5 Steps to Healing and Peace

Meditation helps us heal. It’s a healthy, smart thing to do. It eases pain by changing our bodies and by changing how we manage thought. Doctors know that patients who meditate feel less pain, and psychologists know that meditation helps people handle stress better.

I sit down to meditate. I turn off my phone, close the door, light a candle. I sit in silence with my eyes closed, taking slow deep breaths.

So what’s the big deal?

1.“I can watch my thoughts go by. I don’t have to be inside them.”

When we begin to sit in meditation, thoughts crowd in on us. In beginning meditation, the very first thing we learn is that it’s okay to just watch thoughts and release them.

This is new. Since we were babies, we believed that our thoughts were what’s real. In fact, we think that our thoughts are who we are.

Thoughts seem to have us by the throat. But instead we can just release them. It’s as if we are lying at the bottom of a river watching thoughts from a distance. It’s a huge idea. What a relief!

2. “My thoughts are a bigger force in my life than I realized. But I can manage them.”

When we see how tough it is to release thoughts, we comprehend their power. On one hand, it’s a huge relief to know it’s okay to release them. But on the other hand, it’s not easy.

Just seeing thoughts as optional is huge. But sitting and trying to relax without thinking shows us something even bigger:  Thought is powerful!  

Thoughts push us around. Thoughts are bullies. Certain thoughts are the very worst of our bad habits. “I’ll never be good enough.”  “Life’s a bitch and then we die.” “Let’s face it—No one really cares.” “Nobody knows if I’m alive or dead.”  Allowing certain thoughts to run unchecked is one way many people abuse themselves. And it’s emotionally unhealthy.

Instead, it’s possible to harness the power of thought. Thoughts can be healthier and more healing.

But first you have to realize how powerful thought is. 

Thought is…
  • A powerful oppressor that we allow to hurt us;
  • A punishment we use against ourselves and others;
  • A tool for caring and kindness;
  • A way to manifest new goodness.

 

Let’s go back to lying on the bottom of the river, watching as our thoughts float above on the surface. What’s the big deal?

It’s that “I” am not up there being the thoughts. There’s a separate reality that is me, that is NOT thought.

Wow–Another huge insight! There’s more to what’s real than what I think. And this reality, where I am separate from thoughts, is healing, peaceful, and simple. This is the Child of God.

3. “I am not my thoughts. My thoughts are not my identity.”

I see that I am more than my thoughts. No matter what my thoughts are—good or bad—there’s a part of me separate from my thoughts.

More huge growth—My deepest identity is separate from the crazy circus characters of my thoughts.  Many of us have thoughts that repeat again and again. Others of us have thoughts we hate so much that we would rather die than have people find out about them.

Meditation soothes that shame because we see that our thoughts are NOT our essence.  Thoughts are like clouds that hide the sky. They come and go but they are not the sky itself.

In meditation we learn how to watch the sky instead of the clouds that come and go.

4.  “I’m in charge of my thoughts. I am not a victim of my thoughts.”

We can use thought to heal, and this is a wonderful life skill. Once we recognize that thoughts can be bullies, we can step in and take charge.

Here are three traditional ways to use thought for good:

  • Visualization: There are thousands of traditional meditations in which we visualize good images. For example, to help someone heal, we can visualize warm bright light soaking into their bodies. For ourselves, we can visualize the safety of a hidden glen or an angel’s protection. Here’s a great link to get started with visualization.
  • Affirmations: We can create positive thought patterns to replace the destructive ones. For example, instead of thinking “Bad things always happen to me,” we can tell ourselves, “I am worthy of joy.”  For many, this thought itself heals. Here’s a link to a great article on healing affirmations.
  • Guided Meditations: There are thousands of meditations available online in which a teacher uses images to guide us to a healthier truth. For example, there are guided meditations for healing kidney stones or for healing depression. Here’s an excellent link to a guided meditation for anxiety.

5. “I’ve discovered an openness apart from thought.”

After we’ve practiced meditation for a while, we discover a wonderful new reality. We don’t stop thinking—but we’re no longer trapped inside our own thought patterns. We’re comfortable with watching our thoughts from a distance—In fact, we love the relief we get when we sit to meditate.

For many people, this is an opening to God. Many Christians call this spaciousness the “Christ Consciousness.” In this state, it’s easier to feel God’s love and to receive God’s healing.

Thought is not true or false. It just is.

Thought is not who I am. I am a Child of God, no matter what my thoughts.

Thought is not what is real.

What I know is this: God’s love is what is real. It is forever, and it is my essence. 

 

Burrowing into Darkness

Things seem a shambles. Outside, I question if democracy is worth it. Fire deaths, atrocities, shootings and massive hardship blare from every screen and hit me like gut punches. Inside, in my close life, the confusions, the missteps pile up and tear at me—Friends with harsh diagnoses, addicted family members, uncertainty, confusion. It feels like my heart, and the world’s, is just broken. A shambles.

Things are turning dark. Yet that’s as it should be. I know this about Fall. All the leaves let go. Hollyhock stalks bend and collapse. Pods open, seeds fall. Mist rises as the lake cools. The wind smells of a neighbor’s morning fire. With the leaves down, I can see the lake. The light is both brighter and darker.

