I am not very familiar with stillness. In many ways, I have forgotten how to rest. Recently, I got reacquainted with this part of me. I went to a lecture at our church, and I went to this lecture, sick. I was fatigued and nauseous for whatever reason, but I felt compelled to see Walter Brueggeman, a famous Old Testament scholar, speak. I thought it might be boring or way over my head. But what he shared ended up being very relevant and affirming to what I am experiencing in my life right now, particularly in relation to slowing down. My learnings did not only arise from what Brueggeman shared, but also from my experience during the time I was there. I am not alone in this unfamiliarity with stillness and solitude. It is a cultural, as well as personal, issue, I dare to say.
As I listened intently to Dr. Brueggeman, I became distracted at times by my body. My body was not well. And during the break, I rested my head on my black fleece cape and I stretched my legs out on the pew. I felt a tad awkward as I did this. The voice inside of me yelled, "You are not supposed to lay down in public! And for God's sakes, not at church in the pew! How disrespectful!" This voice got quieter as I softened and let my body sink into the red velvet cushion underneath me. I closed my eyes and began to rest. And then people began walking by me. One woman said, "Wake up!" and tapped my leg. And then another woman, graciously nudged me, "Maybe you should go home, honey." And then, bless his heart, another man that I love said, "Oh, I thought you were George, the homeless man." That made me laugh. And one woman, came by and stroked my head and put the back of her hand on my forehead, in a very motherly way, and said, "Do you have a fever, honey?" I noticed every voice outside of me that morning, was a voice that I have carried around within me for years. The minute I wish to rest, even if I am not sick, I hear inside of me, "Wake up!" Or, "Get out of here, don't let people see you like this!" Or, "You are useless when you are not doing anything, Jenny!" And then there is a little care in me, the mother that touches me and says, "How can I help you, honey?" And now, my body, with all of the sickness it has been through this winter, is crying out for rest. And I am finally listening.
For the remainder of the morning at the church, I watched this storyteller/scholar weave us in
and out of the Old Testament, with grace. And it was at the end that he brought it all home for me. This white-haired wise man came out from behind the podium, and I felt as if he were speaking directly to me when he said something like this, "We have been told that to be the best person in this life, is to be the biggest, the fastest, the strongest, and the most productive person." And then he crouched down, with a sparkle in his eye, and in a whisper, he said, "And that my friends, is a lie."
The second after he finished, I tucked my black cape around me quickly, my face wet with tears, and I sneaked out of the church. I cried these tears, from deep down in my belly, all the way home. I know that I am slowly letting go of the lie. I can feel it. And I am holding on to life and my faith. Today I begin a sabbatical from many "doings", including this computer. I want to explore what it means to live life. I want to swim, eat, garden, sing, dance and cry in truth. And to do that, I must slow it all WAY down. And, starting today, I intend to try. Please keep me in your prayers, as I extract myself from many of my doings, some of which I have defined myself by for what seems like forever, and sink myself into being in every moment. I long to reclaim the miracle of the ordinary; eating a strawberry, bathing my children, washing my floor. I want my body to feel this gift, not just know it in my head. I want every cell of my body to experience what it means to be alive. I want to give my Ego a break, always seeking Greatness. And I want my heart to show me that Greatness lives in every moment I am alive. Just the movement of of our fingertips is a miracle. I will be back with you in the fall. Until then, have a blessed summer.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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My husband Andy got a bee hive a few weeks ago. It is in our yard, and there are 5,000 bees in it. I was a bit alarmed, at first, to say the least. My friend Jenny, my sister, Jill and I all sat in the hot tub on the the evening that the bees moved in. Bees like water. I didn't really know that. So, a few bees began buzzing around the hot tub. Jenny remained fairly calm. I can't say the same for Jill and I. Anytime a bee would fly by, we would stiffen and yell out each other's names. We formed a plan while we sat "relaxing". If a bee approached, we were going under. It was that simple. We would just hold our breath until the bee took up a new location. Well, that plan went awry when a bee flew close to my sisters face. The only thing I caught, was her naked body jumping out of the hot tub, very quickly. And then, she looked in a panic, even a little bit of drool coming out of her mouth, as she cried, "Oh, Jenny, Oh, Jenny." She couldn't get her flip flops on, so she ran as fast as she could to the house, her towel flapping in the wind. I turned and looked at Jenny, whose mouth was hanging open in startled concern. I was laughing my ass off. The Brady's have always been over-reactors. Bless our hearts. Jill's okay. No bee sting. And the funny thing is, Andy and his beekeeper friend have told us: They don't want to hurt you. They will only sting you if they feel threatened. So, remain calm. Hmmm, this was kind of hard at first. The second I hear that buzzing, I swat. I just do. I am not sure why.
