I walk unsteadily,
like a toddler finding my center of gravity,
arms out for balance,
taking one wobbly step after another,
crossing the threshold into a life I have never known.
A flicker of familiarity encourages me
(I don’t have to leave everything behind)
and the known calms my uncertainty.
Is the light coming from ahead to guide my steps or
from the experiences of my past,
encouraging me onward
to step through the door and
begin this journey into
the next chapter of my life.
I only want to be a SPP, a priest friend used to say. SPP stood for simple parish priest.
I was reminded of that when I read that Padre Pio used to say, I only want to be a poor friar who prays.
Both of those statements got me to thinking of what I want.
Growing up, I had no idea of what I wanted to be. Teachers would suggest possible careers for me—writer or teacher being two of the most popular—but those suggestions sounded beyond my capabilities. My low self-esteem was deeply ingrained.
I was not allowed to go to college after high school, and looking back, I imagine that may have been where I might have discerned my desires.
In my mid-twenties, when I was very involved in my church and attending Mass every day, many people suggested I become a nun, and I did explore that option. But again, it was not something I had always dreamed of (although I did once have a nun doll that I rather liked).
My truth was that I never thought of myself as having a dream; I don’t remember ever saying, I only want to be.…
I tell myself that lots of people don’t know what they want to be when they grow up, and I have learned that lots of people start out as one thing only to discover that is not what they really want after all.
Nurses become pharmaceutical sales representatives, teachers become real estate agents, and businesspeople become nonprofit leaders (or vice versa). I even know a doctor who had been an architect. Imagine all that schooling only to discover it is not what you really wanted.
I know several lawyers who discovered they did not want to be lawyers. Two are now elementary school teachers, another opened a bookstore, and another works in fundraising.
Now, deeply in the third third of my life, I can see that life plays out in ways I and many others could not have imagined. I suppose having a dream, an idea of what one wants to be, can provide a base, but sometimes that dream can get in the way of using our gifts and talents to their fullest.
Padre Pio is a good example of someone who allowed himself to become what people (and God) needed him to be—a sought-after spiritual advisor and confessor. Perhaps he imagined he would have more time for prayer, but he seems to have adapted to the needs of the people who came to him.
A neighbor recently attended a function at my work and commented that she could see that my work is more than a job. You belong to those people, she said, and they belong to you. Growing up, I may not have known what I wanted to be, but my life has worked out better than I probably could have planned.
Have you ever said, I only want to be…? Has the dream changed over time?
Recognizing my fears and moving beyond them has been a big part of my spiritual journey.
Too often, I speak or act out of fear, then feel an interior uneasiness and later wonder what is hiding beneath the fear. What brokenness is waiting to be healed? What understanding needs to be awakened?
I have come to believe that fear is a shackle, and that only trust leads to freedom. My desire is to have nothing to fear, nothing to prove and nothing to hide—to live transparently.
During a recent day-long workshop on Diversity, Equity and Inclusion, I thought of times I have felt excluded and was afraid to call attention to my situation. I also thought of times when I was with people who were different from me and was irrationally afraid.
One of the panels that day consisted of four white men—talking about diversity, equity and inclusion. Bad optics, I thought. And as I watched these men, I could almost see their fists clenched as they grasped tightly to their control. I wondered what needs to be healed or awakened in them that would enable them to share the stage with someone who does not look like them.
And then I wondered where in my life I am unwilling to share the stage with someone who does not look like me.
Another workshop session was about being an ally. One of the panelists shared a story of being singled out in a grocery story because her head scarf identified her as a Muslim. A man walked right up to her and called her a terrorist. I was shocked that someone would do that, but apparently it is not that uncommon.
The panelist said that as hurtful as it was for this man to accuse her of being a terrorist, what was even more hurtful was that no one came to her aid—neither to challenge the man nor to offer her support. No one asked if she was ok after the man had walked away. No one was an ally to her in her time of need.
Her story prompted me to consider if I would be willing to stand up to someone who is being confrontational or to stand beside someone who is being confronted—if I could be an ally to someone who is different from me.
Last week, our local newspaper ran a piece about a man wanting to make our county a more welcoming place for people in the LGBTQ community. He is organizing a Pride event. I was both happy that he is doing this and afraid for him. I don’t think of our community as being particularly welcoming toward any minority group, and I imagined his announcement produced some push-back from fearful people.
