It’s
another holy time of year with Easter, Passover, Prophet Muhammad’s
Birthday, Solar Eclipse, and Full moon all occurring within a few
weeks of each other. How synchronistic these timings are as they flow
and suffuse into each other. The Divine Spirit refuses to be confined
to one geographical area, one religion, or one planet. It is free as
the ethers, spreading its influence across genetic boundaries,
continents, and traditional perceptions of ownership. Nobody owns the
Spirit. It is unconstrainable. It is immutable. It is quintessential
airidity flowing into every nook and cranny of existence. Spirit is
the interconnecting space of the universe and Spirit is alive and well
connecting all of us and all of these auspicious times together. These
are holy times aligned to remind us of the irrefutable oneness of
everyone and everything.
I
realize that more than ever as I look out the window of my 4th
floor abode. Residing on the top floor of a large Kuwaiti home, I can
peek at all four directions of the globe from my many windows. Though
normally preferring to settle close to the ground where I experience my
heart beating with that of Mother Earth’s, living up high provides
some new advantages. My perspective of life has changed a bit since
residing up here. I have become more aware of the open air and the
vacuums of space, more aware of how important it is to let openness
surround all areas of our lives. I am more aware of sunrises and sunsets
as I easily see both from this vantage point, reminding me that cycles
are a natural part of existence. I also feel a strong relationship with
the clouds. I see them strolling in from the Arabian Gulf, mostly in
scraggly patches of solitary fluffiness. Every now and then they form
together in uproarious community. Just the other day I saw my first
thunder and lightning storm in the Middle East. It was spectacular to be
up here in the middle of the skies alighted with silver and white
streaks everywhere. Clouds are reminders of the necessity to concentrate
all of our energies together sometimes so they can coalesce and give
birth to luscious rainfalls. Yes, the Spirit is alive and well
connecting all of us and all of these auspicious times together. These
are holy times aligned to remind us of the irrefutable oneness of
everyone and everything.
The
other awesome thing about living way up high is the new kinship with
birds that I’ve formed. It is more delightful now to wake up at the
ungodly hour of 5:00 in the morning, not only to the sounds of the
Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, but also to the cooing and
cackling of birds. I listen to their chatter early in the morn and see
them swoon about here and there, landing on the windowsills and setting
up nests in the drainage pipes. For the past few weeks a lovely female
dove has perched herself outside my bathroom window. It’s fascinating
to watch her preen every morning and then prance about with rear
feathers raised as she lures interested visitors to her cozy space. I
think she has become aware of my presence as I preen myself in the
bathroom at the same time in the morning as she does. She stops in
scaredness when she first sees and hears me and then continues on as if
to reassure herself “Oh, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s only
that American woman sharing my space. I’ll be nice and let her
continue her rituals here since she seems to have nowhere else to go.”
I sense that both of us are a little less scared now that we have
each other, and a little more aware of the sacred in each other. Thank
you sweet Lady Dove.
Actually,
there is a lot to be scared about these days, especially with Iran’s
threats increasing daily. And, yet, I really want to assure you that I
feel safe here. I feel well protected in the home where I am living now.
The Kuwaiti man who is head of the household is a police lieutenant. The
American Embassy is just 15 minutes away and security guards from there
drive around my house three times a day. I have two wonderful personal
drivers who take me everywhere I need to go. And I have a wonderful job
teaching psychiatric nursing to students from Kuwait and the surrounding
Muslim countries. Though the job is demanding of my time and energy, it
is enormously fulfilling. The subject of psychiatry and mental health
allows me to really counsel and help students and their families with
their own personal problems. Also, it’s been a long time since I’ve
spent three full days every week in the psychiatric hospital. I must
admit, having a chance to help the psych patients, most of whom are
Arab, has offered me a renewed sense of appreciation and love for my
psychiatric nursing profession.
Mostly,
though, I love my students! And most love me. During our days together
in the classroom and at the psychiatric hospital we learn so much from
each other. I share with them my knowledge of nursing, the mind, and
spirituality. I deeply respect their religion and traditions. They, in
turn, share with me their deep, deep wisdom about life, love, and the
Spirit. As I finished up a six-week class last week with 13 veil-clad
women wrapped in black from head to toe, I felt this enormous gratitude
for the gift of being in their presence. At the conclusion of the class,
several of the women broke into tears and proclaimed whole-heartedly
“My teacher, my Miss, I love you so much. You are like my mother, with
white heart, baby heart. I never, ever forget you.”
