My Growing Love

She won’t speak to me, yet
sometimes her face
lights up with laughter
as she shrewdly observes
my endless antics
designed only to delight her
as she has delighted me
since the moment
we first met.

Yesterday, however,
we toddled forward
in our relationship as
she, for the first time,
offered her naked
foot and an excited giggle
in response to my offering
a single sock as we
we sat on the floor
by the back door
getting ready to go outside.

Sox have fascinated her
for several weeks now.
She’ll persistently pull
them off her feet and
present them to any
available caretaker
who must learn
to hold them open
while she inserts each
completely tiny hand
into the proffered warm
and inviting darkness.
She then unstably parades
proudly on bare feet
with socked hands
until curiosity gets
the better of her again
and she pulls each socked hand
free once more.

Determined in her fashion
choices at her tender age
of a few months beyond
one year, at daycare the
other day, unable to
remove her own sox
due to the elastic intentions
of her clever parents,
she turned to a younger
friend who lay unaware
and removed said friend’s
socks to wear on her hands.
Though, reportedly, the
friend didn’t object, the
teacher was eventually
required to restore order
and maintain the property rights
of even the smallest.

But, yesterday, when
she lifted the second
bare foot and then
each socked foot once
again for miniature pink
and white sneakers,
I felt we had reached
a new milestone
of common understanding.
Without words she grocks
‘going outside for a walk’
and is overjoyed to
adventure out into
the warm fall afternoon
in the company of
her besotted grandfather.

Just After the Election

300,000 Words

When the COVID lockdown began in earnest in mid-March 2020, I decided it would be a good idea to write a morning reflection to send to friends, students and acquaintances as a gesture of solidarity and support in response to the ‘unprecedented and uncertain’ times we were in. My intention was to write most every morning throughout the pandemic, which I expected would last a month, or maybe even two or three. Like most everyone, I was wildly wrong about the length of time we’d be in lockdown, but somehow I have managed to keep writing almost daily pieces for these past fourteen months.

My urge to write also sprang from my sense that I have particular perspectives and experiences as a Zen teacher, life coach, artist, gardener and human being that may be helpful to some others beyond my immediate circle. A previous stint of morning writing had led to my first book: THIS TRUTH NEVER FAILS: A ZEN MEMOIR IN FOUR SEASONS, which, though not a best-seller, was exactly the book I had always hoped to write. It was honest, down-to-earth and people from many different backgrounds found it touching and encouraging.

As I’ve been writing these past fourteen months, I’ve also had the intention to get down on paper some of the things that I share on a daily basis with coaching clients, students and friends. Though I don’t believe there is any secret formula for life, I do see the power that wisdom teachings from many different traditions have to transform our lives. As I have been writing whatever comes to me in the moment, in the back of my mind has been that these writings might be shared with a wider audience. From the beginning, another book has been lurking in all this cyber-writing.

This morning, exactly fourteen months from the day I began, I woke up to the realization that I can’t continue my daily writing at the same time as I comb through my accumulated jumble of thoughts, observations and reflections. The four hundred some entries totaling over 300,000 words will need my daily attention to reveal some deeper patterns that might be turned into a book.

I’m reminded of the joke about the boy who gets a huge pile of horseshit for his birthday. He is delighted. When someone asks him why he says: ‘With all this horseshit, there must be a pony in here somewhere.’ I’m beginning to dig for the pony. Of course, as a gardener, I also love the horseshit itself, though it does need to be composted for the maximum benefit for the plants themselves. So I’m beginning to compost as well as dig.

The book I dream of is a collection of these short improvisational writings that could sit on your nightstand and be a source of comfort and joy. My working title (that has about a 1% chance of being the final title) is: DEPENDING ON WHAT ARISES: ZEN REFLECTIONS, CONSOLATIONS AND REVERIES. Like my first book, each chapter would be one day’s writing. It would stand on its own, but will also hang together with the others as a collection that has some kind of loose beginning, middle and end. What the thread that connects is is still to be revealed.

For those of you who have been regular or even occasional readers of these daily reflections, thank you so much for your attention. And for those of you who sent occasional shout-outs of the appreciation and encouragement via email, Facebook or in person—a thousand thanks. Knowing that a small group of people out there has found these daily meanderings of value has allowed me to continue to expose and embarrass myself.

As usual, I feel that I have been the primary beneficiary of these past 300,000 words. I’m always listening to what I say and write because I don’t really know it until I say or write it. All the advice and insights are really to help me remember and appreciate the broken/whole person I am.

I offer deep bows to the universal source—to the creator through which all things are born. Our thoughts, words and actions come through us but don’t really belong to us. Our job is to take responsibility for everything that arises and to use it in service of the healing and appreciation of the world. This is indeed the deepest joy for many of us human beings—to give away all we have as an expression of the love that runs through us.

Blessings upon blessings.

Maybe

I write a phrase, then wait for what follows. Then hold still as nothing more comes. Then I delete the first words and fall back into silence.

Maybe all that has been written before is enough. Maybe it’s time to say less—time to hide quietly beyond words and positions and insights. Maybe it’s time to allow what has come before to be what has already happened.

Maybe it’s time to stop. Maybe just this morning or maybe tomorrow too. Maybe only occasionally. Maybe not at all for a long while.

We’ll see.

The Song of Life

The rain has quieted things down this morning. It was pouring just a little while ago as I lay warm in my bed in the dark in my new bedroom. Now it has stopped and the contrast sounds silent. Just the cooing of a morning dove and the slight ringing in my ears as I strain to listen. And, of course, the distant hush of traffic.

Pleasant Street, where the Temple is and where I lived for the past eleven years, is a main thoroughfare between Worcester’s downtown and the northwestern suburbs—Paxton, Holden, Barre and beyond. The street where we live now is a couple blocks up from Pleasant Street and significantly quieter, yet still, as I have reported, the rush of traffic on a quiet morning is the background drone, even through closed windows. But it’s only in the morning, when my ears are tender with sleep and before the busyness of the day that I notice the ubiquitous drone.

This inevitable sound of civilization is modified by the morning doves and accompanied by a usual morning chorus of assorted and mostly invisible birds. I’d like to be an invisible bird—singing with no accountability—no reviews or opinions to worry about—no social media presence to be cultivated if one is serious about spreading one’s words. As an invisible bird, I sing only to sing. The song arises in me. I am the song that I sing and there is no before the song, or after the singing. In the moment of the call there is only the call—a blessed relief from the self I unavoidably drag along for most of my human life. (Was I good enough? Am I good enough? Will I be good enough?)

Yet, even now, I catch glimpses of the song that I am.

A friend who was recently part of a public ceremony in which he was celebrated, spoke of how amazing it was to hear from others who recounted small moments of being touched by his presence. Unknown to him, his song has been singing itself for all his life. We humans are finely tuned into each other.

Your song is not just the song you think you are trying to sing or hope someday to sing or are sure you cannot sing. Your true song is the one that sings itself through you. It began the day you were born. It’s the one you can’t help singing. Unbidden, each morning it arises on its own and through you. Each of us, regardless of intention, sharing as freely as the invisible birds that populate the trees around my new house.

This song, this light, is mostly invisible to us. We can never step outside ourselves to see who we are. We are invisible to ourselves and yet are invited to sing anyway—to let ourselves be who we already are—who we can’t help but being. It’s not about sophistication or knowledge or advanced degrees or power or prestige. It’s about the wondrous functioning of the universe through each of us.

What if this is really true? Or what if this is even partially true? What if the ancient internal critics that so fiercely defend your inadequacy are less true than the beauty of the song that you already (helplessly) are?

The crows squawk, the sparrows chirp and the doves coo. An airplane flies overhead and then disappears.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Hi Mom

I’m thinking this morning of my mother and my wife and my daughter and mothers everywhere—giving birth to other human beings and thereby open themselves to the great joys and sorrows of never-ending vulnerability and wondrous attachment.

Deep bows of appreciation and awe.

Here’s a poem for my mother and for all mothers from all sons and daughters:

Hi Mom

Inconceivably long ago, through you
came my two small legs and arms—
my eyes, ears, and all the rest—
surprised and bawling at first,
I imagine, then later on, larger
and laughing too— walking and
talking—full of wonder about this
beautiful world of flowers
that must also include the wild
sadness woven through each family
as we wander together and apart
in the great astonishment of being human.

059

Begin Again

My new stonewall isn’t going so well. I had begun a series of smallish terraces behind our new addition to follow the step-like rising of the siding and hide the cement foundation below. I began with the granite cobblestones I had lying around from other deconstructed projects. At first, it went well enough. Though the stones themselves are of various thickness and length, their overall rectangular dimension made it reasonably easy to stack them together.

I was about a quarter way through the project when I realized two things: 1) I wasn’t going to have enough stones to finish the project and 2) I wasn’t sure that the lovely looking walls I was constructing would be strong enough to hold the soil through its natural cycles expansion and contraction with water, ice and root systems. When I consulted my local rock-yard expert, John at Sansoucy Stone just up the hill from me, he informed me that: 1) my intuition of the containment issue was probably correct and 2) the granite cobblestones came from India and were relatively expensive.

So I wandered through the stone yard with John looking at various options. At the most ambitious end was the pile of stone that was random rocks to construct a true New England style wall, calling for the attendant balancing and fitting of wildly different shapes and sizes. At the other end was a pallet of thin and relatively flat shale from northern Pennsylvania which I had used several years ago to create a sculpture at the Temple. In between were many options, including a variably buff-colored schist from northeastern Connecticut that was relatively flat and came in relatively thin pieces. I was enchanted by the mottled rich color and, from the outside of the cylindrical stack on the pallet, it looked relatively easy to work with.

I had two pallets delivered to the end of my driveway and promptly got lost in other projects. Yesterday, I finally deconstructed the lovely quarter-wall of cobblestones and promptly repurposed them again to define the boundary of a new arcing garden on the other side of the addition. I also began laying the first courses of my second attempt at the terraced walls using my new schist. It is indeed a lovely stone. Each piece sparkles with evidence of its ancient provenance of clay, heat and pressure over inconceivable stretches of time.

This morning I learned a little more about these stones:
Schist is a foliated metamorphic rock made up of plate-shaped mineral grains that are large enough to see with an unaided eye. It usually forms on a continental side of a convergent plate boundary where sedimentary, such as shales and mudstones, have been subjected to compressive forces, heat, and chemical activity.

So the Pennsylvania shale that encountered the pressure and heat from the colliding tectonic plate of the Atlantic became schist in eastern CT—the schist I am now attempting to stack with elegance and solidity into series of small and rising walls behind my cottage here in Massachusetts. And, grabbing individual stones from the pallet, I find the variation in thickness and shape to be more robust than it appeared in the neatly stacked cylinder. They do not easily stack one on top of the other as they had in my imagination.

