by Heather Plett | Sep 22, 2012 | journey, Labyrinth
This story has no clear beginning and no clear ending. It’s a pilgrimage story, and without going all the way back to the beginning of my life (and even the lives that were lived before mine that thread through mine), or waiting until I’m ready to die, I can only tell you about a small portion of that pilgrimage.
This week I’ve been revisiting my memoir, hoping to bring it to completion and eventually get it published. I set it aside months ago, thinking it was almost finished, but feeling like I might still be missing a piece of the puzzle.
I think I’ve found that puzzle piece. It started with adding the above words to the beginning. The story is now a pilgrimage story, with no clear beginning and no clear ending.
It used to be simpler. The very first time I tried to write it, it was about the three week period in the hospital waiting for Matthew to be born, and how that impacted me in a deeply spiritual way. The second time I wrote it, it was about a ten year transformation in my life, starting with the arrival of Matthew in my life. I was comparing myself to a caterpillar, going into a cocoon for ten years and eventually emerging as a butterfly. Or Theseus, heading into the labyrinth holding the thread, slaying the minotaur, and emerging victorious. And they all lived happily ever after. The end.
But now, after months of contemplation, I know that it’s not that straight-forward. Transformation is not a clean and simple thing that we can put into time frames or boxes. I’m still transforming. I’m still being stretched. I’m still not a butterfly. I’m heading back into that labyrinth again and again.
And so I am more satisfied calling my journey a pilgrimage. My son’s death was one of a long series of initiations, each one taking me deeper and deeper into my own heart. Each one teaching me how little I actually know. Each one revealing something new about God.
Now I am at a new place in the journey. In past initiations on this pilgrimage, I have lost my innocence, lost a son, lost a father, nearly lost a husband more than once, lost a father-in-law, and lost all of my grandparents. (Incidentally, nearly all of those things happened around this time of year.) I have fought the minotaur many times and returned from the labyrinth scarred and yet stronger. I expect my next initiation will be to learn what it’s like to lose a mother.
My responsibility as a pilgrim is simply to put one foot in front of the other and keep following the path. When the labyrinths appear along the path, I need to trust that a sword and a thread will be provided to help me survive.
If you’re interested in being part of a conversation about life as pilgrimage, join me tomorrow morning as I talk to my friend Ronna Detrick on her virtual Sunday Service at 10 am PST.
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 center’ full of hardships, darkness, and peril. – Parker Palmer, Let your Life Speak
by Heather Plett | Jun 16, 2012 | circle, Labyrinth, mandala
me at the centre, taken by Jo-Anne
The last time I went to the labyrinth, my friend Jo-Anne came with me. She’d never been before and was curious about what drew me so regularly to the park across the river.
At the centre of the labyrinth, there are two benches facing each other. After walking the path, I perched on one of the benches while Jo-Anne stood in the middle with her camera. As we chatted, I saw a look of delight cross her face.
“Have you ever noticed the echo when you stand in the centre?”she asked.
No, I hadn’t. I’d stood at the centre many times, but I was almost always alone and rarely said anything out loud.
“Stand right here,” she said. I joined her at the centre and started talking. Sure enough – the tiniest of echos reverberated from my voice, but only if I stood exactly in the centre.
Trained as a scientist, Jo-Anne was quick to figure out what was causing the echo – the combination of the slight bowl shape of the labyrinth and the benches.
More mystic than scientist, I prefer to think it’s a manifestation of the energy that’s available when you spiral closer to centre. Committing to the journey, trusting the path, you arrive at centre and the God of your understanding, the source of your energy, meets you there in the echo of your own voice.
The truth is, though, there’s nothing really mystical about the labyrinth itself. Pragmatically speaking, it’s just a circular, winding path that someone has lovingly built, filling in the in-between spaces with natural prairie plants (that Jo-Anne knows all the names for and I know only as “the one with wispy pink flowers”), and adding a few benches here and there for comfort. Anyone can build a labyrinth. My friend Diane has one in her back yard.
Yes, there is something sacred about the space, but the same can be said about any space. The easy chair you like to curl up in with your favourite book is sacred too. So is the driver’s seat of your car. Or the lawnchair you bring to your daughter’s soccer games. Or the little patch of garden you faithfully nurture. Sacred simply means that God is there, and… well, God is everywhere. We just have to open our senses and we will see/hear/touch/smell/taste God. (Fill in your own name for God, if you like.)
Jo-Anne is right – there’s a logical explanation for the echo. But that doesn’t mean that the next time I’m standing there I won’t speak words into the labyrinth, hear the echo returning to me, and know that God is there and that my words are imbued with power that I can take with me when I leave the labyrinth.
Sacred space is what we make of it. Sacred space is simply us bringing our open hearts to a place and letting that place be a vessel for Spirit to be in communion with us.