Of
course the male students, segregated in another classroom, are not as
openly affectionate towards me—the culture rejects such displays of
intimacy between unmarried women and men. But they tell me in their own
ways of their respect and appreciation for me. It’s always a special
gift to have a young, proudly Islamic male say to me “I know now from
you, Miss Cathreen, that Americans not all bad. I know that your
Christian religion is good and you have good heart. Allah Kareem (God is
generous). Thank you, my teacher for teaching me. I never forget you.”
And
I certainly never forget them. From dawn to dusk I think about these
wonderful human beings. They are so innocent, so mature, so simple yet
amazingly complex. I can not comprehend how they handle all the enormous
responsibilities in their lives. Aside from their studies in the
college, these students have rigorous spiritual disciplines to attend
to, abundant brothers and sisters to take care of, and extensive family
obligations. They do not know the meaning of the word “personal
space” or “time for myself.” Being a high introvert, I can only
stand in awe of their boundless social strength and stamina “How do
you do it?” I often ask them with earnest desire to understand.
“It’s my duty,” they reply cheerfully, never with resentment or
dismay. “It is what Allah
asks of me. I must do it the best way that I can. I must be good and
obey….”
Obedience
to the extended family and larger social order is not something those of
us in the West are particularly good at. Well, maybe if we grow up in a
rural community or with a close-knit extended family we share
commonalities with these Arab and Muslim peoples. Or maybe if we are
part of a religious or social community, we can identify with the deep
bonding that occurs between members of the same tribe. But for most of
us, tribal affinity is a thing of mystery. We are more akin to the
pioneering ideas of the future and the potentialities of the
forthcoming. And that’s definitely one of our strengths in the West.
We are really good at creating new families and new living spaces. We
are really good at planning ahead, tackling problems, and blazing away.
We are fearless in that sense and as a result we are master inventors
and creators. We in the West embody the meaning of ingenuity. Those in
the Middle East have much yet to learn from us about how to prepare for
the future, how to prevent problems before they bulge uncontrollably,
and how to make choices that further the development of individual
potential.
At
the same time, those of us in the West have so much to learn from the
strong ties in the Middle East which bind people together. We are in
need of remembering the virtues of loyalty and commitment, not just to
one’s own immediate family, but also to the larger tribe at hand. We
need more reminders about the necessity of slowing down, lending a
helping hand, and filling our lives with the things that matter most:
family, friends, nature, and the Great Spirit who flies here and there,
in and out of our lives. In the Middle East, there are darker elements
of vengeful, arrogant destroyers who willfully go about doing harm. God
protect us all from such influences. But the majority of the people here
are kind hearted, sedate, and gracious.
Sometimes
while living here, I feel like I am the Lady Dove, perched outside the
windowsill of Muslim lives. I live my own life and attend to my own
daily affairs – working, praying, and visiting with Arabic families
whenever I get the chance. But mostly, as I attend to my own schedule, I
do so with my face pressed carefully against the window—trying to
discern exactly who and what these interesting people are about. I try
to balance myself on the ledge outside of their lives, trusting that I
am exactly where I am supposed to be, doing exactly what I am supposed
to be doing—setting up house and going about the business of perching
and preening—while getting as close to them as I safely can. Somehow
my studying them, witnessing to them, learning from them is all for a
purpose. I don’t always know exactly what that purpose is, but I am
faithful to the mysterious allurements which beckon me to peer through
the thin window which separates us.
Ever
since the night of September 11, 2001, as I prayed to God all night long
to give me a glimpse of why I was in the Middle East at this time, of
all times (“WHY NOW GOD?”) I have had to trust that I am here for a
reason. And when I tried to leave here for good last year, the Universe
found a clever way to force me back with unyielding persistence. So,
here I position myself, on the windowsill, watching the clouds and the
thunderstorms, the sunrises and sunsets, accepting them all as part of
the Divine Spirit’s incomprehensible plan. Here I keenly watch with
bird-like eyes, all of the historical events unfolding around me and
here I watch carefully our Muslim brothers and sisters – the ones from
whom we have so much to learn and the ones to whom we have so much to
teach, and sadly, sometimes to fear.
