Filling my soul and scaring myself wild

Death is actually a pretty permanent state, just in case you have not noticed. That probably sounds profoundly silly, but there is something about the way we think about death that does not capture the essence of “forever” in our experience. Sometimes over the past year I felt like a vacuum cleaner entered my soul and emptied it of any sense of beauty or love.

Everyone told me that nature abhors a void and the time would fill the emptiness. But nature and time seemed to be busy elsewhere. 

It was an old friend who told me that I need to find my Mojo and, as the Mad Hatter said to Alice, my “muchness.” He told me his memory of me with a pack on my back, looking over my shoulder at him saying “come on, we can do this” even though we both knew I was afraid. He remembered my wildness, even if I did not.

That sounded amazing, and challenging, and terrifying. But honesty, emptiness was getting boring, and filling me with the fear that I would never be full of love and laughter and light and wonder. I had been feeling like a ship at sea with no navigational information. All I could do was steer away from the danger buoys and warning lights. It seemed like a safe and perhaps even wise choice. But I was headed nowhere and steering based on my fears.

So I changed my sailing plan, and steered towards the warnings and lights and all that I feared. I breathed in the wind and danced to the rhythm of the waves, and followed my fears where ever they led. My soul began to fill with wonder and desire and passion and laughter. My adventures started so very small, but quickly expanded. My soul not only filled, but it also expanded, as I sailed into the adventure and away from the safety of the shore.

Amazingly, I discovered a new type of navigational tool…scaring myself wild. I highly recommend it, and would love hear about your adventures.

Be your own Valentine

On a day that seems to be defined by cards, flowers, candy and expressions of love, do not sink into a sense of loneliness. We often are caught up in defining love by actions on this one day, rather than seeing the ongoing support and love that surround us. Want flowers? Send yourself some and tell the world they are from a secret lover. And guess what, you won't be lying. 

Saying you love yourself might have the world try to define you as a narcissist, so keep it secret. But yes, love yourself, embrace yourself, be kind to yourself. This is often the first step in attracting love and kindness into our own lives.

And life starts again. It has been a wild year. My mother and husband died exactly 2 months apart at the end of 2016. As you can imagine, 2017 was a year of healing, but also wild adventures, gratitude, blessings, love and new beginnings. My adventure continues...please share it with me.

Honoring

I am not really sure how to best honor those who have gone into that good night, that dark night that we hope is a doorway to light. In Jewish tradition we light a candle and say a prayer on the anniversary of their passing. But that ritual, while comforting, does not seem to build a legacy, or add meaning, or celebrate the richness of a life.

So, another Jewish tradition is to do something, to take on a Mitzvah (commandment) or to pledge something in their name. This is known as an "allyah for the person's Nashama" a raising up of their soul. 

And so last week, in honor of a woman who I meet over cough drops in an anthropology course when I was 17, I pirated the Colfax 10 mile run. I signed up and donated in her honor to a charity and picked up my packet. But late in the night when I should have been resting for the early morning run, I realized that running with over 10,000 strangers was no way to remember her. I needed to do something to make her laugh, which she did often and freely. 

So, with my T-shirt and bib I ran the miles at home, after a leisurely cup of coffee. No fighting traffic and searching for parking...no long lines at the port-a-potties...no stampede of well trained feet pushing to get in front. Just me and the sky and the wind and the mountains and my memories of a life well lived.

I miss you Gina, and I pledge to light a candle for you each year. But more importantly I pledge to remember our private jokes and to continue to laugh at rich-people-dressing-badly as we always did. Oh, and the rich-people-designing-badly. And the graphic designers who love to use light green on menus to be read in dim restaurants. And all the other ways we found humor in the confusion of life. 

I honor you with my laughter and my tears and a private run each year.  My your name be a blessing. Amen. 

So what happens when a Pirate meets a Harley? Love? Wild joy? Dreams of freedom? Yep.

This was a trip to a serious academic meeting at Marquette University in Milwaukee. The topics were serious, the attendees did not quite understand "business casual" and the conversations were full of multi-syllabic words. I took notes and tried to look like a Dean in my turquoise scarves and boots.

And then we took a break and had a private tour of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle museum where I found my favorite colors and inspiration for another life adventure. The story of Harley is amazing. Success followed by failure followed by success over and over again, with the company re-inventing itself  with every cycle. 

