On the Frozen Lake

When the mass of doubt is shattered amidst all the particulars, one thing covers the blue sky. (Taego Bowu 14th century Korean Zen Master)

On the frozen lake,
snow sparkles and
crunches under our feet.

Four old friends still
out walking on ice
under the vast azure dome.

Both/And

I’m up to Step Six in my Equipping Anti-Racism Allies Bootcamp Training. (A program of thirty self-paced steps toward engaging with racial skeptics who think discrimination is as much a problem for white people as for black people in order to invite them to consider new perspectives.) So far, I’m quite impressed with the curriculum and am learning a lot. What I’m learning, however, is not so much about any ‘other’ people, but about me.

I’ve seen how reactive I can be when someone gets angry and accuses me of hurtful actions. I’ve noticed of how my preference for confluence and calm leads me to unconsciously and continuously avoid conversations and situations that might lead to disturbance. I’ve become more conscious of how my social circle (pandemicly limited though it is) is filled with people who mostly have similar educational backgrounds, skin color, incomes and world views. And I’ve been thinking a lot and even practicing communicating across the boundaries of ‘otherness.’

These boundaries of otherness are encoded both in institutional structures and in the human consciousness that we all share. Institutional patterns of education, work, socializing and access to resources all reinforce the ideas of difference that led to their creation. At every point and in every place, human societies have valued some people more than others. In every group that gathers, there are power relationships—there are leaders and followers, bosses and workers. There are those who are listened to and those who are not heard. Even so-called egalitarian groups create subtle hierarchies of power and meaning.

These structures of power and hierarchy are unavoidable and even useful. The problem is when we begin to think they are an expression of some kind of ‘natural order’ rather than a temporary and fluid expression of human interaction.

But the deepest level of division is the division between self and the world. Our human consciousness arises out of the capacity to make this distinction. This separation creates enormous opportunities for imagination and creativity. It is one of the primary gifts of human beings but the cost is enormous and the confusion created is endless. Unlike the plants and trees, the dogs and fishes, we mostly live in the delusion of our separation, one from another and each from the universe. This delusion creates great pain and causes us to act in ways that are hurtful to ourselves, each other and our environment.

When we look closely, however, we can see that this idea of separation is not true. There is no such thing as an ‘individual’ human being. We only arise and survive in relationship with each other. We are intimately intertwined with the world we life in. The sun, the earth, the air, the water are all part of us and there is no human life possible without everything that is around us. We are merely waves on the great ocean. We momentarily appear, make our wet complaints of separation, and then fall back into the vast water we were never separate from.

I feel rather inadequate and unclear as I try to tease out these ideas and connections. I suppose the main thing I am trying to say is that the ‘problem’ of division is one we can (and should) work on at every level – internally, with our families and friends, with those across the political, racial and ideological spectrum. Our partners and friends are fundamentally as much a mystery to us as the person who voted for the other Presidential candidate or holds other views of how race operates in our society.

My ongoing practice is to tolerate and even appreciate difference and disagreement wherever I encounter it. I vow to continue doing the internal work to bear my own fears and reactivity even as I take concrete actions in the world. This includes listening and appreciating others at the same time as standing up for what I believe, even with people who strongly hold opposing positions.

Both/And rather than Either/Or.

Appreciating Energy Efficiency on a Cold Morning

When we replaced the boiler for the hot water heating system here in the Temple ten years ago, we were amazed. The old boiler took up half the furnace room while the new boiler was a small white box that hung on the wall. The old boiler kept 60 gallons of water hot and ready to push through the radiators as needed. The new boiler, when signaled, simply raises the temperature of water running through it by ten degrees. The new boiler also vents directly to the side of the building because the exhaust from the heating process is not hot enough to make it all the way up the chimney. We were told the new boiler has a 90% efficiency rating—that 90% of the energy in the gas used to power it goes to heating the water rather than to heating the furnace room or the exhaust that goes out the top.

