The Courage to Surrender

“Trust is your ticket to God. Hold onto it when it comes. Merge into it. Blow it up. Say your Names and trust.” — Kathy

“If you want the truth, I'll tell you the truth: Listen to the secret sound, the real sound, which is inside you.” — Kabir

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When I was a little girl, I was afraid of almost nothing. I had absolutely no understanding of my own mortality, and it never occurred to me that I wasn't invincible. I seemed to have come into this world with an enormous appetite for adventure and excitement, which must have been something of a challenge for my rather proper family.

I attended private school, was taken to the ballet, theater, and opera, and even received formal vocal training in opera. My family exposed me to literature, music, and the arts from a very young age, and although I loved singing and eventually developed a genuine appreciation for all of it, I often felt like a square peg being forced into a round hole. Given the choice, I would have much rather been outside climbing trees, exploring the woods, or dragging my best friend and my brother Ned along on whatever adventure I'd dreamed up that day.

I climbed to the very tops of the tallest trees I could find, regularly scrambled out of my second-floor bedroom window to sit on the roof of our home in Bethesda, Maryland, and sometimes even managed to coax Ned out onto the precarious ledge with me. I was always the first to accept a dare, and looking back, some of those dares were actually really dangerous. I loved being around people and was constantly looking for something exciting to do, which is rather funny now that I've become much more of a loner.

I remember one of my mother's friends who owned a famous restaurant in Washington, D.C., and rode a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. I was probably somewhere between seven and ten years old, and I was absolutely convinced I was in love with him. He was in his thirties, around my mother's age, with thick blond hair and a big handlebar mustache, and in my defense, he was really cute. I went riding on that motorcycle with him regularly, although I have no idea why my parents allowed it. I suspect I begged them so relentlessly that they eventually surrendered. There are even photographs of me leaning up against him, flirting shamelessly, and looking completely smitten.

There was an enormous rope swing hanging from a high branch at a friend's house a couple of neighborhoods away, where I would go without telling anyone and launch myself into the air. At night, I sometimes climbed over the fence into our next-door neighbor's yard to jump on their old-fashioned trampoline, doing flips until I occasionally flew right off the side. Once, I landed on the ice hard enough to spend the following week trying to hide my injury, although apparently that didn't discourage me from continuing to look for the next adventure.

And then there was the rope swing in the woods near our house, where, for reasons I cannot begin to explain, I once decided to swing completely naked. I'm fairly certain it was my idea and involved a dare, although I have no idea what possessed me. The only way to get off was to let go and land on the forest floor, which I did, apparently in the middle of a patch of poison ivy. Not long afterward, we were at Virginia Beach, where I spent hours getting tumbled beneath enormous waves until my step-grandmother finally noticed the rash all over my backside. I have no idea what I told her, but I certainly didn't explain the rope swing, and I was enormously grateful when someone finally produced some calamine lotion.

My mother had been trying to instill some refinement in me practically from the moment I was born. We were very different people, and I imagine my inclination toward adventure and doing things my own way was something of a challenge for her. When I was about fourteen or fifteen, she enrolled me in etiquette lessons, including practicing proper table manners at the restaurant in the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C.

I remember sitting there being instructed on which fork to use and how to eat my soup without leaning over the bowl, while a United States senator sat nearby, slouched back in his chair, reading the newspaper as he ate alone. I was absolutely indignant that I was expected to follow all these rules while he apparently could do whatever he wanted. I couldn't understand the injustice of it at the time, although I have to admit I'm grateful for those lessons today.

Around that same age, I had a habit of rummaging through my mother's things, usually looking for clothes to borrow, although I suspect I was also trying to understand her in my own teenage way. We didn't get along particularly well much of the time, but when we did, we really did, which I suppose isn't all that unusual for mothers and teenage daughters. I often struggled to understand why she reacted to things the way she did, particularly when they seemed perfectly natural to me.

One day, while going through her things, I came across a poem she had written about me. She described my courage, how I went after whatever I wanted without seeming to be afraid, and how different that was from the way she experienced life herself. I remember being completely taken aback because I had never considered that something so natural to me might be something she admired, or perhaps even wished she possessed herself.

There was something almost hallowed about that moment, sitting there with words she had written about me, never intending that I would read them. We had spent so much time misunderstanding one another, and suddenly I was seeing myself through her eyes. I had never considered that the very things about me that sometimes seemed to frustrate her might also be things she admired. I remember feeling an unexpected tenderness toward her, and perhaps for the first time, understanding that her fears were as real to her as my fearlessness was to me.

My mother is gone now, and I think about that memory with a tenderness I couldn't possibly have understood at fifteen. We didn't always know how to reach one another, although there were times when we connected beautifully. Finding those words gave me a glimpse of how she saw me, and perhaps, for a moment, allowed me to see her a little more clearly too.

Over the years, I've come to recognize how differently people experience the very same circumstances. My willingness to take chances and go after what I wanted has sometimes brought reactions from others that I couldn't understand, particularly when I didn't see anything especially frightening about what I was doing. That poem was one of my earliest lessons in understanding that the fears and limitations another person experiences may be very different from my own.

I sometimes wonder what my mother would think of the woman I've become, particularly because I no longer possess quite the same fearlessness she wrote about all those years ago. When did that change, and when did I begin anticipating all the things that could go wrong instead of simply enjoying whatever was happening? Some of the answers are obvious, but I suspect the larger question is one that many of us share.

