A poem to me on my 39th birthday

(A poem for me, to me, on my 39th birthday, shared as prayer with you)…

Embodied

The other night, I watched a video of me that Brian recently filmed.
It was me leading a meditation.
Half way through, I stopped and paused it.

I sat there, staring

at the still frame shot of me. The incessant self-doubt
that strangled my joy for years was simply

not true. I could no longer deny what I now saw before me.
Here was the evidence.

“I see it,” I whispered in the silence of my heart,
“I see what my mother has seen all these years.

I am exquisite.

I embody the life I have led,
the years and hours of meditation and kindness and metta,
meltdowns and cries, softening and letting go
practiced on my cushion,
on the earth dancing and sweating my chants to the Divine,

in our kitchen cutting grapes for toddlers,
tired, alone, longing, yearning, returning
always

right here
to my life as practice, in the car

handing back snacks to hungry little ones wondering if I’ll rest today,
in our bed nursing a newborn in the early hours before dawn,
making love to Brian when we should be sleeping but

returning Home to our bodies reciting poetry to the Divine,

rising early with my prayer shawl wrapped around my growing belly,
sitting in silence until a baby cries and my feet take me to them,
somehow in the dark, and my arms become their shawl…

again and again,
through the doubt and the worry
the shame and the regret
the wondering and the wounds
the mistakes and the miraculous
the cooing and the sighing
the obsessing and

the letting go,

returning

again and again
to the Divine
within.

I already embody what I longed for,
what I thought was missing,
what I believed I was ‘not yet:’

I am sensual and beautiful.”

The words escaped my heart before they could be squelched
by analysis or habitual practices of learning to not be powerful…
and know it. Spoken into existence, they flew

out into the world and danced,

and then back into me
as prayer, as breath,
to be breathed

and then exhaled
as blessing.

Lisa A. McCrohan, © 2013

Facing fear, living life

Maybe it’s because I’ll be turning 40 in a year.  Maybe it’s because there’s this tender “knowing” rising up into my conscious mind, influencing even my mundane everyday decisions.  Maybe it’s because giving birth brought me to my most raw, vulnerable, warrior, grace-surrending self.  Maybe because I’ve survived six years of parenthood.  Maybe it’s because touching life so tenderly every day in two growing, beautiful children makes me touch the reality of life’s companion, death.  Maybe it’s all of these and more I can’t name quite yet happening within me.

But I get it:  THIS IS IT.  This life will end.  Maybe not tomorrow or next year.  Maybe not for another 40 years.  But me, you, we are all of the nature to grow old and ca-puuuut.  I don’t know when that last breath will be.  I don’t know for certain if I’ll see my children grow old and have babies and I’ll be that grandmother holding her grandchildren with wise eyes and slow hands.  When I get in the car to commute down 270, I don’t know if the goodnight kiss I gave my husband the night before will be the last one.  I just don’t know.

In this culture, we loath aging.  We don’t talk about dying.  And so we live in a way where we take it all for granted.  Or at least many of us do.  I do — more than I care to admit.  But the truth is that there’s no getting around it — we will cease to exist.  All we love, cherish…it’ll all end some day.

But this doesn’t have to be a downer.  Over the last six years, something in me has been consciously aware of and quietly noticing…sitting back and reaalllly watching this life and hearing Her whispers.  “This is it, Lisa.  Bless it.  Notice it.  Live it.  Let it go.”

Even in my early thirties, though of course, I “knew” we all die, that fact never really seeped into my conscious awareness and my everyday actions.  Still today, I act like I have forever.  But more and more, I see how there is an end approaching.  It doesn’t really matter what I believe happens after this life, the fact is that THIS life, this very one, will cease to exist.

And somehow, in that sitting, in that knowing, in that allowing of death to “come closer,” I am being transformed.  And it has prompted me to live.  To live more fully, ferociously, quietly, contently, honestly, gently, and…tenderly.

How?

One way:  I am facing my fears.  I have always been petrified of snakes, ever since a baaaad dream about them when I was a child.  Aware of how, in many cultures, the snake represents the feminine in all her power, I have sat in meditation many-a-times drawing closer and closer to that powerful, sensual Feminine force…within me and the Divine.  But still scared. Until a week ago.

I had a dream where my two year old, old-soul daughter was holding a snake.  It was wrapped around her arms and shoulders.  She was completely enthralled, even content and “at home.”  She told me the snake just wanted to nuzzle up next to her for warmth and comfort.  And she was happy to oblige.

