Listen below, and don’t forget to subscribe!

The post New podcast episode: Feel the fear and do it anyway appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

Thomas Merton puts it in another way: “Yet the fact remains that we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance.”

We can all look out at our lives and see a threshold of some sort ahead, something we will be required to cross. We can either dance across it with curiosity and hope or be dragged across kicking and screaming.

I remember when my youngest child was born, only two months before I turned 43. I marveled that when Chiara was leaving for college, I’d be closing in on 61. It seemed so far away at the time, and yet here we are. She leaves in two days. Our nest will be empty, with all three of our babies having flown the coop. It is a monumental threshold, a curve of transformation we’ve seen coming for some time, a season that will transform me and my husband, Dennis, as parents, as a couple, as individuals.

Our dining room is piled high with dorm supplies as we make the final preparations for Chiara’s giant leap across her own threshold, knowing that anything we are facing with this coming change pales in comparison to what she is facing as a newly minted adult preparing to test out her wings. And maybe that is a key in facing up to change in life as it comes, remembering that we are not unique and often there are others around us who are facing even bigger thresholds. As always, our greatest strength comes when we view ourselves and others through the lens of compassion, gentleness and love.

As our daughter prepares to leave, we tell her we are confident she is going to be amazing at her new life in New York City, and at the same time we remind her that we are here and if it turns out that this particular choice was not the right one for her, she can come home, regroup, and start again. That is a truth and a grace each of us can remember when we set out on a curve of transformation that may or may not go as planned.

Where are you on the curve of your own transformation? What season of life is approaching? Can you join the cosmic dance with a sense of wonder and hope, even if it’s tinged with some fear or doubt?

We live at a time when there seem to be frightening thresholds all around us, not just in our own lives but in our Diocese, in our universal Church, in our country, and in our world. It can be overwhelming to imagine crossing all of them and winding up in some unknown future. The trick is not to try to cross someone else’s threshold but to focus on what is ours to do right here and right now. Look out ahead and focus not on the steep cliffs and dark valleys but on the color of the sky at dusk and the sound of bird calls in the morning. Be amazed at what is rather than fearful of what might be.

“… no despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there,” writes Merton in ‘New Seeds of Contemplation.’ “Indeed, we are in the midst of it, and it is in the midst of us, for it beats in our very blood, whether we want it to or not.”

So dance, run, fly.

Mary DeTurris Poust will be leading the Stillpoint Retreat at Pyramid Life Center on Sept. 8-10. For information, click HERE.

The post Catching up to the curve of our own transformation appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

Throughout Scripture, we are told over and over to “be not afraid,” but “afraid” comes so naturally to most of us. We move through the world holding tight to what we know, trying to avoid change, and tip toeing around anything that might push us out of our comfort zone and into the unknown.

Then again, many of us tackle incredible challenges with grace and courage over the course of our lives without ever pausing to recognize how brave and bold we were when push came to shove. Whether it’s a serious illness or the death of a loved one, the loss of a job or the struggle of addiction, we are often forced to face things we’d rather not have to face.

Hanging on my office bulletin board is a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: “Do one thing every day that scares you.” I can’t say I live up to that motto daily, but I often try, even when that little voice in my head suggests I take the easier path, whether it’s something monumental (like leaving a job) or something exciting but less significant (like learning a new skill).

Case in point: I recently had the opportunity to try a stand-up paddle board yoga class. Having never set foot on a paddle board, I came up with a list of reasons against this seemingly fun outing: I’m too old. I’ve got too much work. My family will be in town. On and on the list went. But the morning of the class, I had to admit to myself that the only reason for not going was plain and simple: fear. And while skipping a lakeside class is certainly not a big deal, to me it represented a willingness on my part to be frozen in place by nothing more than my mind telling the rest of me what I can and can’t do.

So off I went to grab my life vest and backup eyeglasses (fully assuming I’d be falling head first into Thompsons Lake). I headed to Thacher State Park with a little knot in my stomach but also with a fiery energy that comes from doing something I knew I was afraid to try but went forward with anyway.

There was a moment, when my paddle board and I were stuck in a patch of lily pads, that I felt panic rising and started to doubt my decision. And then there was the instant when I accidentally sent my anchor sinking back to the bottom of the lake at the precise moment I was supposed to be paddling toward shore. As I came back to my breath and said a little prayer for trust and calm, I found I could do things I had not previously imagined — standing, for example, as well as down dog, three-legged dog and a lot more — all while balancing on a board rocking on the rough surface of a lake on a very windy day. (That’s me with my teacher, Vivian, in the photo above.)

When I got back on land, it all felt like a metaphor for life: How often do we shy away from the figurative choppy waters ahead of us and cling to the solidity of an old mindset or comfortable habit? When do we throw down an anchor in the least likely place hoping we can stay put and not face what must be faced? Where are the twisted vines of our own making that hold us down? Are we willing to loosen our grip and let God release us from the stranglehold of our sins and sufferings?

