October 30, 2024
Dear Leland and Everett,
In yesterday’s letter I outlined several ways in which my hyper-educated, hyper-intellectual tribe uses Donald Trump (and Republicans more broadly) to avoid seeing inconvenient aspects of ourselves. I left out a couple. For one, my tribe worries about the spread of misinformation online. To be sure, lots of people appear to fall victim to the spread of falsehoods these days. What my peers fail to notice is that our tribe is also susceptible to the spread of and belief in misinformation. We really don’t want to face the degree to which we have enabled and bought into convenient falsehoods, and so we use a misplaced fear in the spread of misinformation on social media to mask our own shortcomings.
Finally (at least for now), my tribe has become increasingly obsessed over the last decade over what we believe to be pervasive racism, xenophobia, and homophobia in America. To be clear: racism, xenophobia, and homophobia are alive and well today. And to give credit where it’s due, our current focus on these forms of bigotry have helped us see 1) ways in which latent bigotry exists where we didn’t previously recognize it, and 2) ways in which our systems have become structurally bigoted, preventing groups of people from overcoming our legacy of discrimination.
Here’s the problem: those who obsess over racism, xenophobia, and homophobia do so, at least in part, because these forms of bigotry are not deeply problematic for themselves and our tribe. My tribe has encountered high-status individuals from all races, and so struggles less with the concept that all races are created equal. My tribe has encountered high-status members of the LGBT community, and see the inherent humanity in these individuals. And my tribe has travelled extensively, developing an understanding that Americans stand to learn and benefit from all nations.
My tribe does, however, suffer from one form of bigotry. We deeply loathe our idea of the beer-drinking, gun-toting, flag-waving, truck-driving, beard-sporting, red-shirt-with-cutoff-sleeve-wearing, working-class white men from middle America. I say, with some confidence, that if I showed members of my tribe a picture of a stereotypical middle-American working-class conservative, many would get irrationally angry just looking at the image. What my tribe fails to see is that this irrational anger is bigotry, not so different from the racism, xenophobia, and homophobia over which we obsess.
What does this all mean? Permit me to return to metaphor.
My first vision included an excerpt where I saw storm clouds gathering on the horizon. My understanding was that the forming storm clouds represented the rise of what we commonly call evil, but I would now describe as the physical manifestations of fear. In response I raised an army (a thought which troubled me later; as I don’t consider myself a particularly combative or militant person) and marched out to face the storm. Upon facing the storm, I got confused, and eventually continued on without a fight. In fact I remember taking off armor and feeling lighter and freer as a result.
A few months ago I witnessed the same storm clouds gathering. In this vision I approached the storm alone (without the army). Upon facing the storm, I wondered what to do next. Then I heard (the message wasn’t auditory, but that’s the closest explanation I can offer): “be the Light”. And so, I let my light shine in the face of the storms. I wondered “what if my Light is not enough”. The answer: “others will arrive with their Light”. What I have come to understand from this experience: we don’t fight fear, but confront fear with love. Festering fear and pain can and will manifest into atrocities. But fighting fear, at least the way I previously understood it, meant fighting fear with fear. Fear only begets more fear, which begets more pain and suffering. Love need not be passive, and need not allow others to harm us; indeed, acting in love means setting clear and firm boundaries. But the source of our actions (fear vs love) matters more than the actions themselves.
In a separate vision (one I have not described before) I found myself in an encounter with God. God did not have a human form, appearing more like a star (e.g. the sun) than anything else. I was close enough that the star filled my field of view, but obviously far enough away that I could muster some perception of God’s magnitude.
In this presence I found myself somewhat overwhelmed by the power and energy of God’s presence. I convulsed involuntarily, though for how long I have no idea. What struck me: long after the vision ended, the convulsions continued with steady but declining frequency. Throughout the night (ruining my sleep) and well into the following day, I continued to experience periodic convulsions. Over time I noticed that these convulsions were often paired with waves of fear.
Strangely, I found a parallel to this experience in my physical life. After I quit my job, I would periodically get overwhelmed by waves of fear. Over time the frequency of these waves decreased, much like in (and after) the vision. What I eventually came to understand from this experience: fear and inspiration share the same source.
What we experience as fear is really just our resistance to inspiration. That feeling we associate with inspiration is what we experience when we allow the inspiration to flow through us, without the resistance. But the inspiration is a lot to hold, and so we tend to experience inspiration in small doses. Even musicians and artists, who in many ways excel at surrendering to and channeling inspiration, struggle to navigate daily life precisely because they struggle to navigate between states of inspiration and…whatever it is we call normal daily life.
Even after years of work I find that I can only hold myself in a state of openness for brief periods. After extended periods of openness (a Spiritual Stew meeting, for example), I find myself needing a ‘recovery’ period of sorts. I find these periods of openness to be taxing physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Thus, in much the way an endurance athlete trains in order to be able to achieve longer distances, I find myself practicing various methods of healing in order that I may sustain longer and longer periods of openness.