The last exhibit is a motorcycle recovered in Canada after the tsunami in Japan. Harley found the owner and offered to replace it, but the owner said no, I will be like a blade of grass standing in a mowed field. Put it in the museum to people remember that together we can be strong and recover. Wow. Somehow I did not expect such inspiration from motorcycles

And at the very end of the museum were the motorcycle we could try out. Right color, right size, and not a bad price. I texted my husband who told me to pull out my credit card and ride it home...to Colorado. In the rain. Alone. 

Tempting...a wild road trip through the wilds of the US on a bike looking like a female Steve McQueen escaping from the repressive academic regime, or at least from the trauma drama of being a Jewish dean in a Jesuit institution in the middle of radical transition. From trying to be a good daughter and "honoring my parents" by making sure my passive-aggressive mother is warm and safe and dry. From helping random family members who seem to thrive on dramatic overtures worthy of a Don Giovanni finale. Or perhaps just the regularity and predictability of stability. Or just maybe because I still have adventures inside of me calling out for expression. Maybe. Probably. 

I know that the sense of wonder that comes from wildness and wilderness and feeling G-d's touch is still out there and in my. And I know that I am in hot pursuit. 

 

On the path again

Life and I have been dancing to a fugue in E minor, repeating themes rising to haunt me and then retreating into darkness. And the darkness calls to me, reminding how great longing challenges us to surrender to path before us. 

I have to admit I wondered if I could feel that depth of longing again, the craving that led me to spiritual adventures deep in wild forests. Could I find the clearing in the tumble and tangle of daily life to yearn so deeply I thought i would tear in two? Or had I left that behind as I lifted the responsibilities of jobs and family and commitments? 
  
For the past several months the answer has been inserting itself in such odd places. While lifting weights or running a 1/2 marathon I can see a world full of options before me. I can choose to leave or to stay, i can run away or embrace. i can move toward something as soon as I move away from illusions and scars that never did really define me.
My family often told me i would "out-grow" my craving for life and my longing for the touch of G-d on my heart. They said the fire that drove me would be tamed and my wildness would be trimmed. And i wold be safe so they would not be frightened. 

But yesterday, for no reason, without fan-fare or fuss, there it was, that deep hollow in my heart that called and chanted and sang and drummed and danced and whispered. That still small voice invited me back on the journey. Without an fuss. Without any rules. Just a door that opened before me, a wind that blew through me, a scent that captivated me, and a sense that this journey has been waiting for me all along. And i am beyond delighted.   

#adventure60

So I don't have a great deal to say here, except that I just turned 60 and barely have time to blog! This year is going to be one of great adventure and I hope the dress that keep up. 

Someone asked why I was so wildly happy about this birthday, and I guess I have to say that after almost dying several times, and three major surgeries, that fact that I am still here and still a bit wild is beyond wonderful.

My staff filled my office with balloons and the surprised me with a Jimmy Buffet style party. The wedding dress joined in and we had a great time! So while I do not have much to say in this post, I am on #adventure60 for the rest of the year. Check me on twitter at shssdean and join the fun. We can make everyday wild and fun and full of powerful magical moments if we choose to. Or we can live lives of quiet desperation. For this 60 year old Aquarian...the choice is clear. Stay tuned. 

We start again 2015

 Did you get one of those Christmas letters this year that sounded like a resume for the perfect family? You know, that one talking about the twins going to Harvard, the family vacation to save a small country, and the numerous awards for saving humankind from annihilation followed by a vacation in a newly minted country. After reading several of those I actually thought about writing my own, but it would sound like a badly written soap opera. Really.

I actually wrote a short letter to several friends detailing the family, friend, work and life issues that filled my last few months. After receiving a number of OMG type responses, and getting a good laugh out of the experience, I decided to change my focus. I might have to deal with drama, but I still could fill my life with laughter and adventures and, yes, wedding dresses! So welcome to the year of my 60th birthday year of the wedding dress. 

This year I want wild and amazing memories...lots of them. I want to go swimming with a mermaid tail and hike somewhere new and mysterious. I want to challenge myself to let go of things that drag me down and spend a year soaring. I want to sail into the sunset or sunrise with the wind filling my sails.

