Messages From Carrie
The Sacred Ordinary - Originally printed in the Hastings College publication entitled Being Human
January 1st, 2008
The Sacred and the Ordinary
Carrie Newcomer
I live in the woods of southern Indiana. My home is set back into a steep hill and has a wide front porch that sits at mid-tree level. I love to sit on that porch at dawn when the world transitions from darkness to daylight. This is the time when the last flittering of bats overlaps with the first fluttering of birds. It is a snapshot in time, a moment when I feel present and alive. Often I think of my walk upon this earth as a continuous line of these poignant and powerful snapshots. It is in these moments of awareness that I feel the universe opening, and I am connected to the Light. I am fully human. I am a songwriter and artist; for me, being fully human is all about paying attention, being willing to take in life and the world, and then creating something authentic and true in response. Being fully human is about encountering my deep connection to the Sacred as it resonates and moves through the ordinary.
In Thornton Wilder’s play Our Town, the character Emily Webb asks aloud, "Doesn't anyone ever realize life while they live it? Every, every minute?" The Stage Manager responds to her saying, "No. Saints and poets, maybe; they do some." Although I commiserate with Emily’s concern that so much of our conscious lives is lost in an endless list of things to do and places to go, I disagree with the Stage Manager that it is only the saints and poets who have the capacity to live aware and awake to the human experience. Observing the human condition, attempting to realize life as it is lived, to live more fully human, even just a little, is a conscious decision and choice we make about the manner and quality of our lives. I have come to believe that this decision to be present and fully human is not reserved for the poets and saints but for anyone who is willing to take in the world and life and to give back a deliberate expression of worth and truth. It has changed me as a person to attempt this kind of willingness. Seeking to live a more fully human life has asked me to walk through this world differently, attempting not to hide or dull the brightness of this experience with distractions and diversions. I weep more often. I am amused by things others miss. I grieve. I am astonished. I am bewildered. I am faced with the depth of sorrow in this world, and comforted by the faithfulness of hope. But most of all I have come to expect miracles at every turn and especially in the daily connections with people all around me. I am awed by the wonder of the natural world, by the smell of fresh coffee, the feel of warm water in the shower. I sing and write daily, which is my purest form of prayer and meditation. It is in the presence of these daily miracles that I become more aware of the spark of Inner Light in the deepest part of myself and listen to its wisdom.
The Quakers often refer to God as The Light. What I call the spark of Inner Light is the essence that lives at our deepest center, beneath personality and ego. It is the spark that some call the spirit or soul, some call the atman, and Carl Jung called the Self. It is a part of the eternal wholeness of the creation and abides in relationship with God. This spark has amazing resilience and goodness. It is what makes us spiritual beings connected to something larger than ourselves, and affirms that The Light is as close as a deep breath and yet as mysterious as the home of the wind. The ability of this spark within to survive and shine often humbles me. It is a wonder to me that the human spirit is so incredibly strong. I have seen people brave and survive the most tragic and difficult times. I’ve seen others and myself rise up when everything logical indicated that rising up would certainly be impossible. I’ve seen humans give others deep gifts of compassion and generosity when they were only barely getting by themselves. Brute force, intimidation, and tragedy have never stopped one true and transcendent thought or stopped the spark within us from kindling and warming all who come close. Sometimes in our despair we are barely aware of that glowing ember, but I am constantly amazed at how little it takes to ignite a coal into a spark, and in turn a spark into a flame. I am always astounded at what the simplest act of human kindness can kindle in others and in me.
My home in Southern Indiana has a particular and interesting geological history. We are situated where there was once a vast shallow sea, where glaciers pushed, pummeled, and finally finished their slow march southward. This is a rolling green land abundant in limestone and the mysterious rocks called geodes. Geodes are so copious in this part of the state that we pile them in our gardens and think of them as commonplace. I am fascinated with these unassuming brown and grey stones that contain within them a sparkling center of quartz crystals. They are surprising, beautiful and a wonderful metaphor. They remind me to look deeper, because often within what may appear to be quite ordinary is a core of beauty and mystery. Sometimes I will take visiting friends on muddy walks along the hills and hollows of my home pointing out the creek beds full of geodes. Often they confess that if I hadn’t pointed out these unadorned stones their presence would have been missed entirely. But once familiar with the signature lumpy look of geodes they begin to see the stones everywhere. This is how paying attention works. At first I have to look quite deliberately to find the sparkling center of things, but eventually I begin to notice the patterns and come to expect the unexpected. I take a small leather bag with me when I travel. The bag contains several little geodes, green moss and pressed flowers, a short prayer written down on a folded bit of paper, and the blue feather of an indigo bunting that once floated down in front of me like a question mark. I have carried this little bag through many airport security check points, and laid out its contents on countless hotel night stands. I carry these items to remind me of the miracles that permeate my life and that mystery is closely present. We all get so busy and it is easy to forget to pay attention. We all need help and reminders to be present.
In this discussion of the spiritual nature of humanity, I don’t want to downplay that we are also physical beings. We live in a wondrous world of the senses, and our spirit is contained for this walk upon the earth in an amazing home. This physical home is another miracle in and of itself that allows us to enjoy the smell of lilacs, the taste of ice cream, the sound of a clear voice singing, the feel of a good strong wind, the sight of a tail-wagging faithful dog, the ache of muscles after raking leaves, the hardness of an icy winter pond, and the softness of a first shy kiss. Unfortunately our physical self and appearance is often the subject of great shame or anxiety in our culture and within some religious communities. We are told from a very young age that our physical bodies are unacceptable, unlovable, deficient, shameful and unworthy. It is implied that our spirits and bodies are disconnected. We are told that we need to change our physical selves to fit a narrow idea of beauty, and we’re encouraged to buy an endless array of products to mask, cover, or alter our physical appearance. For many of us, learning to accept and love our spirits and bodies is a long and painful journey. Our bodies and spirits are intimately connected, and it is in living with awareness that we learn to know the deepest spiritual essence of who we are and to integrate that with the joys and pains of having a home of blood and bone.