That favorite-but-challenging line from the Gospel of Matthew says: “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” What version of tomorrow keeps you up at night or freezes you in your place? Can you let go of the reins, and trust that God will take you across the rough waters and back to solid ground.

If you’re interested in trying SUP yoga with Vivian and Jai Yoga School, click HERE for info.

The post Paddling past our fears appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

The post New podcast: Bravery and fear, two sides of the same coin appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

The post Fear or trust? Which will you choose? appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

Do we imagine it was so cut and dried for the men who went up that mountain? They were fishermen; they were married; they were carrying out the jobs to which they thought they would dedicate their lives. But Jesus calls them to something more, something radical, and they go, without question. Or so it seems. What conversations did the Apostles have—with their families, with themselves? It couldn’t have been easy.

Our call is not nearly so difficult, although at times it can feel that way. Sometimes even the smallest stretch beyond our normal reach makes us anxious and afraid. But Jesus is not asking us to give up our jobs or our families (at least not in most cases); he’s simply asking us to give more, and therein lies the fear factor. We don’t have to give up everything we know. We “just” have to put down our internal baggage and pick up the yoke of Jesus. It’s not as easy as it sounds, but we know from the Twelve that it is the only way that will set us free.

Mary DeTurris Poust, “Fear Factor,” from the January 2022 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2021). Used with permission.

The post Fear Factor appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

What made people feel threatened by Joan then is the very same thing that makes people feel threatened today: new ideas. She challenged the status quo, and that makes people very uncomfortable. Change is never easy. And while change is hard on the person making the actual choice for a different path, it turns out that it can be even harder for those on the outside, where unlikely or seemingly outrageous choices can make people feel confused, fearful and agitated. As someone who has made the unlikely or outrageous choice multiple times in my life, I understand how hard it is to go against the grain.

We’re only a week into the new year and many people will have already failed to live up to the resolutions they set. Why? Because creating new habits and taking new paths is difficult, especially if we don’t anchor that change in something with greater meaning than the number on a Fitbit or bathroom scale. If we want real transformation, something that will change us from the inside out, we have to do the hard work of self-examination, time spent in silence listening for the movement of the Spirit in our lives. When we do that — not just once but regularly — we suddenly find that, like Joan, we are not afraid to do what we were born for.

Last month, the still small voice began to get louder and louder for me, like a drumbeat that could not be ignored. No matter how much I tried to busy myself with projects and trainings, Netflix shows and good food, it was there. Constant. Insistent. Silent but booming. And I knew it was time for me to take that leap of faith into the next place God is calling me to go. It would have been easier in many ways to stay with what was known and comfortable, but most times the Spirit doesn’t offer comfort; the Spirit usually asks us to go to the places that scare us.

So that is what I am doing — with joy and excitement, and, yes, a healthy dose of nervousness. I am leaving the security of my job at the diocesan pastoral center to return to my home-based writing and retreat business, because writing is at the heart of who I am, and it is time to get back to it in a more intentional way. Writing is like breathing to me. I cannot imagine my life without words pouring out onto paper on a near-constant basis. It’s what I have done professionally for 37 years running. Even when I was working a full-time day job, I was writing “on the side” whenever possible. It’s time to flip that dynamic and follow my calling. It is what I was born to do, of that I have never had a doubt, and I am not afraid.

This column originally appeared in the Jan. 6, 2022, issue of The Evangelist.

The post Knowing — and doing — what we’re born to do appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

I’m guessing what many of us are feeling these days runs somewhat parallel to what the early disciples were feeling in the days after Jesus’ crucifixion and even after resurrection, when enemies were lurking around every corner, and believers locked themselves away, afraid that they might meet a similar end on a cross. The joy of the resurrection was tinged with the fear of “What if…” What if I’m next? What if the voices of fear are right? What if I’m not brave enough?

The reality is that none of us will get through this life on a wave of joy. Pain works its way into our lives again and again, often when we least expect it. How many of us had big events on the horizon as the coronavirus hit — weddings and graduations, anniversary trips and study abroad, new homes and new babies? Suddenly those lifetime highlights were plunged into shadowy uncertainty. To be sure, the babies would arrive just the same and the graduations would happen sans pomp and circumstance, but none of it was as planned or expected.

The crux of all of this is not that there is pain, but what do we do with the pain. Even as I write this column—pain-free compared to the many who are suffering—I feel myself sinking and there is a certain comfort there. To feel sorry for myself, to allow myself to follow the paths of doom my mind creates, has a certain attraction. It gives me an excuse to wallow, to skip the walk or prayer time, to eat comfort food that’s not good for me, to scroll mindlessly through social media. Because, poor me, poor us.