Fast forward a week or so. I started warming to the bees. Knowing they are our pollenators and our honey makers. They keep things moving in our natural world. Then, Andy brought in a honey comb that they had made. Wow. It is a miracle. These 5,000 bees make these perfectly shaped hexagons. Just naturally. It is just in their nature to make these beautiful things. It is a reminder that if we trust, we are here to create beauty. We just are. And by the looks of this honeycomb and the sweet, thick taste of their honey, bees know this truth. The honeycomb smells so pure, so sweet. I also love how bees do their jobs. The drones don't say, I want to be the queen. And the worker bees don't say, I want to be a drone. They all take pride in their job and they do it. And their community runs smoothly. Not a whole lot of ego here, as far as I can tell.
I found myself one sunny afternoon, walking over to the hive with curiosity. As I stood there, bees flew over head. And I could see them land and scuttle into the hive, with bright orange pollen on their legs. I saw others fly out, on their way to some plump poppy next door. I breathed and centered myself as I heard the buzzing. A lot of buzzing, as a matter of fact. 5,000 bees, remember. They weren't all out, of course, but still just knowing I am near that many bees is a bit unsettling. I stayed there a while. And just watched. I felt like I was intruding. Peeking in on something sacred.
I sit in the hot tub every night and many afternoons. And even in the brightest of sunlight, the bees don't bother me anymore. I don't even hear them most times. But on my walk the other morning, I saw one of our bees in the alley. I know it was one of ours. I could just tell. I think I might be growing to love these bees. Or at the very least, my respect grows for them. With their buzzing, they are teaching me how to breathe and feel my feet on the ground. And that is the beginning of Life.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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I witnessed a baptism this past Sunday at my church. When a baptism is held at my church, the children gather around and they help. They hold the prayer shawl for the baby, they light the candle, and they witness. Then, other family members and church friends gather to witness. It is beautiful. A statement is then read to the baby or person, that basically says, this church is your spiritual home and you will not be judged wherever you are on your path. My eyes tear every time, just that simple acceptance, so many of us long for. And then, we just do our best as a church family.
The baptism I witnessed on Sunday opened me in a different way. And let me tell you why. The couple held that baby, while their 4 year old daughter, Eva, witnessed, holding one of her mama's hands. The minister cupped his hand and drew water from the bowl. Then he poured it over the baby's head, saying the words that ministers say. And it was at this moment, that Eva began laughing hysterically. Each of the three times, Ben, the minister would pour water on Addison's head, Eva, with her cherubic little face, would laugh and laugh and laugh. She laughed the kind of laugh that comes from every cell; from way down in your belly. I thought, this is truly baptism right here. This is it. Laughter cleans us. Returns us to simple joy. I began to laugh with Eva. I don't think I have ever laughed in a baptism, standing up in front of the church. Even though I had a few voices that said, "You are not supposed to laugh in church!" (what in the world is that voice about?), I let myself laugh. I let Eva be my teacher. She didn't have any big hairy voices telling her not to laugh. So, I didn't need to listen to mine. And as I laughed, I felt washed clean. Baptized, actually.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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The following is an excerpt from a paper I am writing for Wisdom University. The numbers indicate areas that are cited in my paper. Enjoy...