I’m thinking of all this because the kitchen thermometer reports the temperature outside is below zero. This particular measuring device is, however, rather dramatic. Attached to a thermostat on a western wall, on summer afternoons it often registers temperatures well above 100 degrees when the local weather stations claim it’s closer to the high 80’s. But I like the kitchen thermometer because it makes life more interesting. I come from a long line of minimizers. My natural tendency is to describe things as being as close to the usual as possible. I’m not sure whether this is from my desire to keep everything under control or simply to not let my words cause more difficulty than the situation itself already holds.

But this morning, even the weather stations are reporting temperatures in the single digits and wind-chills well below zero. And yet, here in the room where I write on the second floor of the Temple, it’s toasty warm. Our little white box on the wall that takes small steps, heats this large building—this large mostly vacant building. We haven’t had a residential retreat here since last January nor gathered for meditation since March 13th. The third floor is closed off and unheated, slowly gathering dust, as is a portion of the second floor. The lower floor, the ‘men’s dorm’, is chilly too, and the vinyl flooring is even starting to buckle in some places without the regular intermittent padding of stocking feet.

I’m reminded of the huge white house we lived in when I was four. My father, having finished seminary, had just accepted his first placement as a Presbyterian minister. The church owned the house where the minister and his family lived which was right across the driveway from an impressive (to a four-year-old) church building. We were only there for two or three years but my first memories are set in the rooms of that church manse.

One room on the ground floor, to the right of the front door, was never heated in the winter, and I remember one Sunday morning my brother and I put on our winter coats and hats to watch the test pattern on the small black and white TV while waiting for ‘Highway Patrol’ to come on. I didn’t understand why the room was so cold, but I was glad for the warmth of my jacket and the symmetry of the test pattern. (Interestingly, when I returned to drive by my old stomping grounds in my early 20’s, the house and the church were much smaller and more modest than I had remembered.)

This past week, Joe Biden has released a raft of executive orders about the environment. Following through on remarks from his inauguration address, he is taking climate change as the existential threat it is to our country and to the whole world. Biden’s directives are designed to roll back the directives of our previous President who did much to undo the environmental protections for the easier exploitation of the earth for profit. In announcing these executive orders, Biden both acknowledged the hard stuff and called us to the opportunity of the challenge. I’m beginning to see that this is his style—this is how he sees the world.

It’s a future of enormous hope and opportunity.  It’s about coming to the moment to deal with this maximum threat that we — that’s now facing us — climate change — with a greater sense of urgency.  In my view, we’ve already waited too long to deal with this climate crisis and we can’t wait any longer.  We see it with our own eyes, we feel it, we know it in our bones, and it’s time to act. 

While I know that Biden’s Presidency has aroused many fears in some of my conservative friends, I hope that his words and his actions will relieve some of the anxiety. As far as I know there will be no ‘re-education camps’ for Trump supporters as reported in some of the far-right media. Nor will we soon resemble the social democracies of Scandinavia. (Though those countries do report some of the highest level of happiness in the world.) But Biden is acting to lead the country to face the crises of climate change, economic inequality and racial injustice. We can and should have debates about how best to do this, but the direction is clear and urgent.

This morning, I am grateful for the warm room that protects me, for the leadership of a new President who is willing to tell the truth and for the challenge of these times which requires me to keep learning, risking and growing.

Feeling Less Than Inspired

The clock ticks. I close my eyes. A small headache and slight nausea. Not terrible, but not pleasant. I feel unmotivated and unclear. Nothing comes to mind as I sit with laptop open to write. An inner dialogue of complaint and worry natters on just beneath the surface: “I don’t like feeling like this. This might be something serious, why can’t I just feel fine? Maybe I should just go back to bed.  I feel crappy.”

How do we find our way through the times when we feel less than stellar? When we lose our energy? When we lose our connection to what inspires us? Sometimes its quite clear what needs to be done—what needs to be said and I excitedly follow along. (A good friend has, on more than one occasion, accused me of being like a golden retriever puppy. The first time they said this, I was upset and offended with the indignity of the image, but over the years I have come to realize the truth and the gift of this kind of presentation of life.)