As a songwriter and artist I am a traveler in the realm of the human condition. To be a storyteller you must be willing to be present. Writers live their lives then they write about what they’ve experienced. I’ve often maintained that you cannot write about your life and experience if you weren’t there and present for the events. One of my saddest experiences is when I get to the end my day and say to myself, “Dang, I think I missed it.” I don’t want to miss my life because I was too busy to pay attention, or have nothing to say or write about because I wasn’t willing to feel the full power of daily existence. What I do want is to see miracles at every turn, to sense God around me and within me, to participate in the wonders of nature and have true connections with my fellow human travelers. I want to give the very best of myself. I have a good friend who reminds me occasionally that every day we choose to walk this world in one of two ways: either in love or in fear. I’ve taken this idea to heart and find that my interactions and experiences are deeply altered when I walk into any given situation in love. When I am open and aware, when I pay attention, when I try to base my actions in love and the best of who I am, I find that my choices become clearer. They are not always easier, but the background noise dims and what is really important becomes more apparent.
I don’t live in my full humanness “every, every minute.” Like most of us, I get too busy. I am rushing to the next appointment, mulling past conversations or lost in my own internal dialog. Sometimes I refer to this phenomenon as “hamster-wheeling.” My mind spins over the events of the past or future like the busy hamster turning its exercise wheel. When the day closes, it doesn’t matter how much I go over what was said or done; I cannot change past events. What has happened will not change if I turn it around in my head tracing all the paths taken and not taken. It is also unproductive to allow my mind to hamster-wheel with endless worry and fears about the future. Life is insecure, and the future is unknown. The only thing in this world that will not change is the hard fact of change itself. But here in the center, between past and future, is where my life actually resides. It is only in this present moment that I can make some difference, give my contribution, and participate in the constantly emerging miracles. I don’t mean to say that it isn’t important to acknowledge our past or have goals for the future. Acknowledging the past is truth-telling and it creates awareness about what has gone before and how it has brought us here. Hopes and goals for the future are beautiful winged things. They help us to imagine and dream of a life and goodness not yet realized. The questions I propose are, what is our next step after the truth telling is accomplished and our hopes and dreams have been given wings? What will we do with this precious moment right now, and are we willing to open ourselves to the fullness of living, of being truly human?
There is a very wise elderly gentleman in my Quaker meeting. Once out of the silence he stood up and said, “It is better to light a candle than to curse the dark.” I love this phrase and thought. When we live with awareness we are faced not only with the miracles and beauty of daily life, but we are also faced with the complexity, injustice and sorrows of this world. Living fully human lives requires that we develop and live out a compassionate response to the sorrows around us. It does little or no good to curse the darkness. Anger can propel us for a certain amount of time but ultimately it will burn itself out and we are left with despair or bitterness. In my experience, it is more sustaining to ground my compassionate response not in what it is that I am against, but instead in what am I for. When my compassionate response is based in love and belief in a transcending goodness, my energy is sustained longer and I am less likely to give into despair. The smallest candle can and does push back the darkness and despair in our world; it is a living, human act of hope. A curse can only ring and echo as long as the anger can sustain it, until eventually it falls into silence.
So I end with the question so beautifully stated by Mary Oliver in her poem “The Summer Day”: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" We have the chance to live each day fully human. We have the ability to say “Yes” to this wild and precious moment, to light a candle, to create something of truth and authenticity, to drink in the beauty of this world and touch the divine. We have the opportunity to live out the best of who we are with awareness, compassion and willingness. All these things are possible. So I say to you and to myself, believe in the best of who we are, believe in the best of what is to come, believe in the apparent and hidden mysteries of this world, and if you can, believe that each one of us can be the spark that will become a flame and bring light to the world.
Geodes
You can't always tell one from another
And it's best not to judge a book
By its tattered cover.
I have found when I tried
And looked deeper inside
What appears unadorned
Might be wondrously formed.
You can't always tell
But sometimes you just know
‘Round here we throw geodes in our gardens.
They’re as common as the rain
Or corn silk in July.
Unpretentious browns and grays,
The stain of Indiana clay,
They’re what's left of shallow seas
Glacial rock and mystery,
And inside there shines a
Crystal bright as promise.
All these things that we call familiar
Are just miracles clothed in the common place,
And you'll see it if you try
In the next stranger’s eyes.
God walks around in muddy boots,
Sometimes rags and that's the truth.
You can't always tell,
But sometimes you just know.
Some say geodes are made
From pockets of tears
Trapped away in small places
For years upon years
Pressed down and transformed
Until its true self was born
As the whole world moved on
Like the last notes of a song,
A love letter sent without return address.
You can’t always tell one from another
And it's best not to judge a book
By it's tattered cover.
Now I don’t open them to see.
Folks ‘round here just like me
We have come to believe
There’s hidden good in common things.
You can't always tell
But sometimes you just know.
You can't always tell
But sometimes you just know.
© Carrie Newcomer 2006 (Carrie Newcomer BMI, administered by Bug Publishing). To hear “Geodes” or other Carrie Newcomer recordings, visit www.carrienewcomer.com.