Fast forward a few days.  We were our amazing local nature center for a birthday party.  I knew they’d bring out the animals, including snakes.  I decided that when it came around to it, I’d hold the snake.  And I did.

facing my fear! holding a snake

Petrified, I breathed.  I opened up to letting go of the past stories I’ve told myself about snakes.  I opened up to having no expectation or hope for the future about me and snakes.  I just opened up to THAT VERY MOMENT of holding the snake — with no past, no future.  Just noticing and being present to the sensations of holding this snake.  And it was….ok.  I noticed how strong this little snake was — how she wrapped herself around my arm.  I noticed how she moved so slowly and gracefully and quietly…and purposefully.

Now a week later, something in me is changing.  I still don’t know what it is quite yet.  Maybe it’s more of Life and Death and the Divine whispering: “Wake up, sweet Love.  It’s time.”  Maybe it’s the quietness of fear dissolving, illusions fading:  “I could run into a snake and not be freaked out.”  Maybe it’s truth and true power rising:  “This is your life, Lisa.  Notice it.  Hold it.  Bless it.  And let it go.”

So I am.  Day by day.

Each time you judge yourself, you break your own heart…

see the goodness that you are

 
“My beloved child, break your heart no longer.
Each time you judge yourself, you break your own heart.
You stop feeding on the love which is the wellspring of your vitality.
The time has come.
Your time.
To celebrate.
And to see the goodness that you are.
You, my child, are divine.
You are pure.
You are sublimely free.
Let no one, no thing, no idea or ideal obstruct you.
If one comes, even in the name of ‘Truth’, forgive it for its unknowing.
Do not fight.
Let go.
You are God in disguise and you are always perfectly safe.
Do not fight the dark. Just turn on the light.
Let go and breathe into the goodness that you are.”

Swami Kripalvanandaji (Bapuji)
as copied from
“Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha”
by Tara Brach

Can you pray faster, mom?

Sitting at mass today, right after communion…

Wait, let me back up.  Our five year old son LOVES going to mass.  Why?  THE doughnut.

I won’t lie.  Yes, both my husband and I have master degrees in theology/pastoral ministry, I work for a Georgetown University, and Brian works for a Catholic Church.  And our oldest loves going to church for the once-a-week-quite-HOLY doughnut!  (Now our two year old daughter, she gets all excited to go because she still thinks that we are going to get up and sing and dance to the songs at mass from Vacation Bible School earlier this summer.  Poor honey.  We only did it once.  Now, every week, I have to tell her that we got up and danced and sang only one time before mass started to show folks what we learned at VBS.  I tried to console her by saying we could dance to the music in the car or at home – which we do – but she wanted nothing of it.  She wanted to be ON STAGE with a group of her “friends” dancing and singing.  Oh my.  Neither one of my children are wall flowers!  So I tell her I’ll get her out of the nursery early to hear the final closing song even though it’s not a VBS song and even though we won’t be getting up on stage.  She agrees. “Otay, mommy.”)

I am fine with this holy doughnut thing.  Our son says going to one of the small groups or the nursery to “help his sister” makes “mass time go by faster and the doughnut time come quicker.”  Obsessed, I tell you, for the chocolate with sprinkles kind.

Mind you, what is also going on is that our son thinks he is Batman.  Seriously.

Our Batman

But when he is “out on the town,” he wears a long-sleeve shirt with a cape on it, a white button down shirt, and a navy blue sports blazer.  This is his Bruce Wayne look.  He does this to hide the fact that he is Batman.  He doesn’t want anyone to know that he is Batman – unless there is an emergency that would require super-human strength, speed, and sense of justice.  So he is sitting here, in three layers of long-sleeves, looking around for any sign of someone needing a superhero.

His “Bruce Wayne” look

Ok today, we were late AS USUAL.  (I’m telling you, I used to be 10 minutes early to EVERYthing B.K.  – before kiddos.  I’ve – mostly – accepted the fact that we just are late now much more often than we are early.  To anything.  But plus, it’s hard to get to mass on time because it’s the start of our work week.  Brian works at the church we attend.  Getting everyone up and ready and out the door on Sunday morn is quite a feat).

So we were late.  Brian took Aidan (late) to the  chapel for the special children’s liturgy and then they all returned mid-mass.  So our son comes back in.  He sits for awhile (which, I think, takes superhero stillness for a kiddo to do.  I don’t mind him moving around.  I love how he hugs us and we hold him.  Even though he weighs 48 pounds).  Five minutes later, he asks to get a bagel — “yes, go ahead”, asks to get a drink of water “yes, go ahead”, and then finally it’s time for communion.  He loves going up with dad for a special blessing.

We go back to our seats and I feel a tug on my left side, “Mom…”

Me: “Yes?”