Other times, like right now, I feel lost and uncertain. They physical discomfort is not as troubling as the loss of purpose and direction. Many decades ago, I remember going through a long period of this kind of darkness. At the time I came across the words of Meister Eckhart, the medieval Christian mystic who spoke directly to my situation:

To be sure, our mental processes often go wrong, so that we imagine God to have gone away. What should be done then? Do exactly what you would do if you felt most secure. Learn to behave thus even in deepest distress and keep yourself that way in any and every estate of life. I can give you no better advice than to find God where you lost him.

As I read this again for the first time so many years later I am struck by two things. Firstly, that in order to write about this, Meister Eckhart himself must have experienced this. He may be speaking to seekers who have come to him for solace, but in his writing I feel an authority and appreciation that only comes with experience. He writes of the times when we are ‘in the deepest distress.’ So even this great exemplar of the holy life whose many words and teachings have come down through the ages—even the famous Meister Eckhart traveled these dark roads.

I find great comfort in knowing I am not alone. Though I am sometimes embarrassed to write again and again about the dark regions and the struggles that are part of my life, they are real and true even as they are ephemeral and not what they seem. I share these experiences too out of my commitment to present life as it is rather than life as I think it should be or life as someone else has said it is. Some have reported back that it is in reading about my struggles that they too have felt comfort in knowing they are not alone.

The other teaching I get from this brief passage is the advice ‘to find God where you lost him.’

(Side note for Buddhists, Atheists, non-Judeo-Christians and others who struggle with ‘God’: please replace ‘God’ with whatever term is filled with mystery and points to something beyond that is source of us all. A few of my favorite other place-holders for the mysterious sacred are: Life, the Tao, the Dharma, Aliveness, the Universe, the Heart of Hearts, the True Way. But for the sake of ease in writing I will simply join with Meister Eckhart’s convention and to use the word ‘God’ to point to what cannot be truly spoken.)

So, in this moment, I feel as if I have lost God—lost my way. Meister Eckhart is clear to mention that this feeling of abandonment is not because we have been abandoned by life, by God but rather because our ‘mental processes’ have gone wrong. I believe this is what is known in the 12-step programs as ‘stinkin’ thinkin’’ – the unreliability of our cognitive processes to lead the way.

To ‘find God where you lost him’ is an encouragement to stay right where we are—right in the middle of darkness or despair or even in the middle of slight headache and nausea. There is no need to run off somewhere else—no need to try to feel better or even to change to a better frame of mind. This is an affirmation of the sacredness of every place. Moods and states of health come and go, but what is most essential, the presence of God, the availability of life itself is always here.

Meister Eckhart also said: ‘Expect God equally in all things.’ And as I put it many years ago and now use as the inspiring quote beneath my signature on email: ‘What we long for is always present, hiding in plain sight.’

So here I am—still feeling kind of crappy. Apparently, the teaching for today is that everything else (whatever we call it) is also here with me (and you.) My advice for us all is to do nothing. Maybe if we slow down enough we can allow ourselves to be found once again by that which has never left.

White Lumps Where the Cars Once Were

The cars in the parking lot across the street are covered in snow. Under the streetlights they glisten white like weird and ghostly boulders. Each lump belongs to someone. And each of those someones had a mother and a father and through sheer innate brilliance of body and mind learned to walk, talk and make their way through this human world. Later on this morning, many of these someones will come out and brush their pile of oddly shaped snow fully expecting to find the car that was there last night. Due to laws of inertia, the special properties of water and the speed with which the earth is spinning as it hurtles around our nearest star which we call ‘the sun’, their car will most likely be there—intact and cold.

I marvel at the many lives around me. Though most of them are sleeping, I’m remembering on this dark white morning that they are not just extras in the feature film of my life. Of course they are that too—each one occupies some small space in the world of my mind. The worlds we human beings live in aren’t exactly imaginary, but everything we see and touch and sense and imagine requires our creative participation.