Such is the natural course of most worthwhile projects. Initial enthusiasm and dreams encounter the wondrous complexity and ambiguity of the real world. It is here that the real creativity begins and a certain amount of stubborn determination is required. The very real stones I now have demand more time and attention than the ones of my dreams.

So I take a deep breath and hold the vision of terraced walls stepping gracefully up the incline at the back of the cottage while I appreciate the variability and solidity of each stone—persisting in the process of attention as I learn what these rocks and this project have to teach me.

Between Apathy and Apoplexy

I have been avoiding thinking about politics recently, happy that we have a President who shares my views on general reality as well as on the necessity of government action to protect us from the worst aspects of our capitalistic system of individualism, accumulation and objectification. I am pleased that the former guy is not dominating the headlines and is not speaking and acting as the head of my country. I am spending less time reading the headlines and being outraged and more time considering whether the Patriots’ new draft calss will be relevant again in next fall’s football season.

The other day, I was with some friends who had CNN playing on their TV. It was surprisingly unpleasant to listen as the anchors do their best to gin up our outrage over the way some other people were behaving. The behavior they were reporting was indeed in poor taste, but CNN was clearly doing their best to rouse a particular emotionally reaction in us, the watchers. I could feel my latent outrage at ‘those’ people begin to rise again and asked my hosts if we could turn the TV off. They were getting pulled in too, and were happy, once I suggest it, to turn their attention elsewhere.

I don’t miss being outraged, but have not yet found the middle way between apathy and apoplexy. What is the third way that is not merely a watered down version of the two or simply swinging between the extremes? How do I stay engaged in the ongoing generational fight for equal rights for people of color? For the protection of our environment from the predations of industry? For the protection of the poorest from exploitation by the richest?

The polarization of our country between red and blue, is ongoing. Our former President continues peddling the big lie that the election was stolen and congressional Republicans are, for the most part, continuing to support this pernicious fiction. Liz Cheney, one of the visible exceptions, is encouraging the Republican party to separate from the cult of Trump, but she appears to be on the verge of being deposed by her fellow Republican members of the House. Republican controlled legislatures throughout the country have proposed a raft of legislative proposals that would limit access to voting in ways that would have disproportionate impact on low income voters and voters of color.

We are just four months out from the storming of the Capitol by the crowd egged on by our formerly sitting President after he had spent months doing everything possible to undercut the peaceful transition of power which has been a hallmark and bragging point of our democracy. Bidden’s focus on action to combat COVID-19 and to reduce the income gap, to protect the environment, and provide equal opportunity for all has been a welcome change from Trump’s glorification of greed and his constant stoking of fear and outrage at ‘those others’.

My hope is that Bidden will continue to take strong action to level the playing field and that the practical impact of his actions will touch the majority of Americans and thereby undermine the power of the lies of the far right. FDR too was opposed by wealthy industrialists and others who saw his proposals to create jobs and use the power of the government to reign in the excesses of capitalism as a certain recipe for national decline. In retrospect we can see that just the opposite happened.

But, I remind myself that we are not out of the woods*. We must stay engaged to lend our active support to the leaders both in politics and in our neighborhoods that are willing and able to help us move toward a culture that honors the worth and dignity of all.

* I also remind myself that I generally like being in the woods and we should all continue to spend time wandering among the trees alone and with friends whenever possible.

Right Here

Leaves flutter on the trees outside my window. Through the closed window, the low roar of rushing civilization in the far distance comes to my ears. This quiet early morning I remain steadfastly committed to doing less and less, even in the middle of the activity of my life.

At some place in the bible, it says ‘You should love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength’. At one point in my life I assumed that this was a literal command, so I broke up with my girlfriend—telling her that I could only have one true love at a time—to spend the summer growing a beard while looking for God (hitchhiking and camping) in Minnesota and Montana. Karma, destiny, or random chance propelled me through many diverse adventures to the doors of a small Vivekananda monastery near the shores of Lake Michigan. After a week of early morning and evening prayer and daily hard work with the mostly young brothers who were there, I was almost ready to sign up.

Vivekananda was a Hindu teacher, one of Ramakrishna’s main disciples. He attended the 1893 Parliament of World Religions in Chicago and was a great popularizer of Hinduism in the West and a great believer in the unity of all religions. From my brief time at the monastery, I remember three tenants: 1) our basic nature is divine, 2) the goal of this life is to realize that divinity, and 3) there are many paths (religions) toward that goal. It was the perfect path for an enthusiastic Presbyterian minister’s son who had been gently radicalized by the fringes of the ‘peace and love’ movement in the ’60s, touched by some depth of feeling through living in Japan for a year, influenced by a Marxist professor’s interpretation of Jesus’ anti-establishment message of liberation, and had had a personal experience of oneness on an LSD trip that the Christian ministers and priests he encountered did not seem to understand.

I felt at home with the rag-tag mix of mystics and drop-outs I encountered at the apple-farm monastery. I knew in my heart that this seeking of God, no matter what we call her, is the most important thing in this life. But I also knew that I was afraid to return to my ‘ordinary life’ and, being somewhat of a purist, decided that fear of the ‘real world’ was not a good reason to cloister myself. I returned to college for a wild senior year that involved a series of challenges (including multiple girlfriends) about how to integrate my glimpse of oneness into the complexity and ambiguity of daily life.

I found little support from spiritual teachers that year. My biggest teacher was someone I never met: anthropologist Joseph Campbell. His book, HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES, was given to me by a sympathetic, agnostic Jewish professor of sociology. The main teaching I took from Campbell, aside from his agreement with Vivekananda’s position on multiple authentic paths, was his observation that the hero’s journey is not complete until he comes down from the top of the mountain, back into daily life. The hero’s job is to bring the gift of her vision of God/Dharma/Life back to everyone through integrating what she has experienced into her everyday life.

It’s hard to leave the mountaintop, but since it’s impossible to stay, we don’t really have much choice. I have drifted away from my initial affiliation with the Christian church, but remain deeply inspired and touched by authentic Judeo-Christian teachings. When Jesus encourages us to be ‘in the world but not of it’, I hear him speaking to me. Separating myself from the world has never been my path, something about the challenge of the complexity of it all has seemed to be the point.

So, once again this morning, I vow to remember that the one most important thing is life itself. Through all the activity of daily life, the unnamable source of life itself is present. Getting things done is just a wonderful game we humans have invented to order to pass the time. May each thing I do today be an expression of my love and gratitude for the impossible miracle of just being alive.

New Work

Abandoning the pointed lance
of their winter darkness,
the beech leaves leap
quietly into plain view—
still small and feathery
as they commence
their mighty seasonal
work of nourishment.

Foundation Plantings

I think it was Tolstoy who dreamed of many lives woven into one—farmer in the morning, artist in the afternoon and philosopher in the evening. In Zen we advocate another version of this integrated life—to meet everything that comes, from dirty dishes to the electric bill to the late spring daffodils, with full attention and appreciation.  Yesterday, I had the chance to practice.

In between being with coaching clients and Zen students, I was outside arranging and planting the ‘foundation plants’ I bought: a small weeping Japanese maple, a wonderfully fragrant Korean spice viburnum, a dark-leafed pink azalea and a robust three-foot tall roseum elegans rhododendron topped with buds the size of pine cones. I bought them from Hank at the local nursery with one arrangement in mind, then allowed the future composition to shift as I contemplated the space and imagined the full-grown plants.

Planting a garden is about imagining the future. How will this small seedling look in mid-summer when it is blooming? Is it short or tall? What colors and textures will it bring to this area of the garden? What else around it will be blooming or past? Some people do this in an organized way, with lots of research and a carefully crafted garden plans and drawings. I’m more a seat-of-the-pants kind of guy and have learned to trust my intuition.

In life-coach training I learned that ‘intuition is always right–but sometimes only 5%.’ Just because I have a gut feeling about something doesn’t mean that what I imagine is actually going on or going to happen. But when I have that intuitive sense, it does mean that something is going on and going to happen. Acting on our intuitions as provisional truth leads us to learn more. Sometimes it is necessary to be 95% wrong to get to what is really happening. It may be awkward and embarrassing, but it can be quite useful.

With the garden (as with life) I often think it is better to make a pretty good decision than it is to try to make a perfect decision. Life offers us multiple possibilities at every moment and each possibility leads us into the fullness of our life. Some possibilities may lead to smoother outcomes that are more in line with our hopes and dreams, but even the decisions we make that get us into trouble and cause conflict are also true and necessary.

In the garden, sometimes I place the plant in exactly the right place. Other times the plants I place have to be moved again and again before they find their best place. And sometimes, they don’t even survive my intuitive decisions. But each place is exactly the right place and leads to the garden of the future and, hopefully, improves the mind and wisdom of the gardener of the present.

Wendell Berry says, in one of his wonderful poems, that the job of the farmer is not just growing the crops, but also enriching the soil and cultivating the farmer’s mind.

As I dig the larger hole for the lovely budded rhododendron, I note there are no worms in the recently filled soil around the new foundation. I work in some organic matter and say a silent blessing that this soil may, over time, be a nutritious home to worms, bugs and all kinds of fungus to support the plants—as well as for these wondrous plants that will be the backbone of my garden for years to come. I look forward to watching and working with the results of my intuitive decision and vow to keep learning and appreciating.

Dreaming of Danger

Dreaming of Danger

I was chased through the night by men from a homeschooling cult that called itself the Church of the Latter-Day Saints. (No relation, except in my mind, to the LDS religion or to homeschoolers I know in the real world.)

I had been invited to present to their community at the large compound where many of them lived in northern New York. My presentation went well, but after I talked I began to notice people shying away from me and I got the sense that I had said or done something that was quite wrong in their eyes. After several conversations about working out my return transportation schedule, I realized that they were doing everything they could to keep me there in the compound. They came up with one excuse after excuse as to why my departure had to be delayed. I was getting increasingly anxious and scared as I tried to work out how to get home.

Finally, they agreed to let me go, but the only vehicle they would give me was a rolling cart—like the big flat ones they have at Home Depot or a little like the one I used last week to move my parents into their new more assisted living arrangement. (Upon arriving, they both had to wear an anklet tracking device for the first three days, and then, they were told, it would be ‘evaluated’.) I could push the cart in my dream and hop on and ride for five or ten feet, but then I had to get off and push it again. I figured it would take me a long time to go the hundreds of miles back to Worcester. My fear, in the dream, was that they would let me go then send some guys to beat me up and leave me to die once I was well off the property—and then deny having any involvement in my disappearance. I began making plans for ditching the cart when I got a few miles down the road—hiding it and taking to the woods to find another way home.

