Don’t Give Up Before the Miracle*

I loved writing last week’s blog so passionately that I’m receiving whiplash from its aftermath, as I try to focus on birthing this week’s blog. Does passion blur reality? Ya think?

Read Blog Here

This week, words feel stubborn, having their own experience, separate from mine. It will take a miracle for something of any interest to emerge from me.

Wait! That’s exactly what I considered writing about—miracles. Did a miracle just unfold before our eyes?

Miracle = an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs.

Okay, here’s the story:

Years ago, maybe 5 or so, I was vaguely and tangentially a part of a Berkshire group investigating the possibilities of co-housing. I was conflicted yet slightly interested, so I kept my distance while going through the motions of group involvement, not difficult for an introvert like me.

At one point, it became mandatory in the group to join a working subgroup, in order to do the necessary tasks of the organization, investigate properties, build the group’s presence, etc. As I sketchily remember the options of mandatory subgroups, they were things like:

Outreach too much potential work, didn’t want to

Publicity too much potential work, didn’t want to

Interface with Towns absolutely too much potential work, I didn’t want to

New Properties Search way beyond too much….

And then a kind woman in the group named Susan J. offered a new option, a Miracles Group. Only a few people were interested—it seemed perfect for me. Not signing on for too much, etc., etc. I jumped at the offer, smirkingly enjoying my avoiding a deeper commitment to the group.

Well. Yesterday was our 129th Miracles Group. We have met on Zoom twice a month since our first meeting. We are a group of five (friend Terry died a few years ago). We meet for an hour.

There are several segments to each meeting:

First— Susan shares some quotes she has found as an opening meditation.

Secondly— We each have a few minutes to get current, to get present.

Thirdly— We have a few more minutes to speak of the miracles we have noticed during the past two weeks.

Finally— We offer to the Altar that which we and others need support.

This group has been—miraculous! These women live in my heart deeply. Their reminders, the revelations of their miracles, keep my heart open to the miracles that are around me all the time. Occasionally, I notice one.

I’m on the lookout for miracles. And for this anxious, busy-minded human, that is the right direction to lean.

Oh, funny ending to the story—the Berkshire co-housing group collapsed due to real estate costs here. Our Miracles subgroup lives on!

~~~

Cut to the chase, Aruni—

What I Believe About Miracles:

• They are everywhere, always.
• They take every possible form, feathered, fuzzy, humanoid, concrete.
• The only thing that blocks my seeing them is… what a surprise… me.
• Divine intervention is always available.

My miracles of these past two weeks:

• Witnessing the profound IQI program group of perfect strangers that continued to deepen its connection to themselves and each other.
• Outliving my anxiety and comfortably leading the Ashram Resident Retreat session.
• Noticing the heron hiding in the bushes, both exposed and in disguise, just like me.

What about you?

What miracles have you witnessed?

Please—let me know. All voices welcomed.

All experiences sacred.

~~~

Music….. Here’s a remarkable cover of one of life’s best songs. Thanks to Joni (of course!) and to the singers, Cantus & the Swingles, two Grammy-winning a cappella groups that frequently collaborate:

~~~

Friends,

May we be present.

May we be whole.

May we ride the waves of our lives.

May we live in peace no matter what we are given.

May we continue to open our hearts

To the miracles

That surround us.

May all beings benefit from our shared words.

Blessings,

Aruni

~~~

*Don’t give up before the miracle—a Twelve Step slogan.

It’s a Miracle

 

August 27, 1986*

 

The picture of Jesus on the wall was the largest I had even seen in my entire Jewish life. Jesus was looking tall and benevolent, wearing, of course, his usual robe and slippers, while holding an innocent-looking, nonchalant lamb. It took up most of the wall, appearing practically-larger-than-life-sized. Or perhaps it was me. Perhaps my perception was off—I wasn’t feeling very well. We were facing each other, Jesus and I, assessing each other, sizing each other up.

 

I wasn’t sure of him at all.

 

We were all sitting on rickety, uncomfortable metal folding chairs which had seen better days. Mine was uneven and when I moved, which seemed often, the chair responded with a cacophony of squeaks. My already out-of-the-box-galloping-self-consciousness was magnified by this damn chair that had to call attention to my every nervous readjustment. There were about twenty people sitting in a makeshift circle. I could hardly bear to look at anyone but Jesus.

