Mother of a Refugee: Dino's Story

 

“Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.”

                                                                                                            - Nadia Hashimi -

 

“Hello Madam,” was all it said.

 

Facebook Messenger. February 11^th, 2018. 

 

I didn’t answer.

 

A few days passed and I received the same message.

 

“Hello Madam.” 

 

“Hello,” I responded.

 

Nearly every single day since then, I’ve talked, through Facebook messenger, with Dino, a twenty-five-year-old Gambellen refugee who has been unable to visit his homeland of Ethiopia since he was about seven years old. He’s been away from his mother since he was very young and was permanently settled in a refugee camp in Nakivale, Uganda at the age of seventeen.  

 

December 13, 2003, marks the brutal massacre of 424 Indigenous Anuak in Gambella, Ethiopia by Ethiopian national forces and armed militia. The Anuak people have long been persecuted in Western Ethiopia and have been forcibly evicted from their homelands. Within a decade of the massacre, more than 50,000 Anuak people had been forced out of the country. This event forms the foundation of Dino’s status as a refugee.

 

Jump ahead to the first week of December, 2018, and I’ll tell you how we came to know each other, despite the 8700+ miles between Colorado Springs and Nakivale. 

 

It was a Saturday morning, and, like most years, I was volunteering at set-up for The Christmas Tree Project. David Fein, one of the “Head Elves” and a dear friend of many years, began telling me about sending a tree to Uganda for a young man who wanted two children in a refugee camp to have Christmas. David explained about the December 13^th massacre and shared that the camp wanted to have a community meal to honor those who died. They needed $600. For that, they could feed the entire village.

 

“Do you think you could help?” David asked?

 

Easy-peasy. The way to raise money is to ask people for help. I was there with a large crew from Unity Spiritual Center in the Rockies where I was the lead minister. We were working alongside an equally large crew of volunteers from Colorado Springs’ Center for Spiritual Living.  David helped me find a basket and we placed it in a central location in the warehouse where we were working. I went from room to room telling folks what we were doing, and, in no time, the basket was overflowing with checks and cash. We did a little more fund-raising at the spiritual centers on Sunday and created our own little Christmas miracle for the refugees.

 

An organization called One Light Global helped us get the funds into the right hands and I began to receive thank-you notes and pictures of the feast from people in the camp. It was heart-warming to be able to make the difficult holiday season a little easier for people who had faced so much.

 

That first interaction led to a deeper and deeper relationship with the Gambellen refugee camp. Both spiritual communities worked together to collect money for soap and washing powder for the women – very important for health in a world where malaria and typhoid are daily concerns. We raised funds for the local school. They needed school supplies, and the building had been washed out by heavy rains and needed repair. 

 

And then a request came for soccer uniforms. Our spiritual community talked a lot about how important play can be during challenging times – and what could be more challenging than being a refugee?! We funded soccer balls, shoes and everything needed for the game. Soccer provided the doorway through which I met Dino. He’s a soccer player and an avid fan of the sport. He took the initiative to reach out to me to say thanks.

 

“Hello Madam.”

 

It started with two words. After that, for nearly four years, we’ve talked almost every day.  We’ve talked about life in the refugee camp, about school, about soccer, about his mom, and about his future. He writes to me when he’s sad, like when his uncle died, and he shares with me what makes him happy, like getting a Christmas tree for two kids in his camp.  Yep – that was him. We worked together when the camp had a need. I raised funds and sent the money to him. He, and elders in the community, purchased what was needed. They sent me pictures and receipts, so I knew how the money was spent.

 

 Over time, I grew very fond of Dino. We became friends and I thought often about his life and how I could more personally support him. On June 27^th of 2020 we had a critical conversation that changed our relationship forever. I told him I wanted to help him find a way out of the refugee camp and into a productive life.

 

“From now on I’m going to be your American Auntie, okay?”

 

“Yes, of course. I can even call you mom, not aunty! If you don’t mind.That’s what I really wanted.”