(I listened to the book HOMELAND ELEGIES on my recent trip to Philadelphia. Beautifully written and narrated by Ayad Akhtar, the book gives a visceral sense of the suspicion and malevolence that has been directed at many Muslims in the decades since 9/11. His love for his homeland America as well as his confusion, helplessness, and rage are vividly portrayed in this semi-fictional autobiographical novel.)

My dream went on and on and my fear and anxiety kept ramping up. I partially woke several times through the night, aware that I was dreaming and wanting to change or escape the dream, only to fall asleep and into the same dream again and again. Dream-walking through unfamiliar territory, I came to a house and knocked on the door to ask for help. A woman who was on the board of a school where I worked came and invited me in. She too was a homeschooler with a huge family of children ranging from little ones to teenagers. I thought she could help me, but I was only partially right.

She made me breakfast and I did my best to engage the many children in conversation about their lives and interests. One teenage boy who was clearly a daredevil and troublemaker wanted to be sure to show me the terrible scar he had on his shoulder from one of his adventures. My friend, the mother, was about to leave with the girls when I asked if she was going toward Worcester and if I could have a ride. She said, no, she wasn’t going toward Worcester, but then relented and said she would take me anyway.

The father and all the boys quickly left the house, ostensibly to go to work. As the mother shepherded the girls upstairs in the homemade plaster house, I told them about how much I loved my two younger sisters growing up and how much I enjoyed playing with them and taking care of them when they were young. I was desperately trying to prove I was not a danger but knew it was futile and that the father and his friends and the boys would come back to get me soon.

I tried desperately to wake up, but could not. Men were now coming in the front door and I knew others were waiting for me out back as well. It was over. I woke myself up enough to know I needed a Deus Ex Machina ending to save myself. I imagined a helicopter descending to rescue me and realized that my friend, the board member and mother could have known this was happening and have called the authorities who would come to arrest the vengeful men and save me from death. I was working out how the police would be able to charge the men with assault if they hadn’t beaten me up when I woke up completely.

The Leaves Are Coming

For the past month, I’ve been writing mostly from a new location. While I wait for morning temperatures above 50, at which time I will bundle up and go outside to write in the fresh morning air with the birds and the sky and the trees, I sit and write by the southern window at the back of the cottage where I now live. We’ve been slowly moving out of the Temple and though we will stay on as the guiding teachers of our Zen community, Melissa and I will no longer be the residents and managers of the Temple building where we have lived in for the past eleven years.

We sometimes refer to our modest arts-and-crafts house as our ‘place in the country’, though it’s only a quarter-mile from the Temple and still well within Worcester city limits. We’re happy to be a few blocks from the thoroughfare of Pleasant Street, nestling into a low-traffic neighborhood with modest homes.

A few weeks ago, I moved my desk and barcalounger to their new location here in the cottage. That was a tipping point for me. Throughout April, I sat in the newly relocated barcalounger and looked out at a new view—southeastward through branches to the rooftop of a neighbor’s house to the trees and sky beyond. Now that May is here, leaves are beginning to fill in the space between branches and between me and my neighbor’s house. Soon, I suspect, my view of their house and the sky above will be fully obstructed by these seasonal flat factories of green. I’ll miss the sky but appreciate the coming green comfort of privacy.

Things change a lot here in New England through the seasons. The hardwood deciduous trees—maple, oak, beech and birch—that fill our abundant forests and grace our towns and even cities are the immobile witnesses and silent supporters of our incessant bipedal rush. Bare for six months and clothed in leaves for the next six, they alternately hide and reveal. In the winter, the contours and textures of the landscape (and houses) around us are laid bare. Beginning in April and coming into fullness in May, the leaves return, like a great green migration, to soften the harsh austerity of our winter viewing.

One mature oak can easily generate over 200,000 leaves each year with a total weight of nearly 60 pounds. I say ‘easily’ generate, but I don’t know how it is for an oak, or for that matter for a maple or beech or any other tree. The leaves come from the buds that are all but invisible through the winter. They swell in late March and April, and now the fantastic green leaves appear everywhere. First, as a golden green blush sweeping the hillsides, now rising to a fullness that softens and obstructs our views for the next five months. We who live on this land that once belonged to the Nipmuck peoples are happy for the obstruction.

These New England trees are part of a worldwide global oxygen generating system that is being degraded daily by the aggressive timber harvesting and land clearing that our modern lifestyle requires. Many have warned us that this is not a sustainable strategy and the urgency of our situation increases daily. How do we realize and take action on what is so obvious and life-threatening to the lives of us all and the mothers and fathers and children who will come after us?

On a soft spring morning, with the light filtering through the small and healthy green leaves, it’s hard to appreciate both the wondering of this ongoing miracle and the reality of the daunting and determined effort that will be required to move toward a sustainable global future.

You Might Wonder

After all these assumed years,
chock full of confusion and delight,
how have I so suddenly come
to this moment—sitting with
my mother and my sister
in the back of a room full of elders?

We sit, upright and slumped,
in wheelchairs and walkers,
and together receive the love
and bright attention of the woman up front
who jokes and sings familiar tunes of the forties.

We are a faint audience,
but she does not waiver
in her lively patter and song.
She calls each of us by name
and invites and delights in whatever soft word
or sassy comment we have available.

From the perspective of
my relative youth at the end
of my seventieth decade, I am
again reminded that the fullness
of life comes in many forms.

The true life that is who we always are
does not diminish, it only changes form—
like a mighty river that twists and bends
without complaint, as it naturally flows
back to the sea from which it came.

17 Perspectives on Downsizing

The quality of our lives is not so much determined by the actual events themselves, but by the stories we tell ourselves—the meaning we make of what we encounter.

The perspectives/stories on downsizing below are mutually contradictory and all true.

If you happen to be engaged in the process of downsizing (as I am), you might read through the list below to see which viewpoint (or some other one) is most familiar to you. Be aware of what your ‘default’ story is and how well (or not) it has served you. Just knowing the perspective we are in can be helpful in creating more options moving forward.

If you want to create more flexibility and perhaps even more fun in your downsizing efforts, you might see if there are perspectives below (or ones you can make up) that are also true for you and that might be useful as you go through the sometimes necessary joys and sorrows of downsizing. If so, see if you can consciously touch the truth of this other position that may not be the most natural to you. What is it like to ‘step into’ this perspective? What would it be like to do some part of your downsizing work from this position?

17 Perspectives on Downsizing

1) My Wonderful Things — We collect treasures that remind us of experiences, places and people we love. These objects are a precious and wonderful part of our lives—every little stone and shell is unique and life-giving.

2) Lightening My Load — The things we have require both physical and mental space. They can weigh us down, clutter our lives and leave us little space to breathe. They were nice once, but if my whole house burned down, how many of my things would I even remember to miss?

3) Prepared For Contingencies –- You never know what is going to happen. If you let go of that pair of old pants, what will you wear next time you decide to paint the porch? Hold onto as much as you can to be prepared for what lies ahead.

4) Practicing Dying –- Eventually, everything you have will be taken away. Though you may imagine this as a fearful event, human beings have also reported being quite excited about the prospect of leaving the suffering and burdens of this ‘mortal coil’. Many religions also preach that a certain kind of dying before we actually die is a necessary step toward a life of freedom and meaning.

5) Hard Thing to Do –- The decision-making process of looking at each item you own and deciding whether there is room for that in the new place is exhausting. It brings up memories of the past and concerns about the future. There’s no way to do it but to buckle down, grit your teeth and plow through.

6) Nothing Really Belongs to Me Anyway – everything you have has been given to you. Even the things you bought with your own money or made with your own hands were given to you through the generosity of the universe that gave you the skills to earn the money or the talent to create. The stuff of your things comes from the world around you that can neither be owned or not-owned. It was here before you ever showed up and will be here long after you disappear.

7) Yes, No and Maybe –- Some stuff is clearly useless and some is clearly necessary, but a huge amount of your stuff probably fits into the ‘maybe’ category. Do Yes and No first and see how much room there is for maybe.

8) Full Moon –- The moon would not be the moon without both the waxing and waning. So it is with our lives. Sometimes we accumulate, sometimes we diminish. Complaining about the waning moon is certainly possible, but is not likely to lead to an improved quality of life. Happiness only comes from appreciating whatever phase we happen to find ourselves in.

9) Quality of Life –- What if the end result is not as important as the place you are right now? If you want to live a life of compassion and acceptance, there is no other time to live this life than right now. Can you appreciate the challenge of letting go of so much and allow yourself to feel all the emotions that arise? Sadness for what is over, resentment that this is necessary, excitement for what is to come and a thousand other emotions as well.

10) Bird Song –- The birds carry very little with them from season to season, from nest to nest, yet they sing fully every morning and make no complaint against whatever weather arises.

11) Trailer Truck –- It honks as it rushes by in the early morning. It’s filled with stuff going somewhere. All the stuff that we have is simply a distraction from the real thing of life, which is relationship – to ourselves, to others and to the world around us. Imagine loading everything you own into a trailer truck and taking it all away for someone else to have to deal with.

12) Sparks Joy –- Thank you Marie Kondo for reminding us of our visceral connection to the things we own. But the unspoken secret to the effectiveness of her method is the assembling thing of a category (clothes, books, kitchen stuff) in a large pile before you touch each thing and choose to keep only the items that ‘spark joy.’ Without the pile, we lose the perspective of the whole and make decisions without realizing the vital connection of one thing to another and everything to the greater whole.

13) Plaid Shirt –- Though fancy clothes and things are nice, the basic stuff, like a plaid shirt and pair of jeans, does just fine for most of life. A small selection allows more freedom to live your life than a large selection – less time deciding and less time focused on the surface of things to allow more time for what truly matters.

14) Just the Right Shirt –- To wear clothes that delight us is a way of expressing ourselves and living a good life. Having choices allows us the joy of each morning finding just the right clothes for the season, for our mood and for the occasion of that day.

15) Passing It On –- Even in this country of abundance, there is real need—families and individuals who have few resources. Giving away some of what you have to organizations that sort and make it available for others is a way of passing on the abundance of your life.

16) A Little Help From My Friends –- My mother used to come in my room and help me clean up by just being there and keeping me company. It’s easy to get lost and overwhelmed in the process of sorting, selecting and packing. Ask a friend to come over and help.

17) No Mistakes –- So far, in this life, you have had all that you need to get by. Whatever you decide to keep or let go of will be just the right thing—no need to worry about the ‘right decision’. Keep what you keep, pass on what you pass on and praise God through it all.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Ongoing Invitation

Linear time is
highly overrated.