Our five year old: “Can we go get a doughnut now?”

Me: “Let me just pray for a moment.”

Silence.

Tug.

Me looking at my superhero son.

Five year old: “Mom, can you pray faster?  God likes those kinds of prayers, too!”

I cracked up.

I said, “Sure, go ahead.”

He took off with lightening speed.

I got a minute of silence as I watched our son bolt to donuts.  He even got one for his sister.

So today, I didn’t make it in time to hear the gospel.  And I heard about three minutes of te homily.  (Our daughter wasn’t havin’ it being in the nursery.  Brian was with her for awhile, I waited outside.  She grew comfortable and Brian left.  We went into mass.  Late.) I have absolutely no guilt about this.  I lost that Catholic guilt a long time ago.

God was right there, in that seat next to me, looking at me with sweet, loving, doughnut-obsessed eyes.

I think God likes chocolate with sprinkles, too.  (And dancing and singing up on the altar).

The courage to heal

A few times a year, our church weaves into the mass a time of “anointing the sick.” Anyone who is hurting, in any way, is invited to come forward. The priest and deacon take their time. They lay their hands on the person’s head and they anoint the person’s forehead with oil. They speak a prayer privately as the congregation sings and “holds the space.”

It’s a time of bodies being blessed. It’s a time of remembering – the fragility of the body, the tenacity of hope, and the need for community. It’s a time of having the courage to step forward, announcing with their silent but visual presence that one wants to be healed…and surrendering.

This past Sunday, we had the anointing of the sick.

I sat there watching as folks from the pews got up and stepped forward. I wanted to go up. I wanted, wanted, wanted to. But I didn’t.

I never do. I never stand up and walk to the front of the church.  And I’m sad about that.

No, I don’t have cancer or a tumor; I don’t struggle with addiction; I don’t have a mental illness.  But I do desire what so many of us do — to be held and healed, to have our brokenness acknowledged and seen. Whatever that brokenness is that we all have.

You don’t have to believe that there is healing (which is different from “cure”) going on with the “laying on of hands.” Healing happens in having the courage to acknowledge and say, “I feel broken”  and we welcome that brokenness with the tenderness of a mother comforting a hurting child.

Healing happens when we have the courage to be vulnerable and share our brokenness with another person.

Healing happens when we finally proclaim and ask for what we have longed for – maybe for decades.  Healing happens when we finally say “YES” to that longing – yes to its presence (and residence) within us, yes to the Divine forces that have so desired to hold that longing with us and soothe it.

Healing happens when we ask for what we need and fold into the arms that can and want to hold us.

Maybe me not getting up in front of the congregation this past Sunday was then a prompt to now go before my husband and my mom, two of the most beautiful, loving people in my life and say, “Hold me, please.  Just because.”  I’ve been too strong lately.  Too “independent.”  Too “do it on my own.”  I need to acknowledge that I feel broken at times and be ok with being vulnerable and broken before another.  And allow them to hold me.

Like so many of us, I often do a lot of the “holding.”  I’ve been great at that my whole life.  I do it for a profession.  But I can easily get caught up in being the one “listening” and “about the other person.”  I, too, need to have the courage to ask for someone to do the holding.  And I am blessed to have a mom and a husband that are awesome at that.  And long to do just that – hold me.

Sacred Softening

Sacred Softening

My body knows
has always known
my way back to God.

I dance
moving in slow sensual swirls
under the vastness of a moon-lit night

swaying until stillness fills every cell
and there are no hard edges
striving, panting, thinking

only breath
and heart.

Empty now,
I open into spaciousness

becoming the brilliant Night Jewel
boldly, gently shimmering her soft light.

And I discover that
I have always been
resting

shining

in God’s lap.

© 2011 Lisa A. McCrohan

 

It is in movement, sensual swirls, barefoot, under the moon that I soften and “return Home.”

Softening and surrendering. In movement. In writing a poem. This is how I return to the Divine and discover that I didn’t “go” anywhere. I’ve always been right here on God’s lap.

How do you “return” to the Divine within you and around you?

how the fear of death dissolves

sunrise

This is a tender post.  Over the last few years, I’ve started to reconcile my fear of others dear to me dying.  I used to be terrified of my parents dying.  My dad remembers when I was in middle school and we were traveling with my soccer team to a tournament in North Carolina.  My dad was getting dressed and I saw gray hair on his chest (he was all of 40 or so!).  “Dad!” I cried with tears streaming down my face, “You are dying!”

Ever since I can remember, I had been scared of my parents dying.  Past life stuff, stuff from this life…doesn’t matter the source, really.  All I know is that the fear of them dying kept me frozen.  It kept me from living.  It made me hold back.  In most of my relationships.

