Thursday, July 26, 2007 at 1:01am
Beware: Sacred territory ahead
Column: wavelength
Picture this: 1950s childhood. Summertime. Dallas, Texas.
My sister and I are ensconced in the house during the noontime heat. We have a routine. We watch the television show "Sea Hunt." We love seeing Lloyd Bridges swim underwater.
Part of the custom is that my sister, Anne, fetches her pet turtle, Charlie, to join us for this show. Anne is convinced that Charlie likes seeing all the underwater activity. Charlie primarily hangs out in his terrarium, but during the "Sea Hunt" half-hour, he gets a taste of freedom, nibbles of lettuce and a water view as he sits in the palm of my sister's hand.
On one of these occasions, I plead with my sister to let me hold Charlie. You would think by my choice of the word "plead" that I am the younger of the two of us, but actually I am the elder. However, that said, I am also the squeamish one. My sister knows this all too well.
That day I am particularly persuasive. I plead with Anne to let me hold Charlie. "Please," I beg her, "I can do this. I am not scared anymore." So, Anne gently lifts Charlie and places him on the palm of my right hand. Charlie unexpectedly takes a tentative step or two. I scream. My hand goes flying into the air - and so does Charlie. We conclude that poor Charlie died of a heart attack on the way down when he - splat - hit the den floor.
Needless to say, we had a funeral for Charlie the Turtle. And I was wracked with guilt. I had killed him because his movement was unfamiliar, and I got scared.
Sound familiar? Not the killing the turtle part, but being scared at the new and unfamiliar?
I hate that about myself. I hate it when my heartbeat quickens when I am driving on unknown roads and I am convinced that I have missed my exit. Or I am in a foreign country and can't understand the language, much less read the signs. I remember being in the airport in Cairo, Egypt. I was wide-eyed with panic.
Astronaut Sally Ride said, "All adventures, especially into new territory, are scary." Sally has a point. And, of course, she would know, hurtling into space at sound-barrier-breaking speed and realizing that she and her fellow crew members were like a little turbo-charged, encapsulated pod doing laps around the galaxy. Untethered from the blue-green marble of earth and everything that she held familiar, Sally must have looked out the windshield and felt very small amid all that expansiveness of space. There was all that unknown, new territory with nary a familiar flag or beacon to remind her of home.
What is it about the unknown that can unravel us? Why do we become so unglued at that which is new? Why is it that when something is strange and not within our current ken, we are thrown into a tizzy?
The unknown is clearly full of mystery. There is no light of experience. It's foreign, it's alien. We have to ask for directions, read the signs and, maybe, even get lost. There is a learning curve involved. And, most importantly, we are vulnerable.
I actually think that the vulnerability quotient is the scariest factor of all. There is no armoring or protection based on former know-how or experience. If I don't know what to do, where to go, how to act in a certain situation I am forced to dig deep and rely on my instincts, intuition and automatic responses like a shriek and a flailing arm. Essentially, I am scared.
I am a poor typist: The word "scared" keeps coming out "sacred." And this reminds me of another story. Visionary activist Caroline W. Casey once told me an old tale she had heard. In the ancient days - in Greece, if memory serves me - there would be signs outside the city and town limits that read something like, "Beware: Sacred territory ahead. You are no longer protected." The town leaders could no longer guarantee your safety if you walked into the unknown. You were on your own. All bets were off. You had entered sacred space. This was the territory of the gods.
Isn't this a great reframe? Instead of being afraid, you can honor walking into the sacred. Now, I know you might argue that walking into the sacred is scary. And you could be right.
On the other hand, when I think sacred, I don't get all jumbled up with fear. The sacred is not scary to me. In fact, I think awe, reverence and the closeness of the Divine. Sacred opens the door to Mystery; sacred becomes a portal for communion. Sacred moves me out of linear time and into kairos time. I become one with the moment.
Anytime I walk into an unknown, scary situation I can shape-shift into a place of welcoming the sacred. Now, Good God, this will take lifetimes of practice, but I think it is well worth the effort. It's like being handed a new pair of glasses; everything is a wonderful new mystery to be unwrapped and explored.
Just think of the newly traveled roads where I can enjoy the ride and not get so uptight about reaching my destination. Think of all those places where I might get lost, and what wonders and insights I now might discover. Even better, think of strange feelings on my hand; this time I might respond differently.
I am certain Charlie the Turtle is bobbing his angel head in agreement.