And yes I want to do my job well and be a leader that people are proud to work with. And yes, I intend to grow spiritually and take care of people I love. But I want to learn and laugh and push my limits just for the joy of it. I want to learn Hebrew, even if I need to take time off to do it!

So let's start with some truths. It is difficult to have full-time big job and still take care of a life. We might be able to have it all, but not at the same time. Somethings I have to do and make myself enjoy them, like lifting weights. I am watching my mom age and watching her life choices catch up with her...and taking note for my own future. I need to:
 Stay strong
Stay flexible
Embrace new challenges
Eat and sleep and exercise as if my future depends on it...because it does.
 

I know that issues I do not resolve will come back to haunt me over and over and over again. I have to face my own inner creepiness and staleness and fear and anger and losses and left over issues...and resolve them.
And move on into the world of possibliities.

Stay tuned...this is going to be good! 

holy wrappings two

What are our holy wrappings? 

This is my attempt to use fiber art to represent my ideas about the way holiness wraps around us. 

You can open the images in a new window and enlarge them

Lessons of a pair of flip-flops

It was the official last week of summer and I was not ready to let go. Winters feel longer, and this summer seemed so very short. So the plan to was to fill a three day weekend with summer warrior activities, starting with a one-hour body pump class, from which I am still sore.  Next on the list, after Saturday prayers, was an hour in the kayak...did I mention that body pump works my entire upper body and that it was threatening to rain? At least there was no lightening since I was sitting in the middle of a lake holding a medal paddle. 

I ended the day with a barbeque at our house for friends.

Sunday started with a short run with the dog through wet grass. I had planned on a 12 mile hike high in the foothills, but the clouds were already closing in so I did not want to head up as high in the hills. I put on my new toe socks, grabbed my pack and, I thought, everything I needed and drove up to White Ranch Park. I parked and reached over for my hiking shoes and...wait for it...found my flip-flops. Not my tevas, but my flip-flops. Not a problem I thought. I always have extra running shoes in the car. Oh, I forgot, they were wet from the morning run sitting at home on the dryer. 

This meant the only shoes I had were a pair of flip-flops. I thought about just driving home and going for a long walk on the bike path near the house. So not appealing. I asked myself: what would a weekend warrior do? I decided to just walk slowly and cover at least 1/2 mile. Luckily I had on my toe socks, so I put on my flip-flops and my pack and slowly and carefully started down the trail.  

This is a mountain trail...not particularly steep...but with plenty of rocks and places to slip. So I walked a bit slower than my normal pace and set my feet down with clear intentionality. And then some magic happened.

The first people I met were hiking in walking sandals and stopped to talk when their dog fell in love with me. We laughed about forgetting shoes, and they shared that they had done that several times. Ditto the trail runners and the women on mountain bikes. They all noticed my feet and shared stories of forgotten shoes and other essential implements. 

I kept walking and decided to redefine my "forgetting" as a gift from Hashem. After a mile, I realized how comfortable I was hiking without ankle or arch support. 
My mind was actually quiet since I was focused on walking. This reminded me of a Jewish chant "Silence is Praise for you" which I started humming and filled my mind with. 

This led to a reflection that I was safe in the wilderness with very little around me, that the Hashem was my protection, not my hiking gear. And I kept walking. 

Somewhere along the way I wondered why I never felt this connected on a regular basis, and I immediately had a flash of my multi-tasking life. My mind is so full of information and must-do lists, there is no space for a conversation with G-d. In fact, if Hashem happened to call me with vital information, I would probably have to put the call on hold. It was my slow walking was opening a space in my mind for the presence of G-d, much like the way that G-d opened a space, through tzimtzum for creation.

After about 3 miles the trail was going to shift through flooded areas, so I turned back and retraced my steps. Slowly.

Now I met people fully equipped for a hike across high Sierra passed with poles and heavy duty shoes and safari hats. They walked on by me without looking at my feet. I wondered about the way we humans think we need so much more to have an experience. High end everything to protect us from the wildness of the outdoors. Maybe all we do need is a bit of faith. Maybe more is less and less is more.


And then near the end of the hike I passed a group of heavily equipped hikers who did notice my flimsily clad feet. One young man said to me:

"You must be a very experienced hiker. What do you know that I don't know?" 

I laughed and told him that this was an accident, and that I would not repeat the experiment, but it was true that sometimes less is more. And really he could give up the silly polls. 

