by David Kundtz
An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie;for an excuse is a lie guarded.
ALEXANDER POPE
19
Excuses, Excuses!
To incorporate Stopovers consciously into one's life, rather than getting sick, is no easy task. It takes determination, clear motivation, and grit because Stopovers involve a significant amount of time. The excuses for not taking the time for Stopovers are endless: too much to do this afternoon; too long away from a spouse, family, job, or sick relative; or too expensive. Excuses are examples of the problem of too much described in part I.
But if you are like me, your biggest fear is yourself. That's what loomed up for me before one of my Stopover experiences, a week's silent retreat. Questions plagued my imagination: What if I find that I am as weak as I fear? What if I remember something horrible that happened to me many years ago? What if—worst of all—as I turn my gaze inward, I find nothing of value there, or nothing much at all? Then what?
The trick in facing my fears was not to avoid these questions but to ask, literally, “Okay, then what? What if I do find trouble or even nothing at all when I am Stopped?” “Well,” I thought, “then that I had better know it now and see what I can do about it rather than miss something that needed attention.” If I needed help, it would be easier to get help now than to wait until I might be too tired and unmotivated. But more than anything, I did not want to miss something vital in the experience of human existence. I wanted to live my life to the fullest, and if there was anything in the way of my becoming all I could be, I needed to know.
It turned out that my retreat was plagued by distractions, chief among them a friend who happened to be close by the retreat house and was recovering from major surgery. Perhaps four times during the week, I went to visit him at the hospital— a serious infraction of the retreat's parameters. So, in the middle of it, I just sort of wrote the retreat off as a good try and let it go, perhaps unconsciously thinking that my worst fears wouldn't even have a chance and I could blame my avoidance on something else—visiting my sick friend. Then, when I was least expecting it, the last two days of the retreat were the most spiritually consoling of my life to that point.
The image that came to me as I was facing my fearful questions before that silent retreat was an image that was given birth during my high school years: me as a fifty-something-year-old man waking up too early one cold, gray morning and knowing in my deepest soul that I had missed what I most wanted. When I was fifteen, I don't think I could have told you what it was that I most wanted, but I did know that it was urgently vital and that, for me, it was somehow spiritual.
If fears of facing yourself are there for you as you contemplate the possibility of Stopovers, then you are like me and like almost all of us; these fears are natural. I will talk about working with these fears in much more detail in part IV. For now, know that they can be faced—and overcome.
Anyone who incorporates Stopovers into his or her life has given priority to life as a spiritual adventure. If you are reading these words at fifty-something years of age or older, please remember what fifteen-year-olds cannot know: it is literally never too late. Now is the best time to discover who you are and what matters the most to you.
Can you think of a Stopover as an expression of love and an act of kindness to yourself? Indeed it is. But if being loving to yourself is not a good enough reason for you, consider this: A Stopover is an act of generosity for others in your life and for the world at large. A composed and focused soul is a deep richness for all the world, a great gift for those who encounter you, and a desperately needed example in this off-kilter world.
Often the most difficult part of the two-way street of love is the direction that comes toward you. That is, we tend to focus on the giving of kindness and neglect the reality that we also need to receive it. A Stopped person can notice and appreciate the generosities that come his or her way; a rushed, harried, and stressed person cannot. And because love is a two-way street, others observe your qualities of equanimity, calm, and peace, and it gives them not only an example but also permission to explore the same path.
There is a social deterrent to Stopovers. Taking time away from your daily life and responsibilities—whether for an hour, a day, or a week—and, especially, telling people that you are doing it, seems a very unusual or dramatic thing to do and an act which is perhaps more attention-getting than you are used to. It could cause people to talk: from your friends, “How can she leave her family for so long? I wish I could do that,” “He must have a lot of money to be away from work so long,” or “She's on some kind of retreat? Seems foolish to me, I wonder if she has a drinking problem”; from your kids, “Mom, you're going to be away all that time? Who will cook?” or “Dad, are you feeling all right? Maybe you should just see the doctor”; and from your parents, “Seems like a foolish waste of time, you should be trying to get a better job.”
How long should your Stopover be? To get to your answer, follow this recipe: Combine the state of your being, the realistic amount of time you can actually get off, and what you actually feeling like doing at the time; shake them together until the answer presents itself to you. Generally speaking, the longer the better.
Stopovers almost always involve a sacrifice—always of time, sometimes of money—but like any valuable sacrifice, there is good achieved. In this case, the achievement is making sure your whole life is on the course you want it to be on. Not a bad accomplishment for a day's—or a week's—time.
Never swap horses crossing a stream.
AMERICAN PROVERB
20
The Watersheds and Sea Changes of Life
Stillpoints and Stopovers are advantageous for everyone and can be incorporated into life on a day-to-day and week-to-week basis. A Grinding Halt is different. It's an extended time that happens much less frequently, perhaps once or a few times in a lifetime, and may not be needed by everyone. This is not to say that a Grinding Halt is not possible or very beneficial for most of us. It seems, however, to be performed most often by those who see it as a way to resolve some life crisis.