Everything has given up. The broken stalks and bright skies have surrendered to change. Leaves jump in the wind and pile up in corners by stones and under bushes. When I meditate, mornings are black.

There is magic ahead. Rebirth doesn’t happen in April, just as conception doesn’t happen in the delivery room. Rebirth requires conception, and that miracle—and I use the word “miracle” on purpose—needs darkness.  In the womb, in the earth, in life, undreamed-of things burst out like those first tiny cells of an embryo—in darkness, in power, in hope.  

I trust the bare trees, the pumpkins, the chill and the darkness. The hummingbirds and robins left weeks ago. Nuthatches and chickadees peer in at me, wondering about suet. The longest night is coming. I think of bonfires, feasts, tombstones and candles. I think of shattered dreams, despair, tears and death.

I trust winter’s silence. It feels right. Seeds burrow into the earth mother. Conception needs utter darkness. I trust what is hidden, the things I cannot comprehend. There are Holy Secrets that come out of the Divine, and I can’t pretend to understand them. Grace is real.

My thoughts don’t work. I think I know what should or should not happen, but I am wrong. The bare trees and dancing leaves have surrendered to the coming darkness. I follow them and trust.

Every year, every century, dark magic happens again—A light in the darkness. Under the bitterness, seeds lie in the earth. One day their cells change. I’m too small and foolish to know exactly when or how, and that’s okay.

What I trust is the darkness itself—the presence, the awareness, the magic, the love. I am a bare tree branch, a fallow field. Emptiness and silence is what I need. I am a seed. I am potential. I burrow in and trust the holy life force. What’s needed is exactly the darkness. I have to be a seed, not knowing, not planning. I have to be the magic of what might come, the possibility of something I do not understand.

Hope happens. New life pops. The wind turns soft. There’s something new that only the universe could have dreamt up.  An exquisite crocus. Fresh grass. An easy breath. New life. Healing.

So I rest in the darkness and trust God. I am a seed and so are you. The light will come, but not in the ways we expect. All we need to know is that Love holds us close. The darkness is safe and right.

 

The Flash Up Ahead

Life hits hard. Death rips away what’s false, and all I can see is clear light. When someone dies, there’s a flash. I realize—again— that only love matters. I gasp as if lightning had sizzled and lit the night.

I remember being young, walking up the stairs of a red brick church with Mom and Dad. The parents of the dead teenager stand next to her coffin, hugging people, talking. Their eyes shine so that it hurts to look. It’s not the tears. It’s the flash, the clear love, that stuns me.

Her death was foolish. Who would sit on a light boat as it was being towed on a trailer? It was nothing, just a second. One bump.

The brilliance in the eyes of this mother and father blinds me. I look away because I’m young. I can’t look because it finds every crack in me. 

When I was young I hadn’t learned that love itself is bigger than happy or tragic, good or bad. It’s bigger than any label or word. It’s everything, like the sky beyond the clouds. It’s awareness itself, love calling to love, God outside of time.

Daily life and thoughts hide the sky, even though we yearn to see it. We want hope, but we don’t know how to find it.

Death’s work is so strange. It tears us open. It rips the clouds away so that the sky beyond, the awareness that is love, is just obvious. Undeniable. The flash, the vision of love, shocks us so completely that, even in our childishness and our denial, we fall to our knees.

When I was young, I didn’t know that being on my knees—knowing that I love and am loved—is the whole reason for life. It doesn’t matter if I’m on my knees to button someone’s coat or kneeling at a funeral.

I wish I could say that meditating taught me this, but it didn’t. Pain, loss and despair taught me, and they were harsh about it.

What meditation taught me was that what I thought was flashing off and on—the love, the light, forever, peace, kindness—shines as a beacon, steady, never flashing, never dimming. In silence as I meditated, I learned to sense the deeper reality that is God. I learned how to see the sky that the clouds hide.

Now, as an old woman, I’m always searching for those flashes, the moments when God is undeniable, when only love exists. Each one is priceless. I gather each one close and roll it in my fingers because I know this is the only thing that matters.

Here’s one when my baby sleeps on my chest and smiles in her sleep. Here’s another when my love holds me close and doesn’t let go. Here’s a tiny white coffin. Here’s a girl skating alone on a lagoon, a toddler singing in the bathtub, my grandmother combing her soft white hair, and a teenager practicing Shakespeare. “As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.”

What I know now is that in love, there is no time at all. There is no before and after. At this funeral, the brilliance in the parents’ eyes is the exact same instant as when they danced in the living room with that baby girl, when they combed out her snarls and braided her hair, when they daubed baking soda on her chicken pox, when they taught her to parallel park.

Victor Hugo said, “To love another person is to see the face of God.” Yes, it’s a cliché. But above the sentiment is the open sky itself. No storm can touch it.

And so I gather my flashes and smile. This is my life. I look into your eyes, and it’s your life too. You reach for me.

It’s the movement between us that is sacred. It’s our dance, the flash of light on faces, the light of one kind glance, the shape of hands touching that is the divine spark.

I stay on my knees now, knowing there are flashes all around me. This is my holy place. This is how I worship. I gaze into the flashes and never look away.