In Awe of the Transformative

by Allen Mathews

I consider myself fortunate. By this statement, I do not mean that my life has been devoid of wounds, nor that decisions I have made have not been without some consternation and, at times, breast beating. Rather, at unexpected moments, something larger than I am rivets my attention to the moment, full of awe, joy, and thankfulness.

Art has a particular hold on me. Songs, e.g., "Abraham, Martin and John," "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," and "What a Wonderful World," can melt me into gentle tears, moving me closer to my center, where love is.

Visual art can induce the same effect. I went to the Toledo Art Museum and entered the first gallery where I found myself drinking in one of Van Gogh's last works. As I gazed at this painting, I began to sob, as though touched by the suffering of the artist. I-standing in front of this canvas, relative to where the artist himself had stood 100 years earlier-was awakened to the deep, transported by more than brush strokes on old linen.

Epiphanies come in awe-inspiring waves or gentle undulations, in serendipity, and in answered prayer. On a drive in the country, I rounded a meander in an asphalt road and suddenly, a field of sunflowers full of copper sun sang to me. I wept with joy and pulled off the road, feeling as though this moment and I were one. I felt humbled, included in a sacred dance with God.

Another time on a familiar road that is part of my inner healing, I approached a bend and was shocked to find an ancient tree felled in a field. I had admired and communed with this oak; and had written a poem to her while she lived. Today, she lay in an unused patch of county earth, her limbs chewed through by chain saw teeth, and her stump charred from a torch. Weeks passed. Every time I saw that tortured wood torso, I thought of what that four hundred year old living monument had witnessed and blessed. The last time I drove by, I pulled my car over in the grassy road berm. I walked to that now-dead mass and draped my body over hers. Even slain, her trunk was waist-high. I touched this limbless mass and thanked her for her faithful, steadfast watchfulness. I thought about how the acorn that gave her birth dropped into this place two hundred summers before my grandfather was born; by the time my own father was sired, this tree had hosted many avian species, some now extinct. I thought about my own death and how I will miss my children. I thought about their deaths, which made the life of this one oak more timeless and meaningful. Again, I cried so deeply that passing cars vanished into a peripheral blur. I felt the Spirit of that wood being leave this earth and I lay there grieving for all of us. The next time I drove by, the scorched earth was all that remained of this great mother.

My aid to her was a last rite; she had made me a shaman. I am not clairvoyant. My hunches are lousy and I have never seen a ghost. But two incidents stand out from my life that make me reflect on the Something-Bigger-Than-We. About 18 years ago on Father's Day, my wife, my 4 year old, and I were in the Smoky Mountains. Shirley and I were talking about when she would be calling her father to wish him a good day. We were frying hamburgers on a stationary motel grill and Tonya walked up and spoke to her mom. Shirley and I resumed our talk for a minute or two, when all of a sudden, I turned around, ran to the swimming pool, and jumped in, clothes and all. Tonya was on the bottom of the deep end, under the diving board. I lifted her out and her mother administered resuscitation. Tonya was saved by the Grace of God. In those days I was heady and dissociated so I did not consciously realize her life was in peril.

Similarly, when I was 18 years old, on Christmas Day, my family had gathered for a holiday meal. My alcoholic father was wont to ruin special events, and today was no exception. We all sat in the living room while the food cooled on the kitchen table as we all waited for him. Someone turned on the television and we watched a Christmas show.

About an hour later, and without any evidence of impending catastrophe I jumped up from the couch and ran outside to the garage, flinging open the door. I found my dad unconscious in his carbon monoxide-filled car.

He survived with no lasting brain damage.

These recollections have a power to re-charge me when my psychic battery is low. But a more mystic moment occurred when I was 25 years old. I had been accustomed to working ten-hour long days as a norm. One May Friday, I decided to go home early and pulled up to the stop light at the Stewart St. Bridge in Dayton. The day was still young. From deep inside me, an urging welled up. "Express your thanks for this world."

Such an occurrence was previously unknown to me, so I ignored this inner call; but, the still small voice would not be put off. "Express your thanks for this world." I relented and slowed down my process consciously to admire the beauty before me. "Out loud," came this inner urge. I surrendered to this inspiration and began verbally expressing my appreciation. The light turned green and I started across the bridge, but about half-way across, I began to lose normal feeling in my feet. I was aware of only experiencing aliveness from the waist up. Inside, I felt a cool menthol sensation rise in my chest. I entered an ecstasy, and arrived home unhurt, in spite of the fact that my driving was not a conscious act. I ran into our house and accosted Shirley, who was cooking dinner, with my enthusiasm. "Ask me a question," I begged her.

