by Heather Plett | Feb 17, 2015 | circle, Community, connection, courage, Leadership, Uncategorized
What do you do when your city has been named the “most racist in Canada“?
Some people get defensive, pick holes in the article, and do everything to prove that the label is wrong.
Some people ignore it and go on living the same way they always have.
And some people say “This is not right. What can we do about it?”
When that story came out, some of us felt like we’d been punched in the gut. Though it’s no surprise to most of us that there’s racism here, this showed an even darker side to our city than many of us (especially those who, like me, sometimes forget to turn our gaze beyond our bubble of white privilege) had acknowledged. Insulting our city is like insulting our family. Nobody likes to hear how much ugliness exists in one’s family.
Note: I have been challenged to reflect on my language in the above paragraph. Originally it said “all of us felt like we’d been punched in the gut” and that is not an accurate reflection. Instead, some felt like it was a relief that these stories were finally coming out. I appreciate the challenge and will continue to reflect on how I can speak about this issue through a lens that allows all stories to be heard. That’s part of the reason I’m in this conversation – to look inside for the shadow of colonialism within so that I can step beyond that way of seeing the world and serve as a bridge-builder.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I began to wrestle with what it would mean for me to be a change-maker in my city. I emailed the mayor and offered to help host conversations, I sat in circle at the Indigenous Family Centre, I accepted the invitation of the drum, and I was cracked open by a sweat lodge.
I shared my interest in hosting conversations around racism on Facebook, and then I waited for the right opportunity to present itself. I tried to be as intentional as possible not to enter the conversation as a “colonizer who thinks she has the answer.” It didn’t take long for that to happen.
Rosanna Deerchild was one of the people quoted in the Macleans article, and her face made it to the front cover of the magazine. Unwillingly and unexpectedly, she became the poster child for racism. Being the wise and wonderful woman that she is, though, she chose to use that opportunity to make good things happen. She posted on her own Facebook page that she wanted to gather people together around the dinner table to have meaningful conversations about racism. A mutual friend connected me to her conversation, and I sent her a message offering to help facilitate the conversation. She took me up on it.
At the same time, a few other people jumped in and said “count me in too”. Clare MacKay from The Forks said “we’ll provide a space and an international feast”. Angela Chalmers and Sheryl Peters from As it Happened Productions said “we’d like to film the evening”.
With just one short meeting, less than a week before it was set to happen, the five of us planned an evening called “Race Relations and the Path Forward – A Dinner and Discussion with Rosanna Deerchild”. We started sending out invitations, and before long, we had a list of over 50 people who said “I want to be part of this”. Lots of other people said “I can’t make it, but will be with you in spirit.”
In the end, a beautifully diverse group of over 80 people gathered.
We started with a hearty meal, and then we moved into a World Cafe conversation process. In the beginning, everyone was invited to move around the room and sit at tables where they didn’t know the other people. Each table was covered with paper and there were coloured markers for doodling, taking notes, and writing their names.
Before the conversations began, I talked about the importance of listening and shared with them the four levels of listening from Leading from the Emerging Future.
- Downloading:
the listener hears ideas and these merely reconfirm what the listener already knows
- Factual listening:
the listener tries to listen to the facts even if those facts contradict their own theories or ideas
- Empathic listening
: the listener is willing to see reality from the perspective of the other and sense the other’s circumstances
- Generative listening
: the listener forms a space of deep attention that allows an emerging future to “land” or manifest
“What we really want in this room,” I said, “is to move into generative listening. We want to engage in the kind of listening that invites new things to grow.”
photo credit: Greg Littlejohn
For the first round of conversation, everyone was invited to get to know each other by sharing who they were, where they were from, and what misconceptions people might have about them. (For example, I am a suburban white mom who drives a minivan, so people may be inclined to jump to certain conclusions about me based on that information.)
After about 15 minutes, I asked that one person remain at the table to serve as the “culture keeper” for that table, holding the memories of the earlier conversations and bringing them into the new conversation when appropriate. Everyone else at the table was asked to be “ambassadors”, bringing their ideas and stories to new tables.
For the second round of conversation, I invited people to share stories of racism in their communities and to talk about the challenges and opportunities that exist. After another 15 minutes, the culture keepers stayed at the tables and the ambassadors carried their ideas to another new table.
photo credit: Greg Littlejohn
In the third round of conversation, they were asked to begin to think of possibilities and ideas and to consider “what can we do right now about these challenges and opportunities?”
The one limitation of being the facilitator is that I couldn’t engage fully in the conversations. Instead, I floated around the room listening in where I could. This felt a little disappointing to me, as I would have liked to have immersed myself in the stories and ideas, but at the same time, circling the room gave me the sense that I was helping to hold the edges of the container, creating the space where rich conversation could happen.
After the conversation time had ended, the culture keepers were invited to the front of the room to share the essence of what they’d heard at their tables. Some talked about the need to start in the education system, ensuring that our youth are being accurately taught the Indigenous history of our country, others talked about how this needs to be a political issue and we need to insist that our politicians take these concerns seriously, and still others talked about how we each need to start small, building more one-on-one relationships with people from other cultures. One young woman shared her personal story of being bullied in school and how difficult it is to find a place where she is allowed to “just be herself”. Another woman shared about how hard she has had to work to be taken seriously as an educated Indigenous woman.