In his book “Man’s Search for Meaning,” Viktor Frankl, writing about the loss and trauma inflicted on him in the concentration camp, said: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

It is a reminder that there is power in the way we choose to respond to the pains — and the joys — that come into our lives. If we are swept away with every happiness or plunged into the depths with every sorrow, then we will live a life of seesawing suffering and bliss. As a result, we will never know true joy, because true joy lies in being with whatever is in front of us at the moment and staying true to our center. That doesn’t mean we don’t hurt or get afraid or miss people or want to hide ourselves away and eat Doritos and watch mindless TV every once in a while when things get bad. What it does mean is that we don’t stay there long.

If we make sure we retreat to prayer every single day without fail, even for just a few minutes, we can stop the seesawing. What if we turned to God every time we turned to our phone or to that unhealthy snack? What if we allowed God to fill the void? I’m going to take my own advice, and I hope you’ll join me. I have a feeling if we both stick with this plan, the fear will dissipate even if the pain does not. Choose joy.

This column originally appeared in the April 22, 2020, issue of Catholic New York.

The post Pausing Fear, Choosing Joy appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

By Mary DeTurris Poust

Noah plopped down on the floor next to me the other day and asked me to read one of his favorite books, “There’s an Alligator Under My Bed,” by Mercer Mayer. As we turned the pages and followed the little boy on his quest to capture the elusive alligator that kept him up at night, I had an eerie feeling that the story was an allegory for what I’d been feeling since that terrible morning a few days before.

The night after the World Trade Center attack, I lay awake in my bed staring at the ceiling, filled with a sense of dread that I could not quite put my finger on. I was scared, but not by the images of horror that had flashed before my eyes for hours that day. Instead my fears seemed frivolous, not at all unlike the little boy’s alligator: Had I left the dryer on in the basement? Was the window over the kitchen sink still open? Were the kids’ pajamas warm enough? I felt a childlike fear of the dark, of things no one else can see, things we parents usually try to hush with a goodnight kiss and a night-light.

When morning finally arrived, I realized that my sleeplessness wasn’t really about what might go wrong within my four walls. It was about what had gone wrong in our world. Long after I had wiped away the tears of sadness that fell as I watched the World Trade Center collapse over and over again on television’s seemingly endless loop of horror, I fought back tears of a different kind — as I rocked Olivia to sleep for her nap, as I kissed Noah good-bye at preschool, as I hugged my husband, Dennis, at the end of a long day. Those were tears borne of fear, tears for tomorrow, tears for a world we don’t yet know. And I didn’t like how they felt.

Despite the fact that I have spent almost two years writing a book on how to help children deal with grief, the events of the past weeks left me in the unusual position of struggling for words. On the day of the attack, when Noah, asked if “bad people” might knock down our house, I reassured him that they would not. When he made a logical leap – at least for a 4-year-old – and worried that they might knock down his grandmother’s apartment building in New York City, I told him he was safe, that no one was going to hurt him or the people he loved. All the while I found myself wondering if I was telling him a lie.

But that kind of thinking leads to hopelessness, and when we lose hope, we leave a void just waiting to be filled by fear and despair and alligators of every kind. Through stories on television and in newspapers, I had seen unbelievable hopefulness in the face of utter destruction. How could I not believe in the power of the human spirit and the ultimate goodness of humanity and a better world for our children?

That night, as a soft rain fell, our house seemed wrapped in a comforting quiet that was interrupted only by the reassuring hum of the dishwasher. With Noah and Olivia asleep in their rooms, I lay down and looked up. For the first time in days I didn’t notice the enveloping darkness but saw instead the tiny glowing stars that dot our bedroom ceiling, a “gift” left behind by the previous owners. As I finally closed my eyes to sleep, I whispered a prayer of hope, a prayer for a world where the only thing our children have to fear are the imaginary monsters hiding under their beds.

Copyright 2001, Mary DeTurris Poust

The post 9/11: Remembering like it was yesterday appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.

I launched this blog on Jan. 24 because it was the Feast of St. Francis de Sales, patron saint of journalists and writers. This is a special day for me, not only because of my blog-iversary but because it’s my professional feast day, having worked in the Catholic press in one form or another for just about 33 years. (How did I get this old?!?)

In my very first blog post, I shared one of my favorite prayers, written by St. Francis de Sales. This one used to hang on the mirror in my bathroom as a daily reminder, and it has made it into at least one of my books, maybe more. I’ve lost track. Here it is again:

Do not look forward in fear to the changes of life;

rather, look to them with full hope that as they arise,

God, whose very own you are,

will lead you safely through all things;

and when you cannot stand it,

God will carry you in His arms.

Do not fear what may happen tomorrow;

the same everlasting Father who cares for you today

will take care of you then and every day.

He will either shield you from suffering,

or will give you unfailing strength to bear it.

Be at peace,

and put aside all anxious thoughts and imagination.

                                                                        — St. Francis de Sales

 

The post Happy anniversary to me and my blog appeared first on Not Strictly Spiritual.