Be gentle with yourself
Care of any kind—compassion, generosity, forgiveness, reconciliation, peacemaking, service, ministry, teaching, giving, healing—begins with and is nourished by self-care. By self-compassion.
So. Our invitation this week; let us be gentle with ourselves. A restorative mainlined straight to the heart.
Although, my confession is that self-care isn’t always my strong suit.
This morning I spent time online talking with a book group (members from around the US) who had just finished reading Soul Gardening. And it was just the reminder I needed. After, I picked up Soul Gardening and headed to the back patio, to re-read the book I wrote about how the garden gave me permission to slow down, to receive gifts of grace, to be at home in my own skin. I do love wandering the garden, drinking in the wisdom and gladness of late summer blossoms and colorations, which never say, “I’m just a flower.” They simply, and wonderfully, bloom.
We begin here: Be gentle with yourself. It’s okay to take care of yourself. To ask for help. To not be perfect. To make mistakes. To not please everyone. To say, no.
Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis’ affirmation, “By self-love I mean a healthy delight in your true, imperfect, uniquely wonderful, particular self. I mean an unconditional appreciation for who you are, head to toe, inside and out: quirks, foibles, beauty, and blemishes—all of it. I mean seeing yourself truthfully, and loving what you see. Life has ways of turning upside down and sometimes the upside down fuels the inner voice of doubt or shame blame self-loathing we don’t deserve.”
Yes, I could give you a homily or sermon about self-compassion, but I prefer stories that carry the gifts of healing, mindfulness and hope.
Years ago, I was in downtown Atlanta with a conference for Spiritual Directors International, doing a presentation about how spiritual care is grounded in self-care. I have a window of time, and need a haircut. So, I take the recommendation of the concierge and find myself in a salon near the hotel, following a young hairdresser toward a chair in the back of the salon.
One of my philosophies is this: In a barber chair—an inevitability on par with airplanes and bank teller lines—conversation is a bother. Just cut my hair, and let me go. After all, I have important stuff to do.
Because she made me laugh, I break my rule about staying mute saying that maybe a buzz cut is in order, telling Sharon about my Father’s decision after cancer to enjoy his new hair-free care-free look.
“I’m a cancer survivor too,” she says. “Just finished my chemo.”
Okay. I wasn’t ready for that.
Because if there is conversation, these chairs are for small talk only—no different than coffee hour after church.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “When did you learn about the cancer, and what kind of treatment did you go through?”
“I had the whole nine yards,” she laughs. “Surgery. And then more surgery and then chemo.”
We are quiet, except for the sound of scissors.
“It’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” she adds.
I’ve heard people say that—about tragedy or loss or heartbreak or misfortune—but am honestly unsure what to think. How can such a statement be true? I do know that something inside us wants (needs) to find a silver lining, a way to make sense of what appears to be an utterly senseless invasion of our body, or life, or world.
I watch her in the mirror. Sharon is young, late-30s, petite, her facial features delicate and freckled, carrying a youthful innocence. There is no sign of any recent clash with the drug treatments that traumatize body and spirit, all in the name of health.
She looks into the mirror and holds my gaze.
“It has made me softer,” she tells me. “And now, I love different.”
A single mother, Sharon talks about her 15-year-old daughter, in a tenor both wistful and filled with pride. She describes a young girl whose life was turned upside down with the possibility of a mother’s death. And about a renewed relationship between mother and daughter.
I nod. I understand.
“We never know,” she continues. “A year ago if you had told me that this is where I’d be, I’d have told you you’re crazy. But not now. Now I look at people different.”
I compliment her hair. Quickly realizing my error, I try to apologize.
But Sharon shakes her head, tossing her hair, looking cute and sassy. “Thanks. I made it myself. It’s something I do now. It’s my calling. To make personal wigs for people going through chemo so they can look beautiful on the outside and feel beautiful on the inside too.”
Go figure. I’m at a conference with spiritual directors from different faith traditions around the world, and my moment of enlightenment and grace is gifted to me in a beauty-salon-barber-chair, where self compassion was alive and well.
I was taught—in church—as a boy, that we should love one another. You know, practice kindness and compassion.
But here’s the deal: love can only spill from a heart that has been softened and in most cases broken. A heart where self-care—yes, self-compassion—is blossoming, replenishing and healing.
In these encounters—if I do give or offer my heart—it does come back to me in better shape. Because it comes back to me, softer.
There is no doubt that when faced with tragedy or chaos or uncertainty or misfortune, we want to have a “handle” on it, or fix it, or make it go away.
But this is not about a way to figure life out. Nor is it about determining whether we have intentionally or unintentionally invited chaos or sickness into our world.
“When we are mindful of our struggles, and respond to ourselves with compassion, kindness, and support in times of difficulty, things start to change. We can learn to embrace ourselves and our lives, despite inner and outer imperfections, and provide ourselves with the strength needed to thrive.” (The Mindful Self-Compassion Workbook by Kristin Neff and Christopher Germer)
After the conference someone asked me, “What did you do there?”
Well, I got a haircut.
And felt my heart soften just a little.
The August garden shows signs of weariness. And sitting on my patio this afternoon I have an internal debate, “Should I straighten up, dead-head and weed the garden beds? Or should I enjoy blooming swaths of Black-Eyed Susan and take a short nap?” For the record, it was no contest.
Quote for our week…
“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” Victor Frankl
BULLETIN BOARD
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Letters that do my heart good…
–Dear Terry, I really appreciate the inspiration and sometimes challenge from your daily posts. And then the wonderful memories of SCJ Singles Task Force when I see the prayer from Charles Gaby. Thank you for my walk down memory lane. Sharon
–The front lawn of the seminary I attended began to be taken over by dandelions but soon a recipe for dandelion wine circulated and one could see wine bottles topped with balloons in most dormitory windows. The dandelions were celebrated rather than cursed. Kent
–Dear brother Terry, Your messages this week are truly hitting home and resonating for me at the depth of my core and heart… Your words show up as my vulnerability and the ability to show up for myself and then others just as I am, Light and Dark, brilliance and wounds and share my true Essence and my connection to all living Beings. What each message is bringing to light is of acceptance, self love, compassion and Truth. Thank you for sharing your messages and shining your Light for all to see. With love and gratitude, Maria
–Terry, I enjoy all of your posts, and today’s was especially poignant for me. I remember a similar story (don’t recall the author) about finally giving up on her lawn I woman posted a sign “Wildflower Garden” for her “weeds.” Thanks for your good work. Theresa (Teri)
–Terry, I just read this week’s SM and I don’t even know where to start! This is one that I will read over and over again–so much of what you wrote touched me deeply, all of it, really, and I revel in having your words describe what is in my heart. Thank you again for sharing my heart! Your fellow traveler, Barbara
–Reminders and blessings. My go to for meditation is your email and your wisdom that inspires me. Have a blessed day and thank you for all you provide Terry. Donna
POEMS AND PRAYERS
We do not become healers.
We came as healers. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become storytellers.
We came as carriers of the stories
we and our ancestors actually lived. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become artists. We came as artists. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become writers… dancers… musicians… helpers… peacemakers.
We came as such. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not learn to love in this sense.
We came as Love. We are Love.
Some of us are still catching up to who we truly are.
Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes
