First Commitment: Centering

Marriage from the Heart: Eight Commitments of a Spiritually Fulfilling Life Together
by Lois Kellerman, Nelly Bly

In this enlightening guide, pastoral counselor and Ethical Culture Leader Lois Kellerman and coauthor Nelly Bly help couples discover eight core commitments that are the foundation for a deeply fulfilling marriage-Honoring, Caring, Centering, Choosing, Abiding, Repairing, Listening, and Celebrating. These commitments can fortify relationships against everything from betrayal to "dry spells" to fiscal hard times: Filled with touching stories, words of encouragement, and practical exercises, Marriage from the Heart offers spiritual guidance that transcends religion and speaks to every season of married life.

I will create a warm, loving home life and place
my marriage at its center.

It had been a perfect evening at home. The way Laura Larsen described it to me months later in my office, Erik, her husband of thirty-four years, had just sprawled out on the sofa next to her. She recalled how Mister, the mutt with one albino-blue eye, had circled around and around feline style before settling his old bones at her feet. Mister's silky fur warmed her bare toes as Laura bent down to rub his back.

Laura watched her husband reach over to the ceramic candy dish full of Tums on the side table. Enacting their nightly ritual, Erik took out two chalky tablets-one for his heartburn and one for her bones. He popped a tablet into his mouth and fed her the other himself. As Laura chewed, she put her hand on Erik's knee and took a deep, contented breath. The fire crackled in the fireplace as she watched Erik reach over to pull a volume of poetry off the nearby bookshelves. Feeling calm and centered, Laura was savoring this moment of delicious everyday harmony when the phone rang.

She rose from the sofa to pick it up. After several "uh-huhs" she hung up, crossed the room, and flopped down by a painted box. Its sloping black top featured golden fruits in a Grecian-style bowl with borders of intertwined flowers.

"It's getting cold over here without you," Erik complained.

"I'll be right back," Laura replied as she lifted the cover. When Laura and Erik had first seen the box in the back corner of a flea market, it had been empty save for the torn brown paper lining on the bottom and inner sides. And it was the emptiness that had drawn them most-the mystery of it. What had been in this box before they bought it? A worker's coveralls? A wedding dress? Tonight it was filled with treasured keepsakes, which Laura removed one by one, pulling off newspaper coverings and wadding up a few into balls for Mister to chase.

"Whenever you say 'I'll be right back,' I'm sure to be waiting at least an hour," Erik complained. "Who was that on the phone?" He added with a hint of disappointment, "I just found our poem for tonight."

"Oh, that was Josh," Laura said, referring to their grown son, who lived nearby with his fiancée, Maureen. Laura continued to remove wads of newspaper from the box. "They want something old," she went on, "for their wedding table. We're supposed to pick out an old object that we think represents the most important thing for them as a newly married couple to remember."

Laura reached deep inside the box and pulled out another object. "This is it!" she cried, lifting out a large, pale, chipped conch shell and pressing it to her ear. "Remember when Josh found this? I never wanted to leave that beach," Laura mused. "We had absolutely everything we needed to be happy right there."

Erik smiled. "I do remember. We still have everything, though-we've got everything we need to be happy right here in this room." He patted the sofa next to him and added with a boyish grin, "Now, plant yourself down here and read me my poem."

A Holding Place

Home is where one starts from. —T. S. Eliot

Laura and Erik Larsen had a great marriage. It was not, however, rare or unusual compared to your marriage or mine. They had significant differences of personality, temperament, and upbringing; they'd been through plenty of ups and downs. What was it, then, that showed so clearly that they'd found the secret of deep, meaningful partnership? The first clue to answering this question can be found by looking at Laura and Erik on a regular day. Whatever trials and triumphs came their way at other times, on a regular day, they were centered.

Any given evening of theirs might turn up evidence of this fact. Their comfortable grounding in each other was reflected in the small details of their shared life: the easy gestures of affection, the teasing, and the playful tossing of newspaper for the dog to chase, the little rituals such as eating their antacids together or reading a poem aloud each night. The soft sofa, the bookshelves, the fireplace, and the chest of treasured memories are all further signs of the special comfort Laura and Erik created in their home life.

In today's dynamic and uncertain world it is more compelling than ever that we learn how to create this sense of home in our partnership. Erik and Laura's shared peace of mind is not just something we yearn for. We actually need it if we are to get through the inevitable challenges of marriage. What's more, without the secure grounding that centering provides, we cannot safely embark on the greater adventures of changing our marriage for the better and seeking spiritual fulfillment together.

Feeling centered in our union is, of course, a state of mind. Still, we need concrete reminders of this spiritual abode: symbols, mementos, and rituals both light-hearted and solemn to call us quickly back to that center of contentment and belonging that our marriage embodies at its best. Nurturing a warm, loving home life that sustains our partnership is a pleasant process that begins by clearing a space for ourselves and then having a good, appreciative look around. Afterward, we can make adjustments to this physical environment that will reverberate in spiritually relevant ways.