One of the people who shared mentioned that the Macleans article was a “gift wrapped in barbed wire”. Those of us in the room have chosen to unwrap the barbed wire to find the opportunities underneath.
Another person said that the golden rule is not enough and that it is based on a colonizers’ view of the world. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” has to shift into the platinum rule, “Do unto others as they would have you do unto them.” To illustrate his point, he talked about how Indigenous people go for job interviews and because they don’t look people in the eye and don’t have a firm handshake, people assume they don’t have confidence. “Understand their culture more deeply and you’ll understand more about how to treat them.”
As one person mentioned, “the problem is not in this room”, which was a challenge to us all to have conversations not only with the people who think like us, but with those who think differently. Real change will come when we influence those who hold racist views to see people of different nationalities as equals.
There were many other ideas shared, but my brain couldn’t hold them all at once. I will continue to process this and look back over the notes and flipcharts. And there will be more conversations to follow.
photo credit: Greg Littlejohn
After we’d heard from all of the tables, we all stood up from our tables and stepped into a circle. We have been well taught by our Indigenous wisdom-keepers that the circle is the strongest shape, and it seemed the right way to end the evening. Once in the circle, I passed around a stone with the word “courage” engraved on it. “I invite each of you to speak out loud one thing that you want to do with courage to help build more positive race relations in our city.” One by one, we held the stone and spoke our commitment into the circle.
We took the energy and ideas in the room and made it personal. Some of the ideas included “I’ll read more Indigenous authors.” “I’ll teach my children to respect people of all races.” “I’ll take political action.” “I’ll take more pride in my Indigenous identity.” “I will host more conversations like this.” “The next time I hear someone say ‘I’m not racist, but…’ I will challenge them.” “I’ll continue my work with Meet me at the Bell Tower.” “I will bring these ideas to my workplace.” “I will find reasons to spend time in other neighbourhood, outside my comfort zone.”
I didn’t realize until later, when I was looking at the photos taken by Greg Littlejohn, that we were standing under the flags of the world. And the lopsided circle looks a little more like a heart from the angle his photo was taken.
This is my Winnipeg. These eighty people who gathered (and all who supported us in spirit) are what I see when I look at this city. Yes there is racism here. Yes we have injustice to address. Yes we have hard work ahead of us to make sure these ideas don’t evaporate the minute we walk out of the room. AND we have a beautiful opportunity to transform our pain into something beautiful.
We have the will, we have the heart, we have a community of support, and we have the opportunity. A year from now, I hope that a different story will be told about our city.
Note: If you’re wondering “what next?”, I can’t say that for certain yet. I know that this will not be a one-time thing, but I’m not sure what will emerge from it yet. The organizers will be getting together to reflect and dream and plan. And in the meantime, I trust that each person who made a commitment to courage in that circle, will carry that courage into action.
by Heather Plett | Jan 29, 2015 | Uncategorized
Today I was handed a drum, and that may be the most important thing that happens to me all week. Maybe even all year.
All week, I have been wrestling with what my role is in the healing and reconciliation in our city. Because it matters. Because I want to live in a place of love. Because sometimes I hide my head in the sand and stay in my suburban bubble.
I have been immersing myself in stories, conversations, and learning about what brought us here, to this place, where we are called “the most racist city in Canada”. And I have been searching my own heart for what I need to address in order to be a “wounded healer”, to help invite a new narrative. Tears have been shed over the stories of abuse at the hands of my ancestors. And tears have been shed over my own complicating stories – like the day an Indigenous man climbed through my window and raped me, and the journey it took to once again walk down the street without seeing every Indigenous man on the street as my rapist.
Today I attended the weekly sharing circle at the Indigenous Family Centre. Though I’ve been there before, I was feeling nervous, made more painfully aware of the colour of my skin by the many stories in the media. I was afraid I didn’t belong, afraid I look too much like the oppressor with my white skin, afraid I might be challenged to face my own prejudice in that circle, and maybe even a little afraid I might be triggered back to the 21 year old version of me, cowering in my bedroom with the rapist standing over me.
I went anyway, because I have to start with me.
We started with a smudge – a tradition I have come to love over the years. Then one of the leaders picked up one of the drums in the centre of the circle, and walked toward me. Without fanfare, without words, he simply handed it to me. And when he started drumming and singing, I drummed with him. Our drums beat together, like the pounding heartbeat of Mother Earth beneath us. He didn’t care if I didn’t have rhythm or if I didn’t have the right colour of skin, he simply wanted me to be part of that pounding heartbeat.
That simple gesture cracked my heart open. No longer was I the white woman, the stranger, the oppressor. No longer was I “other”. I was simply a member of the circle, holding my place with everyone else.
And now I ask myself… how will that gesture of welcome and grace change me? How will I practice the same radical act of kindness, forgiveness, and community? How will I hand others the drum when they come to the circles I host?
by Heather Plett | Jan 20, 2015 | Uncategorized
My daughter, Julie, the redhead who’s fierce and fiery and not afraid to challenge me to be a better person, showed me the short story she wrote for her grade 12 English class, and I was so proud of her I asked if I could share it. (She got 99% – missed a couple of typos.)