In
the wee hours of the morning when I feel lonely, yet comforted by the
cooing from my aviary companion, I prayerfully remember that I am still
connected to another tribe. I am still part of my dear family and
friends back in America. During this holy time of year, celebration for
Christians, Muslims, Pagans, and Jews, I count myself fortunate to be
loved by so many of you. I am ever so grateful for your prayers and
especially grateful for your understanding and support of my being here
right now. The first four years that I lived here, being in the Middle
East made a lot of sense to me. It was clear that I had a mission of
bridging peace as much as possible between the Arab and American worlds.
The friendships I made, the book that I wrote, the talks that I gave,
the Iranian man that I loved, were all events inspired by a source much
braver than myself. This time around, though, I am not as sure about the
purpose. I still feel the calling to bridge peace between the West and
the Middle East and try to do that every chance that I get. I am still
working on my second book about the Middle East. And I still have a
desire to learn everything I can about these amazing people, this desert
region, this incredible language, and this scintillating culture with
its delicious food, sensuous music, and powerful religion.
But
something else is lurking underneath the surface, fluttering with every
flap of an attentive dove’s heartbeat. I
think my presence in the Middle East this time is less about “out
there” and more about “in here.” I am doing a lot of soul
searching these days. Living here alone provides me with ample time to
reflect, pray, and reflect some more. It’s been a difficult time and
yet a breakthrough time—healing wounds from my past and from my
present. Something is happening within my soul—I can feel it, but I
just can’t quite name it yet. I am cocooning within a very strong
contemplative life. Prayer has become more urgent to me--prayers for
myself, prayers for my loved ones, prayers for this volatile world.
Writing has become more urgent to me. Though I don’t have much energy
at the end of the day to put it all on paper, many things are getting
written in my head which hopefully will find their way on wings of
enscription. And my intense need to be here in this region—near to
Jerusalem—sacred to Jews, Christians, and Muslims; near to the
surrounding Holy Lands sacred to the origins and history of humankind;
near to the Persian greatness of Rumi and Hafez; near to the bombed and
fragmented remains of Mesopotamia in Iraq; near to the glorious wonders
of Egypt; near to the holiness of the Sinai—all feels really,
really important. As I say this last sentence about the holy terrain
in this part of the world chilly winds whoosh around my body. This land,
this region is so unbelievably
sacred.
I
am looking now at the foot-tall marble statue of Horus the falcon which
sits on my desk. I purchased it in Egypt from a gentle Nubian shop
keeper named Mohammed whom I was blessed to meet in Sinai’s Naama Bay.
I look at this statue each day and now I feel a deeper connection with
its meaning and its history. This symbol, this archetype of Horus, son
to the ancient Egyptian deities Isis and Osiris, is associated with
Warning. Horus warns people
when they are off track during their lives. Horus warns people when they
meet the underground after death and their life is reviewed and weighed
in front of them. Horus unites one region of the world with another.
Horus is a being determined to see good triumph over evil.
I
have goose bumps. My flesh is quivering and I feel as if I am stretching
out delicate wings. I am getting restless from resting on this edge. I
am ready to launch into meaningful flight. There is a voice inside of me
starting to tremble and cackle. It is the voice of a determined winged
one. It is the voice of Horus and it is the voice of the Holy Spirit. It
is the voice of Doug’s penned peace dove and it is the voice of my
sweet friend Lady Dove. It is not my voice alone —it is a voice much
greater, much braver and bolder than myself. It is not my voice
alone—it is the voice of ALL of us as we listen and watch from our
respective windowsills around the globe.
