Course in Miracles

"The miracle comes quietly into the mind that stops an instant and is still."
- A Course in Miracles 

This afternoon I got to thinking about miracles. According to a statistic from NPR in 2008, 79% of Americans believe in miracles. This number remains consistent with a stat from USA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll in 1994. Today I sat at a lunch with seven adults and one three-year-old: five believed, two did not, and the remaining one kept quiet on the subject (it was not the three-year-old).

Today is Christmas Eve. As a Jew, I celebrate Christmas because of a pre-nuptial agreement my parents made before they married (dad: Jew, mom: Catholic). My father could raise us Jewish BUT we would always celebrate Christmas and have a Christmas tree. And so it went. We got Hanukkah and Christmas, a beautiful collaboration of two religions and American Capitalist excess.

Embarrassingly, today I actually had to Google what the "miracle of Christmas" is. Yes, I forgot we are celebrating Jesus's birthday. (Mind you, I've been tuning out all holiday cheer this year.) But now I remember, Jesus Christ was born to Mary, a virgin, as the son of God on December 25th. Honestly, this is not a miracle that I have ever really believed in. I tend to take the Bible's stories as metaphors and I also don't think women's words are very trustworthy, perhaps even saintly ones. They don't like to kiss and tell. In order to avoid pushing buttons, or maybe to push a few more, the miracle of Hanukkah celebrates oil burning in the Beit HaMikdash for eight days when it was claimed it would only last for one night – I don't know if I believe in that miracle either.

But over the past two months or so, I've been led to question all my beliefs – miracles, life, death, love, faith, and more. I don't know what I believe anymore. Maybe both of the miracles mentioned above are completely true! I mean, I can't tell you how many times over the past two months I've wished that I could be pregnant with your child despite the fact that you aren't here to make that happen! Why shouldn't I trust that if God or a higher power deems something like that to be possible, then it be possible? I mean, this whole universe thing is quite a miracle. Where did that come from? Something put it there. And I'm confident I saw a male figure standing in my living room the other day when no one was home... I barely thought twice about that miraculous vision. Through this grief, I've realized I need to believe in something. What has pulled me out of the darkness over the past week is the creation of faith. And when I say creation, I mean building something from relatively nothing.

Prior to this tragedy, religion was a part of my identity, rather than a belief system. Unlike so many, I was not pushed to put my faith in a God with a certain name. I was raised with an awareness of the stories but a choice to follow whatever path I was called towards. And to be honest, being raised in a house with mixed messages probably didn't help guide me one way or another. As I watched some friends follow their prescribed religions somewhat blindly (in my opinion, at the time), I became rather cynical about faith in general. It was kind of a dirty word. That being said, I was incredibly active in my Jewish youth group, to the extent of being an international chairwoman. Judaism gave me a social network, leadership training, the knowledge of a cool language not many people can read and write, and a sense of identity. But faith? Not so much. I have always been one of those people who says, "I'm not religious, I'm spiritual." But really, I wasn't that spiritual either.

Now, as I've been pushed to my emotional edge: raw, bleeding, and hopeless – one of the primary elements that's pulled me through is faith (the other main element is love). Faith in what? I'm not sure yet. I'm open to it all at this point. In fact, I've been reading about a book a day. Some are about quantum physics, a scientific methodology that explains 'the theory of everything'. Some are about reincarnation, samsara, past lives and future lives. Some are about the power of love. Some are about spirits and mediums. Some are about New Age mysticism like Kabbalah, the Jewish ancient wisdom that 'reveals how the universe and life work'. Some are about yogic philosophy. Some are poetry. Some are about miracles. Some are about Christian methodology. But what they all have in common is having hope and faith in something bigger than just this thing we call life – what we can see, touch, and be aware of through our five senses. I've been given the courage to choose to believe in the unknown.

In the past I've thought faith was blind – a blanket statement that I'd say I subscribed to. Now, I still believe faith CAN be blind. If we believe in the stories in the Bible verbatim and follow the words we are told without question, I maintain that those choices are blind and uneducated. But if faith is built through study, through questioning, through being able to have an open mind, and not say "I'm right, and you're wrong," I now believe faith is quite courageous. It's not easy to stand up for your faith in this world, I felt that today at my lunch!

I told my therapist this past week, "I wish I'd had a strong sense of faith instilled in my life. At least I'd have something to turn to now." She told me, "Yes, that would be easier. But now you have to build one. That is much harder but very beautiful." It will be a beautiful process. It already is. 

I've opened to stillness. I've put down the remote control. I've turned off Instagram and Words With Friends. I've picked up the decision to learn. I've decided that what I thought was "right" is not necessarily "right". I've come to terms with the hard knowledge that I may never really "know". But, I have choosen to have faith in a few unknowns. I choose to believe that there is a truth beyond death. I choose to believe that I will see you again in some form. I choose to believe that you are still a witness to my life in some way. And I choose to continue my belief in miracles, no matter how bleak life looks.

"Miracles occur naturally as expressions of love. They are performed by those who temporarily have more for those who temporarily have less."
– A Course in Miracles

Thanksgiving

Last night I curled up in my bed in the home I grew up in, one-thousand miles away from our home, but just miles away from the home where you also grew up in. I laid in bed with Kira snuggled by my side and studied the situation. I thought about the thirty Thanksgivings that have come and gone for me, and the thirty four for you. I thought about all the nights I had fallen asleep in this bed, mind abuzz with wonder, romance, excitement, and heartbreak. I wondered if it was the sadness night I'd ever had in that bed. And as I drifted off, I thought about how hard today would be, Thanksgiving.

I woke up this morning in that nostalgic spot – my childhood bedroom. Kira yawned lazily and stretched out long beside me, happy to have escaped from the two other boisterous dogs who rule the house now. I thought about my best friend, Aliyah, who is hosting Thanksgiving in New York City for her family and in-laws. There were major storms there last night so I hoped that everyone had made it safely and in time to help prep turkey.