Centering is about making a place for ourselves in the world where we can both feel safe and supported. More than the simple task of "homemaking," it involves seeing our environment with new eyes, letting it calm the mind and soothe the soul. In this peaceful context it is only natural to see past the surfaces-past the fatigue and trials of the day, past the pet peeves and bursts of temper to the deep and caring person we've married. It becomes easier to maintain our equilibrium and to be caring even in the middle of crisis. In the process we will also learn how best to soothe one another-in fact, to become sanctuaries for each other, no matter where we are.

As you begin the journey of each new day, your home is your point of departure as well as the place to which you return to rest. In part, centering also concerns your regaining that sense of comfort and belonging in times of separation or discord. If you are going through hard times, the feeling of being centered is often one of the first things to go. But centering is an important part of beginning the renewal process. It can be a small start (like a fresh vase of flowers or new hand towels in the bathroom) or something requiring greater effort (such as pausing before making a bitter comeback or being sure to spend some time together even when you're not getting along).

The daily habits in a loving home life are so simple in the end. My husband likes to leave his shoes by his chair at night. Maybe he's messy or forgetful, or maybe it's just his way of reminding the room he'll be back. Anyhow, in the morning the same space becomes my meditation room, and those shoes used to throw me off. "I can't even control things in my sanctuary!" I used to mutter, ignoring the fact that part of the purpose of meditation is to gently let go. I would pick up the shoes, march over to his closet, and plunk them down. He didn't seem to get the message. After a while picking up his shoes became part of my setup procedure. Eventually I began to experience this little ritual as a small act of centering-calming, accommodating, and making way for the spiritual life.

Because two is the minimal number in the architecture of relationships, the challenge of centering in marriage involves more than you alone. It is about maintaining balance between your twin needs-including finding support and compromise even when your hearts say different things. A flexible, dynamic process, centering also works even as your needs and circumstances change over the years. It heightens the quality of the time you spend and the space you share, whatever stage your marriage is in.

Whether you are newlyweds or empty-nesters, lovebirds or wranglers, remember the secret that Laura Larsen recalled holding that conch shell up to her ear: To begin to find contentment together, realize that you already have what you need right here, right now. Ultimately, to set out, all you need is the two of you. There is good reason for this.

Whenever I perform a wedding, just before the big kiss, I send couples forth to the "dwelling place of each other's arms." For in marriage, as in life, we come home to one another. We'll look at many ways of thinking about "home" in this chapter-as house, as refuge, as quality time, holy ground, and movable feast. Underneath it all, remember that you are the holding place for your partner. You are home in each other's arms.

As the first of the Eight Commitments covered in this book, centering is our starting point, our home base-the heart of a widening spiral. It encourages us, first, to create meaning and comfort within our home and then, in a wider sense, within each other and out in the world. We know that the work of centering is done when our partnership itself has become our deepest holding place.

Holy Ground

Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. —Exodus 3:5, King James Bible

At home, at the park, at an artist's studio, in bed, in the car-no matter where we are, I believe it is possible to create a sense of home and of sacred space, simply through our intentions. The founder of Ethical Culture, Felix Adler, wrote a maxim that appears (with slight variations in wording) in many Ethical Society meeting rooms: "The place where we meet to seek the highest is holy ground." What this means is that any place can become a holy place, as long as we bring our most cherished values to bear there. Wherever we go, the sacredness of the ground we walk will be determined by our intent.

As I think back to my husband's stray shoes in my meditation room, I realize that I intuitively transformed a small daily annoyance into creative accommodation and then into a meaningful, calming ritual that I relied upon. At every step I was led by intent-to honor my time alone, to honor my husband-even though the lovely result was one I stumbled upon. Using supportive intent and positive attention, it is possible to broaden our sense of what is holy, to see everyday actions as potentially very meaningful. Why should our home not qualify as sacred space? It is, after all, where we rest, gather, and celebrate, where love and comfort are given and received every day. In fact, it is for many of us the single most important physical space in our marriage, a place where layers and layers of meaning are attached to common things. It is a natural place to seek holy ground.

Perhaps it's difficult to see our household in this way because we simply were not taught to think of cleaning up after each other (and other such everyday acts) as a part of holiness. And yet the notion that every place we inhabit is potential holy ground is fundamental to building a spiritually fulfilling marriage. By breathing new understanding into our normal activities, we open the door to enhancing our partnership and our sense of the fullness of life.

In certain early North American native traditions, with nomads moving from place to place, rituals helped to define the spiritual purpose of the spaces they inhabited. After everyone worked to clear a space in the woods, they formed a circle. A respected elder would then sing special chants while burning incense in four directions-to the east, then south, then west, then north. This signified that the space would be in harmony with the natural environment, so that a nurturing of the spirit of the people could occur within.