A
mighty rushing wind swirls around us and the high place where our
consciousness now lives. Our brains swiftly reflect upon the upper room
where the disciples were all gathered in Jerusalem after Christ’s
death. Auspicious times indeed. Like Horus, we are the warners, we are
the protectors. From my perspective here in the Middle East, from my new
elevated view of these ancient lands and of the conflict between the
East and the West, I see new dangers ahead. I am not concerned for my
own life. I feel safely protected in the arms of God. But I feel an
urgent need along with you,
to warn the world, to
protect the world from what lies ahead: 1)
Jerusalem, Egypt, and all the precious, historical holy lands are in
danger; 2) The ancient Jewish people and teachings in Israel are in
danger; 3) the Palestinian people are in danger; 4) the good, kind,
decent Muslims are in danger; 5) ancient Iraq and Afghanistan are in
danger; 6) American soldiers are in danger; 7) decent women, men, and
children everywhere are in danger; 8) the sacred feminine is in danger;
9) Christ’s message of mercy, forgiveness, and grace is in danger;10)
nature, animal and plant creatures, and all of Earth’s natural
resources are in danger.
Many
of us have devoted our lives to listening, learning, and helping out in
every way that we can. We have struggled in our own ways to find balance
between tribal loyalties, quests for enlightenment, and simple acts of
service. And in that sense, there’s nothing easy about the Western
life. True, we don’t have the enormous familial load of my Arab
nursing students, but we walk, nonetheless a challenging path. We are
overachievers, never content with the way things are, always striving
for betterment in ourselves and in our world.
I
know for myself that I devoted 25 years of my life to being the best
psychiatric nurse I could possibly be. I
devoted the last 30 years of my life to learning, teaching, and
embodying spiritual traditions. In spite of enormous health challenges,
much grief over the loss of loved ones, and intense spiritual dealings,
I survived it all. I attribute that miracle in and of itself to you dear
family and friends who fed, nurtured, and cared for me. You were the
essence of the Divine Spirit cradling me close when I was too limp to
live. You were the essence of strength when I was too weak to fly. You
were the sacred breath breathed into me when I was too sad to take one
more inhalation. You were, and continue to be, my inspiration. I know
some of you are saddened by my absence, maybe even disgruntled at my
apparent lack of loyalty to you. I ask for your patience and forgiveness
as I sort out my part in the cosmic scheme of things. Help me to embody
this new role I feel coming upon me of Warner and Protector. Help me to
devote myself more fiercely to the sacred cause of protecting the holy
lands, the holy peoples, the sacred feminine, and the urgent message to
protect our natural world, while at the same time loving and forgiving
ALL of our enemies.
I
ask for your prayers—for me, for all of us, and for our precarious
world. Prayers are powerful, powerful winds which blow throughout the
four corners of the world. Prayers are blazing radiances which break at
dawn precisely and sublimely. Prayers soften the volatile and prevent
the worst. Prayers give us another chance, another opportunity to make
things work. Prayers buy us more time. Prayers attune our hearts and
minds to each other and to our beloved God. When all else is said and
done, prayers make us ready to handle whatever is placed in front of us.
I trust, and I know, that ultimately, in the larger scheme of things, no
matter from which direction the trades may flow, the Divine Spirit is in
charge. It is to that Spirit, whether on American soil or Middle East
desert lands, that I must place my complete and unwavering trust, for
nothing less will give me the confidence that I need to fly purposefully
and safely.
From my vantage point up
high, I can see now more clearly than before that as above, so below.
There is nowhere where God is not. God is in the sunrises and the
sunsets, the lightning storms, the clouds and winds. God is the dove of
mercy and God is the swift claw of the falcon. No thoughts, no words, no
deeds go unnoticed in the eyes of the Divine. Everything is connected
and everything is known. If a human can gain a new perspective on things
by moving up a few flights of stairs, imagine the perspective God gains
by being everywhere and in everything. The thought is almost too much to
comprehend. The Divine Spirit is the ultimate embodiment of Warner and
Protector. The Divine Spirit refuses to be confined to one geographical
area, one religion, or one planet. It is free as the ethers, spreading
its influence across genetic boundaries, continents, and traditional
perceptions of ownership. Nobody owns the Spirit. It is unconstrainable.
It is immutable. It is quintessential airidity flowing into every nook
and cranny of existence. Spirit is the interconnecting space of the
universe and Spirit is alive and well connecting all of us and all of
these auspicious times together. These are holy times aligned to remind
us of the irrefutable oneness of everyone and everything. Alhumdullilah,
give thanks to God. Eid Mubarak, happy holidays to you and yours.