"Any question about life or the universe." I was still afloat. "What time do you want supper?" Shirley responded. She was in a different place than I was, but even her question brought me more joy. I lay on the couch and my connection to the universal became even stronger. The menthol clean in my stomach and lungs was still present.

My mind expanded and I saw the universe as a forward moving spiral that communicated, "Everything is good. There are no problems in this world."

In this place I was energized from the intensity of the contact and I could reach out and touch the Center of the universe. The sensations and sense of this 2 l/2 hour period gradually receded, like the ocean when tides are changing. The feelings of joy evaporated and I was left feeling absolute peace. I still longed for a renewal of that experience and thought, "To live in this space for a minute every day would make life infinitely worthwhile." I have not had a similar experience since that day.

From time to time I think of these transforming events and feel a little more in contact with the external world. I have been graced with a guardian angel or daimon who nudges me towards universal love regardless of where I am psychically and in spite of my circumstances and my ego.

Encountering a "Meander"
(a response to In Awe of the Transformative)

by David Barstow

Transformation is rooted in direct personal experience which enlarges the capacity of a person to take in the world and increases one's compassion for the world. Let's unpack that statement a bit. Our interest is in transformation, not as a concept, but as an experience.

We don't want to just talk about it; we want to point to direct experiences, and say, Yes, that's it! As an example, let's look at an excerpt from the article by Allen Mathews:

"On a drive in the country, I rounded a meander in an asphalt road and suddenly, a field of sunflowers full of copper sun sang to me. I wept with joy and pulled off the road, feeling as though this moment and I were one. I felt humbled, included in a sacred dance with God. "

(I love the wording of this opening, as Allen approaches "a meander" in the road. Things already sound promising.) The first thing we can say is that Allen is awake. He is not absorbed in listening to talk-radio; he is not drowsy, he is not thinking about his destination, he is paying attention to his immediate experience of driving in the country.

Next, he allows the sight of the sunflowers to fully impact him. He does not diminish the experience by saying to himself, "Oh, just another field of sunflowers," or "I wonder how much the seeds from those flowers are worth." He opens himself to them, and in his lovely phrase, allows them to "sing" to him. So touched is he by this experience that his heart is opened and he weeps with joy. He stops his car in order to allow this experience his full awareness. Time seems to stop. And in some mysterious way, this becomes not just an encounter with sunflowers, but a dance with the Divine.

In reading this I am touched by how such a completely ordinary event became a powerful, totally transformative experience!

Can we learn anything from this that might open us to similar experiences? While such experiences cannot be controlled, it does seem important that one be present, awake, aware, and paying attention. It is also important to allow the experience to truly come in, to open one's heart to it. It is vital that the experience not be dismissed, de-valued, ignored, or treated as just another ordinary event. One must be prepared to "pull off the road" and give the experience one's full attention. Finally, such experiences convey a deep sense of joy, peace, and love. One feels lifted to a higher level, and given the gift of lovingly embracing the whole creation; so that one is "included in a sacred dance with God."

But let's remember not to over-romanticize this! Most of life is not this way; the garbage still needs to be taken out, the leak in the roof repaired, the conflict with one's spouse resolved. And there is no fool-proof formula that guarantee's one these experiences; neither choosing the best performing mutual fund, attending Swami Bambi's $2,000 New Age Seminar or moving to the latest "in" area of the country.

My guess is that we all have such experiences; but, that too often we diminish them, we discount them, we get caught up too quickly in the mundane and ordinary. How and why this happens would itself make a theme worth exploring. I think it is important that we encourage each other by sharing these experiences. So I invite you, Gentle Reader, to share with us your own account of such transformative experiences.

Writing style is not the issue; if the heart has been touched, the words will be found.

If you enjoyed this article, we invite you to read "Living Passionately" by Elizabeth Ellis ("To love life is to risk everything"), "Out of Somewhere Comes Grace" by Mary E. Byrne ("I was hanging on the tip of a very long rope, and I didn't even know it"), and "Getting Up on the Horse" by Cherie Martin Franklin ("Riding is a wonderfully tangible metaphor for living attentively.") All are found in "The Best of Pilgrimage" and can be ordered directly from this website; please click on our "How to Order" button.