A former Hindu neighbor of mine used to light incense to "clean" the air in his apartment in preparation for entering the inner sanctum of family life. Often when the sweet odor drifted up through my window, I stopped and thought about the deeper meanings of his family home and mine. I remember thinking at the time how so many of us have cut ourselves off from the spiritual purpose of space.

There are numerous ways to symbolically lay claim to the sacredness of your home. Mezuzahs on doorposts are miniature encased scriptural passages that Jewish families can touch upon entering as a reminder of God's presence there. A bound stone at the entry to a Japanese tea garden announces that you are about to encounter another, gentler, and more ordered world. A crucifix on a wall tells you that no matter how deep your suffering, you are never alone. These images are especially powerful because they have all sprung from shared hopes and dreams about how to find fulfillment together.

In the days immediately following the tragedy of September eleventh, American flags were draped on, in, and just outside of homes all over the country. These flags were eloquent statements of sorrow and solidarity, of patriotism, hope, and protest. Some households, with equal fervor, displayed peace symbols on placards. We each have our own particular set of values we broadcast to the world. Most important, we remind ourselves of our highest ideals each time we see those symbols in our home.

You can also use your imagination to create reminders that your home is holy ground in ways that are unconnected to cultural or religious traditions. Allison and Shane, a couple who built their own log cabin, did this by carving twin hearts into the stair rails. Others have uttered words of hope upon leaving: "May this refuge of ours be safe from harm today." You can keep the lights off at twilight while you watch the dark come in together. You can open all the windows and let the air outside blow through, imagining all the places that the air has traveled. Or you can invite friends and family over to bless the place with their laughter.

Stress or tension can make it difficult to use intent to create holy ground. And yet the tougher things get, the more we need its support. Creating holy ground is really about making sacred time-that is, time when connectedness is possible. Such moments bring us message of profound comfort that we must hear if we are to get by: Today is but one day in a long life. Beauty is complicated. Suffering brings wisdom. You are loved.

So how can we get these messages if pain or timing makes it hard to pause and listen? Here is where rituals-conventional or homemade, whimsical or grand-are especially useful. A steady hand on the sternum and two deep breaths, a cup of tea on the porch every morning, washing dishes together at night in the quiet that descends after dinner, a mental list of wishes to recite when going to bed...If these small rituals are regularly undertaken, we'll need less energy to adopt them when the stresses of daily life are bombarding us.

Sometimes we have to clear the way literally in order to get rid of the disorienting anxieties of our "small mind." Whether it's a weekly dusting or annual spring cleaning, most of us can easily get this procedure right, using vacuums and bottled cleansers. But we may neglect the important next steps. Try sitting in your home after you have cleaned it and playing some recorded music that allows you to reflect on the fact that this space is holding you, the essence of you, as well as those you love. Notice where the sun shines in and trace its path in your mind across the sky. Think of how this space warms you on cold days, and brings the breezes in when it is hot. You will be surprised to see that the peace this small act of appreciation brings to you will last far longer than the few minutes spent in contemplation.

Rituals that involve clearing a space are especially powerful for uncovering the holy ground of relationships. The effectiveness is linked, I think, to those moments of genius that occur as we daydream in the shower or just before we fall asleep. The armor of the day, designed to keep us focused and responsible, is set aside, and suddenly in the newly cleared space-free of petty anxieties, preconceptions, and clutter of all kinds-we find ourselves opened up to new possibilities and a deeper consciousness of the abiding values that most strengthen our partnership. Indeed, acts of centering make our relationship at once deeply grounded and open-ended-forging a partnership in which growth and transformation are possible.

Sanctuary

"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important." —Sherlock Holmes, in Arthur Conan Doyle's "A Case of Identity"

It is no coincidence that people entering libraries, chapels, and forest groves fall silent. Each of these places provides respite from the bustle of life. They call forth hushes. There are hushes, too, hidden in our everyday living space: late in the evening when the dishwasher's running, during the silence of a lazy winter afternoon, while our partner fills the teakettle and we get out the mugs. Every event of the day offers up its own humble sanctuary. It's not the things in themselves so much as the meanings we invest in them by our shared, respectful silence. This is the secret to creating household holiness.

Sanctuary begins with the physical house-the literal holding place of your union. But on a deeper level it is your home, a place to let your spirit rest and be renewed. A sanctuary is a holding place that feels safe enough from harm that you can turn to the important work of personal renewal and strengthening your relationship.

