Unanswerable Questions

Apr 13, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement

It seems that we are endlessly confronted with realities that confound, enrage, and incense. We sift through their rubble for the smallest shard of meaning. We search for clues, breadcrumbs, anything that will put our tired minds and broken hearts at rest. And for all of this striving, it is rarely with measurable result.

We are always left with more questions than answers.

Rainer Maria Rilke offers us well-known words on the subject:

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day. 

Easier said than done.We know the value of living the questions. We also know the discomfort inherent in not having (and offering) answers. 

A case in point: When we are with someone who is grieving we know to not speak a single platitude (e.g., “God has a plan.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “God’s ways are higher than our ways.”). We know to not try to make sense of what has happened. We know to not talk about our own feelings. We know to not offer answers to questions that cannot be answered.

I know this . . . and . . . in my discomfort over others’ discomfort, I have rushed to possible explanations, to next steps, even to hope many, many times. As recently as last week, I SO wanted to offer some explanation for life’s unfathomable cruelty (even though I don’t have any). I resisted, but barely.

In truth, it’s no different internally than it is externally. If I don’t catch it quickly enough, I slip into a sort-of frantic motion both within and without. I get more busy. I run through a Rolodex of memorized stories in search of logic, affinity, and sense-making. I think and think and think instead of feel. I talk and process and talk some more (even if only to myself). I work and wrestle. I write and write and write. And at the very same time (maybe inherent in these very things), I avoid and dissociate.

Bottom line: I am in search of and in demand of answers all the time! It’s exhausting.

I want to believe there is a gift in unanswerable questions, that there is grace to be found in the midst and the mess of it all.

Here’s what I know, in spite of myself: 

  • Unanswerable questions invite me to remember that I am not in control, that life is impermanent, that *just* being here is worth it – for myself and for others.
  • Unanswerable questions call me “further up and further in” to what and who truly matters.
  • Unanswerable questions require that I sit still instead of run, allow instead of demand, let go instead of grip.
  • Unanswerable questions are not a “pass” from action and agency; rather, they are incentive to stay awake to the need and pain and deserved advocacy that is all around me, all of the time.
  • Unanswerable questions invite me to stay. Stay present. Stay here. Stay put. Stay with.

This all sounds right. I’m sure it is. And yet again, easier said than done.

A confession: 
I’ve deleted almost everything I’ve written today. Paragraphs and paragraphs that have been an attempt to land on something that feels complete, tied up with a bow, hopeful . . . My attempt to provide answers, really.

I know, it’s ironic. And not all that surprising.

So, just this remains:

 . . . there is a gift in unanswerable questions; there is grace to be found in the midst and the mess of it all. 

Though I don’t know how, I still say, “May it be so.”

Treasuring All that is Precious

Mar 23, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

As I write this (early January, 2023), I am in Toronto at the home of my dear friend, Tanya Geisler. I was scheduled to fly there nearly three years ago, but had to cancel at the last minute because of my dad’s sudden and unexpected illness, days thereafter, his death. Then Covid. And border restrictions. And leaving my job. And moving across the country. And life. Now, at last, as of this past Thursday, I am here.

Tanya and I met online more than a decade ago. 2010, if I were to take a guess. I knew of her and somehow, shockingly, she knew of me. I decided to invite a small group of women to an in-person event, certain every one of them would say no. Three days together with no agenda—just time and space. All of them said yes, instead. Tanya was one of them.

She flew out of Toronto. Changed planes somewhere in the U.S. Landed in Seattle. Took a shuttle to the ferry dock. Took a ferry to Whidbey Island. Took another shuttle to where I picked her up. Then, having never seen me in person and after travelling for far too many hours and feeling a three-hour time difference, she jumped out of the van and literally ran to me, arms wide open. That embrace? Words fail me.

When I got here three nights ago, I felt that same embrace.

I leave tomorrow. She’ll embrace me one more time. It seems too soon. I cannot, would not trade these precious days for anything in the world.

*****

My mom, knowing how much I love the writing of Ann Patchett, recently told me about her latest book, a collection of essays entitled, These Precious Days. My library loan expired before I got all the way through it, but I’m back on the waiting list. Before it was out of my grasp, I highlighted these words:

I’d been afraid I’d somehow been given a life I hadn’t deserved, but that’s ridiculous. We don’t deserve anything – not the suffering and not the golden light. It just comes.