 

Wait. What?! Mom. He wanted to call me mom. Mom is a big commitment. A lifetime commitment. I paused for a moment before responding.

 

Dino’s mom lives in Ethiopia and though he hasn’t seen her in years, they are able to communicate by phone. After some thought, I explained that he could call me mom if his mom was okay with that. 

 

“I will be your American mom. And you will have two moms!”

 

 He agreed and, after a conversation with his mother in Ethiopia, he sent me a message.

 

“I told her I got a big family full of kindness. I explained to her how you help me, how you treat me. I told her everything. She take a breath, she was like wooow! She surprised. She shed tears of joy!  

 

Farther down the page, he quoted her saying “That’s unbelievable you got a new mom who can help, care, and love you without seeing you face to face. She feels the pain you’re in. You’re now a gift I have given her.”

 

I can’t even imagine how hard that conversation might have been for her. I know that, if I were in her shoes, I would feel both gratitude to have someone helping my son and sorrow that I could not help him myself. One thing is for sure, Dino is a gift – and one I’m very grateful for.

 

I’ve been Dino’s American mom ever since. And yes, he still talks to his mom in Ethiopia regularly. Mark has become Dad, and Dino has gained four brothers, a grandma, aunts, uncles and some cousins. He talks with all of them through Facebook and Instagram. I still marvel at the fact that we have the technology to make it happen.

 

I think, at first, my kids were a little uncertain about our “adoption.” It was strange for them to hear that someone they didn’t know was calling me mom. They needed time to develop a relationship of their own with him. As the months passed and they all got to know Dino, he became a beloved part of the whole family. 

 

My heart tells me Dino is mine to love. I knew it from our very first conversation - an immediate recognition that I could help him – and more importantly, that helping him is heart-work that is mine to do. I should add he is very easy to love, has a big heart for helping people, and is kind and caring.

 

I’ve always believed that if we each helped one person in need, the whole world could be healed. Dino is my one. There may be others in the future, but, for now, one-at-a-time works best for me and allows the two of us to develop a real and meaningful relationship.

 

During our conversation on June 27^th, Dino and I talked about his future and life outside the refugee camp. Naturally, we talked about him coming to Colorado. I’ve been cautious about each step forward because his life has included so much tragedy and loss. I want to make sure we move gently and with care. 

 

“We have friends in South Africa who have a big mission to feed thousands of kids living in poverty each day. Would you be interested in going there and helping them?  I think you’d learn a lot!”

 

“Yes, mom.”'

 

 (He’s a young man of few words who tells me he listens more than he talks.) I called my South African friend, Andrew. (The fact that I happen to have a friend in South Africa is another miracle I’ll tell you about on another day.) Andrew was 100 percent on board. 

 

“We’ll teach him to drive, get him some education, and he’ll help with the kiddies. He can learn a lot. But just be aware that things move very slowly here, and it will likely take you a year or more to make it happen.”

 

A year or more! Clearly, he underestimates me, I thought.  

 

It turns out, Andrew was right. 

 

Maybe we could have accomplished getting Dino to South Africa in a year if Covid had not risen its ugly head. The global pandemic made an already complex process even harder. Dino needed a passport – which he ended up going to South Sudan to acquire. Once he had it, all his refugee papers in Uganda had to be changed because he had become a citizen of a different country. He traveled to the city of Kampala to make the changes. 

 

Kampala is also where the South African Embassy is located. We knew the next step was to get a South African visa. Dino had to find a hostel in Kampala so he’d have a place to live while he waited. He enrolled in school but Covid closed everything down before he could attend. Mark and I funded his living expenses and other costs.

 

Dino needed a letter from Andrew’s organization inviting him to visit. Andrew also had to provide bank statements and other documents as proof he could provide room and board while Dino was there.

 

We opened a bank account for Dino.  He had to provide three months of bank statements to prove he had enough money to live while he would be in South Africa. He also had to write a letter explaining why he wanted to go and acquire a yellow fever shot. He would need a covid test to board the plane, and, of course, a round-trip plane ticket. I purchased one that could be easily changed.