The thin and unforgiving
line that stretches
endlessly ahead and
behind is merely
a figment or your
imagination. You
do not live in some
small dot between
before and after.

The essential panic
of looming dead lines
and to-do lists that
drives our lives
to incessant action
is fool’s gold that only
seduces and enslaves.

As if any of us could
ever get it all done
soon enough or
well enough or
completely enough
to satisfy that ancient
fear that flutters
inside the human heart.

Darwin lured us
down the wrong path.

It’s not a fierce fight
for survival but rather
an ongoing invitation
to all that is just now
coming into being—
an unruly accumulation
that collects and blossoms
again and again amidst
the vast abundance
of what is already here.

Moonrise and Moonset

Through the windows of the disorganized living room, the full and pale moon hangs above the dark trees this morning. The moon is silent in its imperceptible slide toward the horizon while invisible traffic growls a faint continuo that reminds me of the ongoing rush of accomplishment and accumulation.

Having heard an inspiring talk on the Zen full-moon ceremony of repentance and renewal in the morning, my mother, my step-father, two sisters and I did our best to watch the moon’s rising last night. My weather app told me that 8:50 was the appointed time but, not being familiar with the local geography, I had a harder time calculating where exactly we could best view its rise.

Full moons rising over the horizon are astonishing events. The moon looms large as she launches herself skyward yet shrinks even within minutes as she climbs in the evening sky. But yesterday (actually the day before) was a ‘pink’ moon, the spring ‘supermoon which is 7% brighter and 15% larger than normal. We hoped to witness this for ourselves.

It wasn’t an uncomplicated adventure. We had spent the day helping my mom and step-dad move from their independent living unit to an assisted care unit in the retirement home where they have happily resided for over a decade. Their new two-room suite is still only partially decorated and their old place, where my sisters and I spent the night, is filled with no-longer-needed furniture, books and various objects of beauty and memory. But yesterday was ‘check-in day’ for their new life, so my sisters and I journeyed from our respective homes far away to support this poignant and developmentally appropriate transition.

The maintenance crew had already moved the big stuff that could fit from the old place to the new but, on our journey to ‘check-in’, we were left wheeling a cart through the quarter-mile of halls to their new destination. The cart was piled high with a small bookcase, several containers holding various medicines and objects of value (wonderfully including one container of smooth and lovely stones), a suitcase full of clothes and the cart-load was topped precariously and vigilantly by a two-foot-high cactus. Though all agree on the wisdom of this transition, the actuality of the walk together and some sense of the finality of these new temporary arrangements were with me as I guided the cart that my step-father, without quite knowing where he was going, was pushing.

The staff and the residents of the new place were most solicitous and welcoming. Friends and a few residents stopped by with big smiles and messages of support. Everyone knows this is a difficult moment. Stepping into what is next, we must leave behind the familiar comforts of our known world and step anew into what is to come. We might say that this happens in every moment of our lives as what we know becomes the past and we step again into that which is to come. But there are sometimes moments in our lives where the reality of the necessary leaving behind and unavoidable beginning of the unknown are vivid and filled with emotion.

As per Pennsylvania state regulations both my mother and step-father, upon arrival were fitted with ‘wander-guards’—ankle or wrist devices the size of a large watch— explained and affixed apologetically and gently. ‘For the first three days, then we’ll evaluate.’ No one objected but everyone except my step-father appeared slightly uncomfortable with the new arrangement.

For our moon viewing, we let the aide know we were going outside, then headed for the elevator. Just as we were about to step on, a loud alarm rang—the tracking devices were working—which, I suppose, is a good thing. No one came rushing or even seemed to notice (which seemed to be both a good thing and a troubling thing) but we headed back to the nurse’s station to get the further necessary permissions to allow us to breach the confines of their new accommodations.

We eventually got outside into the lovely warm evening dark. My step-father and I waited on a nearby bench as my mom and my sisters took off around the corner of the building to where we supposed the best view to be. They returned twenty minutes later, talking companionably but having seen no moonrise, pink or otherwise.

I maintained my assertion of the accuracy of my reported rising time, so we wondered about our choice of viewing directions and suspected trees or clouds as the culprits in our non-event. After calling for assistance to open the locked front door and walking and shuffling slowly back to their place at the end of the hall on the second floor, we did see the moon hazily and rather unspectacularly rising from a cloudbank through a window at the end of their hall.

The three kids hugged and kissed their parents goodnight, professing our true love—truly grateful for vaccines and the privilege to be with them in this transition. They headed toward their separate beds in their still antiseptic-looking bedroom while my sisters and I returned to the half-emptied apartment that had been theirs.

This morning, I woke up in an unfamiliar room and wondered if I might see this fabled moon at least in her setting. Wandering through the dark and partially unconstructed room to the window, I found it waiting obligingly just over the trees outside my window.

Miraculous and ordinary, poignant and practical—love and loneliness intertwinkle to fill all our days.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Disclaimer

Several friends have pointed out that sometimes I say ‘always’ or ‘everyone’ does this or that, or feels this or that, or that this or that will happen to ‘us all.’ They caution me against over-reach. Who am I to know about every one? Isn’t every life experience unique and aren’t I closing out possibility and speaking out of turn when I use these words? In considering their objections, I realize that I use these universal locutions to be inclusive. My intention is to write about life itself rather than my life in particular.

My main vantage point on life itself is my own experience, which in some mysterious way is both utterly connected to all the rest of you human beings and is also completely unique. I have come to trust that what arises in me is not just particular to me, but is me experiencing what human life really is in these particular circumstances. I trust my associative mind and notice what memories and thoughts and even physical sensations arise as I follow the thread of what is arising.

I also gather information from friends, families, students and coaching clients. I am fascinated by how each person I encounter has found a way to make it all work for them. Each person, as Jon Kabat-Zinn says, is a genius. I trust that everyone I encounter embodies both the particular wisdom of their own life as well as the full wisdom of being alive. One teacher referred to this as ‘the wondrous functioning.’ We all know perfectly well how to be ourselves and how to be in the particular situation we are in. The moment may be easy or it may be difficult, but it is always exactly what it is. (So there it is, ‘always’, appearing again.)

The Buddha taught that there are four marks of existence. (And even this is suspect – his teachings were not written down until hundreds of years after his death, so whose teachings are they really? Some say he taught only three marks of existence and some translate and understand these teachings in different ways than I do. So maybe they are simply my four, not the Buddha’s four.) The teaching, whomever it belongs to, is that change, discomfort, the lack of a fixed self, and awakening are common to all human beings. (Ruth King, in her book RACE MATTERS, wonderfully translates/interprets the first three as: nothing is permanent, perfect, or personal.)

But what I am trying to get at is that I do want to talk about and draw you, my reader, into the essence of life. I do want to get to the core of it all so that we can more deeply appreciate and work with this amazing gift we have each been given. In the service of this, I sometimes make blanket statements that may or may not be true. In fact, even the non-blanket statements I make may or may not be true.

This is where you, the reader, must continue to do your part. In spite of my best attempts at directness and honesty, I remain incorrigibly partial and self-deluded. I continue to miss the mark, both in my life and in my writing. I am engaged in the ongoing process of coming to terms with and even appreciating my blindness and forgetfulness as part of the whole dance of life.

I sincerely hope that sometimes I write or point to some truth that touches your own deep knowing as you read. This is what I aim for, to spark the resonance of your own wisdom. I am also sure that sometimes what I present with conviction and sincerity will not be true, meaningful or useful for you. Both are fine conditions, though I must admit my preference for the former.

So may ‘we all’ filter the teachings we encounter through the lens of our own experience. What confuses or disturbs us is not necessarily false, but our ultimate guide has to be our own deep heart’s wisdom. We ‘all’ already have the wisdom we are looking for.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Guilt and Innocence

The light comes slowly into the dark. I lie in bed befuddled by another night of dreaming and wonder at the slow pace of its seeping into the room. A swirl of images and oppressive feelings surges within me.

One day, several years ago when I couldn’t find my words, I was told to go immediately to the hospital. They took me in without waiting and then had me wait with nothing to do while they tested my brain and heart. Eventually, everything was ascertained to be in fine fettle, but not until I spent the night in the surge unit—an all-purpose room with many beds and thin curtains separating the ailing inhabitants—and made a midnight run to the MRI machine where the attendant banged hammers against the machine my head was in while he drew detailed images of my brain.

This morning, the words are still here, though I haven’t tried to speak out loud yet. The odd thing about my ten minutes of aphasia then was that I still had all the words inside me, it’s just when I tried to speak them, they came out jumbled. I was aware of their disarrangement and slowly said to the person I was talking to: ‘I’m not making any sense, am I?’ He agreed, we called Melissa who was out doing errands (remember the old days?), she called the doctor and the rest proceeded as it did.

All of this is here now, somehow included in my night of dreams where I was waking up to not having lived up to my responsibilities. I dream this over and over. Usually, I’m at college and it’s toward the end of the semester, the paper is due, the exam is coming up and I haven’t been going to class at all or doing any of the work and I’m about to be found out. Sometimes I realize that I never got a course catalog at the beginning of the semester (perhaps the best part of college – the looking through the course catalog before the semester starts and dreaming of all the wonderful courses I might take) and have been enrolled in courses of which I am not even aware.

Last night I was living in a commune of sorts, where we were all supposed to do our share and I had been so busy that when I showed up in the kitchen, vowing to myself to start pitching in, that the others stopped what they were doing and gave me a lecture about how in group settings it’s always just a few who do most of the work. I sheepishly agreed and did my best not to make excuses.

I suppose someday I must learn to confess my guilt and protest my innocence more vehemently. It’s true, I haven’t held up my end of the bargain. I haven’t been the person I aspire to be. Again and again I have fallen short—disappointing myself and others. And it’s also true that no mistakes have been made. I have always done my best and even when that has not been very much, it has still been the best I could have done in that circumstance.

The universe I give back to the universe. I am tired of my self-proclaimed job as ruler and cede my misguided attempts at control. I vow once again to show up, to pay attention, to do what I can where I am, and to leave the outcome up to the source of life that sustains and receives us all.

Sitting With Good Friends

Yesterday was a gorgeous day for sitting in the Temple garden with good friends. The Buddha said the good friends along the way are the essence of the journey. So, as good friends, a small part of our Boundless Way Zen community sat together in meditation in a still-socially distanced circle to express our love and wonder at being alive. We enjoyed the sounds of the waterfall and the wind in the trees mingled with the traffic and sirens and even the racket of a lawn being mowed on the other side of the fence. All together altogether.