Killed for Allah, Killed for Honor
Short Story by Julie Laurendeau
I think I’d always felt slightly different. I was never able to put my finger on it, though. Never able to admit to myself why I felt the way I did. I don’t blame myself, however, for my blissful childish ignorance. How could I have known? Never once did I know that what I am was even a remote possibility. There was no such thing as being “different” in my community. I just assumed I was a defect – broken, maybe. That I would grow out of it – see that this was just some silly phase while I grew up. Maybe every girl passes through stages of the same feelings, right? Maybe it was some unspoken universal journey through which every adolescent girl went through, which would make me completely normal. I know now that none of that is true. It all makes a lot more sense now. I am finally able to see the full truth of who I am. I am writing this while I wait here – wait for the unknown. This is my life. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me anymore, and I’m scared… but I know that there are little girls out there who felt the same way I did. So I’m writing this for them. Please, share my story. I know in my heart that this deserves to be told.
I was almost 16 when the fighting got the worst it had been in years. We stayed in our homes most of the time, and just walking in the streets was considered to be a dangerous activity – especially for a young girl like me. The militant men roamed the streets like predators, just looking for reasons to lash out at innocent civilians. Kabul was no longer a place of beauty – it was being slowly destroyed by war. School was no longer considered an option, as desperately as I longed to go. Instead, I sat in my room, watched the far-off fighting through the second-story window and listened to my parents bicker downstairs.
I stop writing. I can hear him behind the door – he’s being loud, as always. I can barely move now, the bruises have gotten so bad. It’s dark in here though, so I can’t really see how badly broken I am, but I can feel the pain like a fire that is swallowing me. I’m getting hungrier by the minute. My mother’s been crying off and on since I’ve been here. I can hear her. Sometimes she sits right by the door, and I’ve heard her been dragged away once by him. I’m so scared. I wish I wasn’t, but I am. I’m trying to be strong, Allah, I really am. Please save me. God, Allah, whoever you are. Save me, save me, save me. I know I must continue to write.
My mother, bless her heart, had been trying desperately to convince my ridiculously patriotic father to move away from the fighting for months. She had her heart set on America, as she’d seen how beautiful and promising it was in all the movies we’d seen while we burrowed in our home. My father, however, was the 10th generation in his family to be born and raised in Kabul, so he wanted to ride out the war. He was hardheaded and stubborn, to say the least. And traditional. Yes, he was a stickler for old-time tradition. My mother, a tiny feisty little dark-haired woman, was less so, but she was never really given the chance to voice her opinions. I had always had a rocky relationship with my father, but day-by-day things seemed to get worse. I was the only child and I knew he had desperately hoped I would be a boy. I loved him dearly- because he was my blood, but I feared him terribly.
I pause for a second since the pain has gotten so bad. I’m weak. I haven’t eaten for around two days. I don’t really know how long exactly, since it’s dark here and I have no way of telling. How could you do this to me, Allah? I’ve been praying for days, but you’ve stopped answering. Have I sinned that badly? Is what I’ve done really that bad? I think I’m dying now. Forgive me, please forgive me, Allah. I must continue to write.
My father finally agreed to move the same day I turned 16. After much discussion and bartering, he consented to my mother’s dream of leaving for America. About a year ago his brother had moved there as well, so we had planned to meet up with them. I was conflicted on how I felt towards our upcoming relocation. I was scared, if I’m being honest. Kabul, and that small little home right on the outskirts, was all I’d ever known. I knew my English was decent, and much better than both my parents’, but I had no idea how to live in their way. All I’d ever seen of America was what was shown in movies, and I had a feeling that my experience wasn’t going to be like what I’d seen in “Sex and the City.” At least I hoped not. I was excited, however, for the change in scenery. I needed somewhere that I could stretch my legs and get away from the militant, strict, lifestyle I had now. I needed a break from tradition – I thought maybe America would be good for me in that way. I knew it was nothing like the life I’d lived before, but maybe that was a good thing! I always had felt like a bit of a fish out of water in my own family and in this culture, even. I had never thought I was cut out for the typical life of an Afghani woman, so maybe this was the opportunity I needed to save myself from that. I knew 16 was considered prime marrying age, but nothing had ever scared me as badly as the thought of marriage. I had spent whole nights crying myself to sleep after my father brought up the idea of possible suitors. I think I knew, even back then, that that life would never be for me.
My body has forced me to stop for a minute. It’s getting hard to breathe. I think I’m either going to die here, or he’s going to kill me. I’m not sure what I’d prefer, at this point. Whatever is quicker, I think. I’m ready to go. All this silence and loneliness has forced me to come to terms with myself and with my God. I no longer know if you exist. I know that’s a sin, to even think that, but I’m past the point of caring. You’ve abandoned me here. There may be no afterlife for me to look forward to, but anything would be better than this. I am ready to die, but I must continue to write.
I won’t bore whoever finds this with the details of the preparations for our move or our long journey. It was tedious, and seemed to take forever, but by June – 4 months after my birthday – we landed in a place called Seattle. That is where my uncle had moved his family, so that was where we went. My uncle scared me a little as well, and so did his two sons. They were tall, lanky, boys who were raised in the traditional Afghani way to believe that they deserved whatever they wanted. I had always been afraid as a kid that I would be forced to marry one of my cousins, but my mother disliked them too much to allow that to happen. I hated my father even more when he was around his brother. He became scarier, and more power-hungry.
I hear noises, so I pause. The younger one taunts me from behind the door. I guess they’ve come to join him in torturing me. “You chose this, Adeela! You brought this on yourself. You’re a freak, unnatural. Allah hates you.” I hear him spit on the door in disgust. Please, Allah, even if you hate me – just take me from this life. I am broken, but I must continue to write.