The light from the streetlight bounces off the snow particles resting on each other and on the car. Some of those particles of light (which are also somehow waves) strike and reflect at just the right angle to make their way into my eye where rods and cones are waiting to receive and acknowledge them. (note to self: The angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection – might this mean that what I say about you is equally in some way about me?) It hardly seems there could be enough room for rods and cones in my eyes, but for the moment, I’ll set aside that objection. These supposed rods and cones are quite excited to receive the particles which are also waves. (second note to self: Don’t stop and try to figure everything out or you’ll never get anywhere.) These scores of rods and cones have been designed for just this moment and in their particular white excitement they dance and wiggle and generally have a great time. They are touched and immediately respond by sending tiny bursts of energy along pathways into the dark regions of the brain. The brain which is enclosed in an opaque bony case covered with skin and bathed in a constant flow of blood. In the enclosed and mysterious brain there is no light and no snow, no cars and no someones. But somehow the brain awakens and reflexively responds to create an image of something that is ‘out there’—in this case, white weirdly shaped mounds of snow.

Now this ‘out there’ is what I am designed to dance with. Without ‘out there’ there is no ‘in here’, no me, no perception, no reason, no mounds of snow. But likewise, ‘out there’ is no thing until we meet and touch each other in a thousand unlikely ways. Over the years and through intense early training (thank you Mom and Dad), I have learned to trust the excitements of my eye and even developed a short-hand explanation for the invisibly meshed business of eye and mind and world. I say: ‘I see….’ then go on to fill in some word (filled with a lifetime of meanings and associations) for whatever it is that is reflecting light into my eye and beginning the whole affair once again.

And the whole business of receiving, organizing, associating and naming goes on in the shortest flash of time and is utterly imperceptible to me. Seeing is one of the many processes through which I construct my world and my life in my world without being able to directly experience the creative interchange that is happening. We are all in the construction business but based on the evidence of our experience, we avow innocence. As David Bohm says ‘The mind creates the world, then say ‘I didn’t do it.’

But back to the cold white shapes of snow across the street and to dreaming of other human beings – of other seers and thinkers and imaginers who are now lying in bed or perhaps just waking up to groggily wander toward the bathroom. Each one lives in their own world—the world that touches them—the world that each effortlessly participates in creating.

There are no bit players. Each of us is a swirling universe of sensation and meaning—of hope and fear—of light and dark. Each of us, as Whitman said, contains multitudes and perfectly reflects everything that came before, is here now and will happen.

Perhaps today I can more deeply appreciate the wonder of each other one who crosses my path, brushing snow off their car and driving their separate and intertwined universes to work or to shop or maybe out to the snowy woods for a lovely winter walk.

The Skill of Staying

Unskillfulness, conflict and difficulty are necessary and unavoidable parts of life. The desire to be pure and good and nice can often lead us into realms of isolation and rigidity that diminish our lives beneath a façade of religious and social righteousness. Real life is messy, emergent and participatory—not to mention fun, fascinating and terrifying!

I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about relationships the past week as I explore how we might be able to heal some of the deep divides in our country that have been so evident over the past four years. How do we initiate and maintain genuine relationships with people who we see as very different from us? Of course, when we look closely or when we live with another person for any length of time, we often discover that every other human being is very different from us.

One of the primary skills for authentic relationship that I’ve noticed is capacity to stay, even when it gets difficult. Staying does not mean just staying physically, but finding a way to stay engaged, or return to engagement when we have left, while the messy business of life works itself out through us.

I’m less and less impressed with our human agency in working things out. Problem solving, empathy and listening are wonderful and necessary skills, but the real resolution feels like it comes, when it does come, from a more mysterious place. It’s almost like our job is simply to stick around with as much compassion and courage as we can muster while life does what life does. But it’s incredibly challenging to stay in the heat of disagreement long enough to melt down into some new and truer alloy.

Having been in a marriage for many decades now, I can’t tell you the number of times I have found myself in the middle of a difficult place with my partner and felt utterly hopeless against whatever issue was dividing us. There are places we go where it is simply self-evident that there is no way forward—no solution—no resolution possible. But again and again, as we are able to hang out in that place of no resolution with some modicum of goodwill, something shifts. Maybe not right away. Maybe not till after many tears, accusations and realizations, but, if we are resolute and patient, something new emerges.