The maples that sheltered us with their nascent leaves participated by dropping the blessing of their small green flowers and a squirrel stopped his urgent busyness to sit momentarily still as well. All of us—two-legged seated creatures, green rooted creatures—squirrels, bunnies, worms, and microbes—all living and breathing together. All of us expressing the fullness of life in being and doing exactly who we are.

It was a delight to be in each other’s company, but also weird. I’m not used to the proximity of other humans yet. We kept our distance though we wore masks and the majority of us, I think, have already been vaccinated. An abundance of caution mixed with the urge to be close. We smiled and talked—wandered in the garden—marveled at the daffodils and tulips, the three resident koi and many helped carry the small mountain of branches from a year’s worth of storms from the far back to up near the front parking lot for the wood chipper that will come at some unspecified time.

By the end of two sessions of sitting, walking and a little (masked) chanting, I was exhausted and happy to return to the unsocial bubble of my home with just my partner. We watched some TV, I went back into the now-quiet garden and enjoyed the reverberations of an afternoon with good friends on the way.

Too Much

Saturday morning—leading a Zen koan workshop in Belgium this morning, then gathering with our community for Zen meditation in the afternoon. Meanwhile (which is quickly becoming my favorite word) my two hopefully planted sweet pea seedlings have survived our recent slightly sub-freezing temperatures and arctic winds in the garden and their compatriots of all green shades and shapes are growing lush under the constructed circadian rhythms of the grow-lights in the predictable warmth of the empty meditation hall.

I love to live at the edge. Edges are said to be the most diverse and interesting parts of any ecosystem. The region in between the forest and the meadow—between the land and the sea—between too many and just enough seedlings. Fascinating things happen at the edges. Studying these in-between regions we can begin to realize that clear edges are much more a linguistic construction than a property of the world.

Language is about the boundary between this and that. Life is about everything all together. Many of us have been encouraged to have clear boundaries. Yes means yes and no means no. I am here and you are there. But it turns out that language functions better when we remember it is simply a temporary expedient, not the thing itself. I am certainly not you, but, dear reader, as you read this, part of me is becoming part of you. Your eyes scan these black squiggles on your screen and form words and sentences and images in your mind. Whatever happens in your mind is clearly you, isn’t it? But some vague idea that comes into my mind from whatever its source and finds its way into this morning’s wandering exploration of life has now found its way into the dark mass of electrical processing we call ‘your’ brain.

Not only that, but I think I have once again been overly enthusiastic in the number of seedlings I have begun. Zinnias tend to be my downfall. The first flower seeds planted in my early spring indoor growing season are usually the tiny ones that take a week or two to germinate. They then emerge as the frailest green threads holding aloft little flakes of green leaves. They grow quite slowly, and only after six or seven weeks gain enough heft to be transplanted.

Zinnias, on the other hand, are large (comparatively) flakes of seed that sprout in a few days as vigorous actors that push the growing medium willy-nilly aside to proclaim their lofty aspirations. This year’s crop of Benary Giants and Cupid Mix has not disappointed. In less than three weeks they have filled in the growing trays and now need to be transplanted into larger pots. So today or early tomorrow morning, I’ll transplant them. But then will I have room under the grow lights? And now it will be a race between the weather and their growth. Too long under the grow lights, even with adequate sized pots and they will get too leggy or tall to transplant successfully into the garden. The guaranteed last frost date around here is the end of May, but it’s usually safe by May 20, but not always…

So, I have once again successfully allowed my enthusiasm to take me to the edge of what is possible. Will the timing work out? Have I planted too many to be able to keep them all going while the weather is still unsettled? Meanwhile, who will be able to care for my emerald menagerie while I take a six-day trip to see my mother for the first time in 18 months and help her move from her independent living apartment to the support of the medical wing of her retirement community where she can receive more support for the daily necessities of her life and for her care of my step-father who often needs attention?

We’re always in the middle of so much—always in transition with ourselves, with those we love and with whatever wild projects and plans we undertake. It’s really all too much, but also kind of exciting.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Reading Well

I pretty much have to wear my glasses now when I want to read. I can still make the print big enough on my kindle and computer to escape my fate, but the print in the paperback and hardcover books I love is slipping away from me. If I squint and concentrate I can still do it, but it’s not an easeful activity and I’m starting to resign myself to picking up my glasses more often.

I’ve always had an ambivalent relationship with reading. In fourth and fifth grade, I was one of those boys who dreaded when it was my turn to read out loud to my peers. It seemed like a test with no upside—if you read well that was expected and they just went on to the next person, but if you mixed up your words or couldn’t sound one out, everyone knew how clumsy and stupid you really were.

But I loved the adventure stories of Beau Geste, Ivanhoe and others that my father read to me and my brother. We also delighted in going to the library with my mother and returning with as many books as we were allowed. I was thrilled by getting to choose my own books from amongst the many wondrous topics and illustrations. I loved the heft and feel of my own private stack of books which I carefully kept on my lap on the car ride home—obediently not reading until we got home because reading in the car is bad for your eyes.

But reading myself was never as much fun when the pictures diminished and I had to do it alone. That was until I discovered the ‘We Were There’ series, a collection of first person re-imaginations of significant events in American history. I think it was ‘We Were There at the Alamo’ that first hooked me.

From my father, and from some natural and culturally encouraged tendency toward romance and righteous questing, I loved adventure stories. The hero is always set to right some obvious wrong against impossible odds. Through his many trials, he never waivers. His courage and strength are steadfast and he ultimately prevails and is recognized as the true hero he has always been.

At eight years old, I was mesmerized by the lush, violent and romantic movie ‘The Alamo’ which my Dad too me and my brother to see. John Wayne directed it and played my name sake, Davy Crockett. The women and children are spared, but the men carry out their duty of honor and die for freedom and love. At sixty-eight, I’m now rather critical of this one-sided vision of imperialism and misguided violence masquerading as manhood, but to and as and eight year old, with my father’s support, this seemed like a good and true vision of how to be a man.

So I remember taking out ‘We Were There at the Alamo’ from the school library on Friday, coming home from school and sitting in one chair for two or three hours and reading the whole thing. I was swept away. When I tearfully looked up at the heroic and tragic conclusion, I didn’t know where I was. It was a wonderful feeling, but it was balanced by feeling so physically awful and even nauseous from having sat in the same position concentrating on the small type for so long. From then on, I tried not to read so long at one time, but I was hooked on the possibilities.

I always read numerous books at a time now. One that is especially delighting me these days is Wallace Stegner’s classic BEYOND THE HUNDREDTH MERIDIAN: JOHN WESLEY POWELL AND THE SECOND OPENING OF THE WEST. My paperback copy has small print so I always put on my glasses when I dive it to marvel at the vastness of the west and the eternal battle of romance and realism, between principled courage and self-promotion—all filtered through Stegner’s luminous prose, prodigious knowledge and inspiring insight into human nature.

Even in the full flood of springtime, it’s worth putting on my classes and sitting in a chair for—at least for a little while.

Overnight With Family

Everyone else is asleep and the sun has just risen over the northeastern horizon. A few clouds gently flow southward, above the main event. I myself sit on a half-couch by the second-floor windows looking east.

I slept well but was troubled by meeting someone who seemed quite nice, but later I discovered he had been an adherent of the psychotherapy/cult my father had espoused. He was nearly my age but had a young girlfriend who was eager to make my acquaintance. I was tempted but then things got fuzzy and for the rest of the dream I didn’t know if something had happened or not. If it had, I was sure I had ruined my life and would live in fear and shame forever. Every once in a while I would gratefully realize I was dreaming, but most of the time I was fully enveloped in dreaming of dreaming and waking.

Yesterday afternoon it was in the high 60’s. This morning it’s below freezing. I wonder about the two sweet pea seedlings I planted in the garden. I knew it was too early, but they were growing so fast—sending roots down through the bottom of the peat pot and climbing toward the grow-lights—and I read in an article in the Irish Times that they can tolerate a light frost so…we’ll see.

Spring is like this. While the overall trend toward warmth is assured, variation within the clear direction is to be expected. Most everything is like this. Nothing is just one thing. My father died years ago and still he shadows my dreams. Things that have happened in my life are the ground I sprouted from—those things and my stories and reactions then and now to those things have made and are continually making me who I am. And the things that haven’t happened to me, unfulfilled plans and dreams—things I have read about or seen images of—all these things are part of me too.

Life does not unfold evenly toward maturity and wisdom but seems rather to bounce around—zigzagging back and forth within as many dimensions as we can imagine. Foolishness and delusion mix endlessly with their opposites just as stories of the past mix with the hopes and fears of the future to create the present dream of now.

Yet the sun rises this morning slightly further to the north from where it did yesterday. Several months ago, in the midst of winter, from this vantage point, it rose over an entirely different neighborhood. I suppose this is relatively invariable, the seasonal trek of the rising sun from the northeast in the winter to exactly east on the spring solstice to the southeast in summer and then back again.

Meanwhile, we dream our dreams and call them our lives. We do our best to wake up and make something of ourselves. We are told the long arc of history bends toward justice but many of us wonder how to add the weight of our lives to this hopeful but uncertain proposition how to spend ourselves wisely.

Back home, my sweet pea shoots may or may not have survived the overnight cold. Being naturally cautious, I only planted two of the seven that sprouted in the warmth of the grow-lights. So I continue to dream of fragrant and delicate blossoms climbing the wooden wall and keep my options open.

Guilty

I just happened to be driving in the car a little after five o’clock yesterday afternoon. I turned on the radio just in time to hear the announcer say that they were going to be cutting away to a live feed of the judge reading the verdict in the George Floyd trial. I, like many, had been afraid that the jury would be deadlocked, or worse, that they would do what so many previous juries in America have done: let white men and women avoid punishment and accountability for their acts of violence against people with black and brown skin.

I was surprised that the verdict came so quickly and suspected that meant there was a good chance that they were going to find for the prosecution. I had just reached my destination, the parking lot of the Temple, when the judge read the verdict that Derek Chauvin was found guilty on all three counts. I was relieved and saddened. Relieved that the jury had agreed with the seemingly incontrovertible evidence of the ten minutes of video. Relieved that, at last, our criminal justice system has held a police officer accountable for the use of excessive force. And relieved that the pent-up rage at centuries of white brutality and intimidation would not erupt in our cities across the country as it would have if Chauvin had been acquitted.

I was also saddened. Saddened that this event happened—that innumerable causes and conditions led Chauvin and his accomplices to view their brutal actions as justified and acceptable, that many of us find ourselves relieved and even amazed that simple justice was served, and that a man lost his life and another man’s life was destroyed by his own actions.