Generally, a Grinding Halt marks a significant life transition or decision. This transition can be termed a watershed, symbolizing a turning point that makes everything flow to a different system, or a sea change, indicating some deep and all-pervasive, but slower, shift of emphasis that has profound and long-lasting effects.
My crisis in the priesthood was a time when a Grinding Halt was needed. My old life made no sense anymore, and I had no idea what the next step should be. Frequently, Grinding Halts are seen as midlife crises because the call to such a transition often comes at midlife, when the pull of spirit is strong.
“Is this all there is to life?” is the question I asked myself before that first and most significant Grinding Halt of my life. The Grinding Halt was the occasion by which I was able to know that I could indeed accomplish something that seemed at the time beyond my capacity: to leave the Catholic priesthood.
At age forty, I found myself pastor of a large parish in Boise. I loved Idaho and had been happily working there as a priest since my ordination in 1963. Suddenly, my midlife crisis hit with a wallop. I was no longer happy or fulfilled by my work in the church. What used to mean a lot to me no longer did, and the positive feelings I valued in the past had changed into doubt and confusion. Even celebrating Mass and leading the Sunday worship services with the parish no longer touched me. Prayer seemed more like work than the joy it once was.
My first coping technique was avoidance. I ran from the parish and school responsibilities, trying to get others to take my place. I became quite good at racquetball and surrounded my daily game with an hour of preparation and an hour of cooling down. This was very different behavior for me. To this point, I had been a hard and enthusiastic worker, bordering from time to time on workaholism. Now I was running from my truth.
My question, “Is this all there is to life?” implied that there must be some other areas
of my life that I needed to explore. It was a clear indication to me that the values and meanings of my life to this point no longer moved me. More than anything, that is what scared me. At the same time there were other questions: “Is this merely a stage in my growth as a priest?” and “Is this the time for me to stick it out and buckle down when the going gets tough?” Many wise people advised me in that direction.
I was plagued by questions that brought up anxiety, guilt, fear of loss, and what I might discover: Do I value the celibacy to which I am committed? Does it have meaning for me? Even if it doesn't, have I not promised to live it perpetually? Why am I feeling so alone now when even a year ago I was not? Are the friendships I am now seeking leading me to a more serious kind of relationship? What really is God's will in my life now? What is best for me to do?
I needed to stop. So I did. I was lucky that I could; not everyone can do it as easily. I had a conversation with my well-respected bishop during which he finally asked me, “Dave, are you asking me or telling me that you are going away?” I thought I was asking him; he recognized that I was telling him. If I had to name the force that allowed me to face these questions, I would call it emotional aching over the loss of meaning.
I spent my Grinding Halt, a month, in an isolated town on the northern California coast taking painting classes, which was for me a totally new way to do nothing. That's all I did. I made no friends and kept to myself. My questions, which now were not so demanding, faded into the background. I felt like my internal computer was scanning all my files, moments, facts, and feelings of my existence up to that point and that this scanning was going on all the time as part of my autonomic nervous system; it was out of my conscious control.
The purpose of the scanning was to ensure I didn't forget any necessary element as I made a possibly life-changing decision. The quiet was to assure that I was not too distracted by life for the scanning to take place. In the meantime, what I was externally doing was trying to mix pigments to capture the unique green of the cypress found on the California coast and creating a beginner's bunch of watercolor paintings of that stunning and scenic coast.
By the end of my stay, the scanning was finished. I returned to my pastoral responsibilities for one year, at the end of which I made my decision. I left my position, returned to school, earned my degree and psychotherapy license, and began a new life as a family therapist. This, indeed, was a watershed moment: a dividing line that will continue to serve as a major point of transition in the course of my life.
As I reflect on this experience, I realize that my Grinding Halt would not have been possible—I just would not have had the power to get it done—without having in some way, years before, incorporated what I now call Stillpoints into my life. It was the accumulation of those moments that gave me the courage to do what I had to do at that moment of pressure and that moral crunch. It was a life-changing decision that involved disappointing a lot of people, breaking vows that I had taken to God and to the world, and violating long-standing family rules, as well as, taking a risk to find out if I could personally carry it off and make it in the world.
I can't say that my transition was without problems, regrets, or pain. I can say that I know it would have been much worse—more messy and more hurtful to myself and others— without the Grinding Halt. I can also say that at every stage of the transition, I had a sense that I was at least minimally aware of all the elements that were in play for me. And it has been a happy decision, thanks to Stopping.
During major transitions, the influence of the spiritual is a strong, almost magnetic force, because these major changes always involve our values and meanings of life. In the course of the change we are rightly concerned that we may lose them. Soon after I left the priesthood, a thoughtful woman in my parish sent me a small holy card, which, sadly, I have misplaced over the years. But I remember clearly the idea of the words on the card: Don't lose the ideals that have safely brought you this far. Receiving it was one of life's little gifts. I hope one day I will be browsing a long-unopened volume and will come upon her holy card.