I made it back to the car and home before I realized that I had never stubbed my toe, had a rock in the "shoe", tripped, or felt any pain from lack of support. In fact. I felt great.

The warrior weekend the next day with another kayak trip and a 20 mile bike ride on my new bike. And I had to wonder...would the older slower heavier bike brought just as much joy? 

Holy Wrappings

What does not mean to wrap ourselves in holiness? 

What does it mean to be both joyful and soulful, to be full of laughter and aching for meaning, to be having fun in a wedding dress and softly crying under a prayer shawl?

I have been having fun with a wedding dress for a couple years now, but want to move this blog into a deeper place, into exploring holy wrappings. A wedding dress is one such wrapping. Tears and laughter and prayer shawls and star-lit skies and sunsets and ocean waves can be be too. 

So, if you like my writing, start coming back. I am exploring this in my life, in my art, at my job, on the trail, in my studies and definitely in my writing. To be continued soon. 

Join me...how are you wrapped in holiness?

Yom HaShoah

No wedding dress pictures on this day of remembrance, which corresponds this year to the 13th day of the counting of the Omer, Yesod of Gevurah in a kabbalistic world view.
A day that stops traffic in Israel. A day we are drawn to places that help us remember and might bring us to tears. We question G-d and humans. We question ourselves and wonder what we would have done. Would I have had the courage to run or hide or join the resistance? Would I have had the smarts to survive and save others? If the tables were reversed would I risk my life for others?

Yesod of Gevurah asks us to examine the way that we create discipline and structure in our lives in ways that strengthen our bonds with others. We are asked to re-frame disciplines of practice and structural forms are something so we create then together as friends or partners or communities. These need to be ways to draw people in, to build connection, and to commit to what we value.

So I wonder...can I commit to standing up against genocide? Can I stand up for and be a voice for the ones who have been silenced? Can I live a life that makes a mark in place of all of those who never had a chance? Can my remembrance, my Jewish discipline create pathways of connection that move us beyond remembrance?

Can I be one of the good souls that Anne Frank wanted to believe in...is that something I can commit to? 

Can I live a life as if I was a was one of the Lamed-Vav Tzadikim, the 36 righteous souls whose acts and deeds and presence justify the purpose of humankind in the eyes of G-d. Perhaps this is what I owe those who do not have the chance to live a good life; a pledge to live as if I am a  lamed-vavnik, even if I am sure that I am not. 

Or perhaps it is choosing to live a Jewish life, perhaps that is what I owe those who have gone. To live a life that they were murdered for, even if they did not practice or believe. Perhaps it is to defend religious practices that might seen out of sync, but help people find meaning and purpose and live a good life. 

Perhaps that is what all of us owe: living a life that matters so that we honor all who have come before us and parted the sea, battled for freedom, planted the fields, and given us a chance to live as we choose. 