This is not the same as compromise which is where I give something and you give something and neither one of us is happy but neither one of us is totally disappointed. Sometimes that is necessary – mostly around the small stuff. But in matters of the heart and soul, something more creative is necessary.

Real staying means that I have to show up as my full self and you have to show up as your full self. Trying to take care of the other person by being ‘nice’ turns out to be a barrier that needs to be breached. If I give up myself to try to placate you, then something new is prevented from arising.

So I’m trying to notice what keeps me from showing up as myself—what stops my willingness to express my point of view as valued part of the situation. I’m also working to become more aware of the assumptions about others prevent me from hearing the truth beneath positions and opinions that are strange to me.

I wish to help create a world where we all get to show up as ourselves and are continually willing to release our certainty in service of the emerging life that reveals itself anew through us.

Attachment to Drama

Yesterday morning as usual, over my bowl of steel- cut oats and my cup of fresh-brewed coffee, I opened the New York Times and started reading. I never read the whole thing, but rather scan for articles that seem important. I was reassured, in an odd way, to see news about the continuing pandemic at the top rather than mid-way down or at the bottom of the opening spread. This continuing health disaster, accounting for more deaths in one year than all of World War II, has finally become the main issue it should have been for the past ten months.

But, to my dismay, I found myself skipping over all these articles and looking for stories about our former President. Apparently, I have developed some kind of attachment to my ongoing objections. I appear to be slightly addicted to my visceral responses to the terrible stuff he was doing in the last weeks of his term in office. Some part of me wants to keep reading about how bad it was and how narrowly the forces of good defeated the engines of evil.

I am slightly ashamed and quite interested.

The past four years have been very disturbing to me as our then-President shattered norms and pushed democracy to the brink of collapse. Over time I learned to be careful about the amount of time I spent looking at the newspaper or consuming news in any form. If I ingested too much, I would fall into states of agitation and fear that were difficult to exit.

We human beings are amazing in our capacity to read words on a page or hear someone talking on a screen and, from that, to imagine all kinds of awful and wonderful things. This capacity to create worlds in our minds is one of our great blessings and great difficulties.

One wonderful thing about these dreaming verbal minds is that we can think of what has never been. If my house is painted yellow, I can imagine what it might look like painted green. If my country is led by someone who I think is only concerned with enriching himself, I can imagine other leaders who might be less self-obsessed and then work to get them elected. If my mind is swirling with fearful thoughts, I can consider what I might do or not do in order to diminish my visceral suffering.

But one difficultly with our minds is that we can’t tell the difference between something that is actually going on and something we are just thinking. For example, imagine you are holding a slice of lemon in your hand right now. Picture the bright yellow wedge and imagine smelling its tangy citrus aroma. Now imagine bringing this slice toward your mouth and taking a big bite. Are you salivating and/or bracing for the sour tang in your mouth? There is no lemon nearby, but our minds are fooled.

Similarly, we react to what is happening in the country based on our thoughts and stories about what is happening (and what has happened) in the country. Have we narrowly avoided a strongman dictator who overturned rightfully conducted elections or have the elections somehow been manipulated by those in power for their own benefit? Many of the people who stormed the Capital on January 6 saw themselves to be true and courageous patriots. In their minds, they were saving the country from the Jews and the Blacks and the liberals who were stealing what is rightfully theirs.

This is where ‘truth’ comes in. Historically, we have agreed upon certain assumptions about what is ‘really going on.’ These assumptions have to do with verifiable information that can be evaluated by impartial judges who, in the end, will mostly agree about what happened. Our democracy is based on a freedom to debate and discuss the causes and the meanings of events, but our current divide seems to be more along the lines of an argument about truth itself.

But back to my problem.

Am I willing to let go of my attachment to my righteous certainty of good and evil? Can I let go of the thrill of outrage of high drama and begin reading articles about legislation and the complex work of a functioning democracy trying to meet unprecedented challenges?