It's fair to assume that everyone is missing someone today. Maybe it's a relative who can't get in town because of a storm. Maybe it's a loved one who is on the outs. Maybe it's a friend who can't afford to travel or has other plans. Maybe it's a partner or child who is spending time with the other family. But, in the spirit of thanksgiving, I ask that we look deeply at what it means to miss someone. Chris Gewald pointed out to me that after his wife Sarah died, he doesn't say "I miss you" to people anymore. They're still here. Maybe you can't touch them or share the same room with them – but they are just a phone call away. They are present in this life. And while I don't intend to preach, know that death can reshape what missing someone truly is.

We all have issues come up around the holidays. For some it's travel and weather, for others it's stressful in-laws and family, some don't have enough money for food or gifts, others may not have a place to go, in some households a burnt turkey may ruin everything, or maybe a relative drinks to much and embarrasses himself, and for some – it's a bright yellow highlighter over loneliness or loss. As I woke up this morning, I realized that every single problem people may be experiencing is absolutely legitimate. Its not worth it to assign a grade or a measure to issues that arise. It's all relative. But while we can't always control what happens, we can control our reaction to what happens. And today, on my most sorrowful Thanksgiving, I choose gratitude.

I remember last Thanksgiving. We spent it with my close friend Lauren. It was my last weekend in Austin before we woke up on Monday to move me to Colorado. After a nice dinner and a lot of wine at her house, we went to another friend's house. A couple hours later, an incredibly expensive bottle of wine was opened. We had already consumed a fair amount of wine, our pallets were by no means cleansed. We knew the wine was good, but we knew it was good because we were told it was good, we knew the price, and mainly, we knew all wine tasted good at that moment. After that experience we often used that situation to measure relativity. (We also often drank the expensive wine first, so we could actually enjoy it.) We are conditioned to know what's good, what's bad, what's right, what's wrong. You have to taste all the wine, and make your own call or simply trust. 

Even though this is my first Thanksgiving without my best friend and soul mate, without a man who has shaped the lives of so many people with love, depth, and grace – I choose to react with gratitude instead of wallowing in self pity. I choose to be thankful for what I do have, instead of what I don't. This year, I have the knowledge that TRUE love exists – while I may not physically have it by my side, I know its real. This year, I have a warm blanket of loved ones holding me. This year, I have not only one family – but two – mine and yours. I have two sisters that I never had before. They may not be sisters through law, but they are sisters through love and through grief. I have a seat at my family's table and a seat at your table; it's because of you that I am blessed with that offering. I have my health, and I am deeply grateful because my body needs its strength in order to hold my cracked heart. I have security – my job has allowed me to take all the time I need to heal before coming back to work. I have my yoga practice and my students – and I know that because of you, your life, and your death, my practice and teaching will never be the same. I have help – friends, family, therapy, and the world have all opened their arms. I have my life. And this year, most importantly, I have you. In what form, I do not know – maybe a spirit, maybe an angel, maybe a memory – but I hold you in my heart with gratitude.

And for all of that, today, I give thanks.

It’s a Boy (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)

By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister) 

---

Luke and I are expecting our third child in April. It’s a boy. He’ll have two older sisters as his traveling companions in our family.

Ted knew that I was pregnant. When we told him the good news, we didn’t yet know the sex of the baby. He was hoping for another nephew—wanting to even up the score. I was hoping for another girl. We found out it was a boy about a week before Ted died, but we never got around to telling him. He knows now.

I was a little disappointed when we found out. I was already immersed in little girl stuff and was  ready to add another one to the gang. I thought that raising three girls would feel like year-round summer camp. I didn’t know quite what to think when the nurse told me, “It’s a boy!”

I sat with a friend the day after we heard the good news and talked it over with her. I finally came around to the idea of raising a boy when I mentioned, “I love having a brother. Now our girls will get to have one too.” And that thought did a complete 180 on my disappointment.

Less than a week later, I lost my brother. And now, I couldn’t be more thrilled to bring a little boy into our family. What a gift our kids will be to one another. My girls don’t even know how lucky they are to get to grow up with a brother. They will, all three of them, learn so much from each other and I can’t wait to see it unfold.

As Luke and I walk through our house, imagining what it will be like to have three kids running around, I explain to him a little about what to expect. Luke grew up with only one sister who is 13 years older. He didn’t have quite the same experience as I did and can’t quite anticipate the chaos that is about to ensue.

I was the middle child with Ted less than two years older and Berkley, about three years younger. We were a three-pronged unit. We were three slamming bedrooms doors. Three sets of coats, hats, mittens and snow boots. Three bikes in the garage. Three different favorite cereals. Three seats taken up in the minivan, three lifejackets in the boat. Three performers in the “shows” we put on for obliging family and guests. We were totally different from one another—people often congratulated my parents on raising three complete individuals. But we were always three.

I tear up (and often all-out sob) when I anticipate our next family gathering. Ted’s absence will be a force. There will be only two of us siblings taking up spots at the table. Two siblings exchanging in sarcastic banter.

I’ve come to realize that Berkley and I will be now known as the two remaining Welles kids. But what we actually are is two-thirds. We will not be a whole number. ‘Two’ does not acknowledge our missing and missed brother. We will be a pie chart where 33% is left unshaded.

As sad as this realization makes me—and it hits me again and again like punches in the face, I am so very glad that I will get to raise my own three-pronged unit. I will teach them to love and appreciate each other. To be their own person but to also remember that they’re a team and to stand up for one another. Hopefully they will grow to learn that a sibling is never to be taken for granted and perhaps the greatest gift their parents ever gave them.