Finding joy from the dark places

It's been an interesting new time of awakening for me this past year. Discovering what doesn't work for me anymore. Trying to figure out what does. Opening up to new people. Saying goodbye to others. Setting new priorities. Placing greater value on things I didn't pay attention to before.

Through it all, I'm emerging to a place that can best be characterized as a celebration of "not knowing."

There is a kind of rapture -- if I can safely use that word -- in tossing things up in the air and seeing what you want to catch on the way down.

Especially in this time of economic turmoil, many of us are on unsteady footing. Often our inclination is to want to stand as solidly as possible, looking for order and consistency and unchanging, reliable networks we can count on.

Of late, I've been debating (one night for five hours!) with a new young friend who strongly believes, as a Libertarian, that we need to collapse in free-fall fashion before we can re-emerge as a stronger nation. His view is that in Depression we give ourselves a chance to find community and the other blessings of life that mean more to us, in the long run, than material goods and savings accounts. That each of us has the right to prioritize our earnings into the values that mean something to us individually.

This idea, that I heard again yesterday at my Unitarian Universalist church -- that being lost and in the dark is perhaps the best way to shatter illusions and recognize what it is that ultimately matters to us as individuals -- reflects exactly where I am on my particular journey.

A couple from my church, who lost their daughter to a drunk driver several years ago, have talked openly about the strength they got from community. As the mother said recently, in the sanctuary where her daughter's memorial service had been held, "the love in this room was greater than my grief."

I saw a similar message last year, when an outpouring of support in a small town enlightened us at a VFW fundraiser, held to help my uncle's family cope with the difficulties of his quadriplegia at age 69. From the tremendous darkness of his tragic accident also came the opportunity to recognize tremendous light in our midst.

As my favorite Rev. Kate put it, in a sermon about being Broken and Blessed, "from ordinary life comes extraordinary love."

Every day now I see enormous support and insight coming from Choice Moms to each other on the discussion board. We are finding our voices, and are sharing our strengths as women, as mothers, as single people in this vast universe.

Our journey is not about knowing all the answers and doing things correctly, safely and without grief.

Our journey is about finding the people who will surround us -- with warmth, with a push, with a spark -- as we find our way through the dark, emerge into the light, and return again and again.

Most importantly, our journey is about collecting the positive energy to our side so that our beloved children will feel the same security and joy, in moments of connection, that will serve them on their own path.