For Holy Week-The Christ I Know and Love

It’s tricky. Am I a Christian? I seek to be like Jesus, in becoming one with God. He translated the Power & Glory of God into earthly Love & Healing, even raising the dead, to demonstrate this connection. The Christ in Jesus lives inside of me, inside of everyone. Christ is waiting to be unleashed from the blockage of ego patterns. I experienced the Christ once in a dream. The Power of Light Shining simultaneously from outside and inside my soul. The feeling of Union- of love so great it passed any understanding. I experienced the Christ in my life. A series of events opened up my being to the sense of Light, streaming through me. The Light wasn’t barren but full of Life, full of Love. I only wanted to praise God from Whom all Blessings Flow! I had stated my willingness to open to the Light inside of me, to serve God, the ever good. And then my heart burst with light, with joy, with gratitude, realizing all the Greatness of God. I was meditating without closing my eyes. I was praising God in every breath. Somehow this experience became covered up again. I hope for it to return. So I do not experience Christ as someone else dying and raising from the dead and thereby, saving me from my sins, as defined by the church. I experience Christ as a living power within, who shows me how to connect with God. Christ cheers me on, as, through grace and effort, I rise up from the tomb of the ego and become fully alive. Then that Light shines through as expressions of love, gratitude, service, praise, prayer and glorification of God. Christ Lives in me and you. Glory to Mother Father God in the Highest. In this way I am a Christian. And a Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim, and pagan.

Solitaire as a Spiritual Practice

My Grandma Johnson used to play solitaire a lot. I learned from her how to line up the cards in a neat row of 7 and then transfer them, according to the rules, to the 4 piles of suits, beginning with aces. The gentle slapping as the end of each card recoils from fingers to table is a soothing sound to my ears.

So I’ve continued my solitaire throughout my life. It’s such a convenient way to be alone when I want time to myself; when I don’t want to talk with someone; or I’m tired of thinking too much. And it’s a great way to while away the time when waiting or flying cross country.

I got into playing on my PDA (personal digital assistant!) for that reason. I missed the feel and sound of the cards but the speed of dealing out the cards made up for it. I could play games at lightening speed. I started rejecting games that looked like losers once they were dealt. This way I won quite frequently. It was very rewarding – at the end of a winning game the cards on the screen would do a cascading dance. I’d often call over anyone nearby to see it when I won.

When I was younger sometimes I would cheat, but it became apparent that since only I was playing I was only cheating myself. And with my PDA and computer that was strictly verboten. Not even possible. So I gave that up completely.

After awhile I became more aware of my attachment to winning. I’d get emotionally involved and rail against losing. I decided to practice just playing-- letting it be, very simply, the game as it was. Noticing its form, yet letting it dissolve back into its pile of anonymity-- like the K’aaba of the Middle East or the uncarved stone of Taoism, the shuffled deck undealt. Thorough shuffling became a ritual of my religion.

Some games would die quickly and early, while others would go almost to winning but then have a fatal flaw that I could see but do nothing about. Some would be winning. I saw how sometimes I gave up too easily. I learned tricks to open up a corner into a doorway. Each game became a relationship reminding me of the various trajectories of life and how to work with them. And how to accept them when there was nothing else to be done. Solitaire serves me well.

Visits to the Land of Dementia- Searching for Words

We’re going around the table, practicing finding words and sharing something we like about ourselves. Most of the women spurt out some disconnected sentences, dementia limiting their fluidity in language. I try interpret their personal dialect and mirror it back. They nod or look at me with a puzzled expression.

“You mean you were a good mother?”
“You take good care of your husband?”

Maggie’s turn. She struggles and then, realizing her struggle, haltingly forms a new question for me. I mirror it back to her.

“You mean, can God understand your prayers when it’s hard for you to find words? God understands every language, even the language of silence. He knows what is in your heart and hears your prayers, even without words. God loves you.”

Tears well up in her eyes. “Thank you for telling me this. I know it’s true.”