I do indeed think we came very very close to losing our democracy to the machinations of one man and his cabal of authoritarian henchmen. But he was defeated in the past election and Joe Biden is now President. Biden once jokingly promised a boring Presidency and already the daily drama has lessened. White House press conferences are happening again and involve questions and answers. National strategies to fight against the pandemic are being constructed and rolled out based on evidence and science.

Huge and momentous issues are being debated and discussed. Power struggles and political jockeying for position are endless. But I do think we have entered new territory and I want to do my part to de-escalate the rhetoric and to moderate my extremist tendencies. In the end, I’m more than willing to give up the high drama of the past four years and to do my part to find new ways to live, work and be together.

Relationships as Possibility

Relationships, both with the people we care about and with the people we don’t care about, unfold over time through multiple actions and reactions. And every relationship contains within it, all the other relationships we have ever had.

Many of our perceptions and reactions in our relationships are more about what has happened to us before than to what is happening to us in the moment. If I felt lonely as a young boy, I will more sensitive to things you say or do, however small, that awaken that ancient sense of being alone. If other relationships have lessened my capacity to trust that it’s OK to show up as myself, I will unconsciously interpret things you do as evidence to verify the lessons I carry with me. So when we relate to others, we are also relating to ourselves and to the history of every relationship we have ever had.

Through the pandemic I have had the good fortune to be in a bubble with my wife, daughter, son-in-law, grandson and one Zen friend. I’m thinking now especially of my grandson Isaiah who is nearly two. Just about one day a week, my wife and I have had the pleasure of taking care of him while his parents work. With so many grandparents unable to travel and be in physical connection with their grandchildren, I’m a little embarrassed to write about him, but, he has been and continues to be a great teacher for me, so I feel compelled to mention him again.

Over the past year Isaiah has learned to jump from small ledges, walk backwards while laughing, formulate his experience into full sentences (‘Red car goes down street.’) and help me wash the dishes. I have to admit that he’s not very efficient yet as a dishwasher, but the enthusiasm he brings to the task more than compensates for his lack of skill. Isaiah has also learned that sometimes he doesn’t get what he wants but that his grandfather doesn’t always know the guidelines and may also be more likely to bend to his will than his parents so, hey, it’s worth a try. But all these interactions, with me, with his parents, with his teachers and friends at nursery school—all these formative interactions will not be consciously remembered by him as he moves through the years and decades (hopefully) of his life ahead.

Our world-view forms long before our capacity to remember or talk about it does. Like all children, Isaiah, will hold these deep and formative experiences as a template to organize information and experience as it comes to him throughout his life. Perhaps he’ll remember a few things from the coming year of being three, but his conscious memory won’t really kick in in an organized way until he’s four or five, or that’s how it is for me looking back. So Isaiah, like all of us, will be reacting to the people in his life based on the lessons he has learned from the past, a huge chunk of which will be unavailable to his conscious memory. Seems like a recipe for misunderstanding and confusion.

Indeed, misunderstanding, confusion and therefore conflict and difficulty are an unavoidable part of relationships. Relationships not just with other people, but with the world around us and even with ourselves. The template of our understanding is always trying to fit new information and experiences into what has come before. While this is healthy and necessary, it also leads to significant misinterpretation and the general lag of our current understanding with what is actually happening in the moment.

But the good news is that through this necessary confusion and conflict we can actually come to a deeper understanding of ourselves and each other. Some of the things I have learned in the past are accurate and helpful. But other assumptions that guide my thought and behavior, while they may have been true at one time, are no longer true or useful. Relationship with others, especially ones that are challenging, can help us understand and work with the many unconscious assumptions we carry with us.

This is why I think that relationships are, at their heart, a spiritual practice. Fancy words, being nice and looking good are no match for the reality of living with or being in an ongoing relationship for another being. Even fiercely held limiting beliefs about the world can be worn down, cured and even transformed in the crucible of being with each other. Our partners and family, our friends, our pets and even our enemies are all wonderful teachers. Through each person we meet, we can begin to see through our limited certainty about how things are and how things should be into the wide possibilities that are always emerging at this very moment.