 

We were in what seemed to be a depressingly tan rec-room, off the main church, with faded paint, an old ping pong table off to the side, and a battered floral couch that had indeed seen better days. There was a tired-looking coffee maker on a card table with Styrofoam cups, a few disorganized, scattered napkins stained with coffee, unappetizing cookies scattered in an open box, and a plastic bowl holding hard candies. I shuttered at the obvious lack of nutritional sophistication of these people, whoever they were. I would never eat any of that. My commitment to my raw foods diet was impeccable.

 

People were talking. It seemed impossible to focus my hearing to make the words individuated. They made no sense to me. The sounds of the words assaulted me all at once and poured endlessly over me. I couldn’t seem to slow them down, to divide them out. What the heck was happening to me? That thought terrified me anew, and I took a bit of a breath, which seemed to slow everything down a little.

 

“And I realize that I wasn’t the only person who felt like that,” a voice said.

 

I searched around the circle to find the owner of the voice. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was The Leather Woman. She was dressed in a black leather vest, despite the intolerable heat. She wore skin-tight jeans, knee-length laced boots with spiked heels, and a bikers’ cap on her dyed inky black hair.

 

But it was the piercing—the piercing!—that mesmerized me. This was well before piercing was in vogue. She had a dozen tiny metal balls streaming down the length of each ear, larger yet piercings in each of her nostrils, and series of odd and metallic things adorning her right eyebrow. Looking at her made me physically shutter again. Although I had lived in the East Village for years and had been accustomed to everybody, every shape, race, color, size, gender combo-blend of personal expression, this was over the top for me. I was both fascinated and repulsed by the elaborate display. Surely this woman and I existed in different universes. I was a radical Jewish lesbian-separatist. I was Nachama, having taken the name of my grandmother’s mother.** She was—The Pierced Lady.

 

I believed in and lived for the matriarchy, freed from the symbols of male power and oppression. I saw her as a walking embodiment of exactly that.

 

What the fuck was I doing here with these people? The intensity of my discomfort continued to rise. I felt downright squirmy but stayed seated. There seemed no alternative but to sit, to allow this strange, foreign meeting with its own cast of characters to play out. I certainly didn’t have the capacity to move yet alone stand and leave.

 

Jesus met my eye again, offering me a touchstone of presence. I squirmed beneath his gaze and found a tiny glimmer of comfort from the lamb in his arms.

 

I pulled my eyes away.

 

I tried to take another breath, attempting to discern the words floating around me.

 

The Pierced Lady continued:

 

“I get really scared when I don’t know how to do something.”

 

Those twelve words woke me up. Literally, woke me up. I heard them; they seemed to permeate, penetrate the fog that clung to me. They shook me deeply, deeply and fully.

 

ME, TOO, I thought.

 

My thoughts continued:

 

I GET REALLY SCARED WHEN I DON’T KNOW WHAT PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT.

ESPECIALLY IN MY POLITICAL GROUP.

I TRY TO REPEAT SOMETHING SOMEONE SAID TO MAKE IT MINE.

I GET—TERRIFIED.

 

I sat up straighter. The Pierced Lady continued:

 

“I want people to like me. I want everybody to think I’m good and that I do good things. I just don’t know how to be myself, to have my feelings, to show up. When I get scared, all I want to do—all I do—is drink and drug. When I do that, then I can show up. It kind of works for a while, and then, it gets messy and doesn’t. Everything just gets worse. The problems get bigger and I feel like shit about myself, even more. I feel like shit about me, EVEN MORE.”

 

I was stunned, now at the edge of my chair. She, The Pierced Lady from the Galaxy of Biker-Land, was speaking the words of my inner, most secret self. She was saying things about me that I hadn’t quite said to myself, about myself, but I knew them, deeply, truly inside. They were the words that I tried forever and always to push away. In her speaking them aloud, something inside of me shifted and settled.

 

She went on, describing her attempts to stay sober and clean, about how her life was improving slowly, one day at a time, I have never had the experience of being so impacted by somebody’s words. It was almost as if they missed my brain and entered directly into my body, into my heart. My head calmed. I sat alert, in awe.

 

“Just don’t use. Just don’t pick up. We can outlive those feelings. Keep coming back here. Just keep coming. Thanks.” The Pierced Lady ended to a round of applause.

 

I sat, dumbfounded. She understood me, this be-leathered, odd being. Despite the differences in our costumes, despite our obvious contrary political perspectives, she spoke my world into being. She put words to my reality. Everything seemed very still in the room.