This week, I happened to meet that man, and I shared my reaction to the newspaper piece. I applauded his courage and offered my support because I, too, want our community to be less fearful and more inclusive.
Reflecting on Colossians 1:1-8 the other morning, these words of St. Paul caught my attention:
“…we have heard of your faith in Christ Jesus and the love that you have for all the holy ones…”
I stopped reading to reflect.
I imagined the scene. Paul, someplace far away, writing to the Colossians of what he has heard about them. I wondered who told Paul of the Colossians’ faith. Was someone passing through Paul’s town who had been to Colossae? Had someone written to Paul?
And why did Paul take the time to write to the Colossians to tell them what he had heard? Had they been struggling and he felt they needed encouragement or praise? Or had Paul been struggling and hearing such good news overjoyed him?
I wondered how the Colossians heard Paul’s praise. Did they post the letter for everyone to read? Did they offer spontaneous thanks to God for guiding them and giving them strength to live the Gospel? Did they boast to their neighbors in the next town about how Paul praised them?
And then I wondered if anyone is speaking of my faith. Has anyone heard of my faith in Jesus and the love I have for all the holy ones? Would anyone write a message like Paul’s to me to encourage or praise me?
I pondered this for a while, letting memories surface of positive things people have said to me, things related to how I live my faith. “Take it in,” my friend Jim used to tell me when I received praise or a compliment.
Brushing compliments aside, dismissing praise, would be more my style. Accepting compliments seemed to be a stepping-stone toward pride, as if I would become too proud if I accepted hearing good things about myself. I felt unworthy of praise and had great difficulty receiving compliments and accepting praise. I have worked on this—allowing myself to hear good things about myself and believe them—but I still struggle to take in good things people say about me.
After pondering Paul’s praise of the Colossians for a while, I went back to reading the scripture passage and discovered that Epaphras was the one who had told Paul.
Who will speak for me? I wondered. Who is my Epaphras, talking about how my faith is growing and bearing fruit?
And for whom am I Epaphras? Or Paul? Do I praise others for their growth in faith? For their works on behalf of the holy ones? Am I passing along positive messages about others’ faith?
These thoughts have stayed with me all week and made me more aware of opportunities to share my faith and to offer praise and encouragement.
I want to be like Epaphras and Paul, telling of people’s good works, reflecting back to those in my life how their love is shining through and encouraging them with praise.
Seeing good works, acknowledging them and offering praise—three great practices to deepen my faith and grow in love.
My Dad had two talks with me, the first was when I was about ten and the second was when I got my driver’s license.
The first talk coincided with my starting to venture beyond my immediate neighborhood, going to the library and the movies, which were both a half-mile from home. I always went to the movies with friends, but visiting the library was a solitary activity.
Library time was sacred, and I wanted the freedom to do what I wanted for as long as I wanted. The library had the same allure as church, drawing me into its silence, scents and rituals.
At the library, I could freely live out my love of reading, and I was even praised for it. The librarians engaged me in conversations about what I had just read, asking if I had liked the book, which was my favorite character and what was my favorite part of the story. They encouraged me by offering suggestions for what I might read next.
Their encouragement made me feel normal, as if escaping through books was what one did. They inspired me to read more and to expand my horizons. The library was the place where my imagination and curiosity were unfettered. Through books, I explored other countries, peoples and cultures.
I used to wish I could live at the library, surrounded by silence and books.
My dad’s talk was about getting to and from the library.
My dad was a cop, and he believed that if his children were going to survive in the city, we had to figure things out on our own. He knew he and my mom would not be able to protect us once we left our neighborhood.
I had no curfew growing up and no defined boundaries; the whole city was mine to explore.
The advice my dad gave me was this: Always walk facing traffic—on the left side of the street—making it more difficult to be abducted. My dad explained that most children who were abducted were walking with traffic—on the right side of the street—so they did not see or hear someone approaching from behind. If I walked toward traffic, I would see who was approaching, and I would also make it more difficult for someone to snatch me because I was going in the opposite direction of cars.
Good advice.
The second talk, when I got my driver’s license, was this: While driving alone, especially at night, don’t stop if you see flashing lights approach from behind; it might not be a police car. Slow down, put on the blinker and drive to a public place (gas station, convenience store, etc.).
My dad knew what could happen to a woman alone in a car at night.
I’ve not had the flashing-lights experience, but I still follow my dad’s advice and walk facing traffic.