That fear is losing its grip on me. Little by little.  And oddly enough, this comes at a time when my parents are aging.  Dad retires this month.

I have always believed in a Divine presence. I’ve never needed to “know” what “comes after death” in this lifetime.  I do not think ANY one religion has the monopoly on truth when it comes to “the after-life.”  I have always just known that whatever happens, it has to be lovely.  And gentle.  It’s home.

But we can know something and still not be “healed.”  Information — in the form of a thought, knowledge, or even a cognitive belief — informs.  It doesn’t heal.

Healing happens in our bodies.  It is here, in our cells, in our tissues, in our nervous systems, in our BODIES that we hold all our memories, experiences, interactions.  It is in our bodies that we hold the fears (and joys) that arise out of those experiences.  So,  it is IN THE BODY where we “go” to heal these tender wounds.

How?

Noticing what arises when we become fearful.  Noticing the sensations that arise.  Breathing.  Allowing.  Holding each image that arises with gentleness, as though we were holding a small child.  Giving it all a lot of spaciousness.  Connecting to our hearts.  Allowing the body to do what it needs to do.

Mindfulness.  Radical acceptance.  Spaciousness. Gentleness.

Doing very little.

These are healing balm. This is how any fear dissolves.

It’s not through analyzing our fears or dissecting them. It’s feeling them in our bodies.  And letting the body’s innate wisdom to do what it needs to do.

Our mainstream culture fears death.  We are “sold” every day on ways to preserve and hang on to youth.  But this keeps us in denial that we will all meet death.  You, me, those dear to us.   We will all meet death.

Instead of being frozen with fear, I find that I am thawing out.  I am beginning to LIVE this one precious, wild life, with total clarity that death will meet me some day.

And I hope that my last breath is the same as this one I take right now: full of gratitude and true contentment.  I hope that I have lived a life of being ALIVE and tender.  I hope I have followed the delights of my heart with no regrets…surrendering and “birthing” into Home.

How about a little tenderness?

Little C as a newborn after a bath

One of my teachers shared this video.  Oh my goodness.  Please, view it right now. Then come back and read this post.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2012/04/skip-your-morning-meditation-watch-this-instead

I was moved to tears watching this hospital worker bathe this newborn.  I was struck by the woman’s tenderness and total presence as she bathed a child who is not her own.  Time stood still as she slowly led this newborn into an experience of the holy – an opportunity to remember “Home” out of the womb.  Her safe and loving hands caressed this child in wholeness.  A sacred, intimate dance in the water.  A sensual experience.

Tenderness.  Leads.  Us.  Home.

Watch how the newborn settles.  Just watch his or her eyes as the worker brings the child into the water.  They communicate “ahhhhh, I am home.”   See how his or her body completely relaxes.  See how the worker’s hands lovingly massage the child’s head, back and hips.

I showed this to Brian last night.  We sat in silence for awhile — how you do when you’ve just seen God incarnate.  And you realize you’ve just been asleep but now you are awake and SEEING how EVERYthing is drenched in the Divine and is holy.

Witnessing this newborn’s first bath cuts through the veils of illusion that keep me from remembering that each of us was such a newborn.  Each of us – no matter what we’ve done in life – has that pure and holy newborn in us.  The sacred pulse of the Divine.  We are breathing miracles, vessels of Divine Light.  Holders of the holy.

Our flesh is a miracle.  Our bodies are holy.  I do believe that our human journey is about casting off the veils of illusion in our minds so our hearts can lead us where they know to go:  Home.

Every human being deserves such loving touch, tenderness, and attention. A reminder of how the Divine holds us.  A reminder of Home.

Who do we hold with such tenderness?  Who do we need to hold like this?

Who holds us with such tenderness?  Who do we need to ask to hold us like this?

When we tenderly regard and hold others, we bring heaven to earth.  And all of us soften, open, connect…and settle.

If just one day this week all of us held someone with such regard and tenderness, our planet would feel a gigantic shift.

Truly we all walking on holy ground.  We should all have enough sense to take off our shoes and kiss the ground – and each other.

Holy Saturday: the space between death and birth

This is a reprint from Holy Saturday 2007…

Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving until the right action arises by itself? – Tao Te Ching

Birthing my son is the closest I have come to touching the hem of Death.  In Tibet, they say childbirth is the closest one comes to death.  I’d believe it. Mystically speaking, I find myself now in the space between death and birth.

Yesterday my good friend Cynthia reminded me of Holy Saturday.  Jesus is dead; his body is in the tomb.  The rug has been pulled out from underneath his family and friends.  Each is reacting in his or her own way.  Some are freaking out, others want answers.

