Shadowheart

For as long as I can remember, there had been this shadow around my heart.

I knew of its existence, and how it came to be. My life has presented many challenges, starting from a young age. I began exhibiting symptoms of Tourette’s Syndrome around age nine, and the disorder was wreaking havoc with my mind, body, emotions, and social life by puberty. I also lived with about fifteen years of physical and emotional abuse from a parental figure, from age four until escaping to college, at which time my mother and he finally separated.

This did not make for the easiest of childhoods. I was awkward, shy, full of self-doubt, and had little to no confidence in myself or my abilities. Thankfully, I had two strong role-models- a husband and wife that were my art teacher and my enrichment studies teacher at school, respectively. I am grateful for their unconditional positive regard, and that they pushed me to pursue my creative tendencies. Poetry, art, and music were my outlet, my escape from a reality with which I was ill-equipped to deal.

I frequently became angry and hurt when others didn’t meet my expectations. This was further complicated as I was often unrealistic in those expectations, expecting others to put my wishes and needs first, even though I rarely communicated these needs in a rational manner. Upon reflection, I could see that I had acted irrationally, but ‘in the moment’ I couldn’t control my emotions enough to stop and see the situation for what it was, and how I was contributing to the drama. I was completely caught up in my own self-created anger or hurt and would act out to try to avoid or deal with it.

Until recently, I have often identified myself with the shadow. My pain became my story. When I thought about the past, I would dwell on how unfair it was that I was abused, remember how badly I had been hurt, assign blame and try to figure out what I or others could have done differently. I obsessed over each tic and how others viewed me. I would cryptically allude to my childhood abuse, in the hopes that others would see how strong I’ve become, and infer what I must have gone through to overcome this pain.

The story I created was not always negative. I knew that my past had made me stronger. Because of it, I learned coping mechanisms, and taught myself to use the emotions to feed my creativity. Unfortunately, this also made the shadow that much harder to heal, or even want to. I had lived with it for so long and forged so much of my identity through it that I feared what would happen if it was no longer there. Would I lose my poetic voice? My artistic inspiration? Who would I be if not the shadow? I was afraid to find out. So I told myself that this was my lot, that art was fed with pain, and I was a better person for it.

This worked for many years, until someone unknowingly brought me face to face with myself, and I realized that the story I had created- one of a survivor who made it through tough times to emerge kinder, wiser, and more creative for it, was one that I could no longer keep up. I saw that I was still allowing my abuse, and therefore my abuser, to control my behaviors and attitudes, and something needed to change.

Meditation was the key.

I used to believe that one had to sit zazen each day to build an effective meditative practice and achieve awareness. I struggled to find the exercise that would finally bring the peace I sought. I tried every guided meditation to be found on YouTube, walked labyrinths, played alpha, beta, delta, and theta waves until my headphones fell apart- anything to break through and become the wise ol’ mystic that I wanted everyone to believe I was.

I finally found the break-through I was seeking when I read Eckhart Tolle’s ‘A New Earth’. The book was the catalyst for me to see that fighting is not the way to achieve inner peace. All I had to do to achieve awareness was… just be aware. Nothing more.

As often as occurs to me, I take a moment to foster clear awareness. I don’t sit lotus position for an hour each day or shut myself in my room for my daily meditation time. I meditate in my kitchen, while letting the dogs out, at work between conferences, on my breaks, while making dinner- any time I can safely do ‘nothing’, I gently guide my attention to my breathing, then take a moment to just be- no judgment or worry, just pure awareness of my surroundings, both outer and inner.

If there’s a mindset at all, it is one of slight curiosity. Not curiosity to the point of investigation. I’m not trying to learn something or figure something out, but just experience whatever’s in front of or inside of me.

For example, find somewhere safe and relatively peaceful and look at a tree. Look at the trunk, its texture and design. Is it large and gnarled, skinny and smooth? Notice how the branches grow- twisted or straight, up or out? Are there leaves? What colors are present? Is there any movement? Don’t judge the tree- just see it for how it exists. Accept that the tree is there for a reason, each branch grown out of necessity and design. In this acceptance lies that ability to see ourselves the same way. I became more able to view past hurts not with anger, but with an open curiosity. I could allow whatever emotions came up to just happen, and then view them with this same curiosity. I came to understand that the past cannot hurt you any more than you allow it to.