For me, labyrinths are especially sacred because the winding path, the meditation of putting one foot in front of another, the simple slow breathing as I walk, and then the pause at the centre help me move gently into an openness where God can speak. When I stand at the centre, it’s because I’ve been intentional about silencing the voices that get in the way of hearing the still small voice that reminds me of who I am.
I don’t need the echo, but it’s just one more way that God uses science to remind us of Her presence when we’re ready to pay attention.
If you’re curious about labyrinths, mandalas, and circles, join me on June 26th at 7 pm Central for a free call. (More info. in this post.) Register below.
by Heather Plett | Jan 19, 2012 | Creativity, mandala, Uncategorized
Since I began my year long commitment to my mandala practice at the beginning of this year, a number of people have shown curiosity about it, so I thought I’d write a little about why I make them.
The best way to answer that question seemed to be a mandala, so I started with the question “why do I create mandalas?” at the centre of the page. Writing whatever came to mind round and round that circle helped me clarify some of my thoughts on it – and it opened some brand new ideas I hadn’t even considered. And that is the first answer to the question “why do I make mandalas” – because the process helps me get closer to my own truths.
It’s difficult to define the value of a creative process such as mandala-making for one primary reason. The act of creating art of any kind requires me to step out of my analytical meaning-finding left brain into my intuitive, wordless right brain. When I try to analyze and explain what value I’m deriving from it, I have to carry it all back into my left brain. It doesn’t always translate well, which is why I’m often left without words.
But let me give it my best effort…
Here’s the unedited version of what showed up on the page when I made the above mandala. It’s an attempt at integrating my right and left brain thinking. Each ring of the circle represented a unique but intertwined part of the inquiry for me. The lines emerging from the centre represent the way that the three rings are intertwined and support each other (an explanation I only understood after they showed up).
Circle 1 -What do mandalas represent?
It starts with a circle, the shape of our earth, the shape of a tree, the shape of the smallest atom and the largest planet.
It is the shape that nature offers us when a flower blooms or a mother gives birth.
It is a feminine shape, bringing us back to womb and cycles of life.
It is the cycles of the seasons, the returning back to the place we started, bringing with us our baskets full of new stories.
It is the rings of memory we add to our history, like the rings of a tree.
Circle 2 – What is their value for me?
The mandala is my centring practice.
It grounds me in Mother Earth.
It reminds me of where my wisdom comes from.
It gives me a way to access my subconscious and that place too deep for words.
It lets me play and let go of logic and linear thinking.
It shifts me into my right brain, a place where ambiguity and wordless wisdom are welcome.
It brings me closer to Sophia, the feminine nature of the Divine.
It lets me experience Spirit in a kairos space that is outside the order of chronos time.
It is my meditation and my wordless prayer.
It lets me access wisdom I didn’t know was buried in my subconscious.
It asks nothing of me but my presence and my willingness to engage.
It is not based in rules or convention.
I can do it my way.
Circle 3 – What might mandalas represent for community?
Circle is the shape of community.
It is the place where we gather and have meaningful conversations.
Mandala starts with the fire at the centre-point, giving us energy and light.
It ends with us holding the edge of the circle, holding space for each other.
Real change begins when we face each other in community.
Mandala is the shape that brings us back to those essential elements.
It reminds us that there is great capacity for beauty when we are in circle.
Mandala as a community practice has the potential to heal us and to remind us of our birth, our connection with each other, and our grounding in Mother Earth.
Mandala can revive our spirit in community and give us a shared way of accessing those deep stories that our words do not want to touch.
Mandala can be a part of our story circles, giving us a place to paint our journeys to wholeness.
Mandalas can loosen our resistance and can grow our hope.
Mandalas can offer us new ways of framing old stories.
*****
The following quote resonated for me when I heard it yesterday.
I would not give a fig for the simplicity this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity. – Oliver Wendell Holmes
I believe that mandalas serve a purpose in helping us find the “simplicity on the other side of complexity”.
As you can tell, I’m very excited about this process and believe that it can have significant implications for my work, both in helping individuals with their self-discovery work and in helping communities get to the heart of whatever is emerging.
Something new is growing out of this for me. I’ll be doing some one-on-one mandala coaching sessions with people in which I coach them in developing a personal mandala for whatever is emerging in their lives. This offering is in the development stage right now – once it’s ready, I’ll let you all know.
In my one-on-one sessions I will:
– help clients explore something that is present for them right now – a problem, a birthing, an inquiry, a fear, etc.
– based on whatever emerges for them, I will coach them in developing a personal mandala, based on a number of mandala-processes I have designed.
I will also be developing a course or group coaching program based on this work. If you’re interested, I’d love to hear what would appeal to you most.
If you want to book a one-on-one session, please contact me. I anticipate that the price will be approximately $100 for a half hour session, with options for follow-up calls.
by Heather Plett | Dec 17, 2011 | Sophia, writing
This morning, I had the sudden urge to watch the sun rise over Matthew’s grave. I’d been working on the re-write of my book and was thinking about him in the early hours of the morning. And so, before anyone else was awake, I headed to the graveyard.