Everyone we encounter, in person or through what we see on TV or read in the paper is some kind of reflection of our many selves. From this perspective, we can be curious about each other whether we agree or not. There is plenty of room for variety both inside and out. Even with our partners and close friends (especially with our partners and close friends?) we will not agree on everything. With people from different backgrounds and political perspectives, the necessary differences may be even more obvious.

This is not a problem, but a starting point. When we loosen our expectation that everyone should be just like us we can begin to appreciate the wondrous variation of the world around and within us. Everyone we meet is some important part of who we are.

Mr. Rogers was right, each person we meet is our neighbor and has an internal life of depth, difficulty and value. And today is indeed a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Working Through Discomfort

The story:
My friend was very upset with what I wrote. They let me know in no uncertain terms how hurt they felt and how personally offensive my words were. I felt terrible and foolish. I wrote back acknowledging the truth of some of what they said and apologizing for the hurt my words had caused. They wrote back and said how much my response meant to them. I was surprised and incredibly touched.

My response to the response to the response:
We’re always playing long game in relationships. Relationships unfold over time through multiple actions and reactions. Relationships are an ongoing creation of interweaving responsiveness. And reactivity is just a kind of vivid responsiveness. While many kinds of reactivity feel unpleasant (anger, shame, fear, confusion), reactivity is itself a manifestation of connection. And I’m now wondering if the deep and subtle joy that arose in me in response to my friend’s last communication might also be called a kind of reactivity

Though this interaction over the past couple of days, I’m beginning to see more clearly how my desire not to upset other people is a barrier to my connecting to those same people—especially to the people I perceive as ‘not like me’. This category of ‘not like me’ is utterly elastic and can range from a small subset of ‘those people’ who hold different political beliefs or see the world in a particular way or worship a different God—to everyone who is not me. Some days, even the people who are closest to me feel like strangers and I imagine I live in a world of utter aloneness—trapped in with my own terminal uniqueness.

Though it is may be admirable to care about how other people feel and how our actions impact them, I’m rediscovering that this is not a reliable or effective guide for human interaction. Partly because my intention to not hurt other people is often a cover for my desire not to feel uncomfortable and partly because there is something more important than avoiding conflict. There are things worth feeling uncomfortable for.

A young friend of mine used to play a computer game called Sim-City. The point was to use the resources you had to create thriving interactive cities. The success of your cities could be measured on different scales: population, economic activity, diversity, etc. One measure of success was to have the city with the lowest crime rate. My friend discovered (and this may have been a bug that was repaired in later editions of the game) that you could get your crime rate to zero if you bulldozed the whole city. And effective but self-defeating strategy.

So too, I might imagine that I could realize my dream of not hurting the people around me if I withdraw. There are, of course, many ways to withdraw. We can become hermits and not call or write or see anyone. But we can also withdraw in place by smiling and nodding—pretending that we are agreeable to everything when in fact we are simply refusing to participate fully. We can withdraw into stony silence and respond to inquiries about our internal state by announcing that we are ‘fine.’ We can cultivate an empty neutrality and just not come forward with anything. And these are just a few of my top avoidance strategies. I’m sure we all have our own favorites and infinite variations—all designed to keep us safe—but all having a huge cost.

All of these strategies have been necessary to our survival and are still necessary to some degree. But if we want to live fully and if we want to give our gifts in service of healing the world, we have to be willing to tolerate a lot of discomfort. A friend recently told me they wanted to live a ‘more courageous’ life. I resonate with their words.

For me, tolerating discomfort only makes sense when I remember and clarify what is more important than feeling comfortable. As I think about my friend from the first story and the deep pleasure of feeling even slightly more connected to them, I think that that connection was and will continue be worth feeling uncomfortable for.

And I think of my dream of a more just and free society, where people feel safe and are given the opportunities to cultivate and give their gifts to each other. Maybe this too is worth making mistakes and feeling uncomfortable for.

