Patricia Pearce

Helping You Be the Change

Follow Your Tail

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If you had a tail, when would it wag?

Recently I was going out for coffee with a friend. As we walked across the cobblestone avenue to get to the bakery where we were headed, I saw furry black dog standing on a stoop, happily wagging its tail at the woman petting it.

I wondered what it would be like to have a tail to wag when happiness welled up in me.

“If I had a tail,” I thought, “what would make it wag?”

I know a dog, Jazz, who gets so excited when friends come to visit that even a wagging tail isn’t enough to express her delight. She fetches her stuffed rabbit whenever she sees them approaching, then dances in a circle in the living room when they step through the door.

Her joy is simply irrepressible.

In contrast to Jazz’s unabashed expression of joy, a few months ago I was driving cross-country when an idea floated into my mind: I ought to start writing music again. It was something I used to do a lot of, and it brought me great joy.

When the idea arose, I felt a gleeful delight fill my being. If I’d had a tail it would have been wagging like nobody’s business. But immediately, another part of me slammed down like a sledgehammer, telling me that writing music was an impractical and illegitimate use of my time.

The joyful part of me was crushed, tucked its tail between its legs and whimpered back into a shadowy corner of my being.

Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to notice what had just happened, and I was horrified. I mean, for decades I’ve been exploring my own creativity and encouraging others to do the same, and even worse, what had just transpired in me felt like an act of violence.

I did some inner work on it. I listened to that part of myself that had squelched the joyful idea to find out what was going on, and I couldn’t help but feel compassion. It was so anxious, and truly believed that following my joy was a frivolous, irresponsible luxury that would lead to disaster.

Since then I’ve been coaxing my joy back out of the dark corner where it had retreated, because I sense that the things that bring me joy are precisely the things the Universe wants to bring forth in and through me. A few months ago I even took my guitar out of its case and have added to my morning array of spiritual practices one more: improvising melodies and harmonies on my guitar. Nothing yet has evolved into a full-fledged song, but my heart is happy.

So, let me put the same question to you: What things bring you joy? If you had a tail, what would make it wag?

I hope you’ll honor those things, because I’m pretty sure that if you follow your tail, you’ll end up where you belong.

Dream. Then Do.

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In some Native American circles, Lizard represents the capacity to dream.

One of our local colleges has launched a new ad campaign which I first noticed a few weeks ago while riding the bus. In the front of the bus behind the driver there is a plexiglass panel which is where they often display ad posters. That day there was a poster with a picture of a young woman, dreamily gazing upward, smiling, and next to her the words: “Don’t Dream. Do.”

While I understand the intent of the campaign — to encourage people to get off their duffs and do what needs doing to activate their potential — I think they are making a tremendous mistake in telling people not to dream.

A lot of us are actually pretty good at doing, the problem is that so often our doing isn’t in accord with our true selves or highest good. We may just be living out the expectations others have of us rather than really exploring what it is we want for ourselves. If I were designing the college’s ad campaign it would say: “Dream. Then Do.”

It’s essential for us, after all, to engage our dreaming capacity because it is the first step in manifesting the future we want, and actually the picture on the ad is instructive in one way: it shows that the young woman, as she dreams, is smiling. That, my friends, is the key because it is our joy that leads us to our true path. It is like an exuberant, tail-wagging dog that is taking us for a walk, leading us with its own gleeful nose to our truest treasures.

Rather than squelching our capacity to dream we need to cultivate it. When we are stepping into a new life for ourselves we need a vigorous and bold imagination to help catapult us beyond the restrictive boundaries imposed by self or society; only in that way can we begin to live into our fullest potential.

Then, yes, doing becomes essential. Taking the dream and translating it into actions, no matter how small, is the way we honor it and begin to prepare the way for it to come forth. When we’ve taken time to dream in order to get in touch with our own inner wisdom and true direction, then our doing will be in the service of manifesting our own life purpose, rather than settling for the life others have told us to live.

Into the Quiet

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In the quiet I can listen.