 

Every document required government approval and had to be hand-stamped before he could apply for a visa. Then, when Dino was finally ready to apply, covid shut everything down, including the embassy and the hostel, and Dino had to go back to Nakivale for about eight weeks. Nothing to do but wait.

 

Once things opened again, many of the documents were expired, no longer falling into the embassy’s required time frame. We had to start the whole process of gathering proof all over again. For a while it seemed like every time Dino went to the Embassy to apply for the visa, the Embassy asked for something new. 

 

It was a lot of work for both Dino and Andrew’s team, but the people who assisted Dino at the Embassy were specific about what was required and, once he finally had everything turned in, the visa went through without a hitch. Well…almost without a hitch. One wrong letter in an email address stopped the process entirely and Dino had to go back to the Embassy to correct his application in person. That little error cost him another week of waiting.

 

In the middle of all of this, there were issues at home in Colorado. Mark and I were sick with Covid for several weeks and, last summer, I had to have lung surgery that required months of recovery. Dino waited patiently during the time I needed to rest. He was every bit the loving son, writing regularly to cheer me up and check on me.

 

Finally, on Christmas Eve, 2021, eighteen months after we began working on it, and nearly 4 years after we first met, Dino sent me a message at 1:42 am:

 

 “Hi Mom. Good morning. I heard great news! I have received a message from VFS Global that my visa is ready for collection! Am back at the hotel with it.  I’m so excited mom!”

 

 Another Christmas miracle! The earliest he could fly was Tuesday, December 28^th and I began doing what I could to prepare him for the trip. He’d never flown a commercial flight before so going through check-in and security had the potential to be a little unnerving. As it turns out, I was much more worried about him than I needed to be. He was at the airport bright and early that day, easily followed every step necessary to board the plane, and, with all his belongings in two suitcases, he arrived safely into the hands and hearts of Andrew’s leadership team about 8pm that evening. 

 

EDCC (Every Day Children’s Church) is a project of Andrew’s organization, Overcomers, a team of highly passionate people who work closely with a network of NGO's, PBO's, NPC's, Churches and community leaders across South Africa to feed thousands of kids and raise hope in those who are living in unimaginable poverty. Dino will join a team of about 80 people, most of them his age, who are engaged in this powerful effort. He rang in 2022 as a member of the team! (As a side note, I wish every kid everywhere could have this kind of experience at some point in life! Can you imagine how that would benefit the world?!) 

 

“I feel like Wonder Woman” I told my family once I knew Dino had arrived. 

 

“We all know you’re Wonder Woman, Mom,“ my youngest son said with a softness in his eyes that I’ll remember forever. In reality, my whole journey with Dino feels like one miracle after another.

 

What’s next for Dino? We expect him to be at Overcomers for about a year. He’ll learn  a lot- and, when he’s ready, we’ll take the next steps.  There is an opportunity for him to go to France and help Rabbi Walli for a little while - and, of course, we want to bring him to Colorado and are hopeful he can go to college here. It all takes time, and moving through lots of red tape. Between now and then, we’ll continue being mom and son – loving each other and sharing our lives. He’s a remarkable blessing.

                                                         Our son - Dino Kiro Alay

                                            Dino arriving at Overcomers

 

 

My First Hero

 Without Heroes, we are all plain people and don't know how far we can go.

     - Bernard Malamud

 I was six when Dad went to Vietnam. While some people my age remember the 60’s for peace, love and rock-n-roll, we were a military family and life was different for us. I remember watching the 6 o’clock news thinking in my 6-year-old way that I might catch a glimpse of my father - and, at the same time, afraid I might see him dead. It was a lot to handle for a first grader.

Five months into his tour, dad was buried under a building that was hit by an enemy missile and collapsed. Shrapnel left a grapefruit-sized hole in the back of his leg and, after they found him and dug him out, they flew him to Japan where he spent 7 months in a hospital having surgeries and skin grafts. He never talked about the man who died on the stretcher next to him in the helicopter that airlifted them out, except to say “I was scared I’d die too,” and he didn’t speak more than a few words about what he’d been through or give us any more details until decades after the war, when he was dying of cancer resulting from exposure to agent orange.

