had anyone else.

Now in my 60s, I look back and marvel at how Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the civil rights movement set the direction for my life. Not only did they bring together 250,000 people — the largest peaceful gathering the country had seen up to that time — but more importantly, their nonviolent methods and example allowed all of us working for a more just and peaceful society to expand what we thought possible. We know now that large-scale social progress can be accomplished through peaceful means. In fact, it is the only way to achieve such progress.

As I plumb the depths of nonviolence, I’ve also learned that its power goes beyond effective strategy for social movements. It can also effect profound changes at the individual level. The discoveries of Dr. King, Mohandas Gandhi, and many others going back to the Buddha and Jesus have shaped my journey as a peace activist and guided my aspirations to be a person of peace.

The seeds of my activism planted that day on the Washington Mall grew in the direction of U.S. international relations, peace, and nonviolence. I was a student in Peru in 1970 and later joined the Peace Corps in Honduras. A few years later my husband and I returned to Guatemala where I worked as a health educator. These were particularly volatile times in Central America. Witnessing the impact of U.S. economic and military intervention became the frame for my understanding of the violence that consumed the region for the next decade and beyond.

We returned to the U.S. in 1981 so that I could pursue my Master’s in public health. As soon as I finished my degree, however, my attention turned back to Central America.

The rising tide of violence during the 1980s that swept the very countries where we’d lived tore at my heart. President Reagan thought he saw the specter of communism spreading from Central America all the way to Texas. His response was to direct the CIA to arm and train the Nicaraguan contras and to send military aid to the brutal military regimes of El Salvador and Guatemala.

There was some truth in the CIA’s intelligence. Many of the revolutionaries in Central America were influenced by Marx; some believed in a collective economy, some were armed, and some went to Cuba for training. But most people fighting in Central America, with or without guns, were responding to the extreme disparities in wealth, the oppression of poverty, and worst of all, the violent repression of military dictatorships. For the vast majority, the poles of communism and capitalism were meaningless abstractions.

Unfortunately, the President greatly oversimplified the problems and exaggerated the threat to the U.S. Consequently, U.S. military and economic policies caused immense unnecessary suffering and death.

As with most public discourse in America, this conflict in Central America became polarized. I know that I avoided ever mentioning the presence of Marxist revolutionaries, so as not to trigger the fears and distortions that were endemic to the Cold War period. Some discourse was just too emotionally charged to touch.

In hindsight, I know I might have approached this challenge with a spirit of truth seeking, spoken out of my own experience, and acknowledged dispassionately whatever piece of the truth emerged from the opposition. This is no easy task; our media thrives on controversy, and the system is set up as a competition between adversaries. As a society we value winning above truth and perception above reality. Our painful divisions leave us immersed in a battle of wills and all too often, in the international arena, in a battle of militaries.

One of the most difficult things seems to be to hold one’s point of view lightly, remain open to new information and to all points of view, and be rigorous in the search for truth. My contribution in the 80s would have been much more valuable had I fully appreciated this aspect of nonviolence.

//

When possible, nonviolent movements employ traditional methods with patience and persuasion. For most successful movements, however, there eventually comes a moment, a tide when “taken at the flood” leads to a major shift in collective perception. It may be that historical conditions create the moment or the nonviolent actors may stimulate the conditions or a combination of both. Ideally, those actors will recognize the moment and step up their game.

In a highly charged and sometimes dangerous situation, nonviolent activists have an opportunity to draw upon their inner resources to call up voluntary sacrifices in hopes of pulling the parties into another level of “conversation.” Gandhi described it this way: “Things of fundamental importance to the people are not secured by reason alone but have to be purchased with their suffering… if you want something really important to be done you must not merely satisfy the reason, you must move the heart also.”

The risk comes because there is usually no way to predict the full range of the consequences. It is the willingness to expose oneself to harm — rather than inflict harm — that can change hearts. Many remember videoed scenes of police attacking Civil Rights activists with fire hoses and dogs. People were beaten and jailed, and the sight of this abuse shook the national conscience.

The effort which I became deeply involved in — Witness for Peace — was an experiment in this same tradition; personal risk and sacrifice were a way to awaken the awareness of wrongdoing.

In 1983, three dozen people of faith from North Carolina traveled to the Honduran/Nicaraguan border to witness personally the impact of U.S. policy. Within weeks of their return they organized a second, larger group of 150 people from 32 states, to return to that border and continue providing a peaceful presence as a deterrent to violence. A few months later, Witness for Peace (WFP) was launched as a continuous presence that stood in defiance of the violence funded by our government.