I’ll cut to the chase and get to the real story. The day I started school in America was the scariest day of my young life. I was excited though, to finally get to go back to school, but I had no idea what to expect. Luckily, we came right around the start of the “second term” so I would be able to start completely new classes. The first class I had in the morning was English Language Arts, so naturally I was terrified. I knew I was considered an able writer back home, but this was different. The class stared as I walked in, but that was to be expected. As much as I felt like a fish out of water back home, here I was a total outsider. I moved quietly to the back as my new teacher introduced me to the rest of the class. I picked an open seat next to a girl with the ends of her hair dyed blue. She smiled at me as I put my notebook down on the table, and I’ll never forget how I felt in that moment. That was the first time I’d ever gotten butterflies.
My stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself. I get nearer to death every second. I’ve stopped crying. There’s no use. No one’s listening. I can feel the words pouring out of my chest, so I must continue to write.
She’d introduced herself as Charlotte. “But everyone calls me Charlie. I think it suits me better,” she’d told me with a tinkling laugh. She asked for my name and I told her it was Adeela. She had trouble pronouncing it at first, but after the third try she got it right. I remember how much I’d admired her for trying. Twice that day I’d already heard the phrase “Can I just call you Adele?” and I hated it. Charlie asked to see my schedule to see if we had any other classes together, and my heart skipped a beat when she said she’d show me to my next period Biology even if it was a little out of her way. Charlie and I spent the rest of the period whispering and laughing to ourselves in the back of the class. I remember vividly how much I liked it. I also remember how guilty it made me feel.
I hear the doorbell ring twice, but no one answers. I think to myself that maybe it’s Charlie, and my heart feels as heavy as an anchor. I can’t believe I’ll never even be able to tell her goodbye. The pain is getting worse again, but I’ve stopped being able to cry at all. All there is to do is wait. If you’re out there, God, please just pity me. I am sorry for what I’ve done. I need to keep writing.
After English Charlie fulfilled her promise to walk me to biology. As we navigated the halls, she introduced me to her friends and showed me places I should know. I could tell that she was liked by many, which made it feel even more special to be in her presence. I couldn’t help but stare at her in awe as I followed behind her quick steps. She paused outside the door to my Biology class and wished me luck. She told me she’d save me a spot at her table at lunch – no words had ever sounded as sweet. I spent all of Biology and 3rd period Math waiting for the lunch bell to ring. Charlie had done this to me. I was utterly confused about this feeling that sat in my stomach, but I never wanted it to end. The afternoon passed by in a blur.
My hands have gotten shaky. Can you hear me, Allah? All my life I’ve thought you were listening every time I bowed and prayed to you, but I doubt that now in what I expect will be my final days. You have left me here. You have left me here to die. What kind of God would do that to his daughter? I must continue to write.
The entire night after that first day was spent with Charlie in my mind and a pit in my stomach. I was terrified to even look at my father – I thought he’d see things in my eyes that would give me away. I still didn’t know at that point what I was feeling, but I knew it wasn’t right. Still, I couldn’t wait to see her again in the morning. Each of my dreams that night were tinged with blue and all involved girls named Charlie…
I hear yelling outside the door. It doesn’t faze me anymore. I will sit here and wait for Death to come for me. I will embrace him when he comes. I must continue to write.
The next day passed by relatively the same way as the day before. Charlie and I talked and laughed in English class, she walked me to Biology, and saved me a seat at lunch. My heart fluttered the exact same way every time she tossed her mid-length hair over her shoulder and laughed. I was standing at my new locker at the end of the day when the real excitement happened. My heart stopped when Charlie asked if I wanted her to come over and have her tutor me for biology. She said we couldn’t go to her house because her mother ran a daycare, so I agreed to go to mine because it meant I got to spend more time with her.
For the first time in hours, I begin to cry again. My chest unleashes sobs which feel like floods. Please don’t let me die here. I take it all back. I do not want to die. I must continue to write.
As we walked to my house, Charlie told me about her life. I listened intently. I loved the way her voice sounded and I adored her silly little laugh. She spoke of her two little sisters and how she’d grown up in Chicago. She told me of the summers of her childhood spent in a little beach house off the Eastern coast, and all the movies she loved. There was a magic about her – an undeniable beauty about how she was unabashedly herself. No one was home when we arrived at my new little house tow streets past school, so I showed her around before we decided to go to my room. Charlie flopped right onto the bed when we walked in, and immediately announced that she was going to have to do something about the plain walls. She told me it didn’t represent my beauty well enough, and I thought my heart would explode.
The tears will not stop coming now. Kill me Allah, kill me. I have been your faithful servant all these years. I prayed to you 8 times a day and never said a bad word about anyone. Please, if there’s one thing you can do for me after all this time – just kill me. I refuse to die at his hand. I fear that I will not have much more time, so I must continue to write.
After only a half hour of studying, I could tell that Charlie’s mind was somewhere else. Even after only knowing her for two days, I felt like I had developed an ability to tell when something was wrong with her. She also wasn’t very good at hiding her feelings. After a couple minutes of visible anxiety, Charlie threw her book down.
“So were you ever planning on telling me how you feel? I can see the way you look at me, Adeela. Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” she said with a sly smile from underneath her hair.
My heart stopped beating, and I felt my stomach drop to the floor. I was mortified. But then she continued.