One couple with whom I talked after a speaking engagement discovered a useful exercise to help them plan their move to Canada. The problem was, their new house was much, much smaller than the one they were leaving. They undertook an imagination exercise to help them decide what to bring. In it, they envisioned their new home totally empty and then selected three items that would create a sense of sanctuary there: one thing that would help them feel physically safe, one that would make them calm and contented, and one that would encourage them to grow. The husband picked a favorite quilt to guard against the freezing winters, a neck massager to reduce tension, and a cello to stimulate the mind and heart. His wife picked a baby gate for their toddler, a box of bath salts, and a cherished letter of encouragement from an old college professor. These categories helped the couple to think about their possessions in a new way, they told me. Afterward they both felt that the exercise had helped them to see how few things they really needed to have a full sense of home.

We can intentionally bring things into our home to increase the feeling of sanctuary in it. For example, if plants or tea candles soothe you, do you have enough of them scattered about for this purpose? During our wedding ceremony several decades ago, Hal and I had friends ring little bells at various points just for the whimsy of it. Afterward we strung the bells together with a length of wool and hung them on our front door. For many years the sound of tinkling bells was the first thing to welcome us, our friends, and our family. They reminded us in a wonderful way that we were entering a safe space. And, actually, the first year of our marriage they protected us from robbery when every other apartment in our building was ransacked! Though that last effect had not been intended, it served nonetheless as a reminder that physical safety matters greatly wherever we call home...and that for some strange reason good things tend to happen to those who follow their playful notions.

Sanctuary is about both safety and comfort. To be a true refuge, your home life together should be designed in such a way that you can rest assured in the knowledge that your needs (for health, for security, for consideration, for time alone, for solace or inspiration) will be met. Is the air quality controlled? Is there a security system, sturdy locks? Can you walk down the hall without worrying about being yelled at?

The place we inhabit can be arranged to bring other forms of solace, too. We can take the phone off the hook during dinner, for example, to allow for uninterrupted conversation. We can ensure that the lights are calming, not harsh, or we can play music to give calm. Above all, though, our holding place must give us "growing room." A sanctuary that smothers becomes a cage instead of a place of liberation and renewal. A home ought to be a place not only to start from and to return to for solace but also a place where we are made fresh again to face the world.

We need renewal on an everyday basis. But a good sanctuary also provides repair in extra measure when things go wrong. Put phone numbers of loved ones on the refrigerator; fill the medicine chest with Band-Aids, tonics, and hot-water bottles; see to it that your young children know how to call 911. Make sure you have, in advance, whatever curative tools you think you'll need to get through it all-journals, herbal tea, hot chocolate, a box of tissues in every room.

Most likely you have these resources already and need only to appreciate them to reap more of their healing benefits. Long hot baths, for example, do much more for us than keep us clean. After a trip to Japan one couple I know set up a cedar soaking tub on their deck. They claim that it has since saved them all kinds of doctor bills as well as serving as a place to return for calm when the ills of the world hang heavy. In another case, a widow whose oldest son was killed by a drunk driver allowed herself to cry once a day for a year-but only in the shower. That way her younger children couldn't hear her and be frightened. The warm water mingled with her tears and gave her strong relief.

While you're looking at the symbolic function of the items that fill your home, consider, too, those items that need repair in themselves. Those chipped mugs that you got for your wedding ten years ago-do they speak to you of being well loved and much used or of dilapidation and neglect? That towel rack that's been dangling for several months-does it remind you of the higher priorities you've chosen or of an unwillingness to face what's broken in your home? Sometimes fixing these physical things goes a long way toward mending the overall health of your marriage. But simply noticing the need for repair is the first step in accomplishing it.

The home is both a physical aspect of our union and a natural forum for building, clarifying, and renovating our love relationship. The need for sanctuary is perennial. But the particularities of how we create it will change over time. One decade you may love cozy clutter and the next crave utter simplicity. Your preferences might switch from red to black to blue as time goes by. How you and your partner spend time together for renewal also changes. It may refresh you at the age of twenty to go dancing several times a week, but at sixty the very idea may exhaust you. After a boring day at your first job, intellectual conversation might revive your spirits, but once the job takes on greater complexity, you might prefer relaxing quietly together instead. The general rule is this: Never assume that what gave you sanctuary in your marriage yesterday will work just the same tomorrow. Centering-creating a warm, loving home life and keeping your marriage at its center-is not a static but a dynamic, cycling process.

From Marriage from the Heart by Lois Kellerman and Nelly Bly, Copyright © April 2002, Viking Press, a member of Penguin Putnam, used by permission.

About the Author

Lois Kellerman, who holds a master's degree in psychology, is a Leader within Ethical Culture. This innovative organization, founded more than a century ago to improve human relationships, has twenty-three chapters throughout the United States. Kellerman has counseled hundreds of couples and served as an officer of the Harvard-based Association for Moral Education.

Nelly Bly graduated magna cum laude from Yale with distinction in English. She has worked as a book editor and as a reviewer for Publishers Weekly.