Anne Lamott, author and spiritual teacher, says, “If you have a body, you are entitled to the full range of feelings. It comes with the package.”2 Many of us did not learn this. We have left parts of ourselves behind. We learned that to cry is weak, or to be angry is shameful, or to rest is lazy. We learned that our bodies are just not good enough. We live in the land of perfection, where we set standards for ourselves that cannot be reached. Many of us long to know our wholeness, our truest essence. Marion Woodman, Jungian author and founder of the Body-Soul program, archetypally helps us with this concept of perfection in her description of the Medusa and Sophia. In her book, Addiction to Perfection, Woodman says, “Whereas Medusa wants everything permanent and perfect, engraved in stone, Sophia wants things moving, breathing, creating.”3 When we follow the teachings of Medusa, certain parts of ourselves, that we learned are unacceptable, are put in the closet to gather dust. Even though they are out of sight, they run our lives. Rather than seeing life from our wholeness, we look out of the parts of ourselves that have been affirmed and felt safe. And slowly, over time, we forget the other valid, beautiful and necessary parts of ourselves. Consequently, the parts of ourselves that we have been operating out of, become overused, tired out and stiff. The very aspects of ourselves that helped us to survive, now have the tendency to lose their luster through simple fatigue. The late Irish poet, John O’Donohue, conveys this idea so beautifully in his book Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom. He writes, “There is a beautiful complexity of growth within the human soul. In order to glimpse this, it is helpful to visualize the mind as a tower of windows. Sadly, many people remained trapped at one window, looking out everyday to the same scene, in the same way. Real growth is experienced when you draw back from that window, turn, and walk around the inner tower of the soul and see all the different windows that await your gaze. Through these different windows, you can see new vistas of possiblity, presence and creativity.”4
With this awareness, many of us now question what we have learned and we are beginning to open to a new way of being in the world; a way that allows all of ourselves to participate in life. But, how do we begin to live life out of this wholeness? How do we reclaim Sophia, the wisdom of moving, breathing and creating in our lives? How do we reclaim the parts of ourselves that have been left in the darkness? Where do we go to remember our essence? We go straight to “the holy and hidden heart of it”, as Frederick Buechner says.5 We go, with deep respect and curiosity, to our bodies.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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I have a confession to make. And I make it with deep compassion for myself and those of you who can relate. If I am honest, I have always been one who wants attention, most of (or embarrassingly all of) the attention. I often strive to be the favorite; of my professors, colleagues, even friends. When I create, it is with both with my deepest passions and also my need to be noticed. There are many reasons why I have thought what I do and who I know give me worth. Somewhere along the way, I have forgotten my essence. Who am I without all that I do, or how many friends I have?
A month ago, I was so ill that I stayed in bed for seven days. During this time, it was as though my darkest angels surfaced from the muck in me. The angels that deliver the dark, deep truth. It feels like bad news and liberation at the same time. I danced a little bit with these angels, mostly in my head, which quite frankly, almost never feels like a solid foundation to dance on. And then, I returned to old, familiar ways of coping. Doing and Knowing. As I laid in bed, I joined the website, Facebook.com. On this website, you can reconnect with friends, old and new. And the best part for an attention seeker like me, is that the number of friends you have is listed on your profile page, for all to see! Over the course of the week in my bed, I accrued sixty friends! And it fed me a little, but not like it has in the past.
When I am sick, I feel unproductive, and I hear things in my head like, "You are not worthy unless you are organizing your closets!" Or, "You are worthless if you are not teaching a class!" Or "Nobody has called you, you are completely alone." Fun stuff when I am sick. Not to mention, sickness is the darkest place for my husband and I too navigate. Neither one of us likes to be weak, and when I am sick, I can't hide my weakness. The masks are pulled off.