Curiosity is spirit’s driving force to understand itself. We free ourselves when we learn to foster a curiosity free of judgment and anxiety. Judgment is the past trying to take over the present. Anxiety is the future doing the same. You find a much more enriching present when you’re not weighed down by the past and the future. You become less your identity and ego, and more pure spirit. You see that life is our gift from the universe. We are here for a reason, although we don’t have to fixate on that reason, or even be conscious of it. The tree does not have a brain with neurons to allow it to understand its beauty. That does not make it any less beautiful. The tree just is. As we just are. We exist, and we find true peace when we see that existing is enough. The shadows lift, and we are left with the symphony of life surrounding us, begging us to play our part.

Of all the things I think I know

Of sun above and earth below,

I still see only with my eyes

If all I reap is all I sow.

Our breath, at times by thought disguised,

Is all the truth to realize.

Breathe in the light, breathe out the same,

The air is ours where wisdom lies.

The wind will rage, the moon will wane;

The darkness comes without a name.

Reclaim the night- the sun burns on!

With faith, tomorrow sees the same.

The path to truth is sometimes long

But to this moment we belong.

One breath may sing the truest song.

One breath may sing the truest song.

(C) Copyright M. R. Stover

The View from Over Here

Given the time of year, I thought I’d take this opportunity to speak about spirituality and religion. A glance at social media leaves us bombarded with assertions of the ‘War on Christmas’. One cannot watch Fox News for very long without hearing a new example of bleeding-heart liberals and progressives trying to take Christ out of the holiday. The underlying assumption is that this is a Christian nation, and, as such, Christmas is the only holiday to be celebrated once December (or November, or even October) rolls around.

I was raised in a Christian household. I was taught from birth to believe that the only way be a good person and to gain my eternal reward was to accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior. One of my earliest memories is my mother sobbing uncontrollably at church. As a very small child, I was terrified, and fearfully asked her what was wrong. She replied, ‘I’m just filled with the holy spirit, honey’. I thought she was saying she was being possessed by a ghost! I wondered why no one was helping her, but everyone nearby patted her on the back and smiled, proud of her piety. I just stared at her, hoping my mommy would return soon.

Throughout the years, I heard church friends speaking in tongues, witnessed pastors telling my family not to vote for certain politicians or they would be on the fast-train to hell, and had my grandmother write me at college, the only letter I ever received from Nanna while I was at school, with a two-page handwritten list of companies whose products I was not to purchase because their businesses supported Satan.

By that time, I had been disenchanted by Christianity for the above, and many other reasons. Every family wedding I attended included the line about wives being submissive to their husbands. I would ask why God was only the father, and be told that ‘He’ created man first, in his image, and created woman as a helper to man, and that all my answers could be found in the bible. Upon reading this holy book, I was disgusted. I found this supposed handbook on how to live a holy life filled with examples of the worst kinds of behavior imaginable- murder, torture, rape, child sacrifice, all done in the name of righteousness and God’s will.

I knew by my middle school years that this religion wasn’t for me, but still felt an irresistible pull toward spirituality. I researched world religions with an academic fervor, but found nothing that spoke to my heart.

One night a friend excitedly showed me a book she had bought; specifically, the chapter on gemstones and their magickal properties. She forgot the book in my bedroom and later that evening I picked it up to see what else it contained. I don’t remember which book it was, but it was of the ‘Wicca 101’ variety. I read the entire book that night- not with academic enthusiasm, but with the passion I had been seeking for years. I knew by then end of the first chapter that I had found my truth.

I dedicated myself to a pagan path at nineteen. I had been devouring every morsel of information I could find for about five years at that point. This began in the pre-internet days, and I was from a very small rural town. I had my copy of Scott Cunningham’s ‘Wicca’ and whatever scraps of information I came across. I had rebelled from Christianity partly because it tried to dictate my every choice and belief to me. Paganism and witchcraft presented a wholly difference approach- one of experimentation and self-discovery, of forging my own path armed both with the knowledge of the ancients and my own personal gnosis.

I prepared and enacted a dedication ritual my sophomore year at college. I asked my roommate to give me an hour or so, lined up my directions and lit my candles. The candles overflowed onto our carpet as I muddled through a half-memorized ritual, feeling partly rebellious and partly awkward, with just a dose of fear and doubt thrown in the mix, a throw-back from my early indoctrination. Then I went outside and sat on a bench for an unknown amount of time, just breathing. I was slightly disappointed- I didn’t feel any different. There was no Moment of Transformation. There was just a puddle of wax that I’d have to explain to my roommate.