I spent the better part of the last two weeks on retreat at Ghost Ranch in the high desert of northern New Mexico, where the land is spacious and quiet, where often the only sound is that of the echoing caw of ravens flying along the cliff face of the surrounding mesas, where the night sky, unobscured by city lights, displays thousands upon thousands of stars and the soft whisper of the Milky Way can be seen stretching from horizon to horizon.

I have been going there for a couple of weeks most winters for the past 11 years, and I would not be overstating the case to say that those times of retreat have been a lifeline to my soul. While I’m there I hike, do dream work and make art, walk the labyrinth and listen for its wisdom for me.

A couple of nights after I arrived was the night of the full moon. After the sun went down and the land began to grow darker, I left my room and hiked to the labyrinth that sits in front of the cliff of a high mesa. In the dimming light I walked its slow, winding path which is always a powerful symbol for me of the journey of life that wends this way this way and that. I finally reached the labyrinth’s center and there I waited. The edge of moonlight was making its way slowly across the landscape from the west as the moon rose higher and higher, first illuminating the far hills and rock formations in the distance with an ethereal silver light that gradually made its way toward me. The light gathered, brighter and brighter, behind the rim of the mesa in front of me, until finally a sliver of moon slid above the cliff, piercing my eyes with its brilliance, and I stood there weeping with amazement and gratitude.

My time of retreat reminded me, as it always does, of how cluttered my life can become. How, like the artificial lights of the city that drown out the mystery of the night, my culture’s priorities on productivity, activity, and being constantly plugged-in crowd out the wisdom of my own heart and soul. I think it’s a common dilemma; most of us live our lives deluged by external messages and demands, rarely making time or space to quiet and replenish ourselves at the well of our own Being.

The challenge, as always, in returning from a time of retreat is to find ways to weave its lessons and wisdom into my daily life. Since I’ve been back, one thing I’ve been doing is limiting my time on-line to 30 minutes a day. (I even set the timer!) I’m looking at it as a spiritual practice, a pre-Lenten fast if you will, which I intend to continue. What I am discovering is that it allows me to stay in touch more consistently with the calm clarity that resides in my core.

On retreat, whenever I step out into the night to stargaze I have to let my eyes adjust for a while to the darkness before I can take in the wonder of what is overhead. That process is a metaphor for me of what is required if I want to connect with my soul. I have to remove myself from the onslaught of all the “artificial lights” that surround me, the values and messages that bombard me with shallow understandings of what’s important, worthy, and most of all, real. Only then, when I let myself stand in the mystery of the inner quiet and abide in the darkness of Unknowing can I begin to perceive the true, numinous light of my existence. Only then can I gaze out from the center of my timeless self upon a cosmos from which I have come and with which I am completely and forever one.

The Gift of Surrender

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When have you surrendered to something you could no longer fight?

Many years ago my spouse and I took a vacation in the Ozarks during an unusually warm spell in late December. One day, since it was so mild, we decided to go canoeing. We located a canoe rental place and one of the employees loaded the canoe in his truck and drove us up river.

Just as he was dropping us off, he told us that nobody had canoed down since the severe floods that had come through earlier that year, so there might be debris in the river. His warning made me uneasy because, although my husband had experience canoeing, it was my first time.

We got our canoe into the water–I managed to climb in without tipping it over–and once we set out my anxiety began to lift. It was a gorgeous day and I was enjoying paddling along with the gentle current. We came on a few mild rapids that made the ride a bit more exciting, but for the most part  the river was tranquil.

We came to a bend in the river where it forked around a small island. Because the riverbank obstructed our view of the left fork and the island obstructed our view of the right we couldn’t see which side was the better to take, so we just took a chance and steered to the left.

Just as we came around the bend, we saw that there was a fallen tree blocking most of the channel. We both started paddling as hard as we could to get the canoe far enough over to the right to clear the tree, and for a moment it looked like we were going to make it. The bow and I cleared the snag but the back of the canoe didn’t. A branch caught my husband in the chest, and we capsized.

We grabbed the canoe and were dragging it toward the island when I saw that my backpack was floating away. I reached out to grab it. The current caught me and started carrying me downstream.