The ongoing nature and scope of our human brutality one to another is nearly incomprehensible. We organize ourselves into families and tribes and nations and then find reasons to dislike, hate and kill each other—and do it with an attitude of righteous necessity. Many years ago, in the middle of one of America’s small wars of aggressive self-protection, a man I know was banned from the St. Patrick’s Day parade because he wanted to carry a sign that said: ‘Do not kill means do not kill.’ Jesus and the ten commandments are not equivocal on this point, yet so many have been killed in the name of Christianity—and in the name of just about every other cause, religion and government I can think of.

As usual, our current President responded immediately, empathetically and put this event into the larger frame of our country’s ongoing struggle to live up to the high ideals of our founders (who also found it impossible to live up to their lofty words.) The NYTimes captured Biden’s remarks this way:

President Biden praised the verdict in a nationwide address at the White House but called it a “too rare” step to deliver “basic accountability” for Black Americans.

“It was a murder in full light of day, and it ripped the blinders off for the whole world to see,” Mr. Biden said. “For so many, it feels like it took all of that for the judicial system to deliver just basic accountability.”

Biden went on to say:

The battle for the soul of this nation has been a constant push and pull for more than 240 years — a tug of war between the American ideal that we’re all created equal and the harsh reality that racism has long torn us apart.

At our best, the American ideal wins out.  So we can’t leave this moment or look away, thinking our work is done.  We have to look at it — we have to — we have to look at it as we did for those 9 minutes and 29 seconds.  We have to listen.  “I can’t breathe.  I can’t breathe.”  Those were George Floyd’s last words.  We can’t let those words die with him.  We have to keep hearing those words.

Thank you.

Thank you, Mr. President, for calling us again to join in the ongoing work of our nation. The momentum of institutional racism, misogyny and economic oppression is strong and it is only through our everyday thoughts, words and actions that this country will continue to move toward the land we aspire to be—a land of justice, freedom and dignity for all.

Creative Process

I tag along whenever I can,
like a younger brother
though, in truth, I am the older.

He is brighter and smarter
yet I know more and
am purported to be
the responsible one
though others in the
family do not always
agree on the later point.

Yesterday we made
dandelion soup outside
using only the warm spring
sun, five fresh-picked
dandelion blossoms and
available rainwater. He
did the pouring and
the stirring while I
closely observed the full point
of his easeful attention.
I’m happy to follow
his idiosyncratic process
and I like to think we
have developed quite
a creative partnership,
the two of us. He thought
it needed more spice and I
suggest the tiny tree
blossoms recently fallen.
I pointed to the intricate
structure of their sepals,
stamen and radial pistols,
and was going on to a further
discussion of pollination
and the wonder of so
many small green flowers
showered down from such
large trees, but the tender
things themselves were
plenty enough for him
and right into the soup
they went.

Later, we added potting soil
from the yellow bucket, sang
Old MacDonald many times
through passing melody and
lyrics casually back and forth,
used the watering can
to refill our rainwater sink
and delight over and over
in the pouring wetness of it all.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Don’t Be Upset

In the second century, Marcus Aurelius wrote about how we should respond to events in our lives that don’t turn out how we think they should:

First, don’t be upset. Nothing happens that isn’t in accord with universal nature, and before long you won’t exist at all…

I would like to explain and perhaps amend his first sentence, because it now reads in a way that could exacerbate the very upset he is advising us against. Perhaps this moralistic reading is simply because of the force of the stream of what William James called ‘once-born religions.’ In looking at American religions, James divided them into two categories ‘once-born’ and ‘twice-born’.

Once-born religions assert that the problems we encounter are of our own making and if that we change our thinking we will be successful and happy. Norman Vincent Peale’s bestseller of the 50’s THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING and Rhonda Bryne’a more recent THE SECRET are two expositions of the essence of this kind of religious perspective—if you are upset, don’t worry, nothing is wrong. Just change your thinking and you’ll be fine. Zen Buddhism is sometimes mistakenly lumped in this category as we are encouraged to ‘get our Zen on’ and not be bothered by the events of our lives because all suffering is just in the mind.

Twice-born religions believe that salvation, or true freedom, is only possible when we are willing to die. This process of necessary death is imagined and presented in a variety of ways. For Christians, the central imagery is of Christ dying on the cross. As believers, we are encouraged to follow his example as we surrender our small life to attain everlasting life. In Zen Buddhism, we talk about dying to our ‘little self’ so we can realize that we are part of something much larger and that the ups and downs of life are not an aberration but are simply how life is. (Or, in software speak, suffering is a feature not a bug.) Our true peace (the peace that passes understanding) comes from dying to our opinion of how things should be and finding our freedom within the circumstances that are already here.

My first understanding of ‘don’t be upset’ in the above quote is as a command telling me that the next time I am upset I should just tell myself I shouldn’t be upset and everything will be fine. Occasionally this works for me. But when I am really upset or disturbed, verbal instructions like this mostly don’t work.

In fact, when I am upset, telling myself that I shouldn’t be upset often just adds to my upset. Not only am I upset, but I feel that being upset is another example of my failure as a person so now I am even worse off than I thought.

Perhaps we could change the sentence to read ‘you don’t have to be upset.’ This is better but could still be used by my judging, self-improving self as another way in which I have failed. ‘I don’t have to be upset and yet here I am upset again.’

Maybe more editing is required. We could say ‘When you’re upset, be upset, but you might also consider that Nothing happens that isn’t in accord with universal nature, and before long you won’t exist at all…’ But then it becomes my plagiarized and altered quote rather than Aurelius’s.

It’s tricky territory because most everyone I know suffers so much because of our opinion of how things should be. On the other hand, disappointment, failure, ill-health and death are inevitable parts of our lives. We clearly need a new religion—a ‘thrice-born’ religion that can include everything. I would want it to involve a lot of singing and dancing and being silly—a lot of crying, discouragement and confusion. A lot of walking in the garden, wandering in wild place, and being with young children. In this new religion we would be allowed to feel whatever we feel and to notice whatever we notice. We could compare notes, tell stories and investigate together the wonder and terror of being human.

Garden As Teacher

Yesterday’s snow covering has receded and should be gone by noon. My menagerie of green seedlings has weathered the storm from under the comfort of grow lights in the meditation hall. In the continuing absence of human beings, I have converted part of the Zendo to a greenhouse. A few largish houseplants stand by the windows and keep guard over the eerie glow emanating from beneath two oblong metal hoods. Scores of seedlings geometrically arranged in trays bask in the artificial light as they begin their small and miraculous lives.

I suppose I should write about something other than my garden the delight I take in how it organizes my life, but a friend the other day told me that after reading one post about my garden, he went out to look at his garden with new eyes. That’s all the encouragement I need.

And what is your garden? A garden is whatever we pay attention to, for everything everywhere is always growing and changing. A garden is any place where we appreciate life-and-death. A garden is where we witness life rising up, manifest itself in some particular form and behavior, then vanishing. This is the way of the universe, from single-celled algae in the pond to the swirling galaxies of our immeasurable universe.

When we pay attention to something, life itself becomes our teacher. We learn how to be human—how to be responsive and flexible to the dance of coming and going. If we are persistent, we can sometimes begin to get a felt sense of the reality that holds us so precisely. Paying close attention to any piece of life can begin to counteract the false evidence of our senses that we are separate, discrete and self-determining beings. The more you pay attention, the more the swirling patterns of life become self-evident and reassuring.

A friend asked me how I keep track of all the seedlings and all the various rhythms and needs of the garden. I told her that I can’t keep track, but I just put myself in their proximity and then it becomes clear what needs to be done. Sometimes more water. Sometimes more light. Sometimes transplanting. The wonderful cacophony of rhythms, needs, and stages comes to my ears without effort. I give a hand here, change positions of something there—doing my small part while the plants and trees and soil themselves manifest their miraculous nature.

I feel lucky to be included. Lucky to have meaningful work. Lucky to have a way in that is beyond words and achievements. I just spend time and help out. I feel like a little boy hanging out at the corner barbershop who is happy to be among the coming and going of real people. Amidst the smells of lotions, the snipping of shears and the buzzing of electric clippers, I run little errands for the barbers and help out where I can. Here, life is alive and bustling and I am held in the warm comfort of it all.

So what is your garden? Growing things of any sort, from houseplants to small window box of flowers is plenty. Cats, dogs, fish and even snails too are teachers sent from life itself to teach us life itself. Or playing and listening to music. Or preparing food. Or paying attention to the placement of furniture or the folding of our clothes and sweeping of floors.

As another friend (Walt Whitman) once said: All truths wait in all things. Today, I remind myself to learn as I go and join in the swirling rising, the particular manifesting and the gentle falling away that is the endless dance of the universe and me.

Spring Snow

Through the morning,
wet flakes fall heavily.

Daffodils bow down
while undaunted
ferns unfurl.

Not Looking Away

Another black man killed at the hands of a police officer in Minnesota. Duane Wright was killed in his car after being pulled over because of expired plates and an air freshener dangling from his mirror. Mr. Wright had an outstanding arrest warrant from a misdemeanor weapons charge and was being handcuffed as he attempted to get back in his car and drive away. Kimberly Potter, the third police officer at the scene, then said ‘Taser, Taser, Taser’ as she shot Mr. Wright in the chest with her handgun, apparently mistaking it for her Taser. She was arrested yesterday and charged with second-degree manslaughter.

This happened earlier in the week but I have not written about it because I don’t know what to say. How can this keep happening? Just as the murder trial of Derek Chauvin, the ex-police officer charged in the brutal death of George Floyd, nears its completion, we come up against this seemingly ongoing police campaign against Black men again.

One protestor in Brooklyn Center where Mr. Wright was killed told a reporter, ‘Black people can’t take anymore. We can’t bear the responsibility of the change of the system that must occur for us to be acknowledged and be able to exist as humans.’

I feel grief, anger and helplessness at the unending violence being directed at Black people, Asian people, and all people of color—at women and people of non-binary and non-standard gender identities. This violence is a lived experience and continual threat to the lives of so many. The violence arises from fear and leads to more fear. This violence is perpetrated by individuals, but those individuals are acting out the deeper terrors of a culture that undergoing an existential crisis.

This country was founded on lofty principles that were inextricably intertwined with a system of slavery and the subjugation of women that was viewed as necessary and acceptable. On many levels, great progress has been made. But beneath this progress, the roots of violence and oppression remain baked into our psyches and our cultural institutions. Black and brown bodies and women’s bodies continue to be subjected to the terror of ongoing random acts of violence. No one is safe.

So I again pledge to not turn away from the horrors being inflicted on my sisters and brothers at the hands of the institutions that seemingly make my life safe and secure. I vow to keep showing up and using my power and privilege to acknowledge violence wherever it happens and to support ongoing actions and conversations that can lead, ever so slowly, to some kind of accountability, healing and new possibilities.