My real dedication came a short time later, completely unplanned and unscripted.

My friend Kate was sad because our other friend, Kristi, was going home for the weekend and would be unable to accompany Kate to church on her grandmother’s birthday. Kate went to light a candle each year since her passing, and asked Kristi to go along the year before for moral support. Kate appeared nervous to ask me to go this year, but I immediately said yes, honored by the request. Kristi later confessed to me that when she told Kate she couldn’t go and suggested she ask me to go in her stead, Kate had replied, “but Monica’s not Christian”. This, Kristi said, wasn’t because Kate thought I’d burst into flames upon entering a church, but more that Kate thought I’d be uncomfortable at the thought. Luckily Kristi convinced her to ask me anyway, because that night was a watershed moment in my life.

It was a cool, windy evening when we walked the block or two to the church. It had a rather large nave as it catered to both the local and college community, but we had it mostly to ourselves that evening. The lights were low and our footsteps echoed in the candle-lit silence. Kate had told me earlier that she liked to light her candle then just sit quietly and commune, remembering her grandmother and giving thanks for their time together. I found a pew a bit away to give her space, expecting to just sit and wait for her to be ready to leave.

Instead, I found myself praying for the first time since I was thirteen or so. Unlike past devotions, however, this prayer did not feel forced or uncomfortable in the least. Before long, there were tears falling as my shoulders softly trembled, and I knew that, somewhere, somehow, my prayers were being heard.

I talked to God, the Father, and asking him to please hear me as I needed him right now like no other time in my life. I told him everything in my heart- the good, the bad, the fearful and the loving. I told him that I had found a path that fulfilled me in a way that no church service could, and that my true nave was clearing in the woods, my pew a seat around a bonfire. I told him that this path sustains my heart in a way that I was only beginning to comprehend, but that I couldn’t dedicate myself to this life until there was no lingering voice in my head asking, ‘But what if you are going to hell? Do you really think you know better than most of the people in this country who say you’re going to burn eternally for your beliefs?’ So I prayed to God and for those moments completely put myself in his hands and meant it wholly when I told him that I would rather have my life ended there, that night, than to go against his will. As I sat there, spent but spiritually open, I finally felt the transcendence that I had witnessed in church buy never experienced myself, and I knew in that moment that I was connected to something bigger than just me. I was humbled for the first time by the extraordinary power of the ultimate Creator, the force behind all the names. I think I was still crying lightly when I heard Kate get up and walk over.

I kept my head down, and she respected my privacy, knowing whatever I was experiencing was very personal. She walked out of the church and I followed a few feet behind, still lost in my own thoughts. I knew I had had an amazing experience, but still felt no closure, no answer to guide me…

Then I walked out of the church and into the windy autumn night. There was a lovely fall scent in the air and I felt the most awesome feeling of peace sweep over me. I physically felt any remaining guilt and fear lift effortlessly from my body and be carried along by the wind, dispersing. I felt a powerful voice speak for the first time- it was and is the voice of the divine channeled through my own true voice, the still inner me that communicates with that which is larger than me. And that voice let me know in no uncertain terms that love and joy are the answer, and that is the only doctrine to which I have to adhere to be one of God’s children.

So, fast-forward almost twenty years to the thirty-seven year old woman now sitting behind her keyboard trying to show even one person that, even though we disagree in relation to religion, we can both be right. If your celebration comes from a place of love, then you celebrate God! There is only one ultimate Truth. I admit that this divine Truth is beyond my human comprehension, and I think most religious doctrines would agree on some level. Religion is your personal pathway to this Truth. 

The problem comes when people think that because their path feels SO right to them, that it must be the only correct path, and that everyone else must follow them. Think of it like this for a moment:

Picture yourself sitting at an enormous round dining table with so many seats that you can’t even tell how many there are. In the center of the table is the most beautiful vase of flowers you’ve ever seen. There are so many flowers of all varieties and they’re so radiant and perfect that you know whoever arranged these flowers did it tenderly, with love and an eye to beauty. If the flowers are God, the chairs are our various religious viewpoints. Some people never move to a different seat- they are perfectly happy where they are. Some people feel they got the seat with the crappy side of the arrangement or their view is blocked by something. Some may get up and move just a bit now and then, but are sure they have the best view and hold to that belief. But it’s all the same, at the heart- the Truth. Where you’re sitting doesn’t matter as long as you’re not hurting anyone else at the table or obstructing their view.