I tried as hard as I could to swim to the shore, but the current was too strong. Even though it was a mild day, it was December and the frigid water saturated my jeans, my parka, my shoes. It flowed beneath my clothing, against my bare skin. I was frantic. As the river carried me further and further downstream, I knew there was a very real possibility I could die.

I couldn’t fight the current. It was simply stronger than I was. So eventually I did the only thing I could do. I let the river have me. I surrendered.

Just as I surrendered, the most profound peace came over me. I was awestruck at the beauty surrounding me–the rolling landscape, the bare trees, the blue sky, the music of the water lapping against my body. “I might die,”I thought, “but this is so beautiful!”

It was a moment of revelation for me. My circumstances were just as dire as they had been a moment before, but by surrendering to them my panic had instantly shifted into a profound peace.

Eventually there was a piece of land jutting out into the river that I managed to grab hold of and I was able to climb ashore, and though what happened next is a story unto itself, with its own lesson that perhaps I’ll tell about some other time, for now I am letting myself revisit the deep peace that came upon me in that moment of complete surrender.

As I look back over my life I can safely say that the most significant spiritual moments I have ever had have not come as a result of my striving, but as a result of my surrendering. It makes me wonder if people in our society often feel spiritually unfulfilled because surrender is not something we are taught to do. We idolize the fighters and disdain the “quitters.” But there are times when quitting is the only sane choice.

Buddhists call this surrender to what is non-resistance. The Tao te Ching speaks of it as yielding. Jesus spoke of it as giving oneself over to the divine will. This willingness to let go–so terrifying to the ego–is at the heart of all spiritual life.

Christian theologian Reinhold Niebuhr wrote the prayer which was made famous by Alcoholics Anonymous. Known as the Serenity Prayer, the first four lines are the most familiar:

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

I appreciate the insight in Niebuhr’s prayer because it articulates the dance we do as humans. Sometimes we need to do what is required to correct circumstances that need correcting. But oftentimes the harder thing is to surrender to that which is.

In my experience though, it isn’t serenity that makes me able to accept the things that I cannot change. Serenity is what comes when I do.

 

Home Field Advantage

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Are you in need of cheering?

Along with a lot of other people in the country I’ve been thinking about football lately, though not for the same reasons as most everybody else. If the truth be told, I don’t even know which teams are still in the running for the Super Bowl.

What I’ve been thinking about, rather than teams’ records and the playoff results, is home field advantage.

Everybody knows that teams stand a higher chance of winning when they’re playing at home where the stands are filled with people who want them to succeed and are yelling, ringing cowbells and blowing horns to cheer them on. It’s actually surprising that teams ever manage to win their away games when they are playing in the presence of people who are rooting for their demise. But then, they are a team after all, and at least if every last person in the stands would like nothing more than to see them fall flat on their faces, they still have each other to turn to for encouragement.

In spite of our culture’s cult of individualism that tells us we should all be completely self-reliant, the truth is that most of us play our best game when we are in the company of people who believe in us and who are encouraging us to bring our best selves forth.

It reminds me of geese when they are flying long distances in formation. The lead goose in the V formation has the hardest job because he or she has to fly into the greatest resistance, while the geese behind have it easier because they are able to ride the air currents created by the lead goose. Those following in formation encourage the lead goose by honking, and eventually, when the lead goose gets tired it drops back into the formation and another takes its place to be urged on by the rest of the flock.

I love that image of being followed by a great honking chorus encouraging me on as I fly into the challenge of a difficult task.  I know that kind of affirmation can make all the difference. There have been many times in my life when I could have easily become disheartened and given into weariness and discouragement were it not for the presence of people who believed in me and were cheering me on.  For them I am grateful beyond words.

If you don’t have already have a community of affirmation in your life, can you imagine creating one? Are there people you know who might need you to be part of their honking chorus, calling forth their best efforts and greatest gifts? If the answer to either of those questions is yes, I hope you’ll act on the invitation, because affirmation and encouragement can be just as essential to our success as the talents we have and the visions we hold.

The Art of Being Afraid

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emerald heart on white cloth
When have you done something you were afraid to do?