He was a strong, tall (6’7”), bigger-than-life, family man who loved us in bigger-than-life ways…and who also got angry easily - probably as a result of the trauma of war. (They didn’t talk about PTSD or traumatic brain injuries back then - but I’m certain he had them.)

He told me about his time under the rubble. “I was as quiet as I could be and didn’t holler for help for what felt like forever because I didn’t know if the Viet Cong were there.” Eventually someone saw his foot and rescued him. I can only imagine how frightened and confused he might have been. He was probably in shock.

He also shared stuff about the hospital. “They told me I wouldn’t walk again,” he once explained, then laughed about his own stubbornness and shared that he was determined to walk despite what they said. After a while, he stopped using a cane and his limp became so slight that most people didn’t notice it - or how it affected him every day of his life.

Dad struggled with hearing loss from the bombing and, even with the hearing aides he wore later in life, he had trouble hearing in large crowded places like restaurants. It frustrated him that he couldn’t participate in conversations because he couldn’t hear what was being said and he eventually learned to read lips which helped some.

Every day of his life, he lived with the injuries of war but I never, ever heard him complain. He was proud to have served his country and it wouldn’t have occurred to him to mention the Purple Heart that lived in a plain hinged black box in the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

Dad was a Hero and a Veteran.

Today, I honor those who gave their lives for our country, and those who came home to live with the injuries and losses of war in strong, proud, silent ways. My brother, my son, my father, many dear friends, family members serving now.

May this Veteran’s Day remind us of the life-changing, devastating costs of war — and what true patriotism looks like.

I love you, Dad. Thanks for your service!

Breathing and Beauty

 

“If you want to conquer the anxiety of life, live in the moment, live in the breath.”
― Amit Ray,

 

Its interesting to realize I haven't posted anything here on my blog site in 16 months.  The pandemic began and life became complex and sticky.  Everything I thought I'd mastered in the way of my work in the world had to be done differently and the learning curve seemed insurmountable at times. Then, just when I felt like I had some control, the Tower card fell. 

If you're not familiar with Tarot, I should explain that the Tower card usually features a tower collapsing, on fire, being struck by lightening or some other form of destruction. It's most common interpretation is chaos, or sudden and dramatic change. In my case, that's a bit of an understatement.

In December of 2020, I received an in-no-uncertain-terms message from Spirit that it was time to leave the spiritual center where I'd been the  minister for 11 years.  It wasn't the first time I'd been told.  In fact, I had planned to leave a year earlier but the pandemic struck and I simply couldn't bring myself to exit when the people I loved were going through so much. So I stayed. Nearly a year later, when things were moving smoothly, I heard the whisper of truth yet again. "Your time here is done." I knew it - to my core.   So, in January of 2021, I told my community I would be leaving in early summer.  

In February I went to Maui on a business trip and, without going into all the details, I dug my heels into the sands of paradise in an effort to be stronger than the ocean and got caught in a wild wave that rolled me head over tea-kettle to the shore. My sweetheart and some very kind lifeguards pulled me to my feet as I tried to breath and escape the crashing over my head.  My legs were so wobbly and painful I could hardly stand.  Bruises and pulled hamstrings made the rest of the time on the island incredibly uncomfortable.

In March, Mark caught Covid -19 and graciously shared it with me.  I was sick for seven weeks (well into May), had pneumonia, was put on oxygen at home and had to get a chest x-ray in order to make sure the pneumonia was cleared before I could get off the oxygen and return to normal.

Normal was not the outcome. Instead, the x-ray revealed a mass in my lungs that, after a few more weeks of specialists and testing, turned out to be lung cancer. I was diagnosed on June 25th. On June 27th, I gave my last sermon. On the 29th, I turned in my keys.  Two weeks later, on July 15th, I had the cancer and a small wedge of my lung surgically removed.  Its expected to be curative.

Today, I am 11 weeks into the recovery process and I've learned a few things.  