I cannot recall what I have shared regarding my St Ignatius group exercises. For today, I will summarize as follows: I went into the exercises wanting some direction on what to do with my life. Instead, what I mostly experienced was my body identifying various barriers that needed to be surrendered. I would wait impatiently for a few days, typically while some inconvenience emerged (and expanded) in my body and/or daily life. Each time I slowly came to recognize that the inconvenience was in fact an opportunity. The act of surrender was never fun, so I had to muster some intention and grace. Eventually, through intentional meditation, a visual would appear. Through that visual I would understand the source of the underlying pain, and the ‘armor’ I had adopted to protect myself from said pain. I would come to understand that the armor was no longer serving me, and that it was time for me to surrender it. I invariably disliked the idea of surrendering my armor, and typically asked God for some guidance on what would replace the armor. I found God doesn’t work that way, at least not with me. I had to surrender my armor first, not knowing what would come, but trusting I was moving toward something better. Surrendering something embedded deep in my being left a void, an experience I disliked each time it occurred. Eventually, slowly, I began to notice new growth emerging in the space opened up. If the original discomfort originated in my daily life, I typically experienced a breakthrough encounter (a more productive conversation or disagreement in a particular relationship, for example). With each surrender I assumed I had finished unpacking my armor. I would wait a few more days, impatient for God to unveil God’s plan for me, only to find a new inconvenience bubbling to the surface, demanding my attention. This process repeated over the course of months. Until.
Finally, after unpacking various forms of armor, and allowing God’s love into those wounds that I had previously thought were the unloveable parts of myself, I eventually experienced the sensation that the unpacking was complete. Not that it was an enjoyable experience. I felt naked, exposed, and raw. In my meditations, inviting God’s presence, I felt unprotected in a way I can’t possibly put into words. But I recognized that only from this place, having surrendered all the armor and having welcomed God’s love into every corner of my being, could I begin to fully open myself to God’s will.
Unfortunately, I also came to understand that I am not meant to understand God’s will. I had assumed God’s will would be unveiled to me in some way I could understand. The clearest metaphor I can muster: on some level I always presumed I would come down from the mountain like Moses carrying the 10 Commandments carved into stone tablets. Said differently, I assumed I would become an all-knowing being of sorts, a messenger of God if you will. Alas, I don’t think that’s how we are meant to experience God. When we open ourselves, God’s will unfolds through us. We don’t understand how nor why, at least not in ways we could explain to others. We just know what we are meant to say or do, and so we say or do accordingly.
Over the last couple of months I have been frustrated by the apparent lack of activity or clarity in my journey. But some nuggets are starting to emerge. For one, I’m starting to notice that people tend to show up in my life broadcasting their pain. Of course, that’s not our common understanding of said behavior. When people get angry and emotional, we tend to assume the anger has some underlying righteousness. What I have now come to understand is that we are experiencing some divine inspiration, but are blocked by the armor we adopted to protect us from pain. In the process, we buried the parts of ourselves we (often unknowingly) came to believe were unloveable. As a result, inspiration came to be expressed as sadness, fear, anger, or in extreme cases contempt or even hate.
Interestingly, though I sense that I have unpacked the armor that was exclusively mine to unpack, I find that I still experience waves of discomfort and blockages of sorts. When I explore these blockages, I discover shared sources of pain: interactions with loved ones that want to be healed, ideally together. In this way, I find myself interacting with your mom differently, often wanting to revisit and heal past arguments.
To my chagrin, I still don’t have a grand plan or vision for my life. But I am starting to get some ideas about the directions in which I am getting pulled. For one, I intend to explore this idea of releasing shared pain. Partly that appears to mean revisiting shared painful memories so that relationships might heal accordingly. I am curious to explore whether that release of shared pain can go even further. Can a conduit help others find the inspiration to heal? Is that not partly what great art does, but to touch some part of us that yearns to be held, that we might let go of some pain that no longer serves us?
More broadly, I think I am being pulled toward helping others recognize when they are experiencing an invitation to surface and release their own armor, that they might heal the underlying pain and begin the long journey of healing and the approach to wholeness. How I will help others, I have no idea. But I am beginning to accept that I don’t need to know, that I am invited to be open to inspiration as it hits, and from that place I will know what to say and do.
Finally, I find myself gravitating toward an experience of sustained openness. I continue to find openness discomforting, such that I tend to avoid the experience via social media, eating, or other forms of distraction. But as the discomfort of openness wanes from convulsing pain to mere uncomfortable vibration, I am beginning to understand how I might be able to sustain that experience for longer and longer periods.
So how do my discoveries relate to my tribe in this election? To the extent I have an answer, it’s this: my tribe seems quite agitated. My experience tells me this agitation serves as an opportunity to identify and heal underlying sources of pain. I sense I have a roll to play in supporting those who wish to surrender their armor and heal. My hope is that my tribe will begin the healing process before the storm clouds really begin to form (e.g. before we begin to commit atrocities), but we shall see.
I love you both.
Love,
Dad
Letters to Leland 