God is in the dark places. Even the darkest places. To experience God in the places where beauty is easily missed, is to take a walk down the path of wholeness. To know God in the places where it feels next to impossible, like it would be a miracle that even a stream of light could enter, that is to know really important parts of God. So, as I laid in my bed, day after day, losing my mind (thank god), I came closer to my essence. It didn't come in big fireworks. It didn't come like a knight in shining armor. It was in the ordinary, under my bed sheets kind of way, that I experienced the miracle of God's presence. It came in the form of softness, nurturing. I wasn't so hard on myself this time around with sickness. I didn't force myself out of bed to DO. I let myself rest. I drank water, let others rub my feet and take my kids. I asked for help when I needed it and let myself cry if I didn't receive what I needed. It was really dark in the part of me I have called weak. And this time, through the shame, the shame in receiving, I saw a stream of light come streaming through. And I felt a little more alive because of it.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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Being in the moment is experiencing God in everything. From the beautiful sunset, to the garbage ridden alley. God is not absent from anything. Eckhart Tolle, author of The New Earth, says knowing yourself is to be rooted in being, not lost in your mind. Yes! My mind takes me everywhere but here. It is amazing how I can be walking down a spacious, alive tree lined street, and be thinking about three months from now. My children are my master teachers in relishing the moment.
When Andrew finishes his school day, here is how we usually reconnect, "How was your day, Andrew?" "Good." "What did you do today?" He responds either, "Nothing", or, "I don't know, Mom." Children are in the moment. No wonder Jesus told us to follow the children. Young children and animals are instinctual. They aren't living for tomorrow, they are living for the moment. My questions take Andrew backwards. And he is not there. I also did this with Lizzie as we celebrated her birthday together; eating yummy applesauce cake, looking into her eyes, I asked her about her day; the part that already happened. It is so easy to do. Many would ask, then, what do we talk about? Good question.
I am trying out some new ways of talking with my children. We stepped out of the car the other day, and quite frankly, I felt at a loss. If I didn't ask about something they had done that day, or something we were looking forward to, what we would talk about. So, I decided to play with this a bit. I said, "Wow, can you feel that wind on your face?" And they said, "Yeah, Mom, it's really strong today." And, Lizzie just turned her face up to the sky to feel it. And then I said, "Look at those brilliant red flowers over there." And Andrew said, "Yeah, they are really growing, Mom." And so on and so forth. I have to say,in that moment, I was more present to my kids. And they were present to me. I liked it a lot. We actually had more to say to one another. I agree with Jesus, let's follow the children or the cat or the dog. They are not in yesterday or tomorrow. They are not missing a moment. They are right smack in the middle of it.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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We celebrated Lizzie's fourth birthday on Sunday. And on Tuesday, Lizzie and I lunched at my favorite restaurant in Colorado Springs, Shuga's. Lizzie's eyes traveled up to the ceiling where large-size orgami swans hung, and to the bright colored silk gerber daisies hanging from ribbon on the window pane. As she took the room in, I took her in. Lizzie has blue eyes that you can swim in for a while, soft summer blond hair that I could rub my nose in for hours and most of all, Lizzie is bold in her living.
As we sat at our small round circular table, waiting for our applesauce cake and milk, Lizzie slid the coke bottle with tulips aside and reached out her hands. I grasped them, our arms stretched long across the table and we both had excited grins from ear to ear. In that precious moment, I asked her, "Lizzie, what is it that you love most about life?" She scrunched up her nose, squinted her eyes and took on a thinking pose for a second or two. Then she answered, "Donuts."
It's so simple with Liz. Lizzie experiences God in everything, like most young children. It's us adults that wait for God in the fireworks, or those big AHA! moments. But Lizzie, she experiences God in everything. God doesn't choose what circles to hang in, God's in it all. Even donuts.
Lizzie eats Life up. And life eats her up. This life is a gift, for however long we are given it. So, why not experience God in everything? Even a donut. Even in someone you really, really don't like. Or a brilliant, blooming fruit tree?
How do we eat life up?, you might ask. I say, return to your body. Our bodies don't need any help in experiencing life around us, what our bodies need, is our attention. And if you have children, or children in your life, do EVERYTHING you can to affirm their connection to their bodies. Just attending to your body is enough of a teaching. When you honor the body, you affirm the heart and soul of who we are. And, you honor the source from which we came.