A Small Offering

This morning, many entrance points appear, but all are overgrown with the brambles of self-consciousness.

Every inspiration, left to its own devices, deteriorates to a technique that the little self uses to reinforce its defenses against the true and generative shape-shifting reality.

In my ritual of daily creation there is danger—the allure of imagining I know what I am doing. Then, lost in reliance on some self-conscious skill, I fall away from the hazardous heart of things and am condemned to wander in the dreary world of what I already know.

My audacious intention is to live on the edge of the unknown.

I want to pitch my tent on the edge of the great and mysterious forest. Like the great explorers of old, I want to make forays into that uncharitable territory that is the interwoven source of all.

I want to slip into the realm of illuminated shadows to see what I can learn about appearing and disappearing. I aspire to join in the great rising and falling of it all then to report back of wondrous creatures and fresh vistas.

Each small journey, if I can lose myself clearly enough, becomes its own life and death. I practice following some thread I can never know—waiting patiently until what arises offers its own shape and meaning. I do my best to use what I know gently and tentatively, never sure if what applied yesterday is still valid today.

So, this morning, just this. A few cautions, a few intentions—a small offering from the dark forest.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Delighted and Unmoved

The granite stone Buddha that was carved out of a Chinese mountain has sat for twelve years in front of the weeping cherry tree by the entrance to the Boundless Way Temple. Through snow storms and sunshine, through harmony and discord—he is unfazed and serene. The white cherry blossoms have come again this year—behind his back like an artificial Zoom background that flickers on-screen for a moment, only to disappear back to the mundane branches and leaves.

Briefly. Just a week—two at most. But reliable as a stone that falls from your hand when you unclasp your grip.

Usually, the two ton stone Buddha and his background would have had quite an appreciative audience this weekend, but our Zen retreat was on-line again so only I and a few Temple Garden visitors have witnessed the silent magic trick. An umbrella of delicate white blossoms, complete with buzzing bees, happy for the early spring nourishment. As for me, it’s nectar too, this dependably extravagant display of fragile beauty. I look long and long, trying to understand and receive the wisdom of such largess.

I saw the tight buds begin swelling slightly in the early spring. Eventually some small white came to the tip of the buds. Then the first few blossoms that could not contain themselves burst into light followed by all the others tumbling open over the next twenty-four hours. From within their tightly packed space capsules, their wondrous white petals deployed with papery finesse—showing no signs of fatigue from their long dark journey within the bud.

But the stone Buddha forever faces away. Does he miss seeing this annual ritual of brief flowering behind is back? Or does the faint smile deepen ever so slightly on his granite lips? Can he hear the buzzing of the countless bees who have been summoned? Or the softest rustling of the delicate white petals? Perhaps he just delighted by the reflected wonder in the eyes of those of us that come to pay homage the brief miracle of the weeping cherry.

But however it is viewed or not viewed, the cherry tree never holds back. She offers her full display without gauging reactions or worrying about how long the run will be. Just a week or two is a full lifetime, then petals will drop and the tree will go on with green leaves as if it had been all a dream.

While the granite Buddha sits delighted and unmoved.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

On Retreat Till Tuesday

I’m leading a Zen meditation retreat and have foresworn dancing, playing cards and writing.  (Just kidding about the dancing.)  I’ll resume writing on Tuesday but probably not playing cards until later in the week.

I’ve been trying to upgrade my email process related to these reflections, but a number of people have reported not receiving the usual posts over the past two weeks.  If you used to get these posts regularly and have suddenly not received any, please let me know at  DRynick@gmail.com.

Blessings,

David

Fan Letter For Joe

Amid the ongoing challenges of this country, I have been delighted and inspired by our new President, Joe Biden. I was one of the less-than-thrilled Democrats when he won the party’s nomination over the rest of the diverse and freshly faced field. Biden appeared to be a legacy of the old guard of well-meaning white guys who were trying to do good but were actually part of the institutional problem that led us to our current mess. But as a leader, he has taken bold step after bold step to act in alignment with the values that I believe are at the core of our experiment in democracy.

From the beginning, he has ignored the taunts and antics of the opposition and focused on both a message of respect for all as well as on policies and people that reflect the actual diversity and challenges of our changing nation. Beginning with his selection of Kamala Harris, a woman of Asian and Black heritage, to be his Vice-President going to his Executive Orders yesterday targeted to limit gun violence, he has shown great conviction combined with flawless political acumen in moving forward. He is realistic (e.g. not proposing showy gun regulations to Congress that have no realistic path forward in a nearly divided Senate) but willing to move forward in the face of intransigent opposition in whatever way is possible. Several times I have heard him quoted as saying ‘Politics is the art of what is possible,’ and ‘In politics, timing is everything.’

Biden is a surprising President. The clear and focused energy of his whole administration is a welcome change from the chaos and drama of his predecessor. While the Republicans continue to stoke the culture wars to rouse the anger of their base, Biden moves ahead with policies and legislation that are broadly popular with all Americans. The COVID relief bill and the proposed infrastructure legislation are confident and specific actions designed to benefit many. They are demonstrations of the capacity to use the government to support the values of justice, equality and compassion that have been part of our nation since its inception. If the previous President embodied the unbridled narcissistic individualism that is one thread of our national character (and all of us individually as well), this President seems to live out the flip side: respect, voluntary mutual support and innovative collective solutions for difficult problems.

Our national struggle with polarization, disinformation and ill-will continues. But President Biden is demonstrating a way forward. Rather than focus on what ‘they ‘ did or said, we keep focused on taking principled steps to move us all forward. Biden is using all of his considerable political acumen to work the levers of government to pass legislation and implement policies he believes will support all Americans. He is not waiting for the political consensus that will not come but using all the duly conferred power of his office and position to work for the good of the many. For those still under the spell of the past-President’s disinformation campaign about the election being rigged, no amount of arguing will win the point. Without focusing on calling the opposition names, without calling out the Republican Congressional leaders for their obstructionist and anti-democratic tactics, Biden is making his continuing case to the American people.

Part of me now wants to lean back in my chair and ‘let Joe do it.’ I’m not a naturally political person, I’d rather work in my garden, write about the weirdness and wonder of life and practice meditation. Now that we’re not on the edge of democratic collapse, my tendency is to get back to ‘normal’ life, but I remind myself that the challenges to our nation and our world are ongoing and urgent. We have only barely taken the first steps in unbuilding our national legacy of centuries of racial violence. Income inequality is directly stunting the lives of so many, including innumerable children who are perhaps our most precious resource for a sustainable future. The web of life of earth, air, and water that supports our very lives is in terrible distress and moving quickly in the wrong direction. Gun violence proliferates. Voting rights are threatened. COVID continues.

In the face of these innumerable and ongoing challenges, we must each continue to do what we can to rebuild the fabric of our social and physical world:

–Actively make a friend who is not ‘like you.’
–Write letters and emails to let your voice be heard
–Get involved to take action with others around you who share your concern
–Find ways to honor the humanity of each person even as you stand for truth, justice and compassion
–Do your own inner work
–Let your life be a reflection of what you love

And perhaps we can all channel our inner ‘Joe Biden’ – seemingly mild-mannered but surprising shrewd and powerful crusader for justice, compassion and the mutual dignity of all.

Avoiding Exertion

Taken as a whole, the findings suggest that the innate urge to avoid exertion plays a greater role in how all creatures, great and small, typically behave and navigate than we might imagine.

As I lean back in my antique barcalounger in the early morning, this seems true. These findings come from a study of grizzly bears that was recently reported in the New York Times in an article with the catchy title: Born to Be Lazy? What Bears Can Teach Us About Our Exercise Habits. The article begins (online) with a weirdly captivating video loop of a grizzly walking easily on an enclosed treadmill. I don’t know whether it’s the fluid elegance of the animal, or its size or the fact that it is being fed continuously through a small opening in the Plexiglas, but the video seems both oddly normal and totally bizarre. Apparently, a continuous stream of slices of hotdog and apple from a trainer is all it takes to keep a five-hundred pound animal on the move at a pretty good clip.

The article goes on to report the astonishing finding of another research project:

In a telling 2018 neurological study, for example, brain scans indicated that volunteers were far more attracted by images of people in chairs and hammocks than of people in motion.

I wonder if the ‘volunteers’ were fed a continuous stream of Oreos and chocolate chip cookies as they viewed the images? Or was it water and dry crackers? Were they too in Plexiglas cages? On treadmills? Barcaloungers? We don’t the details, but preferring hammocks and chairs to hard work doesn’t seem like a particularly ‘telling’ or unexpected finding.

But through tracking bears in the wild and enticing bears onto a treadmill in captivity, the authors of the grizzly study found out that bears only exert themselves for food—otherwise they take their time. Again, I’m struck by the common-sense aspect of this finding. Perhaps this study with grizzlies in captivity and in the wild needs a follow-up with us humans. Maybe I should apply for a grant to study the ‘innate urge to avoid exertion’. I would, of course, begin with myself.

I’m quite qualified to do such a study because I wonder a lot about laziness. In a culture that values speed and productivity, I’ve noticed that even walking slowly, sauntering, is a suspect activity. Resting and being at ease is discouraged and even considered dangerous in public places. Not having a specific purpose is called ‘loitering’ and is often classified as a crime – though I suspect ordinances like this are mostly enforced against young people, people of color and ‘others’ whose presence might disturb our ease and our obsession with productivity.

Many years ago, I had a neighbor come across the street to ask if I was alright. I happened to be lying on my back in my front lawn. Even as I lay there, looking up through the branches to the great blue sky, I was aware that this was probably not an approved activity in this or most other neighborhoods. Lying down and taking it easy is only for private spaces. I appreciated my neighbor’s genuine concern, one doesn’t like to let a neighbor die of a heart attack on the lawn across the street, and told her I was just taking a break from my gardening (a socially approved activity) to rest and feel the earth beneath me (a socially suspect non-activity) and gaze up through the branches to the sky (only allowed for the very young). I didn’t have the confidence and generosity to invite her to join me, but she was fine with my explanation. My take-away from this adventure was that unless you have a hammock or chaise lounge, lying around in public makes people nervous.

I’m not sure who I should apply to for funds to study this urge to avoid exertion, so I’ll have to begin by granting myself permission to claim small periods of time throughout the day for lolling and being unproductive. As I gather data and expertise, I may even expand my time periods or branch out into walking slowly while eating Oreos.