What are your watershed moments? What are the sea changes in the ocean of your life? Are you in one now? Is one looming on the horizon? Maybe it's time for a Grinding Halt. And, if not now, chances are that there will be one sometime in your future.
No retreat. No retreat.They must conquer or diewho've no retreat.
JOHN GAY
21
Grinding Halts Are Good for You
The need for Grinding Halts indicates that something big is going on. They are often needed, as in my case, to avoid some undesired result. As the epigraph above indicates, if we do not have a way to retreat or to get away for a while in order to allow some as-yet-unavailable idea or power to present itself, the only possibilities seem to be waging war or death. Grinding Halts give us the productive time to arrive at a healthy alternative. The alternatives don't have to be as dramatic as a complete career change, and they can happen in any number of ways. Here are a few:
An island sojourn
Several years ago, in the spring and after months of planning, I rented a simple, one-room cabin on Lopez Island in the middle of Puget Sound off the coast of Washington. I arranged this trip so that everyone knew well ahead of time that I would be gone and that only emergencies would justify a phone call. I brought only one book and a journal. I had a bicycle and sufficient food for myself. I walked a lot, bicycled, read a little, wrote a little, meditated twice a day, and spent most of the day basically supporting life and doing nothing—just being. I rarely talked to anyone and, for a few days, spoke to no one at all. For two weeks, I just was.
I chose this way to do a Grinding Halt for several reasons. I had already done a week-long, silent retreat and wanted something different and longer. Also, I felt an allurement to that part of the world and to life on an island in a remote setting. It was a place where my soul felt at home.
I did it at that time because it was a moment of transition in my life and I wanted to be as awake as I could be so that I would make the right decision. Should I leave the social service agency where I was working as a family counselor and take the leap into private practice? Many of my old doubts came back to plague me: Could I do it? Wouldn't it be safer and wiser to stay with something secure but limited rather than go out and take a risk?
Once back from the island, my confidence seemed to take over and I opted for the risk. My transition succeeded. Would it have done so without a Grinding Halt? I don't think so.
To answer why, let me again use the computer as a metaphor. As I understand it, a computer constantly scans numerous bits of information, all in the form of a series of ones and zeros, and gathers only what it needs to do the requested task. That's what happens during a time of a Grinding Halt. Your internal computer scans your life, all that has gone before, all the paths you have trod, all the teachings you have received, and all your values and meanings of life. The hallmarks of the Grinding Halt are the acts of noticing them, counting them, and saying to them, “Yes, I have noted you. I am aware of you. I have taken you into account as I make my decisions for the future.” Some of this scanning is quite conscious and deliberate, but most of it is unconscious and automatic. It happens as you ride your bike, cook your meals, and gaze at the sea.
A nine-day retreat
Sally is a married woman in her mid-thirties, a mother of two, a part-time teacher, and a frequent volunteer at her church. She decided that life had become overwhelming. It wasn't that she was particularly unhappy—in fact her life was on the surface very satisfactory—but she was “becoming emotionally numb, not really giving attention to what I wanted to give attention, and even when I did, it was like I was someone else doing it. I felt a stage removed from myself.”
Her Grinding Halt took the form of nine days of silence and quiet at a retreat facility just a few miles from her home. Her biggest challenge was her husband and friends. She took the time and energy to explain what was going on and
how important this was for her well-being and her family. Reluctant at first, her husband supported her and later did his own form of Stopping. Her friends came around only after she had returned.
“One friend still thinks it's a bit silly, that it's fine if you're old and retired and have nothing else to do,” Sally says, “but now, I don't care if people don't like it. I know how important it is for me. I can't wait to do it again, maybe in a few years, and for an even longer time.”
“It's difficult to explain exactly what I got out of it,” she said, “but I can say that I felt more confident that I knew myself better, that I had somehow strengthened my relationship with God, and that whatever I did from now on, I would not feel so isolated or abstracted from life.”
Sally's experience came at a moment of spiritual crisis and at a turning point in her life. Notice her major transition was not a dramatic rupture of life events nor an emotional upheaval. This was a sea change kind of transition: slow and quiet.
Time alone in the mountains
Jeffrey is an graduate student in his late twenties with teaching-assistant duties, a serious girlfriend, and part-time work. “Frazzled, totally stressed out,” he described himself at the time. “I had very little money and absolutely no time at all.” But he did have “two large decisions” facing him “involving love and work.” He also had an old car, some camping equipment, and a strong desire to be awake spiritually.
He put together a Grinding Halt for himself that took some coordinating but was worth the work. He planned it around spring break, spent a few months saving money for missed work, and got the encouragement of his girlfriend (“She thought it was a great idea,” he said, “she knew I needed it.”) He spent twelve days at a secluded campground, living in his tent.