“You do know I’m gay too, right?” She said, looking me fully in the eyes now.
I felt my entire heart stop when she uttered that sinful sentence. I hadn’t even been able to think the word to myself, let alone say it aloud. I had heard of others who’d been… gay, but they were shunned forever or changed themselves back into being normal again. Never had I once thought of myself as… one of then. Sure, these feelings were… confusing, but surely they weren’t this. Surely this was nothing but confusion, right? Surely I’d grow out of it? And then suddenly, Charlie had made up the two feet of space between us and was kissing me, and everything, all at once, seemed to change.
I can hear him outside the door, loading bullets into his gun. He’s playing music, as if this was a normal day to him. He’s singing along. Show me strength, Allah. My hands are getting weaker and my eyes are going dry, but I must continue to write. Not much time left.
I had never tasted anything as sweet as Charlie’s lips on mine. She pulled away way too quickly, just to gauge my reaction. I can’t even imagine the look she must have seen on my face, but she didn’t see it for long since I kissed her again after just a second. Our lips moved in synchronization for a few minutes while the butterflies in my stomach went crazy. My bedroom door opened then, and all of my worst nightmares seemed to come true simultaneously. There stood my father, still in his work clothes, with the most terrifying look I’ve ever seen on his face.
My final moments on Earth are being spent in a dark basement in a city I barely know in a country I never got to see. Do I deserve this? I may never know the answer to any of the questions that fill my mind, but at least I can share my story. I must continue to write.
After a minute of pure shock he started screaming in Arabic. The only words he got out in English were two words shrouded in disgust hurled across the room at my beautiful Charlie. “Get out.” I knew my father, so I could tell that surely a violent outburst would follow his verbal rage. Charlie looked at me like she would do whatever it took to save me, but I whispered at her to just leave. She mouthed goodbye to me and ran down the stairs, books in hand. My father picked up a lamp and aimed at my head. I took one final glance at Charlie’s fleeting figure.
I’m so weak now. I long for peace. I know now that it will only be brought in death. I believe that Allah will accept me in his kingdom. At least My Allah will. No god I believe in would turn away his daughter. I must continue to write.
“What is wrong with you, Adeela?” hissed my father in my direction. “You have invited the devil into your body… Allah does not approve of your choices you stupid cow!”
I could feel my heart break. I’d known it all along, hadn’t I? I was always just too afraid, too ashamed to admit it to myself let alone anyone else. This is why the life of an Afghani woman had never appealed to me – because the thought of a man had never appealed to me either. I’m gay. My name is Adeela Ahmadi, and I am gay. While I came to that realization, something inside of my father snapped.
Death will not have to wait much longer. I must continue to write.
“You deserve to die for the shame you have brought on this family, Adeela!” he yelled. My name had never sounded like an insult until that very moment. He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me down the stairs with him until we were on the main floor. I think I was probably crying out for help, but it all seems to be a bit of a blur. I do remember vividly however, the look on my mother’s face as she walked in the door from doing her errands. She ran to my side and did her best to get him to let go, but it was no use. He had never listened to her before. My father threw me down the basement stairs. He shut off the lights and whispered once more “You deserve to die.” I heard the door lock.
Please, just let this all be quick. I continue to write.
I have been here for nearly three days, I believe. Time has stopped having a meaning. I can’t sleep any longer, and my lungs are struggling to fill. I know not whether what I have done is a sin, but I am prepared to die now. I do not regret my choices. This is who I am. I can hear him unlocking the door. My mother is shrieking in her native tongue, trying desperately to stop him from doing what he’s about to do. I love my mother. She was never made for this life either. I can hear them struggle for a minute or two, and then she falls silent. I can see a crack of light as he pries the door open. There is nothing more to write. I am about to die.
He walks down the stairs, slowly, all the while hissing prayers at me. He stops when he gets to the bottom where I am laying. He kneels. I can feel the cold barrel of the gun pressed to my temple. I am no longer afraid. Allah is here with me. I decide to do the only thing I’ve ever known. I close my eyes, and I begin to pray.
Praise is only for Allah, Lord of the Universe.
The most Kind, the most Merciful.
The master of the Day of Judgement.
You alone we worship and to you alone we pray for help.
Show us the straight way,
The way of those whom you have blessed.
Who have not deserved your anger,
Nor gone astray.
Take me home.
by Heather Plett | Jan 17, 2015 | Labyrinth, Spirituality, Uncategorized
“Release, receive, and return.” That’s what the labyrinth invites us to do.
Yesterday, I needed to release, receive, and return. I was stressing out about the ongoing tension between “do the thing that brings in money” and “do the thing that’s calling you next” – the ever-present question of all soulful entrepreneurs.
I wanted to go to the labyrinth, but it’s covered in snow, so I did the next best thing… I made a finger labyrinth. It turns out that making a labyrinth is almost as good as walking one for that whole “release, receive, and return thing.”
Since I use labyrinths a lot in my work (especially The Spiral Path, which is a 21 lesson journey through the labyrinth to your authentic heart), I thought I’d share the steps in making my finger labyrinth in case you’d like to make one too.