• I'm mortal
• Breathing anchors us into the present moment (you can't breath in the past or the future - only right now)
  
• Patience is so much harder to give yourself than it is to give to others
  
• Surgery changes your mind as much as it changes your body
• Self care is more important than almost anything 
  

 Covid-19 saved my life. Not many people can say that. Actually, Mark is certain HE saved my life by bringing Covid-19 home to me! I suppose there is some truth to that - but don't tell him I said so.  I'll never hear the end of it!

October is beginning  and I have rounded a corner. I feel so much better than I did a few weeks ago and I'm hoping the last few months of 2021 will be blissfully calm and full of warm drinks, good friends, and joy. I am back to work as a consultant, building a new website, and will launch a new project in January.  I have weekends with my sweet husband and sometimes with my kids - when they have time to come and visit. As fall takes its place in the seasonal cycle, I'm sitting on my porch watching the natural world reveal Her true colors and listening to the birdsong I will miss when migration occurs.  A deer visited this evening!

There is SO much beauty.

And I'm living in this present moment.  Breathing.  Breathing again.  Breathing into this wonderful body I call home.

White in a Culture of Racism

“There’s a lot of racism in this country disguised as patriotism”  - Colin Kaepernick “Liberty and Justice for All” – It’s one of the highest ideals in our Country.  Today is Juneteenth and I, a white woman in America, am reflecting on how much I don’t know.  The history I learned is incomplete. The life I've lived is privileged. I’ve averted my eyes too many times rather than experiencing the suffering of an entire race of people whom I espoused to love and welcome into my life.  I’ve been asking myself why. Why did it take so long for me to begin seeing? Why have I failed to change whatever exists within me that can tolerate this? Why?  Yes – privilege, of course. But after I acknowledge that, I come to a deeper, moral question about my own humanity, what I have believed about myself and what I didn’t even know about myself – until now. I don’t like this excavating process. It’s uncomfortable and difficult. It feels like I'm tripping over my own proverbial feet, attempting to traverse thoughts and feelings filed away in the darkest catacombs of my mind. Each time I make a discovery, I feel sorrow, remorse and frustration. How could I not SEE before now?! I am the daughter of a proud military family. My heritage claims patriotism as an identity marker. The beliefs we hold to be “self-evident” are ingrained in every cell of my body… “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” I am realizing that what we hold to be self-evident can blind us to the the actual truth. As the days pass and I immerse myself in articles, videos, movies and other writings that help me flesh out my own biases, I am overwhelmed with disappointment – in myself, in the systemic injustices that have continued for centuries, in the world I have painted with a broad stroke of red, white and blue. I am changing – mostly willingly - and sometimes reluctantly. Its natural to avoid discomfort, so I am committing to a daily structure of growth. I am reading something new each day. I am watching the recommended movies. I am listening to friends and leaders in the BLM movement. I am figuring out how to apologize when I am called out or when I realize I have made a mistake. I am also figuring out that apologizing for the color of my own skin is not the answer.  Being white is not the problem. Our culture of white supremacy is the problem. I’m not talking about the radical groups.  I am talking about me, and you - and the behaviors, beliefs, values, and symbols that we accept, generally without thinking about them, that have been passed from one generation to the next. We live in a culture of racism founded in norms and standards to advantage white people and oppress People of Color. It’s time for that to change.  For over two years now, I have struggled with this journey. I expect myself to know how to do this better and I am so upset when I fail, when another thoughtless thing falls out of my mouth or a new and painful “ah-ha” moment occurs. Many times I have wanted to walk away from this very personal process because it messes with my story that I am a good human being who loves people of all races, creeds, etc. etc.  After all this time,I am finally beginning to understand that while this is absolutely about me changing, it’s also about something so much bigger.  I can’t change this just by changing myself.  We, who are white, must change our culture.  We must be willing to dig deep into the fabric of the life we enjoy and see its impact.  We must be willing to walk in discomfort so others can be more comfortable.  We must lean in when we want to walk away and go back to our peaceful ignorance.   I have few answers, friends - just more and more questions.  I feel so unprepared when it comes to making this crucial cultural shift – but there was a time when I could not add 2 and 2. Today, I can manage a fairly sizable professional budget – and teach others how to do the same. I know that if we want the words "Liberty and Justice for All" to be words we can speak with pride, we have to do the work that lies before us - and we must do it now. If not me, who  - and if not now, when? I place my confidence and faith in the Divine Presence that guides us to the answers and actions that will heal us all.