My dad would not have used these words, but his talks were building my resiliency toolkit, and I am grateful.
“You are a reluctant prophet,” the retreat director said during our first meeting.
“I have heard that before,” I replied.
Months earlier, after reading his book Simply Soul Stirring—Writing as a Meditative Practice, I had written to Father Dorff and asked if he would help me with my writing. I had explained that God was inviting me to write, and that I was resistant. But now, I wanted to move against my resistance.
He agreed to a seven-day writing retreat. I flew to New Mexico, prepared to spend a week in a hermitage, writing.
After talking with me for a short time in that first session, Father Dorff said, “No more books on writing or workshops or retreats. Just write.”
That was seven years ago.
Many of my retreats before that one dealt with my writing—or not writing. I had consistently heard the invitation to write, but I had resisted.
In my early twenties, people started suggesting I should write a book.
I think it was because I worked for the FBI, and I seemed an unlikely FBI employee. I was willful, obstinate and outspoken—not exactly bureaucrat material. Plus, I had strong beliefs about social justice.
After the FBI, people suggested I write about my work with people who were socially marginalized, and then l’Arche.
But I did not ever see any of that as book worthy.
It wasn’t until my late fifties that I actually submitted an essay that was published (or rather podcast). And then I submitted another to the local newspaper for the opinion page. My two published pieces.
And I started this blog.
I don’t know what it is about writing a book, but I know I am resistant.
Moving against my resistance has been a major part of my spiritual life for as long as I have had a spiritual life. God continually invites me to move past rigid rules and self-esteem issues.
I just don’t see myself as an author, even if God and other people may.
So what, I wonder, would I have to say that could fill a book?
Still, I want to move against my resistance, especially my resistance to sharing my story.
Last year, I heard about an author who conducts memoir-writing workshops, and I thought maybe I could attend one of her workshops. While checking out her calendar for the upcoming year, Father Dorff’s words come back to me. “No more…workshops. Just write.” Ugh!
My week in New Mexico helped me to be more comfortable writing and sharing my story. Father Dorff received my story without judgment. He accepted my vulnerability and encouraged me to continue to be open to where God was leading me.
Father Dorff suggested that I allow God to direct not only what I write but also who reads it. He encouraged me to let go of controlling the process and let God be the director.
So, for now, I continue to blog and try to be more open to next steps.
I try to live mindfully, which can be challenging, partly because of my job as the executive director of a non-profit organization. There is so much to do, and I have difficulty saying “no.”
So I practice in little ways. For example, when I am standing in line at the grocery store, I take a few deep breaths, and I find myself feeling more patient. When someone comes to talk to me at work, I set aside what I had been doing so I can listen deeply. I walk at a park along the lake.
One of the practices recommended at the Center for Mind Body Medicine workshop I attended last month was to write a prescription for self-care (these are medical people, so they think in terms of prescriptions). I chuckled to myself as the doctor/presenter explained the process, because this is something I have been doing as long as I have been journaling. My version is called “things that bring me joy.”
At the beginning of each year, and every time I start a new journal, I review and update my list of things I love to do. The list hasn’t changed that much over the years. I still love to bake, read, cook and sew. I love going to museums and poking around in little shops in quaint towns.
But, I learned to knit in my late thirties, and added that to my list. Twenty years ago, I bought my first home and planted a flower garden—and then added gardening to the list.
Running changed to walking after an ankle injury fifteen years ago. Writing for blogs was added about ten years ago.
Walking by the lake the other day, I thought back over the past few months to see how I was doing in the “joy” department, and I realized there were some gaps. I had not baked or knitted for at least three months!
So I came home and baked chocolate chip cookies and blueberry coffee cake; I immediately felt happier.
How is it possible that something so simple can bring me such joy? And knowing that it does, why do I not do more?
To be fair, the past few weeks have seen me in the yard clearing out flower beds and planting annuals. But, I notice that my evenings have been spent watching mindless television—and not even knitting while I am sitting there.
That awareness leaves me feeling unsettled and even a bit discouraged. Why am I resisting doing something that brings me joy?
After a particularly discouraging day at work, and an evening of watching mindless television, I had an active dream night—I think my subconscious is busy repairing the discord of my waking life.
The next morning, St. Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 4:16 spoke directly to me: “Therefore, we are not discouraged.”
Living mindfully requires paying attention to the everyday moments of my life, focusing on what brings me joy, and letting go of what is discouraging.
Madeline Bialecki 