For the next decade, I dedicated myself to that effort, coordinating the delegation program from the States, leading many delegations to Nicaragua and (after 1987) to Guatemala, and later serving as director of the national organization.

Over the next few years, thousands of U.S. citizens traveled to war-torn countries with all the dangers that entailed. The possibility of encountering violence or being subject to kidnapping was added to the challenges of the unfamiliar language, food, and culture. They returned with personal stories of the Nicaraguans and Guatemalans they had met and the destruction they saw being wrought with our tax dollars. They provided a powerful “witness” to their communities and to their Congressional representatives back home.

Was there a change in policy? Though the Reagan Administration lobbied intensely against our efforts, the pressure from returning WFP delegates and others prompted Congress in 1988 to prohibit future contra aid. By this point, however, the situation had become so polarized that the Administra­tion went outside the law to continue funding the contras. Nevertheless, this is one of the rare occasions when the Congress did not give a President what he wanted in a time of foreign conflict. The strategy to provide a nonviolent presence and to convey the stories and testimonies of those people on the other end of U.S. policies won a significant advance.

//

Why did so many people volunteer to travel to a poverty-stricken region that had been ignored by the U.S. government and travel agents alike? Why I was doing it was clear. I had lived in Central America, had friends in danger, had a better than average understanding of the history and culture of the region, and had very deep sympathy for the people who were suffering extreme violence as a result of U.S. military and CIA interventions. I spoke Spanish and knew my way around these countries. Going into war zones added some risk, and I did have to face my fears about the uncertainties; but I knew I had competencies for managing potential problems.

For most people, however, the 2-week “delegation” required genuine courage. The trips to Nicaragua and Guatemala meant entering an unknown hostile environment at considerable expense and risk. WFP made clear in its two-day orientation that this would not be a vacation. We were going into zones of military conflict. In spite of that, people choose to “stand with” the Nicaraguan people suffering the effects of U.S. intervention. It somehow captured the imagination. Many people were outraged by the rhetoric they heard from the White House and inspired by the idealistic goals that the new government of Nicaragua seemed committed to. With this outrage came energy; we provided a constructive channel for that energy — a way for many people to act on their conscience.

In order to create a shift, the nonviolent activists may voluntarily endure hardships, injury, and even death to reopen a path to positive change. The Civil Rights movement, Witness for Peace, and many other organized efforts in nonviolence have broken unjust laws or otherwise exposed themselves to the fury of the opponent. They do this as a way to awaken the conscience of the adversary and interrupt the cycle of violence and/or awaken the public’s awareness of problems.

Nonviolence does not promise quick and easy results; but it usually involves less injury, destruction, and loss of life, and it generally preserves space for constructive solutions.

//

A commitment to truth, a willingness to sacrifice, and many other insights and strategies have emerged from the history of nonviolent social change. Activists and scholars have learned some core principles which may overlap and interlock but are worth examining separately for the wisdom each brings forth. As more and more we integrate the principles of nonviolence into our thinking and our lives, the more we can open to the creative possibilities beyond force, and the more successful we activists will become in effecting long-term change.

The student of nonviolence could begin with these:

• We all have a piece of the truth, but no one has all the truth. As clear cut as things appear from our perspective, our opponents also believe they are right. Genuinely seeking the truth in the opponents’ perspective helps us find some common ground and understand their worldview. This understanding can help us appeal to their higher nature or at least their particular interests.

• Respect everyone. The principle here is to avoid ever humiliating anyone oraccepting humiliation from others. People sometimes change their minds, especially when given the space to do so. When harassed or disrespected, people defend and justify themselves to save face. Gandhi maintained friendly communications with the British Raj throughout his campaign to free India.

• Never be against persons, be against problems. This is related to the above principle and opens a way to respect the humanity of everyone without endorsing their behavior. We can oppose ideas, policies, and actions. We can deal at the level of problem solving, not name-calling. “The real success in nonviolence, which violence can never achieve, is to heal relationships. Even in a case of extreme violence, Gandhi felt it was possible to ‘hate the sin, not the sinner.’”¹

• Set constructive strategic goals, but do not cling to the outcomes. The vast web of cause and effect is constantly in flux, and it’s impossible to know the full range of outcomes from any action. Dr. King wrote, “The beauty of nonviolence is that in its own way and in its own time it seeks to break the chain reaction of evil.”²Through nonviolence we are better able to achieve some positive ends though it may not be what we originally envisioned. Our task is to stay grounded in our principles and flexible on nonessential details.

