An Inside Job
Presented to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Huntington
March 12, 2006
Rev. Paul Ratzlaff
Rita Houston, from radio station WFUV, was interviewing Roseanne Cash, the daughter of Johnny Cash, about her recent release called “Black Cadillac.” Roseanne in a two-year period lost her step-mother, June Carter, her mother, Vivian Liberto Distin, and her father, Johnny Cash. A number of songs grew in her out of her grief, which she recorded on the CD, “Black Cadillac.” Rita asked Roseanne something like, what did she find rewarding and what did she find challenging about entering the recording studio. Roseanne replied, “I love working with the other musicians, and I love when songs grow in me, and I send them out to the world.” “Are there parts you find challenging?” That’s when she answered, “The challenging part is always an inside job.”
Roseanne didn’t elaborate, and Rita didn’t probe, but I think I know what Roseanne meant when she said, “The challenging part is always an inside job.” I could imagine a string of thoughts spinning around inside Roseanne’s mind as she prepared to record: “these songs are just my sorrow – is anyone going to relate to my pain?” Or “these songs are so trite. The stack of songs about losing someone you love is a mile high. What am I doing adding to the pile?” “It’s all been done before. I really don’t have anything original to say.” “I wonder if my mama and daddy and June could hear these, what they would say?” Now I don’t know Roseanne, but I know that sometimes those kinds of thoughts can spiral down into despair. You end up saying, “Forget about it. I’ll just keep ‘em to myself.” It’s always an inside job.
I suffer from what I’ve come to call the Thursday night syndrome. The Beacon deadline leads me to announce a topic for my sermon well in advance of actually preparing it. Usually I put down a topic and a few sentences about the topic that I have some excitement about. I have an angle in mind, so I have some confidence that I can flesh out the idea. I start really gathering my thoughts the week before I actually give the sermon. Along about Thursday I’m kicking myself for having ever committed myself to talking about whatever it is. “I have absolutely nothing new to say about this. They all know it. I can’t believe how superficial this is. I’ve said it all before. I’m just repeating myself, like a Johnny-one-note. Boring! Why did I ever announce this topic!” Thursday night syndrome – it’s always an inside job.
Do some of you share something like this experience? You’re initially excited about trying something new, about expressing yourself, about creating something when you are besieged by inner doubts and judgments?
The mystic Sufi, Kabir, says in a poem that I love, “Inside this clay jug there are canyons and pine mountains, and the maker of canyons and pine mountains! All seven oceans are inside, and hundreds of millions of stars. The acid that tests gold is there, and the one who judges jewels. And the music from the strings no one touches, and the source of all water. If you want the truth, I will tell you the truth: Friend, listen: the God whom I love is inside.”
Well, Kabir, that’s all very lovely. It’s wonderful when I can delight in this incredible mind/body – this clay jug – and entertain the thought of millions of galaxies, and picture in my mind’s eye the “horsehead nebulae.” It’s wonderful when I remember that inside this clay jug I can discern what is sacred, what is holy – that I can judge jewels. But Mr. Kabir, this clay jug also contains a lot of crap along side those canyons and pine mountains – all those self-doubts, self-criticism, fear and stifling pain. That’s also inside this clay jug.
In one sense it’s reassuring to know that no one of us is alone with these dark thoughts, although when you’re in the thick of them, you sure feel all alone. Recently an Eskimo Song, contained in the book Earth Prayers (290-291), came to my attention:
I’m filled with joy
when the day dawns quietly
over the roof of the sky.
Life was wonderful
in winter.
But did that make me happy?
No, I always worried
about hides for boot-soles
and for boots;
and if there’d be enough
for all of us.
Yes, I worried constantly
Life was wonderful
in summer.
But did summer make me happy?
No, I always worried
about reindeer skins and rugs for the platform.
Yes, I worried constantly.
Life was wonderful
when you stood at your fishing-hole
on the ice.
But was I happy waiting at my fishing hole?
No, I was always worried
for my little hook,
in case it never got a bite.
Yes, I worried constantly.
Life was wonderful
when you danced in the feasting-house.
But did this make me any happier?
No, I always worried
I’d forget my song.
Yes, I worried constantly.
Life was wonderful…
and I still feel joy
each time the day-break
whitens the dark sky
each time the sun
climbs over the roof of the sky.
Not my romantic image of the Eskimo! I picture him sitting with eternal patience at the ice-hole, feeling at one with the big sky and wide horizon of blue-white ice – feeling a transcendent bliss. I don’t picture him worried constantly.
But isn’t life like that? We are in the middle of the most beautiful surroundings, birds singing away, new shoots poking their tender green heads through the earth, red haze in the branches – and we see, nor hear, not a thing of it, because why? Because this or that anxious thought monopolizes our attention. Life was wonderful, but did I feel any happier? No, I worried constantly. It’s always an inside job.