A woman with wings...a story of leaving a narrow place

     I was born one magical evening at sunset. The sky was crimson and turquoise, and so were my wings. It was not unusual that I was born with wings, most babies were, but mine were especially beautify because they were kissed by the sunset. I grew up like most little girls, laughing an crying, playing and learning, growing and changing. When I was very young I loved to flex my wings like the other children, delighting in the sensuous power and exhilaration that came with dreaming about flight. My wings had the colors of a sunset reflected in the ocean, and grew stronger as I pushed them against the wind.
     Time passed however, as it always does, and I grew older. I was told that the time for play was ending and that I must learn to be a young lady. Proper young ladies do not fly, rather they hold their wings still, secured with ribbons and bows to show off their shape and color, but never their magnificence or power. Nor did proper grown-up women fly for their wings were atrophied and frozen in place.
     When I was young my family would smile at me when I spread my wings and pretended to fly, but now that my wings were stronger and flight was possible, they no longer smiled. It was fine to indulge me when I was little and could not fly, but once I came of age and might try, I had to be taught to behave properly.
     My grandmother took me aside often and told me that nice young ladies did not fly. She had never even considered trying, and look how nice and atrophied her wings were. Look how well she had managed and controlled her life. She told me I would embarrass the family if I did not stop spreading my wings. I must tie them back like a good girl and do what would make my family, and her friends, wanted. Their happiness was more important than my silly dream of flying. 
     My father took me aside and told me that flying was not safe for girls, only for boys. After all, in flying school the men were the teachers, and the boys the students. There was no one to teach me! That was proof that women...ladies...should not fly. 
     I looked up at the sky and pointed...sometimes...high and far away I could see a women flying. Rarely, but there she would be. "Who taught her?"  I would ask. My father would shake his head and tell my that good girls did not fly, and that I should ignore that one, self-taught woman. Being good and safe on the ground was more important than being free in the air.
    My friends told me that if I wanted boys to like me I would have to learn how to hold my wings still and quiet, so they would grow thinner and weaker. No boy would like a girl with strong wings who chose to fly!
     I listened when they talked...I really did. I tried to hold my wings still; I tied them with ribbons everyday at school, even though I was crying inside. I tried to forget the feeling of the wind caressing my wings, the feeling of strength and grace that came when my wings were spread, but I could not. Everyone would be angry and disappointed if I continued to spread my wings so that they could grow strong, but I could not resist. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my grandmother's approval. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my father's praise. I wanted to fly more than I wanted my schoolmate's friendship.
     Sometimes at night I would dream that I was flying amid the stars through clouds of silver mist and webs of moonlight. I tried to tell my mother about my dreams, and she would look sad for me. She hugged me and told me that flying was hard and scary, and that I should do the right thing and make everyone else happy.
     I watched as the popular girls held their wings in the proper way and lost the ability to use them. I did want to be the friend they wanted, but I could not let my wings grow still and useless. I wanted the boys to like me, but not at the expense of abandoning who I wanted to be.
     Finally one evening at sunset when the sky was crimson and turquoise, I walked into the surf and spread my wings. I turned into the wind and felt myself lifted from the waves into the sky. After years of watching hawks and eagles fly, I knew what to do, so I trusted my instincts and began to fly. 
     At first I just traversed the beach, riding the wind with joy in my heart. The world rushed by under me as I flew higher and faster. At last I left the beach behind and and allowed the wind to guide me, following the thermals and shifting breezes. 
     I looked back and say the narrowness of my town, something that I could not see from the ground. I had left a narrow place to the wideness of the skies and my dreams. I turned and flew toward the horizon.

mezuzahs as spiritual cocoons

There is a wonderful history program running on PBS, the Story of the Jews in which Simon Schama poses that 10 million dollar question: how have the Jews survived for almost 4000 years in the face of violence and numerous attempts at annihilation? ?What is the secret of a group of people, perhaps a family, who call themselves a nation, that has kept them alive while powerful civilizations have faded into archeological memory? Why are there still Jews on the planet?

We are not better or smarter, luckier or more talented, richer or more powerful, or more beloved. But we are still here. 

For a secret to work it must be hidden, and yet easy to find to be effective. So what is hidden in plain sight, and easily found that is distinctive to the Jewish faith?

That was my a-ah moment...our entire faith, theology, and belief system is hidden safely in plain sight. Anyone who looks can find it. Anyone willing to invest time and energy can uncover it. By wrapping everything that matters in a protective cover we are demonstrating what we consider valuable.

Much like a cocoon protects a caterpillar as it becomes a butterfly, our wrappings become places that speak of and guard transformation. We put the Torah...our story...into garments. We place some of the holy prayers into T'fillin which are used during prayer. We create pray shawls that we wrap ourselves in as we pray so that we might transform. And we create beautiful wrappings for the words of the Shema blessing to mark our doorways and gates.

These mezuzah covers that mark Jewish doorways reach back to the story of the exodus, when marking our doorways protected us from the angel of death and the last plague. Then we were told to use blood; now we are told to use the words of our central prayer. And we wrap these words in something beautiful so that they are safe and accessible. They look like art, or decoration, and, that same way that way a cocoon blends into the branch on which it hangs, mezuzahs blend into the doorway attracting little attention. Unless of course you know what it contains.

And this is the second gift of the wrappings. Words and stories and prayers can be unwrapped and used. Sacred does not mean untouchable; sacrosanct does not mean out of reach. The words are here, the story is alive, the shawls and coverings are lovely but not holy unto themselves. What they cover is holy, and still accessible. 

I am sure there is more to Jewish longevity than this, but perhaps the wrappings have kept our true secret safe. While Romans stole gold and silver from the temple, that left the words and prayer and stories behind, disguised in their spiritual cocoons.