 

Springtime and She Dances

“People living deeply have no fear of death.”

- Anaïs Nin

Pink Moon - Photo by Ahriana Platten

It’s not so different. Any day of the week, for a myriad of reasons, we can die.  Our mortal body can fail us. An accident can occur. We can get sick. Any day.

So why does it feel so different now? Why is this pandemic so frightening?

Tell me, can you think of another time in your life that the entire world – every country - every individual – has been personally affected by any one thing? Perhaps there is something, but, searching my own memory, I find nothing.

Death is present all around us. She is dancing between us, choosing her partners. Each one will cross the threshold between this world and the next. And, more than ever, she is visible to us. Her face appears in story after story of heroic loss.

We have cast her in black garments, a thief who steals from us all that is precious. She is the penultimate outcast in our consciousness. Yet every single one of us must dance with her at some time.

We don’t want to think about that.

And now, we must.

Everything we are doing- staying at home, relentlessly washing our hands, doing away with hugs and handshakes and the most common greetings – is to keep death away. And yet she dances amongst us. Why? I suspect she wants something more than to simply open the ethereal door for those souls who are crossing. I imagine that she might be here to teach us all something life changing. Just maybe, she has come with gifts to share. 

Death is a companion from our first breath to our last, always by our side. We meet her each time a petal falls from its stem, each time a relationship ends, each time we leave one job to begin the next or watch a particular day become night. Each time, something dies. Oh, we don’t call those experiences deaths – but they are.

It is a fact of life that things born into the physical world will die. But what is death except transformation? (I once heard someone say about death, “the light that is you will echo through all time.” I wish I could remember who it was.)

Why is this so hard?   I've been considering that its Spring – a time of birth. Death is not "in-season." This is the time things  are supposed to sprout and blossom. We don't want to face the possibility that our life, or the life of someone we love, might end. Not now.  Not in Spring. And yet it might. Any day. Any time.

What would happen if we were to change our thinking? If, like some spiritual traditions suggest, we were to embrace the idea that all of life is impermanent.  It is, you know. 

What if we were to turn our attention to savoring this life because we actually understand that our time to do so is limited by our form and fashion of existence. Every morsel we eat would be more delicious, every kind gesture, more appreciated. Every color we see, more vibrant. Wouldn’t we slow down a bit? To look at the stars? To laugh at the antics of children?  To love?

If we realized that we are impermanent, what is important - and what is not - would be so much clearer. Our way of living in this physical world would change dramatically and we would cradle the precious gifts that surround every single one of us….the inspiration of breath, the sound of water lapping as it flows, the sun's warmth beckoning the seedlings.

Death is dancing boldly amongst us - in spring  - inviting us to remember that we are gloriously alive – and that, if we witness her dance each day our hearts will be filled with gratitude for each whisper of sentience, and our souls will be prepared for the time we cross the luminous threshold between now and forever.

This is not about whether we stay at home or go out. It’s not about who is President, or what happens to the economy. This is about LIVING. We are being invited to live differently. We are being shaken awake - to realize that we have been walking in a stupor, allowing the rich essence of our being to be lost in the fog of a world gone mad with greed and consumption. 

So – whether you are on quarantine or slowly re-entering the world outside, whether you are afraid of death or have looked her full in the eye, wherever you are on the planet and whatever you are doing, just stop for a moment. Something beautiful is calling you.

On the bookshelf or counter top.  
In the next room.
At the window.  
Out in the yard.
As close as the end of your fingertips. 

Something beautiful is calling. Go and find it. Spend some time with it. Give it your attention.  Nothing is more important.