• Recognize that means are ends in the making. Showing respect, standing firm with the truth as we see it, and at times accepting adverse consequences or abuse without retaliation will stop and even reverse the cycle of violence. The purity of our motives and the skill of our actions are critical and will have unforeseen positive spin-offs. The focus for any encounter is as much on the means as the ends.

• Be prepared to sacrifice, but never intend to inflict harm. When the adversary is unmoved and an unjust or violent situation persists, the activists need to, as Gandhi said, “not only speak to the head but move the heart also.” The specter of civil rights protesters being attacked with fire hoses and dogs shook the conscience of the nation and, I believe, the attackers themselves.

//

As my understanding of these principles of nonviolence has grown, they have provided a measure I’ve used to gauge the efforts I want to support. A recent example is the current Forward Together (Moral Mondays) movement in North Carolina.

Moral Mondays emerged in the summer of 2013 in response to extreme measures taken by the N.C. state legislature, which had passed laws refusing federal funding for Medicaid and unemployment insurance; cut public school funding while at the same time expanding private schools; and increased obstacles to voting by the young, elderly, poor, and African American. These and many other policies seemed designed to favor wealthy, white constituents and reduce government by and for the people.

The leadership of the state’s NAACP seized this moment to lead a nonviolent response. Like many of my cohort who came of age in the sixties, I felt compelled to join this effort despite some personal risk and expense. I attended numerous rallies on the grassy mall outside the legislative building where gray heads peppered the crowd, and ultimately I joined those who risked arrest in order to make their voices heard.

As I’ve watched and participated in the Moral Monday process, I’ve been impressed with the leaders’ faithfulness to the principles of nonviolence. They have carefully avoided personal attacks on the governor or legislators, keeping their focus on the harshness of the policies and the hardships they create. They emphasize respect for the police who arrested us. They set constructive goals such as registering voters.

For many who are taking part, whether it’s through civil disobedience or volunteering in other ways, it is an act and leap of faith. We cannot know the outcomes of our efforts. Our faith is in the nonviolent means, which are developed and supported in a community of fellow activists.

In the strong tradition of the Civil Rights movement and Witness for Peace, Rev. William Barber and the other leaders of the Forward Together include prayer, reflection, and singing as a regular part of their gatherings. These are intentionally ecumenical. Though to some they might appear merely religious, they are deep practices that sew optimism and unity.

Time for reflection also tends to draw people back to the wisdom traditions that can inspire our highest motivations and purest intentions. The cultivation of peaceful attitudes such as gratitude, forgiveness, and compassion build the foundation for what Dr. King called the “beloved community,” which can model the very ends it seeks to bring into being.

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Invitation to Practice

Nonviolence as a means of societal transformation can be far more effective when the practitioners have also undertaken a discipline of personal transformation. By attending to our own mental and emotional states, such as anger, hatred, and aggression, and by working to create peaceful realms in our immediate circles, we simultaneously contribute to a world that supports nonviolence.

Nonviolence scholar, Michael Nagler notes that “Nonviolence begins in inner struggle — specifically, the struggle to keep anger, fear, and greed from having sway over us.”³And Dr. King reminds us: “Nonviolence means avoiding not only external physical violence, but also internal violence of spirit. You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him.”⁴

To follow this maxim requires cultivating a spiritual discipline, which ideally includes regular time for reflection and meditation. Reflection on the wisdom of great spiritual leaders who aligned their actions with their high ideals expands our sense of what is possible. Meditation and prayer take us to that place of refuge where we can deepen our insight and strengthen our resolve.

A personal discipline of self-reflection can help us overcome the conditioning that keeps us thinking inside the box and acting reflexively. We are all subject to strong biases from within our culture and modern society. We are taught to think in terms of “we” against “them,” and put our faith in zero-sum contests where the winner takes all. This model permeates our political, economic, and criminal justice systems.

