Thursday, November 8, 2007 at 1:01am
What next, God?
Column: wavelength
I feel like I am in a hallway. I have left one room and I am heading to another. The catch here is that I do not know the name or number of the new room. In fact, I have no idea where I am going.
And for the record, I am someone who likes to know where she is going. I like direction and focus. Give me the map with the red arrow that says, "You are here," and shows you the way to your destination. I like a plan of action with the requisite steps all neatly detailed; it all appeals to my linear-minded self.
Yet, here I am, betwixt and between, walking with one foot after another. I left my comfy, cozy and all-too-familiar room. Admittedly, it had taken some significant persuasion to get me beyond my comfort zone, but I did leave. I was sad, but I was willing and ready to take the next steps and head to a new place of being.
Now, what the gods neglect to mention is that there is the transition from one place to another. It's like a bridge over a river. You leave solid land and cross over — hanging in space — to another spot of terra firma. It makes me think of suspended animation, like a cartoon character hovering in midair.
And, oh, I love the sounds of that terra firma. No translation dictionary is required here; we all know that we are talking about firm ground — the put-your-feet-smack-down-on-it kind of ground. We are talking solid, secure and a soil where you put down new roots. And new roots mean sustenance and new growth, and probably a new favorite pizza place.
Yet, I am still walking this plain vanilla, standard issue hallway that seems to stretch forever before me.
This makes me think of my childhood days in Texas, where, as a family, there would be road trips. The never-ending Texas roads would extend before us, mile after mile, hundred miles after hundred miles. Finally, there would emerge, out of the waves of heat and dust, billboards announcing that Stuckey's, home of the famous pecan log, was 10 miles ahead, then 5 miles ahead and, before you knew it, 1 mile ahead. Oh, it was a glorious feeling as we came upon the big arrow that pointed and said, "We are here."
I need that. I need that big, fat sign with an arrow that says, "You are here," but, alas, I am still making my way through this endless miasma of a hallway.
You might say I am lost; I prefer to think of it as wandering. Yes, I am wandering in the hallway. This does not sound quite as dramatic as Jesus wandering in the desert, but, hey, it is enough for me to ask, "What next, God?"
"Helloooo, are you there? God, can you hear me? I haven't found the new room. I am still in the hall. God, can you help? Where I am going?"
The hallway echoes back my words like the Grand Canyon. There is no immediate response. God does that sometimes. I know, I know, God hears everything. God responds to everything, just not always with the answers or timing we want.
Small aside: Higher consciousness teacher Caroline Myss used to tell the story of someone madly praying to the angels for a brand-new, blue Dodge Duster. Yet, the angels had a lovely, blue Mercedes waiting right around the corner for this person. Moral of the story: Leave the details to the Higher-Ups, and ask for the highest good for all concerned. Those heavenly types think bigger and broader than we human types ever will.
I am still here, standing in the hallway and waiting for an answer. It dawns on me that I am not as powerless or confused as I might feel. I have some options before me; I have places where I can action. That feels good.
I can walk forward, backward or not walk at all. I can think, rethink and worry about my wandering status. I can get into a snit, or take a nap and sink into unconsciousness. Not to mention there is toe-counting, navel-gazing and fingernail-chewing. The choices abound before me.
And, perhaps, this is why God is not answering me so instantaneously. I have free will. I have choice. Maybe the bigger question is: What do I choose to do next? Do I choose to whine and complain about the tedium of the endless hallway? And is it really that bad?
I often tell parents that when kids say they are bored, that can sometimes be translated into "I'm afraid." Hmmm ... maybe I am little nervous about what the next room entails; maybe I am looking for some certainty to lock in my future.
My biggest complaint is that I don't know the next destination. Is that really so horrible? Do I always have the need (and delusion) to feel in control? Can I live with the surprise element? Who knows, my next room might look like the Palace at Versailles or the Taj Mahal.
When you get right down to it, this is not really God's question to answer. It's mine: "Do I choose to walk in faith?"
It doesn't take me long to respond; the answer is yes. I am the woman who chooses to walk happily down the long hallway to God-knows-where. That is clearly what's next for me.