And, if you should notice Death dancing by – say thank you.

©Ahriana Platten, April 23^rd, 2020

Prayer - It’s What I Do

When we commune with the spirit within and ask for new ideas, they are forthcoming. - Charles Fillmore

As we reel from yet another round of mass shootings, the public predictably responds by discounting the value of "thoughts and prayers." Before you explain why thoughts and prayers don’t help, let me say that I’m fairly certain typing the words "I'm holding you in prayer" is not the same as praying. Prayer works if you pray. Unfortunately, it is questionable how often people actually pray before, during, or after typing these words. Typing is not a prayer. To truly pray one will stop other activity, open to the Holy with a sincere heart, and commune.

"We commune with spirit"...according to Unity Co-founder, Charles Fillmore. This communing is the foundation of prayer. We pray when we are seeking wisdom. We pray when the circumstance of life is bigger than the human heart can handle. We pray when we need strength and courage. We pray in order to find peace, healing, and comfort. We come to our oneness with the Holy, we commune, and we pray. The outcome of prayer is subtle - and discerning that outcome is an art of its own.

And what about our thoughts? What is it we mean when we say "I am thinking of you."  What exactly is a person thinking? Perhaps we are reminding ourselves of the tenacity we humans are capable of. Maybe we are thinking about the best possible outcome for the person or people involved. Sadly, it's my belief that most of the time, what we mean is that we are thinking about how tragic the situation is and empathetically connecting to the pain. Yes, of course, empathy has value.  We are interconnected.  However, what could happen if we moved beyond empathy, using the knowledge science has revealed to us regarding the power of intentional thought.  What if we directed our thoughts toward potential solutions rather than only sinking into the pain, again and again, without coming any closer to the answers we so desperately need. What would the Divine Imagination offer us?

To tell someone you are thinking about them and praying for them carries a certain responsibility. It is to commit to a process. It is to commune with the Holy, to be willing to receive new insights, and to hold those insights in mind with reverence, allowing for inspiration and manifestation to take place. Prayer can happen in seconds or minutes or hours. It’s not about time. It’s about actually communing with the Indwelling Divine.

When horrific events occur, we must all respond. It is the work of politicians and voters to consider the laws. It is the work of sociologists to consider cultural factors. It is the work of mental health specialists to consider psychological influences. We must look to those who are trained in relevant fields to provide the tools we need in each respective area of life. Following that same line of thinking, I have spent three decades learning to commune with the Holy. It is the field in which I endeavor to become a master. If I say I will pray for you - I will pray. If I say I will use the power of thought to support you, I know exactly what I am committing to and I will do it. This is my field of expertise and, when tragedy strikes, I do what is mine to do.

Many people, like me, have spent decades studying spirituality. It is ours to open to Divine Influence and call forth whatever wisdom we are able. It is ours to hold in mind that miracles can happen and that answers we have not even thought of can flow forth. It is ours to support the people in this way. Our thoughts and prayers do not preclude us from voting. They do not interfere with our ability to take appropriate action. In fact, my prayers and subsequent thoughts often lead me to better and more effective actions.

None of us are meant to do all things in our society. We are meant to do what we do well.  We are meant to study, to practice, and to follow through in our respective fields. We are meant to pursue excellence. If you feel it is your work to pray, then do it skillfully and with an eye toward mastery. Follow the path of prayer to your thoughts and bring forth what lives in the Divine Mind. Let that guide you in your actions. Let nothing stop you from doing what is yours to do. If it is not yours to pray - that’s okay.  You have something else that is yours to do. If you do not believe in the power of prayer, that is also okay. Prayer is simply not your work.

Please, please, please...do not write "Thoughts and prayers" if you don't intend to do anything more than type the words. Leave the praying and the spiritual thinking to those of us who are dedicated to this discipline. And please, do not discount the value of the work being done by this dedicated group of people. We are doing what is ours to do, what we have studied and practiced in order to be ready for this exact moment.

Stepping into Creativity

“Don't be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth.” 