In my case, I want to see the flowers from every angle possible! Beauty is beauty, and I have done quite a bit of exploring on my infinite journey to understand the divine. I believe there’s value in Eastern knowledge Buddhism and Ayurveda. I love the concept of Jewish mysticism and respect the message of love that Jesus represents.

Taking into account my view of religion overall and my complete acceptance from a young age that religion should be a joyous, meaningful and very personal experience, as well as my love of Nature, it was a forgone conclusion that I practice my spirituality the way I do. If I get to choose how I celebrate my concept of God, why wouldn’t I? So I choose to thank the universe for what it has given me- my body, my health, my relationships, friends and family, my Womanhood, and the land that sustains my body and spirit. I give thanks for the changing seasons and see those changes as a reflection of the changes that manifest in my own tiny existence. As the day is born and grows in strength and power then wanes and finally dies to be reborn tomorrow; as the flowers grow from earth in spring to fruitfulness in summer to harvest in autumn to death and rest in winter only to be reborn again in spring; as the moon shifts in her nightly appearance and the sun waxes and wanes yearly, I celebrate and honor all of the complexities of the universe that are held together in love and balance by this magickal and incomprehensible force that we call God.  Or Goddess. Or Gaia, Yahweh, Demeter or Krishna.

That is why, although I am not a Christian, I can feel perfectly at home in a Christian church. Especially if it’s one where I can feel the positive energy created by the good intentions and true, loving belief of the congregation. There are no ‘competing gods’. There is only one creative force of the universe. What matters is how I commune with that creator, not what I call it. I don’t believe that existence is wrathful, spiteful or jealous. And even if it is these things at times, I don’t want to worship that aspect of it. By celebrating love and beauty, that’s what I call into my life, and for all the challenges I’ve been handed, I love my life and how I’ve chosen to live it. 

The reason I meditate and chant and create magick circles and dance around bonfires is because that is my most direct and comfortable path to God. The pentacle I wear is my symbol of faith and reminder to live a life of balance with all of existence and to honor Nature in all her elements. And when I say that, feel free to take it to mean ‘I honor God in all his glory’ if you like- it’s all the same to me! Love is love and it all comes from the same Source. There seems to be an innate part of each of us that yearns to find answers to the big questions. Too often we witness someone who has found what sustains them and believe that this is the answer. I finally see that each answer found only adds one piece to the puzzle; that ultimately the answers come in the way each of us assembles those pieces, and even that is only a glimpse at the Mysteries. 

To blog, or not to blog

While it may not be the question, it is one I’ve tossed around for quite a few years now. Does the internet really need yet another blog? Will anyone actually read it? What makes me so special that people would be clamoring to hear what I have to say? What would I write about?

I’ve journaled since receiving my first diary at age nine. Its cover was purple with tiny white hearts, and it had one of those cheap metal locks that broke before the pages were filled, and I was hooked. Since then, I’ve filled page after page of diaries, notebooks, and composition tablets, never stopping to worry if I had anything to say. I just wrote. I never had to care what others would think or make sure the topics were stimulating. I didn’t even have to heed grammar and sentence structure, which is apparent to the now-thirty-seven year old woman glancing over those often naïve and sometimes heart-breaking lines. I wrote from my soul. I wrote for my soul. Can I do that knowing the world will have access, the ability to judge and condemn?

And damn, seriously, what the hell would I write about?

That question, more than any other, has kept me from blogging in a serious manner for the better part of a decade. In that time, however, I’ve learned a lot about life and my place in this existence we share. I’ve realized that I am a unique and capable individual with valuable insights, and a natural inclination toward the written word. And I’ve decided to blog.

As for what I’ll write, well I guess we’ll discover that together.

Snow Day

The universe has given the gift of 2-4 inches, and instead of running guideline calculations and negotiating child support agreements, I find myself home drinking coffee in my pajama bottoms at 11am. My husband texted me from work and asked if I had any plans for the day. Yes. I will finally get Channeling Chaos up and published. Not that I told him that. That would be too forthcoming, and that's just not me.

I've played around with blogging previously, but much has changed in the past few years and, reading those old posts, it feels as if another person wrote those words. In some ways, I suppose that's true. Back then, I thought I knew who I was- a poet, a dreamer, an artist and introvert. I have since then stripped back the layers of ego to find the essence within, and although I still write, dream, and create, I acknowledge that I am not my ego.

I am divinity in human form.

I am energy flowing through breath.

I am chaos, channeled.