You’ll need:
- a square canvas or piece of wood (I used an 11X11″ canvas)
- a print out of your favourite labyrinth design, printed to the scale of the canvas (For an 11X11 canvas in the 7 path Chartres design that I made, here’s a pdf that prints on two 8.5X11 pieces of paper. If you prefer a different design, just Google “labyrinth template”)
- heavy string
- glue (I used a hot glue gun and white glue, but if you don’t have a glue gun, white glue is fine)
- newsprint or other paper (whatever you use should be fairly thin)
- mod podge (or just use gel medium)
- gel medium
- acrylic paint
Step 1. Print the labyrinth design and glue it onto the canvas or board. I used ordinary white glue, spread thin with a spreader (any straight plastic edge, like an old credit card) will work. Use the spreader to work out any bubbles in the paper (though it doesn’t have to be too fussy, since you’ll cover it).
Step #2. Glue heavy string onto all of the black lines. I used the hot glue gun for this because it dries faster, but it would work fine with white glue.
Step #3. Cut lots of short strips of newsprint. I used blank newsprint, because it’s easier to paint over, but you could use newspaper. You could also use coloured paper if you don’t want to paint it. Tissue paper would also work, but you’d need a few layers to make sure the black is covered. The strips I used were approx. .75″ by 3″. You don’t have to be fussy about it, but you’ll want them wide enough to cover the string and adhere to the surface without covering two lines of string at the same time.
Step #4. Slather mod podge (or gel medium) generously on a section of string. Add a strip of paper and cover the paper with more mod podge (or gel medium). The best way to do this is with your fingers, so be prepared to get a little messy.
Step #5. Keep going until you have the whole labyrinth and canvas covered with strips of paper. Some spots are tricky (especially if you decide to do the flower pattern at the centre, like I did), so you’ll have to let go of your inner perfectionist and let it be a little imperfect. Make sure it’s all well coated with mod podge (or gel medium). Let it dry.
Step #6. If you want to paint it, add a layer of gel medium once it’s dry (this time you can do it with a paint brush) to smooth out some of the rough edges and to make sure the paint adheres to the surface.
Step #7. Paint it however you like. I used three tones of acrylic paint for the ombre effect (crimson, burnt sienna and ochre.
Step #8. If you want to give it a more textured, aged effect, rub a glaze over it. I used a brown glaze (acrylic paint mixed with gel medium) and rubbed it on with your fingers. Because I’d layered on the gel medium a little too thick, there were some cracks and the dark glazed picked these up, giving it a bit more of an aged look.
Step #9. Hang it on your wall or keep it in your studio, bedroom, or sanctuary where you can use it as a meditation tool.
Here are some tips for using your finger labyrinth…
- Before you start, take some time to settle in to a position in which you’re comfortable. Take some slow deep breaths to centre you in your practice.
- You may want to journal before and/or after the practice.
- Before you begin, you may wish to set an intention or ask a question that you will carry with you into the labyrinth, but be careful to keep it open-ended so that you’re open to surprise.
- Say a prayer, if you like, for support, healing, and guidance.
- Place a finger at the entrance of the labyrinth. Some people suggest that you use your non-dominant hand, as research suggests that our non-dominant hand has easier access to our intuition.
- As you follow the path with your finger inward, be conscious and intentional about releasing whatever stresses, worries, or distractions you might be feeling. Breathe deeply and slowly.
- Pause whenever you want, but don’t lift your finger off the labyrinth.
- When distracting thoughts come up, simply let them pass and wish them well as they leave your mind.
- When you reach the centre, pause for awhile and receive. Be open to whatever guidance and wisdom you may need, even if it’s not what you expected.
- When you’re ready, follow the path outward, consciously returning and bringing the wisdom of the centre out into your life with you.
- In your journal, write or sketch anything that came to you while you made the journey.
- Don’t try too hard. Sometimes the wisdom of the labyrinth is simply the pause that it forces you to take. Sometimes nothing obvious shows up, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t time well spent. Stay open and receptive.
Starting February 1, 2015, you can join me in a 21 lesson journey through the labyrinth, back to your authentic heart in The Spiral Path: A Woman’s Journey to Herself. In the first seven lessons, you’ll release what no longer serves you. In the next seven lessons, you’ll open yourself to receiving. In the final seven lessons, you’ll return from the journey.
by Heather Plett | Jan 15, 2015 | calling, change, Let go of the ground, Uncategorized
“Something is shifting in my life. I feel lost. Everything I once depended on and believed in feels unstable and unreliable. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
I hear some version of this story almost every week in my coaching work. Somewhere in the middle of their lives, women (and men, though I hear fewer of those stories) go through a period of transition when their world shifts and the ground feels wobbly under their feet. They’ve left behind an old story but haven’t found themselves in the new story yet. They don’t know how to define themselves anymore and they’re not even sure they have much value.
The stories are almost always accompanied with tears and some measure of shame. They think they’re doing it wrong. They think everyone else has it figured out. They think there’s supposed to be a straight path between the old story and the new story. Or they think they were foolish and selfish for no longer being satisfied with the old story that once felt comfortable.
They’ve been fed a false narrative.
While still in high school, they were told that they’re supposed to figure out “what they want to be when they’re older” and then they’re supposed to follow a straight path to the “American dream.” They’re pretty sure that means that once they’re forty, they should have everything figured out and the question that once plagued them will have all been answered or at least have faded in importance.
But once they get to a midlife point, they realize that the questions are getting bigger and more urgent. They don’t know what to believe anymore. They don’t really know who they are. They don’t understand the meaning of their lives. They discover that motherhood, or their career, or the book they got published, or the dream they brought to fruition doesn’t satisfy them as much as they’d hoped. They’re feeling empty and lost, like a boat adrift at sea.