Since we are shown violence at every turn — on TV and in movies, books, or other media — we tend to accept it as the norm. This is a misperception Gandhi frequently addressed:

The fact that there are so many men still alive in the world shows that it is based not on force of arms but on the force of truth or love… Little quarrels of millions of families in their daily lives disappear before the exercise of this force. Hundreds of nations live in peace. History does not and cannot take note of this fact. History is really a record of the interruption of the even working of the force of love.⁵

Gandhi was trained as a lawyer. Through his painful experiences of discrimination in South Africa and his profound introspection and reflection, he managed to decondition himself from the elements of this training that picks winners against losers. He wrote about his “experiments in truth,” which were in essence a long process of retraining himself and discovering the principles of nonviolence. It was not about learning the wisdom of others or acquiring intellectual understanding, though he certainly did that as well. What really shifted him and empowered him was the wisdom that arose out of his experience. S.N. Goenka, a Buddhist teacher from India, describes this as “the wisdom that one lives, real wisdom that will bring about a change in one’s life by changing the very nature of the mind.”⁶

When we peek outside the box of our competitive, violence-prone society, we might discover what Gandhi called, “the most powerful force the world has known,” nonviolence.

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Notes

¹ Mettacenter.org.

² Martin Luther King, Jr., Where Do We Go From Here, Chaos or Community? (Beacon Press, 1968), p. 65.

³ Michael Nagler, Search for a Nonviolent Future (New World Library, 2004) p. 83. Dr. Nagler is a scholar, educator, and writer on nonviolence and the founder of the Metta Center for Nonviolence in Petaluma, CA.

⁴ Martin Luther King, Jr., I Have a Dream: The Quotations of Martin Luther King, Jr., compiled and edited by Lotte Koskin (Grosset and Dunlap, 1968).

⁵ Nagler, p. 55.

⁶ William Hart, The Art of Living, Vipassana Meditation as Taught by S.N. Goenka(HarperSanFrancisco, 1982), p. 89.

//

Betsy Crites, MPH, co-founded and served as Director of Witness for Peace, a nationwide, faith-based organization committed to nonviolence in support of just U.S. policies in Latin America. She also served with Nonviolent Peaceforce accompanying human rights defenders in Guatemala, with Metta Center on Nonviolence as interim director, and as Director of N.C. Peace Action. She lives in Durham, North Carolina.

Two Halves Becoming Whole by John G. Sullivan

Here is a fragment of a story shared by a storyteller, Michael Meade:

Once upon a time in a village in Borneo, a half-boy is born, a boy with only the right half of his body. He becomes a source of irritation, embarrassment, and confusion to himself, his family, and the entire village. Nonetheless, he grows and eventually reaches the age of adolescence. His halfness and incompleteness become unbearable to him and all around him. One day he leaves the village dragging himself along until he reaches a place where the road crosses a river. At that crossroad, he meets another youth who exists as only the left side, the other half of a person. They move towards each other as if destined to join. Surprisingly, when they meet, they begin to fight and roll in the dust. Then they fall into the river. After a time, from the river there arises an entire youth with sides put together. The new youth walks to the nearest village. Seeing an old man, he asks, “Can you tell me where I am? I have been struggling and don’t know my place.” The old man says: “You have arrived home. You are back in the village where you were born. Now that you have returned whole, everyone can begin to dance and celebrate.” And so it was and so it is. ¹

Perhaps today, two groups find themselves as Half-people. Springtime youth are entering the Arc of Ascent, seeking passage into the stage of adult Householder. Those facing retirement are entering the Arc of Descent, seeking passage into elderhood (Autumn Forest Dweller and Winter Sage).

As in the story, these two half-people—youth and elder—seem destined for one another. How can youth be initiated if there are no elders to instruct them, if there are no elders to welcome their gifts for the wider tribe? How can the young be seen and appreciated if there are no elders to dance with them and celebrate them? And what of those entering the second half of their lives (or final third)? ² How are they to develop and give their gifts if they are set apart and exiled from the next generation? Is it any wonder that the uninitiated old fight with the uninitiated young?

Perhaps there is even more. Think of one of the half persons as “First-Half-of-Life Person” (Youth–Householder). Think of the other half person as “Second-Half-of-Life Person” (Forest Dweller–Sage). First and second half of life meet and engage in a struggle. They fall into a river and emerge whole. Now there is healing of four stages and a new image emerges from the water: an integral person, not fixed in any age but having access to all ages, access to all four capacities of life:

1. 1. The creative learning of the Spring Student, attraction awakened;

   2. The love and work that mark the care of the Summer Householder;
   3. The reintegration into the natural world of the Autumn Forest Dweller; and
   4. The surrender to the Great Mystery that marks the Winter Sage, winter forgiveness accepting all that makes us unique reflections of all that is.