I used to think that courage was the absence of fear, and I thought courageous people could do brave things because they weren’t afraid of doing them. I have come to see, though, that courage isn’t the absence of fear at all, but the willingness to step into it.

In spite of F.D.R.’s famous injunction, fear is not something to fear. It is a normal, universal human experience. In fact, being afraid of fear only amplifies its effect.

Rather than fearing fear, I have found the most helpful approach is to learn how to be with it, yet not allow it to dictate my actions.

Maggie Kuhn, founder of the Gray Panthers, famously said, “Stand before the people you fear and speak your mind—even if your voice shakes.” Maggie’s words exemplify what courage really is: the willingness to feel fear and still do what we must do.

Fear is uncomfortable, which is why we try to avoid it. It makes us feel queasy. Our voice trembles, our hands shake, we sweat. It is not a pleasant experience—and it’s not supposed to be. It is part of our hardwiring, designed to keep us out of harm’s way. It serves a useful evolutionary purpose.

But it can become an obstacle if we allow it to keep us from living into our full potential—from doing something that needs to be done, or speaking a truth that needs to be spoken.

Several years ago, I was on an airplane going to Denver. As the plane began its descent, a woman across the aisle and a couple rows behind me began to hyperventilate, clearly in distress. She told the people around her that she had survived a plane crash. This was the first time she’d flown since, something her therapist had encouraged her to do to help her heal from the trauma.

For most of us, getting on the plane that day had just been a matter of course. For that woman, though, it had been an act of tremendous courage. She may have been hyperventilating and clutching the armrests for all she was worth, but let me tell you, she was the most courageous person on the plane that day. It was her fear that made her so.

As the airplane safely touched down, the passengers around her applauded her for her courage. She was visibly relieved—and also empowered. She had done the very thing she was most afraid of doing.

Sometimes we believe that before we attempt something scary we need to get over our fear of doing it. But that isn’t how it works. We get over our fear by doing the thing we’re afraid to do.

It helps to approach fear like a curious observer, taking note of the physical sensations of being afraid. This engages the witnessing mind that can stand apart from the experience and watch what is happening without being caught in it. The more we observe the physiological effects of fear, the more we discover how similar it is to the physiological sensations of exhilaration. Simply noticing that can help us reframe the experience as something exciting rather than frightful.

Courage comes from the French word for heart, which I find quite beautiful. It suggests to me that courage is the willingness to live our lives guided by the heart regardless of the risks. Just as we do cardiovascular exercises to strengthen our physical heart, we can exercise our heart of courage by incrementally and regularly stepping into our fear.

That way, if we are ever called upon to do a truly daring thing, we will be ready—because we will have mastered the art of being afraid.

Jumping to New Year’s Conclusions

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What future do you want to imagine?

I am not a big fan of New Year’s resolutions even though I am a firm believer in the power of setting intentions and visions for the future. That’s why my practice, when the year rolls to a close, is not to make a list of “shoulds” for the upcoming year, but to jump ahead and imagine what it is I want to be celebrating a year from now.

I take out a pen and paper and write a letter of thanks to the Universe for all that has come to pass in the year ahead, as though the coming year were not commencing, but concluding. The more I write, the more I can feel myself entering into the reality that I am envisioning. Then, when the new year begins, I feel as though my dreams have already come to pass and all I have to do is cooperate and do my part to let them express themselves.

My New Year’s practice draws on the wisdom of Jesus, that great guru of imagination and intention, who said that whenever we pray for something, we should believe we have already received it and it will be ours. It is our willingness to receive what we ask for, without reservation or resistance, that makes all the difference.Continue Reading

What You See Is What You Get

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Decades ago when I was first learning to drive, one of the first things my driving instructor cautioned me about as soon as I got behind the wheel was that I would instinctively drive towards wherever I was looking. His words of warning have stayed with me over the years not only as an instruction for driving, but as an instruction for living.

One of the challenges we face in our society is that we are constantly bombarded by the news media with stories of catastrophe and violence that draw our attention towards an image of a world fraught with danger. Sure there is danger, that’s part of life. But there is also exquisite beauty, miraculous possibilities, innumerable instances of goodwill, heroic compassion, and just simple kindness.Continue Reading