P.S. You know, God, you've got that psychologist-think down pat. You let me figure it all out on my own. Thanks.
— — —
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.
And for the record, I am someone who likes to know where she is going. I like direction and focus. Give me the map with the red arrow that says, "You are here," and shows you the way to your destination. I like a plan of action with the requisite steps all neatly detailed; it all appeals to my linear-minded self.
Yet, here I am, betwixt and between, walking with one foot after another. I left my comfy, cozy and all-too-familiar room. Admittedly, it had taken some significant persuasion to get me beyond my comfort zone, but I did leave. I was sad, but I was willing and ready to take the next steps and head to a new place of being.
Now, what the gods neglect to mention is that there is the transition from one place to another. It's like a bridge over a river. You leave solid land and cross over — hanging in space — to another spot of terra firma. It makes me think of suspended animation, like a cartoon character hovering in midair.
And, oh, I love the sounds of that terra firma. No translation dictionary is required here; we all know that we are talking about firm ground — the put-your-feet-smack-down-on-it kind of ground. We are talking solid, secure and a soil where you put down new roots. And new roots mean sustenance and new growth, and probably a new favorite pizza place.
Yet, I am still walking this plain vanilla, standard issue hallway that seems to stretch forever before me.
This makes me think of my childhood days in Texas, where, as a family, there would be road trips. The never-ending Texas roads would extend before us, mile after mile, hundred miles after hundred miles. Finally, there would emerge, out of the waves of heat and dust, billboards announcing that Stuckey's, home of the famous pecan log, was 10 miles ahead, then 5 miles ahead and, before you knew it, 1 mile ahead. Oh, it was a glorious feeling as we came upon the big arrow that pointed and said, "We are here."
I need that. I need that big, fat sign with an arrow that says, "You are here," but, alas, I am still making my way through this endless miasma of a hallway.
You might say I am lost; I prefer to think of it as wandering. Yes, I am wandering in the hallway. This does not sound quite as dramatic as Jesus wandering in the desert, but, hey, it is enough for me to ask, "What next, God?"
"Helloooo, are you there? God, can you hear me? I haven't found the new room. I am still in the hall. God, can you help? Where I am going?"
The hallway echoes back my words like the Grand Canyon. There is no immediate response. God does that sometimes. I know, I know, God hears everything. God responds to everything, just not always with the answers or timing we want.
Small aside: Higher consciousness teacher Caroline Myss used to tell the story of someone madly praying to the angels for a brand-new, blue Dodge Duster. Yet, the angels had a lovely, blue Mercedes waiting right around the corner for this person. Moral of the story: Leave the details to the Higher-Ups, and ask for the highest good for all concerned. Those heavenly types think bigger and broader than we human types ever will.
I am still here, standing in the hallway and waiting for an answer. It dawns on me that I am not as powerless or confused as I might feel. I have some options before me; I have places where I can action. That feels good.
I can walk forward, backward or not walk at all. I can think, rethink and worry about my wandering status. I can get into a snit, or take a nap and sink into unconsciousness. Not to mention there is toe-counting, navel-gazing and fingernail-chewing. The choices abound before me.
And, perhaps, this is why God is not answering me so instantaneously. I have free will. I have choice. Maybe the bigger question is: What do I choose to do next? Do I choose to whine and complain about the tedium of the endless hallway? And is it really that bad?
I often tell parents that when kids say they are bored, that can sometimes be translated into "I'm afraid." Hmmm ... maybe I am little nervous about what the next room entails; maybe I am looking for some certainty to lock in my future.
My biggest complaint is that I don't know the next destination. Is that really so horrible? Do I always have the need (and delusion) to feel in control? Can I live with the surprise element? Who knows, my next room might look like the Palace at Versailles or the Taj Mahal.
When you get right down to it, this is not really God's question to answer. It's mine: "Do I choose to walk in faith?"
It doesn't take me long to respond; the answer is yes. I am the woman who chooses to walk happily down the long hallway to God-knows-where. That is clearly what's next for me.
P.S. You know, God, you've got that psychologist-think down pat. You let me figure it all out on my own. Thanks.
— — —
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.