I've been involved in more automobile, van, and motorcycle accidents than I care to count, some quite severe, and a few that resulted in near-death experiences. I've lived through other harrowing circumstances that changed my understanding of the world, and I think there is something about being a woman in this world that teaches us to be vigilant. Experience certainly has a way of reminding us that we are considerably less invincible than we once believed.

But when I really get to the root of it, I wonder how much of our fear is reinforced by the world around us. We are bombarded with it every day through the news, social media, advertising, and the endless stream of information competing for our attention. Everywhere we look, someone is warning us about something terrible that has happened, is happening, or might happen next.

We hear so much about calming our nervous systems, regulating the vagus nerve, and managing anxiety, but how are we supposed to accomplish any of that when we are continually exposing ourselves to things that frighten us? Even when the danger is thousands of miles away, or something that may never happen, our bodies can respond as though it were right in front of us. I sometimes wonder whether we have become so accustomed to apprehension that we've forgotten what it feels like to simply be at peace.

Obviously, I am not suggesting that we ignore suffering or pretend terrible things don't happen. They do, and compassion requires us to care about what others are experiencing. But I have begun to question how much of my attention I am willing to give to circumstances over which I have absolutely no control.

Kathy taught us that our attention is our most precious possession, and I understand that teaching more deeply now than I did when I first heard it. We spend so much of our lives reacting to the world, allowing our minds to become occupied with imagined outcomes, painful memories, and concerns about the future. I certainly have done this myself, creating an entire crisis in my mind over something that hasn't actually happened.

Much of it, I think, comes from our desire to control what happens next. We want the people we love to be safe, our health to remain good, and our lives to unfold in ways we can understand. Yet nothing in this physical creation is permanent, including our relationships, our circumstances, or even the bodies we inhabit.

I look back over my life and am astonished by how quickly the years have passed. Experiences that seemed endless while I was living through them have become memories from decades ago, and people who once occupied nearly every moment of my life are no longer here. An anxious hour can feel like an eternity, while an entire decade can disappear almost before we realize it has passed.

For much of my life, I searched for ways to find some lasting peace. Therapy, group therapy, twelve-step programs, support groups, self-help books, and various spiritual practices all contributed to that search. I am grateful for those experiences and for the people who helped me along the way, because eventually that searching led me to Kathy, to Sant Mat, and to meditation.

When I first met Kathy, I knew I had found someone extraordinary, although I couldn't possibly have understood how profoundly my life was about to change. Here was someone who knew God, who spoke about the inner spiritual regions from direct experience, and who offered us a way to discover those truths for ourselves. She taught us that trust was the foundation of our journey back to God and that our understanding of it would deepen as we progressed along the Path.

Sometimes, when I find myself becoming anxious, I return to something that has become the foundation of my life. Either God is, or God is not. Either Kathy was who She said She was, or She was not. I know God is, and I know Kathy is who She said She was. When I return to that certainty, everything within me begins to settle.

My breathing becomes easier, the tension starts to release, and whatever seemed so terribly important only moments before begins to lose its hold on me. The circumstances may remain exactly as they were, but I am no longer experiencing them in quite the same way. I have remembered something that matters far more than whatever was occupying my mind, and I can feel the difference throughout my entire body.

I meditate every day because I made a vow to do so when I was initiated, but after all these years, that is hardly the only reason. I meditate because I cannot imagine living my life without it, without the peace it brings and the way that peace carries over into the rest of my day. Meditation has given me a way to withdraw my attention from the world and return to the relationship with Kathy that is the center of my life.

I am calmer than I used to be, although anyone who knows me well can certainly attest that I still have my moments. I can step away from difficult situations more easily, and I am less inclined to become completely caught up in every frightening thought that passes through my mind. Perhaps one of the greatest gifts has been a growing sense of detachment, allowing me to care deeply about the people and circumstances in my life without becoming consumed by everything that might happen.

And meditation itself is certainly not always peaceful. Anyone who has spent time trying to quiet the mind knows how difficult it can be, particularly when the body is uncomfortable or something is weighing heavily on us. Yet through all those years of practice, I have become more capable of recognizing when fear is beginning to take over and bringing my attention back rather than following every worry wherever it wants to lead me.

I watched Kathy live with an extraordinary degree of surrender, particularly during the final years of Her physical life. She experienced tremendous suffering, and there were times when I wanted Her to fight what was happening because I couldn't understand how She could accept it. She continued to love us, teach us, and demonstrate through Her own life what it meant to submit to God's Will, even when the circumstances were terribly difficult.

I think about Her example whenever I find myself struggling with something I cannot change. She taught us to meditate, to love, to serve, and to trust God while continuing to fulfill our responsibilities in the world. I have come to understand that surrender requires courage, particularly when life has given us plenty of reasons to be afraid.

I sometimes think about that little girl sitting on the roof of our Bethesda home, looking out over the neighborhood without the slightest concern for what might happen next. I think about my mother writing that poem, recognizing something in me that I was too young to recognize in myself. And I wonder what she would think if she knew how much of my life has been spent learning to trust again, this time with a full understanding of how quickly everything can change.

I still become afraid, and there are times when I find myself worrying about the people I love or circumstances I cannot control. But meditation has taught me that I can return my attention to God, even when the world around me seems determined to pull it elsewhere. I know Kathy is with me, and that certainty has carried me through experiences I once thought I could never endure.

Perhaps my mother was right about my courage, although I understand it differently now. The little girl she wrote about had no idea what life would bring, while the woman I've become has lived long enough to know how little of it we can control. I know God is, I know Kathy is, and I know that whatever happens in this temporary world, I have been given the way Home. I no longer need to be fearless to surrender. I need only remember Who is holding me.