 

The leader, a lanky jock-looking guy in cut-offs and dirty white high-top sneakers, thanked her and said, “Let’s continue the discussion with Jason,” and looked to a pimply kid on his left. Jason opened his mouth and started talking.

 

I couldn’t take in all of the words, as the discussion passed organically around the circle. Although I don’t remember the content, these people, these men, these strange women, each spoke of things that touched me, things that somehow held a mirror up to my own self. I had never in my thirty-eight years felt so joined by other people, people I had never seen before.

 

Somehow the discussion floated around the circle. Somehow the words spoken continued to be my words, wanting to be said, wanting to be released. Somehow, eventually, when the circle’s attention focused on me, without thought, with chattering teeth and sweaty hands, I was able to say:

 

“My name is Nachama. I’m an addict.”

 

Without thought, without planning, my wounded self was revealed.

 

My gravest secret, kept so far from me, was now bathed in the light of acceptance.

 

I had landed.

~~~

 

According to our friends at Webster, a miracle is:

 

“A surprising and welcomed event that is not explicable by natural or scientific law and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency;

An Improbable or extraordinary event or development that brings positive results”

~~

And you, dear friends? What are the miracles surrounding you, the synchronistic events that happen, that continue to happen?

 

They may change your awareness, they may open you up to the moment,

They may soften your heart,

They may even switch your direction.

 

What do you notice?

 

Big moments or little, no matter what is happening,

 

There are miracles.

 

There is grace

 

Around us.

~~~

Friends,

 

Last week I shared the song Hallelujah covered by Pentatonix.

 

I declared it was the absolute most perfect cover of that amazing song.

I was wrong.

 

Thanks to our Canadian friends, here is the version of Hallelujah which Leonard Cohen claimed was his favorite.

 

Cohen said, after hearing this K.D. Lang’s version, there should be a moratorium placed on the song. Hers should be the only one allowed to be played.

 

Sounds like something he would say.

 

Without being redundant, I offer this version to you.

 

YOU MUST LISTEN TO THIS—AND WATCH THIS—K.D. Lang, opening the Olympics in Vancouver.

~~~

Dear Friends,

 

Let’s together request

Willingness and courage—

 

For the continued healing

Of our bodies,

 

For the continued quieting

Of our minds,

 

For the continued opening

Of our hearts.

 

May all beings benefit from our time together.

 

Stay blessed,

Aruni

~~~

Reminder:

 

You can read my past blogs at any time.

 

Click Here.

 

Choose a category from the list. All the blogs from the past year+ will appear.

 

Enjoy yourself!!

~~~

 

* This story, written in 2008, describes a turning point in my life that happened in 1986. It’s taken from my first book, Recovering My Voice—A Memoir of Chaos, Spirituality and Hope.

 

** Little did I know this would be a lifetime of name-changings.

 

 

The “F” Word

 

~~~
I don’t remember the first time I heard this.
It was—always there—at Kripalu, in a yoga class, during a workshop.
I always, ALWAYS feel comforted, connected and softened in solace when receiving it.
Written by Mike Heron, it was made popular in the world of yoga by the brilliant Snatam Kaur, world-renowned devotional singer.
It does.
It does reflect my spiritual moment back to me, softening, intensifying…

Sat Nam—repeated at the song’s end—is a seed mantra that activates the chakras.
Its translation is I Am Truth.

 

~~~
Dear Folks, what about you?
What songs did or currently do support your spiritual journey?
Open your heart to that which is greater than us?
Reminds you of the truth?

~~~~

---

May the long time sun
Shine upon you
All love surround you
And the pure light
Within you
Guide your way on
Guide your way on.

May the long time sun
Shine upon you
All love surround you
And the pure light
Within you
Guide your way on
Guide your way on.

Sat Nam
Sat Nam…

May all beings receive
The benefit of our words.

May all beings receive
The benefit
Of our hearts’ longing.

Aruni

Temple of Saint Maria sopra Minerva

Quiet and still and deep

 

 

~~~
Here is a wonderful thing, for your hearts, dear friends:

 

~~~

Wish I could say more to you all.  But—I brought a companion home with me.  Mr. Covid, which is such a bummer of a way to end a glorious trip.

Please forgive any lack of polish in this blog—I did my best with one eye open.

~~~
Dear Friends,
Blessings and love to us, all.

Give us the courage
And the strength
To see
The
Demonstrations
Of
Faith
All around
Us.

Stay blessed, Aruni