It’s such a common story that if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard it, I could go on a very lovely vacation to the Caribbean.
The first thing I do when I hear this story is give them permission to cry and feel the grief. The second thing I do is tell them “This is where you’re supposed to be. This is a woman’s journey. You have to give yourself permission to be lost for awhile. It’s the only way you’ll find the path to your more authentic self.”
We all need to go through the empty place in order to connect with our deeper selves.
Every woman I know who has found her way into a deepened wisdom and a deeper sense of calling has gone through the empty place between stories. They’ve all found themselves adrift at sea somewhere in the middle of their lives, where they had to let go of old paradigms, old belief systems, and old ways of defining themselves. It was only when they let go of the resistance and the need to “be productive” and “be successful” that they were able to sink into the deep stillness of the empty place between stories.
Nobody wants the complexity of real transformation.
The mess and the grief of letting go of the old story is scary and uncomfortable. We want the simple solution that many of the self-help books are selling us. We want ten easy bullet points.
But real transformation is more like the labyrinth. Real transformation invites us to step off the path into a complex, labyrinthine journey.
“Most of us arrive at a sense of self and vocation only after a long journey through alien lands. But this journey bears no resemblance to the trouble-free “travel packages” sold by the tourism industry. It is more akin to the ancient tradition of pilgrimage – ‘a transformative journey to a sacred centre’ full of hardships, darkness, and peril.” – Parker Palmer, Let your Life Speak
The labyrinth teaches us much about the journey through transition.
When we enter the labyrinth, we are invited to release. We let go of Story A. We let go of our expectations, our “American dream”, our comfort level.
Once we reach the centre, we are ready to receive. But our cups can only be filled up again if we reach that place empty and open. We’ve emptied ourselves of the old story so that the new story can begin to grow. At the centre, we receive guidance from Spirit, we receive grace, and we receive the strength we need to continue the journey.
When we are ready, we return. But we don’t go back to Story A. We return with the new story that has begun to grow at the centre. We return with a deeper connection to our authentic selves. We return ready to step into Story B.
What’s surprising, though, and always somewhat unsettling, is that Story B bears little resemblance to Story A. Story A fit into a much cleaner box. Story B has a lot of loose ends and a permeable border. Story A was black and white. Story B has a lot of complex shades of grey.
We are invited into a place of non-duality.
As Richard Rohr says in Falling Upward, the story for the second half of life is one of non-duality. When we are in a story of duality (the first half of our lives), we see the word in black and white, right and wrong, good and bad.
Rohr describes non-dual thinking as “our ability to read reality in a way that is not judgmental, in a way that is not exclusionary of the part that we don’t understand. When you don’t split everything up according to what you like and what you don’t like, you leave the moment open, you let it be what it is in itself, and you let it speak to you. Reality is not totally one, but it is not totally two, either! Stay with that necessary dilemma, and it can make you wise.”
Many people resist the invitation into Story B. They want to stay in a place where the world feels secure and safe. They hang onto a black and white world and they judge those who introduce them to shades of grey. Those people often become the fundamentalists who fight with all their might to resist change. They close themselves off in a box of self-preservation rather than step into a place of ambiguity.
But there is little value in hanging onto Story A when the new story wants to emerge. Your comfort will soon turn to bitterness, your safe home will become your prison.
Our world wants us to move, individually and collectively, into Story B.
There are many thought leaders who believe that our world is in that empty place – the place of chaos – between Story A and Story B.
Yesterday, I participated in the first session of ULab, hosted by Otto Scharmer of MIT and Presencing Institute. On this MOOC (massive open online course) there are 25,000 people who are connecting to talk about the transformation of business, society, and self. We’re learning what it means to be in that “place of disruption” between stories. While on the webinar, thousands of us were tweeting from all over the world about what is ending and what is emerging. There’s a general consensus that the world can’t continue to function unless we step into a new story, a new way of connecting with ourselves, each other, and the world. But before getting to that new story, we have to let ourselves be lost for awhile.
In The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible, Charles Eisenstein talks about The Story of Separation that the world has been living in. That’s a story that keeps us locked in a financial economy that demands growth and the pillaging of the earth for the resources that feed that growth. It’s a story that has us living as separate, self-sufficient individuals instead of in community. It’s a story that requires a greater and greater investment in military actions that help us protect our resources and our self-sufficiency.
The new story that the world is longing for is a Story of Connection.
It’s a story that brings us back to a healthy relationship with each other and the earth. It’s a story of trust and compassion, community and spirituality.
As the diagram above shows, we won’t get to the Story of Connection until we are ready to release the Story of Separation, step into the centre of the labyrinth, and receive the new thing that wants to be born in each of us.
If you find yourself in that empty place between stories, know this – you are not alone. You are living a story that is playing itself out all over the world.
We are all trying to find our way into the new story. Some of us are desperately hanging onto the old story, some of us are ready to hospice the old story into its death, and some of us are ready to midwife the new story into its birth.
In the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, there are a few cells, called imaginal cells, that hold the dream of the butterfly alive while all of the other cells see only the end of the world that was once their caterpillar life. Those imaginal cells lead the transformation into the new, more beautiful thing that is meant to emerge.
In my work, I am blessed to be in connection with many imaginal cells – people who sense the end of Story A has come and who believe that there is something new and better emerging. Perhaps you are one such cell.