Something caught my eye when I got there. A statue of a woman, only about 50 feet from Matthew’s grave. Though she stands about 15 feet high, I’d never really noticed her before.
I carried my camera across the snow and took a few pictures of her. I wasn’t sure who she was. Mary was my first thought, but then I puzzled over why she was holding a book and standing in front of a globe and a stack of books.
It wasn’t until I started walking away that I had a sudden realization… she’s holding a BOOK! I came here (like I’ve done many times) for guidance about a book. She’s holding MY book! Only, what came out of my mouth was…
“She’s holding MY FUCKING BOOK!” (Yes, I swore. It was one of those moments.)
What I wrote in my journal was: “Sophia God is holding my book. I guess I’d better trust her with it then.” And with that thought came a huge sense of release and comfort.
I don’t have to worry about my book, or about how I’ll get it published or whether people will want to buy it. It’s in God’s hands. All I have to do is show up and finish it.
I don’t know what the statue is meant to represent to other people who visit the grave, but I know what she means to me. And I can’t help but be amused at the way she remained hidden from me all these years, until now, when I’m standing on the precipice of finishing my book and getting it into print (my hope for 2012).
Sophia God has a sense of humour. And a lovely way of bringing surprise and wonder into our lives.
UPDATE: After I wrote this post, I opened my daily email from Fr. Richard Rohr. At first I skimmed it, thought it didn’t interest me, and ignored it. But then I opened another email from a friend who’d quoted Rohr’s email, so I re-opened it. Wouldn’t you know it… December 17th is the day associated with Sophia, feminine wisdom. Don’t you love synchronicity?
Today, December 17, (according to the Antiphons) begins with the letter S for sapientia. Wisdom—sophia in Greek, sapientia in Latin, sabiduria in Spanish—was the feminine metaphor for the Eternal Divine, as found especially in the books of Proverbs and Wisdom. One might partner or compare Sophia with Logos, which is the masculine metaphor for the Divine. It is interesting that Logos was used in John’s Gospel (1:9-14) and became the preferred tradition, but Sophia was seldom used outside of the monasteries. On December 17 we invoke the feminine image of God as Holy Wisdom. – Richard Rohr
by Heather Plett | Nov 22, 2010 | Sophia, Spirituality
I am not a goddess. And I don’t have super-powers.
I am ordinary, flawed, and often rather boring. My laundry room is in a perpetual state of disaster, I often take the easy route and feed my kids processed food, I don’t floss regularly, and I haven’t thrown a dinner party in a few years because it takes too much work. Sometimes I even pick my nose.
But you didn’t come here to read a list of my flaws, did you? Especially not the nose-picking thing.
Sometimes the language I read around blogs and self-help books targeted toward women worries me. We’re supposed to claim our superhero alter-ego, step into our power, and become goddesses. Now, if you’ve used that language, please forgive me – I’ve done the same on occasion. I understand the point of it – we want women to feel special and empowered and endowed with the Sacred. There’s nothing wrong with those things.
BUT… the problem is, if I have to have a superpower or be a goddess, then it starts to feel like I’m putting way too much pressure on myself to be invincible. I don’t want to be invincible. I want to be okay with being flawed. I want to be able to forgive myself for sending my daughter to school in dirty pants because I didn’t get the laundry done (again). I want to be ENOUGH.
The other thing is, in those moments when I’m feeling weak and flawed and at the end of my capacity to cope, I want to be able to reach for some kind of source of power that is external to me. I don’t want to BE a goddess, I want to SURRENDER to a Goddess and have Her carry me.
If being a goddess is up to me, then where do I go to be refilled when my tank is empty?
You can call religion a cop-out or a panacea – that’s up to you. But I still need it in my life. I still need there to be a God/dess, I still want to know I’m cared for by a Creator who thinks I’m special and beautiful, I want to be extended grace and forgiveness by a compassionate Being outside myself, and I want to know there is Sacred power that has absolutely nothing to do with my capacity.
It doesn’t matter to me what you call that Higher Power, but for me, I’m becoming more and more comfortable with the concept of Sophia – the feminine nature of God. (A concept, by the way, that originates in the Old Testament.) When I feel weak, I call on Sophia for wisdom and grace. I picture Her as a beautiful, full-bossomed, long-haired wise and fierce grandmother type. I curl up in her arms, and her long flowing hair hangs around me like a curtain, sheltering and protecting me from harm.
This is the image I turn to most these days, but I am also still quite comfortable with God as father-figure – the kind of Father who is the embodiment of the strong and compassionate masculine nature I mentioned in my last post.
Having a God/dess in my life helps me take myself off the hook when I just can’t seem to get things right. S/he thinks I’m good enough.
Note: This is part of a blog round robin called Support Stories – Strength from Within. Click the link to find other stories of finding strength.