Working With My Reactivity

I got a very angry email yesterday from a dear friend from the past. I had forwarded one of my blogs to them because of a reference I thought they would appreciate. At the moment I sent it, I wasn’t thinking about our conflicting political views which have led to a decades-long détente of silence. My intention was share a story as a way of building connection. The result was just the opposite.

Their response and their anger was triggered by excitement I expressed in a paragraph at the end of the piece over the then upcoming inauguration of Biden and Harris and the possibilities of working together to heal our divided country. To them, this felt like gloating.  They reprimanded me strongly for my lack of empathy for the pain they and 75 million other Americans are feeling—for being a poor winner. My response to their response was surprise, confusion, fear, and guilt—all arising in a strong swirl that felt like a punch to the gut.

I’m just beginning a thirty-part virtual program designed to build skills for activists who want to have conversations that can lead to a reduction of racism in the U.S. The program seems to have several names: The RACE Boot Camp Method or Equipping Anti-Racism Allies: The Unitarian Universalist Edition or ACT (Ally Conversation Toolkit)   Their stated goal is:

to significantly reduce the percentage of white Americans who think that racism against white people is just as important a social problem as racism against people of color—55% in 2017. The goal of the initiative is to catalyze a cultural shift so that this figure is reduced to 45% by 2025.

They go on to explain:

The RACE Method Boot Camp is based on the finding that conversational approaches using respectful dialogue, empathy, and story telling are more effective in influencing people compared with conversational styles that emphasize factual information, debate, combat, and shaming people.

This all makes sense to me and clearly applies not just to conversations about race, but also about politics, gender issues, religious issues and all other hot button issues that quickly tend toward the polarization that is endemic in our country these days. The program is based on cultivating specific skills to allow the possibility of dialogue where now there is just mutual accusation or the separation of silence, judgment and fear.

Anyway, I’m now on step two which is about learning quick relaxation skills and deep listening. They open with describing the need:

Our hope is that we can do our small part in creating a world where compassion and equity are the hallmarks of daily life. A key requirement is that we find a way to stop the internal chatter and calm our own heightened fear responses so that we can deeply listen to others and understand the deeper human motivations that unite us. We must do this even when others sometimes say things that make them seem very different than ourselves.

So reading this email yesterday, I had the opportunity to practice working with my reactivity. My first observation was how terrible it felt in my body. l felt almost sick. Thoughts came quickly: I had made a terrible mistake that might cost a very important relationship. I was afraid and wished I had not done anything at all. Silence and inaction were clearly better than an unskillful and hurtful action like this.

I focused on my breath and allowed myself to feel the wild amalgam of physiological responses my body was having. I reached out to a friend for support. I sent an email of apology for my unskillfulness. And I have been reflecting on the encounter off and on ever since.

I finally went back this morning to reread their email. I found that most of the anger was directed not at me, but at the many times my friend has felt belittled and called names by voices in the mainstream media. He has felt that he and all the other people who supported Trump have been lumped in Hillary Clinton’s famous and deeply regrettable category of ‘the deplorables.’ He rightly pointed out that we need to stop gloating and calling each other names if we are to enter into any kind of genuine dialogue about our real differences of perspective.

I’m still working through this, but I see that one thing that has kept me from engaging with people with different views (both to the ‘right’ of me and to the ‘left’ of me) is fear of anger. I don’t know many people who like anger, but I grew up in a household where anger and direct confrontation were to be avoided at all costs. I think it was a loving family, but strong emotions and differences of opinion were mostly held in silence to avoid confrontation and the heat of disagreement.

But there is a cost to silence. When my fear holds me back from speaking of my perspective and asking about yours, then difference divides us and possibility is diminished. I’m now rereading the introduction to the boot-camp and I see there is yet another name for the program that involves the phrase compassionate warriors.    

The wise and wild Tibetan Buddhist teacher Chogyam Trungpa used a similar phrase. He called us all to be tender-hearted warriors. May it be so for all of us and may we find the courage to take the actions and have the conversations that will lead to healing and connection.