Spiritual Communities

 I've been reading a book by Thich Nhat Hanh called "Friends on the Path". I'm not sure why I chose this book now. I didn't grow up with organized religion so as a child I had no notion of a "church family". Even now, although I visit temples and meditation groups, I belong to none.  I have been thinking that maybe I need to have one now; I have a growing longing to belong somewhere.
 Thich Nhat Hanh describes a spiritual community, a "Sangha", as a group of people who can keep you on your path. He said "If we support each other, we become much stronger, and we can more easily resist the temptation of despair." I agree. But does our community have to share a spiritual belief system, or is it enough that it just cares for us, despite our beliefs? And, if so, what does "spiritual" mean in this context?
 Websters has a few definitions for "spiritual".  One says it is "concerned with religious values". I don't think that works for me. I prefer this one:  "of or relating to sacred matters."  What is sacred is a very personal decision, but may be shared by people of very different belief systems. "Religious values" suggest to me that a common belief system must be shared before people can be considered to be in a spiritual community. At one time I may have agreed that common religious values were a necessity for a group to support it's members, but in the last month I have opened and changed my mind considerably.
 I mentioned in my last blog that my Father has been sick. It has been an emotionally and physically exhausting experience. But slowly, I have also been awakened to the beauty and kindness, the decency and friendship that has been shown to me through this trial. If a spiritual community is not a group held together by common "religious" values but of shared "sacred" values, I seem to have had one I hadn't fully recognized or appreciated until now.
  At night, when I would return from the hospital, my Facebook profile and inbox would be full of virtual hugs, offers to help, words of love and support and just "thinking of you" messages. When I managed to make it into work, my coworkers would come by and put a hand on my shoulder, ask if I needed anything or inquire about my Dad. I was left email messages, phone messages, and even a card  from someone I have never seen, just to let me know I wasn't alone. I sat last night as I meditated and sent some love back, too tired to send messages any other way, but hopeful my love would be felt. As I thought about my "Sangha" I counted Christians and Buddhists, a few Atheists, and an Orthodox Jew. As I continued to send my thoughts of gratitude I saw a Muslim, several Agnostics and a Wiccan. Some of the people I was returning love to I realized I had no idea what "God" they did or did not pray to and it didn't matter one bit. This was my Spiritual Community. They support me, make me stronger and keep me from despair. They keep me on my path of acceptance, kindness and awareness.  They are all sacred to me. 

  I think Buddha would be pleased.

Impermanance

 Impermanence seems to be what the Universe wants me to look at lately. My 89 year old Father spent the last two weeks in the hospital. My daughter moved out of the family home into her own apartment. I had to let some friendships go when I decided they felt unhealthy to me. And than, when I finally caught a breather, the news of loss and destruction in Japan had my and the world's attention.
  Sigh. Loss is nothing new to anyone who's been alive awhile. None of us get to live a life without it. From the small ones to the one's you can only hope you'll never have to face, loss is as inevitable as the sun setting.
 So why do we always seem surprised or filled with disbelief when loss visits us? What is it about something that is so obvious and commonplace, yet we still struggle with it's reality when we have to face it ourselves?  I think our nature is to cling to things, even painful things sometimes, so we can feel more secure in a world of uncertainty. When we love someone, we make them ours and they become a part of who we are. To lose them is to lose a part of ourselves, our role in that person's life, a part of our very identity. If I am no longer a parent, a husband or wife, someone's child, who am I?  How can we be more at peace with the inevitability of loss?
 My answer has been to allow it to remind me of the preciousness of the present moment. Rather than fearing it, I am trying to see it as a gift. Awareness of the reality of things passing away in my own life keeps me appreciative, makes me softer and less likely to take the people I love for granted. Facing other people's losses and pain causes me to be a more compassionate person and makes many of my perceived calamities fade away in comparison. Impermanence, when kept in our awareness, can serve to keep us awake.  It can remind us that the rose will fade soon so we should stop now to take a whiff. It can keep our anger from becoming bigger than our impulse to say "I love you" to a challenging teenager. But, most importantly I think, it can compel us to look more deeply into the stillness and wisdom at our center that knows, in the bigger picture, all separation is really just an illusion anyway.