― Rumi

I've never thought of myself as creative. Industrious...yes, capable...absolutely, even a bit "outside the box" in the way I do things.  But not creative. "Creative" is a word reserved for artists and interior decorators - those who give cause for the eyes and heart to feast.  The word has never been one I would use to describe myself.  However, I was recently given cause to contemplate moving forward more creatively.

Enjoying the activities of a summer festival, I decided to have a little henna done.  I like the natural feel of henna. Once applied, it stains the skin in a semi-permanent way.  If done well, the design will last a few days to a few weeks. I usually choose a design that has spiritual meaning for me and allow that design to inspire my study of some new concept. The impermanence of henna gives me enough time for spiritual reflection, while still allowing me to move on to something else fairly quickly. These are short periods of deep study and have proven very valuable.  In this case, I wasn't sure what the design would be but I knew something would come to me.  

As often happens, the perfect person appeared -  a lovely artist who offered to apply the henna in exchange for a donation to a scholarship fund. Score!  I get art - and I get to do something good at the same time. How do you say no to that?!  She suggested I check in with her the next day when we could relax, enjoy the time together, and get to know each other. I agreed.

When the time came, I still had no idea what design I wanted. Before I could address that issue, the artist smiled at me kindly and asked if she could henna my foot, explaining that she had a design she really wanted to use. Spontaneously, I heard the words "of course" fall out of my mouth. After all, it was something she was doing for a good cause and she should get some joy out of it!  I have to admit that I felt a little disappointed that the significance of this experience might be lost. (We tell ourselves such interesting stories, don't we?)

The design was complex and took quite a while to apply.  I had not considered that I would need to be still, not only for the artist to complete the design but long enough for that design, at the flex point of my ankle, to dry.  We started about 1pm and I stood up to walk about 3 hours later.  The majority of that time, I simply sat and waited. I hadn't planned on the waiting time so I didn't bring a book with me and I was at a festival on a mountaintop so no Facebook scrolling or other electronic time passer was available. I simply waited.

In the waiting, I found time to meditate. I admired the design on my foot and considered my belief that every person I encounter is the face of the Holy expressing itself.  If this young woman was the living expression of the Divine, what was her art expressing to me?

Creativity. That's what came to mind. It is something that feels so far outside my existence.  In my rather industrial way of living life, I do what I do toward an end purpose.  As a speaker, I know some people might think my speaking is creative - but the truth is, I teach to a "point."  There is something I feel directed to share and I teach with the intention of getting to that point and making that point memorable and accessible. I don't give effort to flowery pontifications. I just speak.  I just....

I just write.  I just do.  I just generate whatever system or process is needed in any situation.  I never think of any of this as creative - just ... well.... "just."

This art was gifted to my left foot. The left side of the body is directed by the right side of the brain - the creative side. Interesting. And my foot. Also interesting. This particular festival is always a threshold for me. It's a place where, in alchemical terms, the lead of life's heaviness is released in order for the gold of one's divinity to shine forth. The threshold between those two is transformation. That transformation takes places through a literal series of steps. Every step is both release and invocation.

Now that I have arrived home - my every step calls forth the imagination. I am invited to release what blocks my creativity and to seek the muse that will inspire it. I am called to question what creativity is, where it lives within me, and what I can do with it. I hear the whispers of something fun and exciting ready to be birthed - but do not know its face yet.  

This henna is a strong dye and will last another week or so. The fine lines will give way to the bolder aspects as it slowly disappears. In the end, the boldest mark is the heart in the center. How interesting that I have this extended time to reflect on what my heart wants to create.   

A long time ago I realized that every occurrence in life is an opportunity for the Divine within each of us to show up and interact in a face-to-face way. Every person, every happening, every interaction is the Holy expressing.  Every moment in life is sacramental.  Every place in life is hallowed ground.  Every shared breath is divine communication. In that moment and this, at that place and this, with that person and with you, the presence of the Divine is ceaseless and whispers sweetly in our ears, beckoning us to greater intimacy.  For this, I am grateful.