When we have access to this fourfold, we are whole, we are home in an integral way. All the ages and seasons of our life are in us, simultaneously. Sometimes a prompt comes from within us, perhaps something belonging to features in our life “showing up as missing.” ³

• An angry moment appears and we sense springtime energy thwarted.
• An ache for summer warmth arrives and we sense our partnership / family as empty or incomplete.
• A touch of autumn arrives and, with it, a mood of grief and loss.
• A winter fear emerges, a fear of surrendering who we think we are into the unknown mystery.

Sometimes the prompt comes from outside us. We see a young student and remember we are that too. We encounter a family at some stage in its unfolding. We are that too.⁴ We see an elder in the autumn years finding delight in the earth community and in earthiness, in humus, humor, humility. We are that, too. We encounter a sagely moment of kindness, compassion, joy, or peace. We smile. We are that, too.

As each stage awakens, we have first contact. Yet our lifetime remains ever incomplete, ever unfinished until death. So long as we live, we revisit each age and stage over and over. Each turn of the spiral of the seasons reminds us we are learning and harvesting still.

Always we are turning and returning. Always we can revisit. We can recast our stories and shift our likes and dislikes. It is never too late to have a happy childhood or adolescence or householder phase. It is never too late to embrace autumn anew, never too late to find the gifts of winter wonder, the vastness that appears everywhere in every particular, ever vast, ever near. First encounters, yes, and revisiting often—in creative ways. More and more, we see ourselves in the other and the other in us. More and more we are invited to grow in compassion.

So take the plunge. Bring the capacities of all stages to bear in each present moment. Join the upward striving of spring and summer with the letting go and letting be of autumn and winter. Surely then we will come to live more fully, prizing every gift that life offers.

The gentle Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh points to a balance of doing and being in his Happiness song:

Happiness is here and now
I have dropped my worries
Nowhere to go, nothing to do
No longer in a hurry.

Happiness is here and now
I have dropped my worries
Somewhere to go, something to do
But I don’t need to hurry. 5

The fourteenth-century English mystic, Lady Julian of Norwich, harmonizes the two halves of life in this lovely advice:

Our souls must perform two duties.
The one is we must reverently wonder
and be surprised;
The other is we must gently let go and let be
always taking pleasure in God. 6

May it be so for all of us in each moment.

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Notes

¹ Michael Meade tells this story in his introduction to Crossroads: The Quest for Contemporary Rites of Passage, Louise Carus Mahdi, Nancy Geyer Christopher, and Michael Meade, eds. (Chicago: Open Court Publishing, 1996), p. xxi. I have invoked the storyteller’s license to tell the story in my own way.

² For certain purposes, it is useful to see life in two halves. And yet where the arc of descent is most easily felt is upon retirement, upon entering what the British call The Third Age, roughly the last 20 or so years of life. Here we might think of the Student stage lasting some 20 years, the Householder stage lasting perhaps some 40 years or more, and the stage of Elderhood (Autumn Forest Dweller and Winter Sage) lasting some 20 years or more.

³ I take this lovely phrase from one of my teaching colleagues, Dianne Connelly. She would say that the quality is not truly missing. It remains in us at a deep level, yet it is “showing up as missing.”

⁴ I have been approached after presentations by people who have never married nor had children of their own. How can they find all the ages and stages in themselves? I suggest that in a real sense all the children are our children and that we can bring the caring of a householder and the grandparently gifts to all the “youngers.” Surely, this is a fuller framework where all are called to honor the ancestors and to serve the children – all the children, the human ones and the other creatures who are part of the Great Family of all beings.

⁵ I learned this song at one of Thich Nhat Hanh’s retreats. The monastics passed out 13 Songs of Practice. This song titled “Happiness” is number 7 on the list we received.

⁶ Brendan Doyle, “Introductions and Versions,” Meditations with Julian of Norwich (Santa Fe, NM : Bear & Company Publishing,1983), p. 78.

Accumulation of Days – A Poem by Linda Beeman

We age, we bemoan

slippery memory

broken sleep

chronic pain

We reach for grace

iced forsythia on a February morning

the shape of an owl’s win in slow flight

wood smoke smells in old textiles

acceptance that what’s undone will wait

Accumulated insights layer one upon another

knowledge sifted through humility

justice measured with compassion

beauty sculpted by imperfection

love honed with patience

hope balancing wisdom

Our voyages out

eventually bring us home

where we acknowledge

the unknowns we sought

were coded

deep within us

all along