On Holy Saturday, nothing appears to be happening.  What is known is that Jesus is dead.  What is unknown is who they are to become – as individuals and as a community.  That is yet to be born.

Holy Saturday – the space between death and birth.

We find ourselves touching the hem of Death and yet reaching for the apron strings of Birth when we go through a transition in life.

The self I was before my son’s birth is no longer.  Who I am to be is still being birthed.  The Buddha teaches that there really is no self – self is an illusion.  There is only Oneness.

Maybe Holy Saturday is a call for us to let go of our illusions of even death and birth…to go deeper into our Oneness – our true essence.

It is a time of staying with yourself until the chattering mind quiets down and you come face-to-face with a glimpse of your true essence.

This can be scary at first.  We may freak out like the apostles in the upper room.  We may mourn our own death like the women who went to tend to Jesus’ body.  We may want to have control over something like Peter.

And yet, we want to let go.  We feel the call within us to let go of our ego’s grip on the false stories of birth and death we’ve been telling ourselves.  We are drawn into the deeper waters of the Unknown.

The only way I know how to “let go” is to be fully present with the experience of Holy Saturday.  To be present with the fear of losing what is known.  To be present with the hope that what emerges is something filled with abundance and beauty.

And how do we do let go?

- Well, whatever it is that is dying – whatever it is that is still yet to be birthed—we breathe with it.

-  We “send” compassion to that space within us.

-  We have the courage to breathe, cry, reach out, and wait until the mud settles and the water is clear.

-  We have the courage to hope that if we remain unmoving – fully present to what is happening within us and around us – the next right action with arise by itself.

100th Post: Love Heals

This is my 100th post. Some may reach that marker in a month. It took me over two years. And that’s just perfect.

I’ve been writing since I was in third grade. Books of tall tales, mysteriously missing christmas presents, flying love bugs from outerspace, and friends who make you smile. I started a “blog” on my old website long before I knew what a blog was. My soul softly smiles when I write a poem for a dear one. It’s in my bones that I’ll write a book someday. And if I don’t, my kiddos might (with all the journals I’ve left them!).

Here’s the thing: I used to put undue stress on myself with “shoulds” and deadlines about my life’s work. There was this urgency in me. The kind that originates from fear. Fears that hide themselves quite well within you and disguise themselves as allies of your “becoming.” I wanted to write books and books and books. I felt CALLED to, divinely inspired to.

But fear ALWAYS comes from ego. Not from the soul.

I am still called to write. I am still inspired to share the truths that rise up from within me, breathed by the Divine-in-residence of my soul. I am still called to lead – movements and meditations that connect us to our Selves, each other and the Divine. Every time I turn around, it’s as though God breathes this knowing in me.

BUT. HOW I go about what I do has shifted. The urgency – well, I sat with it. Loved it. Gave it room to be held. Craddled it.

And underneath that laid my fears. Fear of (and I’m being quite honest here) not “being” anyone. Of not “doing anything special” before I died. Fear of “not being remembered” long after I was in the grave. So I held those, too. Loved them. Craddled them.

I didn’t do this alone. My “tribe” of dear ones, my beloved Brian, my children — my greatest teachers — their love for me has wrapped itself around every raw bone in my body until my bones remembered the Truth we all know long before we are born: we are beautiful, safe, protected, adored, and so so loved.

And over time, not in one fell swoop, not in a magical wave of the wand, I sensed a peace taking up residence within me. Where there used to be fields of anxiety, now seeds of contentment blossomed. No rush. It’s all perfect. Just. As. It. Is.

And that seems to be the voice I hear now when the old storyline of fear creeps up. I am exactly where I am to be in this moment. Holding my little ones, being with Brian, leading a meditation at work, or writing a poem. I am reminded of Hafiz’s words,

“The place where you are right now, God circled on a map for you.”

Now when I sense an urgency in me, it’s the fire of LOVE rather than the chains of fear. And my exhale reminds me:

“in the end, what matters most is:

how well did you love,

how fully did you live,

how deeply did you learn to let go?”

- Buddha

Let go. Of all plans. Ego. And, yes, even dreams.

Because, really, what any blog post, article or book I’ve ever written or will write comes down to is this:

Love heals.

And if I can breathe that Truth into the moments I am with my children, my husband, my dear ones, my colleagues, I have done enough…whether I never write a book or I write a hundred.

And I hope my final words with my last breath are: “thank you.” Because love has truly transformed me and healed me. I am forever grateful. And I am grateful for the movement within me to offer that love as the poetry of my heart to the world.

fully present and delighting