Cave Walls

I am reading a book on Mother Teresa.  She is a mysterious woman, not much is known about her early years.  She spent nearly the first 20 years of her time as a nun working behind closed walls of a school in India.  There is no record of her venturing out into the slums and working directly with the poor during this time at the school.  One day, she had a vision to venture out beyond the walls of her comfort zone and live side by side with the poor.  It more time of formalities and bureaucracy before she was permitted to start her own Order, The Missionaries of Charity, and move outside the safety of her walls.

I have spent the last few weeks meditating on my own walls.  More specifically, meditating on the walls of the wolf cave I find myself in (see the last blog for more details).  I have continued to meditate on “The Lord is My Shepherd” and experienced shifts in my soul.  I started with an image of me being alone in a dark, cold wolf cave.  Me, the lost sheep calling out to a Shepherd that does not seem to hear or notice my absence from the sheep fold.  Me, the sheep hiding from historical predators. Me, relying on my own strength; my own ability to save myself.  Me, the black sheep claiming that I stopped hoping for a savior.  To quote Red from Shawshank Redemption, “Hope is a dangerous thing.” 

As I spent time in this cave, I began to see I was not alone.  There was a Shepherd standing at the entrance asking to come in.  I fought with this invitation.  “NO!  You are too late.  You do not get to come in after I have already cleaned up the mess and taken care of things.”  My gloves were off, and I was ready to fight.  And while I felt this anger, I felt my deep ambivalence pulling me the opposite direction.  I wanted the Shepherd to come in despite my protests.  For while I felt anger and cheated that I had to save myself, another part of me was still deeply hurting and terrified.  Another part of me did not want to fight; did not want to push love away.  Another part of me really wanted to be held. 

And the Shepherd moved closer inside the cave.  My ambivalence grew stronger.  “What do you want from me?!?”  I saw myself tight-fist holding onto something for which I had no name.  My thoughts ran fast trying to catch a glimpse as to what exactly I am clutching.  Shame?  Yes, but this seems bigger than shame.  Anger?  Again, yes, but this feels like an inadequate response.   Pain?  Still not quite it.

The Shepherd moved closer.  This time I felt myself curled close and my head resting on his lap.  I know what it is I am gripping – my whole life.  Surrender my heart, mind, and strength.  Strength – no problem.  I love to do things to help others, fix the broken in the ER, get my hands dirty, and live and work in third world countries.  Mind – again, no problem.  I spend great time reading, listening, and seeking opportunities to learn and feed my soul.  Heart – here is where the rubber meets the road.  My heart is still comfortable hiding in the darkness of these cave walls. 

I saw what I am clutching – my heart filled with my vulnerabilities.  Yes, the anger at having to save myself.  Yes, the terror of facing the wolves.  Yes, the pride at my ability to fight the wolves off and save myself.  Yes, the loneliness experienced in the darkness.  Yes, the pain from old injuries and the scars remaining as a constant reminder.  Yes, the hope I secretly carry with me.  Yes, my fear that I will never really know how to love or be loved in return.  These deep-felt emotions all reside in my heart -- my heart that I have guarded so closely.  My heart that I warded off from any possibility of being hurt again.  It is my heart and all these vulnerable emotions that I am being asked to surrender.

I would like to say I have reached the Hallelujah and I have had some radical breaking point, but this is not the case.  My hands are still closed, though the grip is loosening.  In the meantime, I continue to meditate inside these cave walls and relax in the presence of the Shepherd sitting with me, the lost sheep.  It is peaceful not fighting (and pushing, screaming, kicking) against love.