— — —
Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Adele Ryan McDowell.
My sister and I are ensconced in the house during the noontime heat. We have a routine. We watch the television show "Sea Hunt." We love seeing Lloyd Bridges swim underwater.
Part of the custom is that my sister, Anne, fetches her pet turtle, Charlie, to join us for this show. Anne is convinced that Charlie likes seeing all the underwater activity. Charlie primarily hangs out in his terrarium, but during the "Sea Hunt" half-hour, he gets a taste of freedom, nibbles of lettuce and a water view as he sits in the palm of my sister's hand.
On one of these occasions, I plead with my sister to let me hold Charlie. You would think by my choice of the word "plead" that I am the younger of the two of us, but actually I am the elder. However, that said, I am also the squeamish one. My sister knows this all too well.
That day I am particularly persuasive. I plead with Anne to let me hold Charlie. "Please," I beg her, "I can do this. I am not scared anymore." So, Anne gently lifts Charlie and places him on the palm of my right hand. Charlie unexpectedly takes a tentative step or two. I scream. My hand goes flying into the air - and so does Charlie. We conclude that poor Charlie died of a heart attack on the way down when he - splat - hit the den floor.
Needless to say, we had a funeral for Charlie the Turtle. And I was wracked with guilt. I had killed him because his movement was unfamiliar, and I got scared.
Sound familiar? Not the killing the turtle part, but being scared at the new and unfamiliar?
I hate that about myself. I hate it when my heartbeat quickens when I am driving on unknown roads and I am convinced that I have missed my exit. Or I am in a foreign country and can't understand the language, much less read the signs. I remember being in the airport in Cairo, Egypt. I was wide-eyed with panic.
Astronaut Sally Ride said, "All adventures, especially into new territory, are scary." Sally has a point. And, of course, she would know, hurtling into space at sound-barrier-breaking speed and realizing that she and her fellow crew members were like a little turbo-charged, encapsulated pod doing laps around the galaxy. Untethered from the blue-green marble of earth and everything that she held familiar, Sally must have looked out the windshield and felt very small amid all that expansiveness of space. There was all that unknown, new territory with nary a familiar flag or beacon to remind her of home.
What is it about the unknown that can unravel us? Why do we become so unglued at that which is new? Why is it that when something is strange and not within our current ken, we are thrown into a tizzy?
The unknown is clearly full of mystery. There is no light of experience. It's foreign, it's alien. We have to ask for directions, read the signs and, maybe, even get lost. There is a learning curve involved. And, most importantly, we are vulnerable.
I actually think that the vulnerability quotient is the scariest factor of all. There is no armoring or protection based on former know-how or experience. If I don't know what to do, where to go, how to act in a certain situation I am forced to dig deep and rely on my instincts, intuition and automatic responses like a shriek and a flailing arm. Essentially, I am scared.
I am a poor typist: The word "scared" keeps coming out "sacred." And this reminds me of another story. Visionary activist Caroline W. Casey once told me an old tale she had heard. In the ancient days - in Greece, if memory serves me - there would be signs outside the city and town limits that read something like, "Beware: Sacred territory ahead. You are no longer protected." The town leaders could no longer guarantee your safety if you walked into the unknown. You were on your own. All bets were off. You had entered sacred space. This was the territory of the gods.
Isn't this a great reframe? Instead of being afraid, you can honor walking into the sacred. Now, I know you might argue that walking into the sacred is scary. And you could be right.
On the other hand, when I think sacred, I don't get all jumbled up with fear. The sacred is not scary to me. In fact, I think awe, reverence and the closeness of the Divine. Sacred opens the door to Mystery; sacred becomes a portal for communion. Sacred moves me out of linear time and into kairos time. I become one with the moment.
Anytime I walk into an unknown, scary situation I can shape-shift into a place of welcoming the sacred. Now, Good God, this will take lifetimes of practice, but I think it is well worth the effort. It's like being handed a new pair of glasses; everything is a wonderful new mystery to be unwrapped and explored.
Just think of the newly traveled roads where I can enjoy the ride and not get so uptight about reaching my destination. Think of all those places where I might get lost, and what wonders and insights I now might discover. Even better, think of strange feelings on my hand; this time I might respond differently.
I am certain Charlie the Turtle is bobbing his angel head in agreement.
— — —
Dr. Adele Ryan McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Adele Ryan McDowell.