This is how I often feel when I reflect on my relationship with Tanya. I don’t deserve it. Maybe better stated, I’ve not done anything to deserve it. It just came to me, and to us. It’s precious, sacred even. It’s a gift of grace.

In truth, there are countless, countless people and stories and memories and experiences in my life that are just like this. They have “just come”—in both suffering and in light. They have changed me, strengthened me, shaped me, and ushered me more deeply into a sense of awareness and acceptance and gratitude.

Precious, to be sure.

Why would we turn “precious” into something that is, well, less so?

I don’t have definitive answers, but I am reminded of a story . . .

*****

I got married when I was 31 years old; my husband was almost 48. Given our ages, we were determined to get pregnant as soon as absolutely possible. After five years of infertility (and unsuccessful treatments), I was convinced it would never happen.

You already know how this story played out. I have two amazing daughters. Emma Joy is 26 and Abby is 24. I remain stunned and humbled by their presence in my life. Miracles, both. Precious, to be sure.

But let’s go back to those five years. I did NOT, in any way, see my suffering as precious. In point of fact, I didn’t even allow myself to suffer. At least not visibly, consciously, wisely. Every twenty-eight days I’d give myself a good talking to: “buck up, accept your lot, get it together, trust God’s plan!” If you hear a ridiculous degree of harshness, you’d be right. Even typing it now, I feel a lump in my throat. In many ways, what I told myself (without realizing it until this very moment) was to NOT be precious; to not consider myself more highly than I ought, to not see myself as “entitled” to that which I held most dear and of great worth and price.

Isn’t this sad?

My longing deserved to be precious and dear. My suffering and grief deserved to be precious and inestimable. My hope deserved to be precious and prized. Instead, I told myself that I was being affected, fragile, and pretentious.

We can be so quick to dismiss that which is rich and tender and vulnerable in our lives. To Ann Patchett’s point, we can, all-too-often, see ourselves as undeserving and so, not notice what “just comes.” When what’s precious comes to us through suffering more than light, it’s that much harder to see it as such.

Before I turn this around (which I promise I will do), I’m wondering where all of this lands for you. I’m wondering if, like me, you have stories of suffering that you didn’t allow, experiences you couldn’t let yourself grieve, hopes you couldn’t dare hold onto. I’m wondering if, like me, you have been far more inclined to see yourself as undeserving and so, in light of such, have not given yourself permission to take in, revel in, and honor all that is precious in your life . . . and in you.

I cannot be talked out of this truth: The definition of “precious” defines you—valuable, of great worth or price, honorable. The synonyms for “precious” describe you—adored, cherished, dear, inestimable, loved, prized, treasured.

You are precious, to be sure.

*****

Tomorrow I will fly back to Charlotte NC. I’ll go through customs, take the shuttle to my car, and then make the 3.5 hour drive back to Hampstead. I’ll feel tons of gratitude for the days Tanya and I have shared. I’ll be lost in thought about all we talked of together. I’ll be happy the weather is at least 20-30 degrees warmer. I’ll wish I weren’t driving back in the dark. I’ll listen to an audio book. I’ll stop for gas and probably drive-through dinner. I’ll pull into the driveway, see the porch light left on for me, and say a prayer of “thanks” that I’m safe, that I’m home, that this is my life. All of it is precious—when I choose to see it as such.

I’m certain the same is true for you.

May it be so.

Daily Life and the Spiritual Journey

Jul 15, 2022 | Spirituality, Writing

I read and highlighted these two sentences recently:

The spiritual journey is what the soul is up to while we attend to daily living. The spiritual journey is the soul’s life commingling with ordinary life. ~ Christina Baldwin, Life’s Companion: Journal Writing as a Spiritual Practice

I love this. No doctrine or dogma. Open to broad and expansive interpretation. Rich. Practical. Mystical. True. I could write paragraphs and pages, to be sure, but instead, an invitation:

Re-read the quote above and then notice what shows up for you. Where do you feel resistance? Where do you feel resonance? Where do you feel desire? For what? What makes you curious? How so? What’s under the surface of any/all of your responses? What else?

That’s it.