So I’m on this eight-day silent retreat. The setting is idyllic. Nestled in rolling hills the retreat center has a stand of tall, full evergreens behind it, which howl when the wind gusts, and murmur with the breeze. On the ground beneath the huge trees, the needles are so thick they form a carpet under your feet. Facing west, the setting sun throws an orange pink glow on the walls of the walking meditation room. Shadows of the students walking interrupt the diffused glow. Healthy foods delight the palate. Chickadees will eat sunflower seeds from your hand. The teachers and staff want nothing but the best for each and every one of us. Touches of beauty give pleasure, like the pink blossoming ends of the Christmas cactus, the enormous quartz crystal, the wooden seated Kuan Yin where the wood has cracked and fissured but the grace of the outline, and traces of gold foil remain – all this! Am I happy? No, I worry constantly.
Having focused my mind somewhat, I pay close attention to the thoughts, feelings and sensations that arise in me as I meditate, sitting, walking, working, eating and through all the daily activities. Again and again I notice self-conscious thoughts arising. “Did that other person see me begin to lose my balance in the slow walking?” “What are others thinking of me as I pause before I eat – and as I eat ever so slowly in order to pay finer and finer attention to my experience?” “Will the teacher notice me?” “Will there be an aura around me, so that I stand out from the others in the hall, and the teacher sees how enlightened I am?” … “What will you think of me, as I reveal these petty, needy parts of me?” Then overcome with sadness, tears rising in my eyes, I would feel again how lonely I felt as a child – how I yearned for someone to notice and prize me – to see the wonderful me that is every child. And I felt again and again the sharp pain of my inner doubt and shame, compounded by fearing that I had passed along that hurtful self-consciousness, just as it had been handed on to me.
In a brief conversation with one of the teachers about this, he suggested I watch out for reinforcing a “self” around this – poor me, the deprived little boy. Instead he suggested just noting the first contact with the thought, whether it was pleasant or unpleasant, and then he invited me to be curious about what happens next.
There was a Japanese brush drawing and calligraphy that went, “try not to expect anything and the world will open up to you.” That grew as a guiding principle for me. Notice if I expected anything to happen next, and try to let go of the expectation, and simply notice what happened next, ready to be surprised. Instead of noting self-conscious and then expecting it to take me to lonely child, I simply noted it and then waited for the next thing to emerge, waiting for the next unexpected visitor with a warm welcome.
At first, I was like my Eskimo friend. In spite of exquisite surroundings, was I happy? No, I worried constantly. It’s always an inside job. But, as I shifted my focus to stay open to what showed up, my overall mood shifted.
I like this phrase “inside job.” I like it because it reminds me that I am doing this to myself. It’s not like someone else is taking over my life and forcing me against my will to think these thoughts. They are my thoughts and feelings!
By the same token, because it’s an inside job, I can choose to do something about it. In a sense all the spiritual disciplines encourage us to do the inside work that transforms the habits of our minds and hearts so that we experience healing, wholeness and aliveness. So there’s a job to be done inside.
Here’s what I’m learning again and again. When these self-doubts, shame, self-consciousness, fear, pain come, I’m tempted to turn away from them. I’m tempted to distract myself – work harder, turn on the TV, read an engrossing article, listen to music, go out with friends to something, anything that will take me away from these unpleasant thoughts. But, little by little, I’m finding another way.
When I first began to take this way seriously, I encountered Rumi’s poem, “this being human is a guest house.” Over the years, it’s become a mantra for me, because it reminds me to welcome the thoughts and feelings that I’d just as soon avoid. Let me remind you of the poem:
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be cleaning you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.
(Published by:
Harper San Francisco, 2004, ISBN 0-06-250959-4
Translation by Coleman Barks)
“The dark thought, the shame, the malice” – the self-doubt, the self-criticism, the fear of making a fool of yourself – “meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.”
Spiritual discipline/spiritual practice focuses on developing this inner spaciousness that, like a welcoming host, invites each visitor in.
To close, I will give you a taste of one approach to doing this inside work that creates inner spaciousness. In her book Radical Acceptance, which some of us will begin discussing this Tuesday night, Tara Brach writes about two crucial skills that lead to inner transformation: the “pause” and “saying yes.”
Pausing interrupts the habitual, unmindful reaction to pain. It notices, “Oh my, I’m feeling kind of defensive” rather than reacting by attacking or running away/withdrawing. It notices, “I’m feeling frightened” rather than immediately distracting oneself by one’s preferred addiction. Pausing notices “I’m feeling embarrassed,” rather than hiding oneself away. Pausing means staying with, rather than running from.
To hold the pause, however, requires nurturing an inner space of compassion for oneself. Brach suggests that we can foster this loving kindness toward ourselves by saying a soft “yes” to what is. It’s like the smile of welcome on the face of Rumi’s guest house host. “Come on in. Stay a while. Have a cup of tea with me, that I might know you.” It’s developing a kindly disposition toward the entirety of the contents of this clay jug.
I give you this taste to assure you that “inside jobs” are workable, if we choose to work with them. The good news is that here in this religious community you’re not alone, if you don’t want to be.
In our mission as members of the congregation, we pledge to strive toward spiritual fulfillment, as individuals and in caring relationship with one another. May we live that mission so that as each of us meets the inside job that it always is, we will know that we have the compassionate support of each other to help us heal and grow whole. In the process of doing our inside work, may we live each day with delight and zest. May it be so.
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