Perhaps you have been invited into the difficult stage of transformation so that you can serve as a model for others coming after you.
I invite you to consider that whatever you are going through right now, you are going through something that is helping you emerge into the more beautiful world. And your transformation is part of the transformation of the world around you.
Step into the labyrinth. Let yourself be changed.
Need some support on this journey through transformation? Registration is now open for The Spiral Path: A Woman’s Journey to Herself. In this 21 lesson course, you’ll be guided through the three stages of the labyrinth journey.
by Heather Plett | Dec 29, 2014 | Creativity, grace, gratitude, grief, growth, mandala, Uncategorized
“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” ― Søren Kierkegaard
Last year, as the year ended, I shared a special mandala prompt for reflecting on the passing year before you invite in the new year. In that prompt, you were invited to divide your circle into 4 quadrants, with the words “grace, grief, growth, and gratitude” in each of the four quadrants. Then, with some reflection of the year that had passed, you filled each of the four quadrants with the things that happened that were connected to those four words.
The process of filling those four quadrants helps you see the year for ALL that it was, not just the happy things and not just the hard things. Sometimes we get stuck in only one story and we assume that that story defines us, but each of us walks through many stories and each of those stories teaches us something. Life is never a perfect balance, but it’s also never only one of those four things.
That reflection mandala is now a part of A Soulful Year: A Mandala Workbook for Ending one Year and Welcoming Another. Before you begin the process of planning for what’s ahead, it’s valuable to reflect on what has passed and on what those events have taught you.
The Reflection Mandala is a useful process to do every year at this time. Take some time this week to create your own simple four quadrant mandala for 2014. Many of us have kept gratitude journals, and that is a beautiful practice that has been transformational in my own past, but sometimes that’s not enough. This practice offers an extension of that, where focusing not only on the gratitude, but on the grief and growth and what may have been really hard to walk through helps us recognize all of the complexity of our lives and all of the things that change us and stretch us.
Here’s an idea for extending the practice of reflecting on grace, growth, gratitude, and grief throughout the year…
Reflection Jars
Find, buy, or make four containers that you can keep on your desk, bookshelf, or nightstand. (I purchased 4 small jars at the dollar store for $2.)
Write (or print stickers, as I did) the words grace, grief, gratitude, and growth on each of the containers. Embellish the containers however you wish.
Cut up small pieces of paper that you can keep in an envelope close to your containers.
On a regular basis throughout the year (daily or weekly), reflect on how grace, grief, gratitude, and growth have been present for you. Write notes on slips of paper and slip them into which ever jar that reflection belongs in. You can do all four each day, or just do the ones that most apply to that day. Try to maintain a reasonable balance, filling each jar instead of focusing on only one.
Here are some prompts for the four categories:
Gratitude
This one is simple – what are you grateful for today? What made you happy? Who showed love or compassion? What did you have fun doing?
Grace
A simple definition of grace is “anything that shows up freely and unexpectedly that you did nothing to earn”. It can be a beautiful sunset that catches you by surprise as you’re driving home, an unexpected kind gesture from a friend, or forgiveness that you don’t feel like you deserve. What was unexpected and unearned? How did the beauty of the world stop you in your tracks? How did friends extend undeserved forgiveness or offers of help?
Grief
What made you sad? Who do you miss? What feels broken? What old wounds are showing up? What did you lose? What disappointed you?
Growth
What stretched you? What did you learn? What were your a-ha moments? Who served as your teacher? How did you turn hard things into opportunity for growth?
Fill your jars with meaning throughout the year.
It’s quite possible that some items will show up in multiple jars. For example, something that causes grief will probably also offer you opportunities to grow. And sometimes (like when friends show up to support you) grace shows up in the darkest of moments.
Keep the containers in a place where they’ll be visible and easy to access and where you’ll remember to fill them up. You might want to do this as a morning practice before you start your day or an evening practice as you reflect on the day that passed.
At the end of the year, create a new four-quadrant mandala, take all of the pieces out of the jars and write or glue them onto the mandala. Reflect on your well-balanced year.
Start filling the jars again next year.
Once you’ve reflected on the year that passed, you may want to continue with a variety of other processes that will help you welcome and plan for what wants to unfold in 2015. A Soulful Year may help.
If you’d like to receive a mandala prompt every day in January 2015, consider signing up for Mandala Discovery.
Rosanna Deerchild was one of the people quoted in the Macleans article, and her face made it to the front cover of the magazine. Unwillingly and unexpectedly, she became the poster child for racism. Being the wise and wonderful woman that she is, though, she chose to use that opportunity to make good things happen. She posted on her own Facebook page that she wanted to gather people together around the dinner table to have meaningful conversations about racism. A mutual friend connected me to her conversation, and I sent her a message offering to help facilitate the conversation. She took me up on it.
After the conversation time had ended, the culture keepers were invited to the front of the room to share the essence of what they’d heard at their tables. Some talked about the need to start in the education system, ensuring that our youth are being accurately taught the Indigenous history of our country, others talked about how this needs to be a political issue and we need to insist that our politicians take these concerns seriously, and still others talked about how we each need to start small, building more one-on-one relationships with people from other cultures. One young woman shared her personal story of being bullied in school and how difficult it is to find a place where she is allowed to “just be herself”. Another woman shared about how hard she has had to work to be taken seriously as an educated Indigenous woman.