Believe me: your thoughts about this are far more vast and beautiful and poignant and powerful than mine could ever be. Because they’re yours! Expressions of your soul and your journey. So incredibly sacred and so amazing.

********

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The Stunning Story that is Yours

Mar 23, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I see the tears behind your eyes. I know about the lump in your throat. I hear the thoughts that swirl in your mind. Every single one of them. Longing for things to change, wishing for different circumstances, wanting to live a more significant story.

In-between the reality in which you dwell and the one you desire, I know about the ache that will not be soothed, despite your best attempts – whether through good soul work or dulling dissociation.

I watch as you persist in the belief that there is something missing; something you’ve yet to attain or manage or get past/through before you can truly step into your place in this world, before you can step into the stunning story that is yours.

All of this breaks my heart on your behalf.

Because I know better. Because I can see the end from the beginning. Because I have perspective you do not. Because I can see exactly who you are, all that you offer and invite.

Right now, not someday. This very moment in time.

Who am I, you ask? I have been in existence since before the beginning of time. I was there when the earth was formed. I breathed your matrilineage into being, whispering the Wisdom that was hers, that has forever been hers. My heart beats within every story of every woman who has ever lived. And I endure no matter the oppression, the silencing, the abuse, the fear. Nothing and no one can keep me down. Not even you.

I am the you that rises above all that restricts, restrains, limits, or binds. I am the crystal clear voice that may, as yet, not speak out loud, but that is no less real, wise, and right. I am your potential. I am your future. And more than all else, I am your present – right here, right now, exactly this day, this life, this you. Always. Endlessly. Infinitely.

Lean into the truth of this. Let the tears flow in relief. Let the lump in your throat dissolve as your voice sings out. Let the thoughts that swirl rest. You are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone. And you need not wait for things to change. Your right-now story is enough, perfect, amazing. You are.

You can trust me: there is nothing you need figure out or rise above. All that you require, desire, and deserve is already yours. Reach within. Rise up. Then step into the limelight, enter the fray, and embrace the truth of who you are: my daughter, my lineage, my kin.

*****

I am completely-and-without-reservation convinced of every word I’ve written above.

They could be are spoken by every one of the ancient, sacred women whose stories I love; by the Sacred Feminine herself. Easier said than done to accept, but no less yours, mine, ours to claim. Legacy by which to be transformed; the stunning story through which we will transform the world.

May it be so.

An Easter Reflection

Apr 20, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

I will not be attending Easter services today. 

I will not witness the rows of shiny, white patent-leather shoes, frilly dresses, and neckties. I will not gasp when the black shroud is dramatically pulled down from the cross. I will not hear the Hallelujah Chorus. I will not see the lilies. I will drink coffee. I will reflect. I will probably write. I will enjoy the Mason jars filled with orange tulips on my kitchen table. And later, I will decorate Easter eggs with my daughters. I might even open a bottle of champagne. 

I’ve been pondering all of this; what it means and feels like to be disconnected from this Sunday’s tradition, but still umbilically tied to its rituals, its in-my-DNA tug and influence. I’ve pondered even more of how Easter is not exclusive to the church; how if it offers meaning, if it matters, then its value remains and must be made known in ways that are rich and relevant for me.  

And oh, how rich and relevant it’s been.

This whole week, has been rife with symbol and sign (as all weeks are, really). This Holy Week (as all weeks are, really) has called me to story; to death and darkness, to sadness and loss, to questions without answers, to a can’t-see-how-it’s-gonna-happen-but-still-I’m-gonna-trust kind of hope, to perseverance, to risk, to courage, to voice, to condence, to places and people who call me to more.

This whole and holy week has called me to life; to my life. And isn’t this, above and beyond all else, what Easter is about – church, religion, or no?  

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?” asked Jesus when he encountered Mary in the graveyard. 

Indeed. My holy and whole life (and yours) is to be found and experienced where life dwells: in deep breaths and coursing blood, in muscle and bone, in earth and water, in conversation and silence, in laughter and tears, in friends and foes, in facing fears and choosing love, in the sacred stuff of every day.  

So breathe in and rise up. A new day dawns. Light gleams. Stones move. The earth quakes. Buried, silenced, and shrouded ends. Tombs are emptied. Veils are torn. Angels appear. Graveclothes are shed. Death does not have the final say. Song breaks forth. Miracles occur. 

And resurrection always comes.