From The Instruction Manual for Receiving God, by Jason Schulman
Do you want to eat something delicious? Then eat the whole apple.
If you eat only the core, you are foolish. If you eat the skin alone,
you will go hungry. If you peel the apple, exposing its inner fruit with no obstacle to your teeth, you will miss the crisp snap that is also part
of the experience of eating an apple.
My advice, let God taste all of you. Don’t be ashamed that you have a fruitless core, a hard skin, and a soft pulp that turns brown in its
unprotected state. If you let God eat you up completely,
God will be your constant companion. Yum!
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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When my Dad was alive, he would end every phone call with this phrase, "B. Love." In the Brady family, B. Love is an abbreviated term for Bye and I love you. He would say this not only in the privacy of his own home. He would say this with no shame, no embarrassment, anywhere. Even, as an attorney, in front of his colleagues. In fact, I remember him saying as he was taking a break from a deposition he was holding, B. Love. Enny. He called me Enny, the Brady's were, and still are, big on abbreviating.
When my Dad died, over his coffin, hung a sash, that said
"Beloved Father and Grandfather." That's when I first got to thinking about B. Love. B. Love. Ed. I think my Dad was leaving us with much more than a mushed together Bye, I love you. He left us with a gift, an order, even a mandate. B. Love. Be love, Jenny. Not just an abbreviation of a greeting, but something to live by. Be Love. Let God into every part of me. Every cell. Let every cell of me Be Love. For this, I must soften, receive Life as the gift that it is, and be open to receiving it in it's wholeness. Opening to all of life, not just the feel good stuff. Can I be love when life does not happen on my terms? Can I have faith in God when things are not going as planned? Can I let go of the idea that God is in my life only when things are going smoothly? To be love is radical. It is necessary and it is real.
Thank you, Dad, for in your simple phrase, you remind us what we are all called to be. Love.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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As I got ready for bed the other evening, the plant on my dresser caught my eye. It looks okay, I thought to myself. It is green, about 6 inches high. It's leaves have those white streaks on them, that I hear indicate that a plant is healthy. But, then I got to thinking. If I am honest, I rarely water my plants. I water them every couple of weeks. I water them enough to keep them alive, enough to survive. But I do not water them enough for them to thrive. I thought, what if I actually gave them what they needed? A place to soak in the sunlight, more water, special nourishment, a re-potting every now and then, some loving attention. They would thrive. They would probably be twice the size! Maybe even bigger! Imagine their potential.
We are not here just to make it through. To just exist. We are here to fill in every space, to allow every cell to be bathed in love, to grow to our fullest potential. Many of us do not give ourselves the nourishment or attention we need. Maybe because we "don't have the time", or don't think we deserve it, or really do not know how to receive that care. I water myself with dance, with time to myself, time with God, a lot of space to make mistakes, to engage in practices that remind me that I am beloved. When I skip this time, when I don't give myself enough sunlight, I hurt. I eat a lot of sugar. I yell at my husband a lot. And I spend a lot of time in front of screens. And even in those times, I know that the sun still shines on me. Often it is just a matter of turning my cheek to face it, to experience it. I leave some of my plants in the shade and they suffer because of it.They are not getting what they need. But for us, no matter what, we cannot escape it, the sun still shines on us. We are loved that much.
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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As we sat and ate at the dinner table tonight, Lizzie said to me, "Mom, I know what I need to have a good, healthy body." And I said, "What's that, Lizzie?" And she said, "God......and my veggies."
And Andrew today said, as he was showing me a fort he and Lizzie built, "Mom, look in here!" I peeked in a saw a pile of one dollar bills. I responded with a resounding, "Wow!" And Andrew said, "Yeah, Mom, we are rich!" As I began to worry in that split second that Andrew might have inherited all of my family's money issues, I heard him say," Well, Mom, not rich really, because rich is in your heart. I just have a lot of money."
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| Posted by Jenny Finn at | | | |
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