Be kind and brave. Steady. Clear. Shameless. Gentle. True.
You can be shattered and then you can put yourself back together piece by piece. But what can happen over time is this: You wake up one day and realize that you have put yourself back together completely differently. That you are whole, finally and strong—but you are now a different shape. This kind of change only happens when you sit inside your own pain. You die. And you simply cannot fit into your old self anymore. This new you is equal parts undeniable and terrifying.
Like a snake trying to fit into old, dead skin—or a butterfly trying to crawl back into the cocoon—or a new wine trying to pour itself back into an old wineskin.
Because you just don’t fit. And you suddenly know that. And you’ve become a woman who doesn’t ignore her knowing. Who doesn’t pretend she doesn’t know. Because pretending makes you sick. You know this to be true. And because you never promised yourself an easy life, but you did promise yourself a true one. You did promise—back when you were putting yourself back together—that you’d never ever betray you again.
You’ve discovered that fight and flight aren’t the only options, there’s a third way: heal.
I’m just going to assume most of you have heard of Mother Teresa (MT). If you don’t, you should look into her. I love MT. I love her for what she did, and more importantly why she did it. I believe she was living according to the Truth. And I love paying close attention to people who live according to the Truth.
The reason that MT served the lepers and destitute and dying in the streets of Calcutta was not because Jesus told her to; it was because Jesus was leprous and destitute and dying in the streets of Calcutta. And since she worshipped Jesus as God, she figured she should probably go help him, because it didn’t makes a lot of sense to worship God in church while he was dying alone in the streets. And she believed that it was silly to weep when thinking about Jesus being crucified two thousand years ago, yet not weep while watching Jesus crucified today, on the streets of Calcutta or Cambodia or Peru or in high school hallways.
MT saw God in every human being, and when she held a dying leper and dressed his wounds, she did not imagine that she was helping Jesus die with dignity, she really was helping Jesus die with dignity. She was holding, as she would have said, “Jesus in the distressing disguise of the poor.” She understood that everyone is Jesus. She understood the meaning of the word Namaste, which means “the divine light in me sees and honors the divine light in you.” God in me recognizes God in you. And the God in me honors the God in you. So when she encountered a person, she would fold her hands, bow her head, and say, “Namaste.” And when she wanted to see God, she looked into the eyes of the person sitting next to her.
I don’t watch the news that often. God and I have talked about it. But, I watch my friends closely, and I hear the sadness in people’s stories and the loneliness in their hearts and the pain of their pasts, so I know that Calcutta is everywhere. All of us live in some sort of poverty. Poverty of hope, poverty of love. We are all poor in one way or another. MT used to call material poverty the easiest poverty to alleviate. Everyone is suffering. And since everyone is God, I’d like to be kind, and at the very least not add to people’s pain.
In Cambodia and Thailand, it was common to bow to everyone who you crossed paths with. Just a teeny bow of my head. It was just enough to remind myself not to be a jerk, since no matter who I’m talking to, whether it’s a child, or a homeless person, or a friend, or a gas station attendant, it’s GOD I’m talking to. And as I bow, in my head I would say, Namaste. God in me recognizes and honors God in you.
I just think Namaste in my head, like the way Orthodox Jews wear a yarmulke to remind themselves that they are living under the hand of God. Or how Muslims pray five times a day to remind themselves of whom they serve. The world and the people in it are so beautiful when you’re awake. And so the bowing and the silent Namaste is just a little practice to remind myself what’s real. What an amazing life I’m leading and what a gift the people I meet are to me.
You may think I’m nuts and even disagree with me. And I’m ok with that. Maybe the world needs some crazy love. I am embracing my spark of madness. Fanning it, even. And I’m bowing. And something’s happening because of it. It’s working. I’m starting to see God everywhere.
It’s like that little bow of my head snaps me out of the horrible trance I allow myself to get lulled into, in which I forget that everything and everyone is magic. Including me. Namaste.