Making Our Selves

The barrel-chested guy was a master potter. Clay spinning on the wheel effortlessly rose under his hands and seemed eager to form itself into cylinders, bowls, jugs or whatever shape came into his mind. There were also erstwhile contestants, another judge and a hostess, but it was Keith, the master-potter-on-the-wheel, who has stayed with me even after the seven episodes of The Great Pottery Throw-down have completed.

In his judging of the contestants on different throwing and building challenges they were given, he was generally fair and articulate about their relative merits. But every once in a while some small detail of a piece would surprise him with the beauty of its proportions or strength of its creative expression and he would tear up. It probably happened only four or five brief moments over the course of the show, but it’s a memorable thing to see a grown man publicly moved to tears in response to beauty. (Only a slight choking up, mind you, if he had gone to full blubbering or wailing we would have worried about his mental health.)

I’m reminded of my high school band director, Mr. C. He too was fair and demanding. He would not hesitate to stop all thirty of us to correct some small variation of rhythm or missed cue from the saxophone section where I did my best to keep up. When he got really upset, he would tell us we sounded like a high school band—the ultimate insult in his book. During one memorable rehearsal that was near a concert and not going well, he stopped us and, without saying a word, got down on his knees on the floor and pounded the floor in lament.

Needless to say, this made a great impression on a high schoolboy. Not many of the adults in my life got this dramatic. I never quite understood Mr. C, but I knew he cared a lot and thought that something very important was within our grasp. The music he heard when he read the score was the beauty he tried to coax out of us. Personally, I was more concerned about looking cool with my buddy Jeff so we could impress Jackie and Pattie with our fifteen-year-old manliness in hopes of a few surreptitious kisses after rehearsal. But Mr. C clearly cared and felt there was some ephemeral beauty in music that was important enough for a man to be emotional about. I was impressed, wary and intrigued.

So Keith, our master-potter, attracted my attention. He had clearly devoted himself to a life of making clay vessels and had reached some pinnacle of accomplishment and recognition. But it was painful to watch him move. His head perched atop rigid shoulders and always seemed slightly in front of where it should be. I wouldn’t say he was deformed, but he was in the neighborhood. I don’t mean to make fun of how someone looks, but I had the sense that his restricted movement was one of the outcomes of his passionate pursuit of beauty and a livelihood through making clay forms. The years of bending over the potter’s wheel had not only molded countless clay vessels but had also molded the shape of his body.

I suppose our lives do this to us. Emerson (or was it Thoreau? or Einstein?) once said that after 40, a person’s face is their own creation. As we create and influence the world around us, we are in turn being influenced and created by that same world. The choices we make shape not just our lives, but our selves as well. It’s a subtle, complex and ongoing process.

I admire men (and women) who care about things and are willing to show it. I have learned that there is little return on playing it cool – though I have to admit that it is still my first instinct. Being vulnerable, being surprised by beauty, being touched by the tender heart of life—this is worth everything.

Instructions for Making a Small Outdoor* Sculpture

1. Wander around gently
2. Find a new place to sit down
3. Close your eyes and go dreamy for a few minutes
4. Receive whatever comes to your senses and your mind
5. Open your eyes and look easily around
6. Pick up the first seven things that catch your attention (and are pickup-able)
7. Place these seven on the ground near (or on top of) each other
8. Move them around until they come into an arrangement that pleases you in some way
9. Step back and take a picture of what you have created
10. Imagine that a dear friend has just sent this photo to you as a way of communicating something subtle
11. Consider what message or ‘tip’ from this image might be useful in your everyday life
12. Go about your business as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened

*may also be indoors as conditions warrant

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

The Fruits of Determined Study

For the past two years, I have been supporting a friend who has been studying words, language and texts. His interest and attention in the subject are variable as he is quite the polymath who also has a keen interest in the physics of everyday objects, the interpersonal psychology of the nuclear family, as well as in the biomechanics and expressive possibilities of the human body. With a finely tuned intelligence and ferocious curiosity, there’s practically nothing that doesn’t catch his attention and doesn’t become an object of study for him.

He’s one of those people who you just want to be around because, in their proximity, the world is a little brighter and more vivid. In his company, you see familiar things in new ways and stumble upon fresh perspectives to what is right in front of your eyes. He naturally embodies Suzuki Roshi’s wonderful teaching: “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.”

Once we know what we are looking for, we miss most everything else. Once our opinion is settled, we cherry-pick the input of our senses—noticing only the evidence that supports our original supposition—and ignore the whole rest of the constantly emergent universe. This selective perception and confirmation bias is neither intentional nor a bad thing. Living in the world as we have come to know it from the past is a sign of a well-functioning human brain and is both normal and useful. Remembering where the bathroom is when you wake up in the morning is one of the under-appreciated miracles of most of our lives.

Wonder, on the other hand, is a very expensive human commodity. Wonder engages the whole brain in some new activity. Wonder inhibits the back channels of functional processing in order to allow information to be received and examined—not just unconsciously shuttled and sorted into the correct bin. Wonder holds what is perceived in a suspension of appreciation before allowing what has come before to fill in the contours and gaps.

My friend is an expert wonderer, but part of this wondering and exploring comes at the cost of everyday functioning. I don’t mean to put him down or cast aspersions on his character, but he is really not very good at taking care of even his most basic needs. Fortunately, he has two friends who are quite devoted to him and are willing to manage the practical details to give him the time and space to wonder about everything.

His progress on words, language, and texts has been both slow and astonishingly fast. There is one text he has been studying now for a little over two years. It’s a small mystical tome with brightly colored pictures accompanied by poetry. When we began studying it, he would look intently and listen carefully, but I was never sure what, if anything, he understood.

But just yesterday, when he woke up from his nap, we were once again investigating the text when he began saying the words himself—as if he could decipher the squiggled lines on the page. I began ‘Horn went beep / engine purred…’ and he, to my surprise, took over and completed the stanza: ‘prettiest sound / you ever heard.’

I turned to him, smiling in amazement. He smiled back at me with pride and delight—as if he knew this was a big deal. We then, together, followed the tense adventure of The Little Blue Truck and his friends through being stuck in the ‘muck and mire’ and beyond. I would say a line or a word, and he would complete the phrase. Magical.

This was the fruition of two years of study. I first read this book to him when he was just a few weeks old and I had to make sure his head wasn’t lolling off the side of my arm. I think we’re even on the second copy as the first one disintegrated with the gnawing on the edges and the repeated exuberant turning of the pages.

Yesterday was a milestone moment for me in understanding that he is beginning to crack the code. The narrative structure, the words, the meaning all are dancing between his two-year-old mind and my sixty-eight-year-old mind. Both of us continuing to delight in the words and images of life that arises between, within and around us all.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Wondering About the Possibilities

April fourth. Easter Sunday, 2021. The heating pipes bang repeatedly as the steam rushes to the noisy radiator in the back of the house. About one minute of hammering, then it’s just the pleasant rumble of a gas boiler below and the hissing of steam up here. I’m layered up though it’s already almost sixty where I am in the front living room. A blanket over my legs, a down vest and my trusty winter watch cap and I’m quite cozy.

My wife and I are settling into our new home here while we shuttle back and forth the quarter-mile from our old home, the Temple. The preponderance of nights are now spent here which means that the geography of my morning writing has altered as well.

When we first looked at this small arts-and-crafts bungalow nearly six years ago, we were both struck by how unique and well laid out it was. A small house with wonderful windows and a feeling of space. A large fieldstone fireplace greets you as you come in off the front porch with its picturesque angular columns. This front room is the heart of the house—a spacious room that runs the width of the building. Large square windows take up most of the wall space on either side of the central front door, two windows look out to the west and French doors between bookcases open the eastern wall to a modest porch, lawn and garden.

It all smelled like smoke when we came with the real estate agent. As an enthusiastic camper, that was fine with me, but was almost a deal-breaker for my wife. But what I remember most from that first visit is sitting on a couch in this very spot where I am now writing (to the right as you face the fireplace) and having a clear waking dream of sitting here with my laptop writing and looking out the very window I’m looking out right now. In that dream, I was writing poetry every afternoon with the sun pouring gently through the western windows.

The sun is not quite up yet, and this is not really a poem, but it’s all close enough to entice me wonder again about the causality of things and who is doing what to whom. I mean, is this moment of writing a manifestation of my dream or am I a realization of the dream of the house itself? Are the energies of this building and of this spot of the earth expressing themselves through me? (I can certainly vouch for the fact that though ideas come into my awareness and I tap them into the laptop, I have no clue where these ideas come from nor why one arises and not another—this earth spot and this building are as likely a source as any.)

Does the gardener coax the reluctant seeds to life or do the seeds somehow entice the gardeners to be their hands and feet? Enlisting willing humans is a wonderfully ingenious strategy to spread one’s seeds to wide and gentle geographies that may likely be conducive to the flourishing of the next generation. I imagine the committee that came up with this strategy: ‘No more relying on the birds and the bees to spread our seed, we’ll persuade these two-legged singing creatures to carefully collect us, put us in packets with our seductive blossoms on the front to attract other gardeners, sending us around the country and even sometimes starting us indoors to give us a head start on the season.’ I imagine the delight of the planning committee as they came upon this idea and then realized the best part of the scheme was that the two-legged creatures would most likely think that they themselves had decided to do this. A brilliant reproduction strategy. Inert seeds able to take full advantage of humans—their hands and feet and their latest technology—to enhance the chances of survival of the next generation.

So is buying and eventually moving into this house and sitting here on the couch looking out the window as the radiator rattles and writing—is this me manifesting my dream? Or is my presence tapping out these words while occasionally glancing out the eastern French doors to a brave pot of petunias sitting on the railing of the porch, is my presence part of the dream of the house? Perhaps the fieldstone fireplace is an antenna receiving the angelic voices of the universe and making them available for me to express as I catch fragments of their celestial words and tunes.

Of course, I don’t really believe any of this. But on this day where some significant percentage of the world is celebrating that someone who was three days dead, twenty-one hundred years ago, rose up and walked again…I do wonder about the possibilities.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Nothing Inspiring

Foggy brain morning. How to make my home here?

Nothing inspiring or unusual. Same old, same old. The cold weather has me discouraged again. Nothing here but a slight headache and the hum of the refrigerator and the insistent birdcall that comes through the windows.

It’s Saturday of Easter weekend. In the story, He’s still in the darkness of the tomb. Taken down lifeless from the brutal cross and laid out. The Christians are mourning, and the authorities are relieved. What a story to guide a civilization! A story of a peace that passes understanding followed by a senseless death at the hands of the authorities (I thirst.) And then, they say, and they’re already getting ready to celebrate, there is the rising up from the dead. On the third day. Really? Did any of this actually happen then? Or is this still, like all stories, about something that is happening now? (I can’t breathe.)

I read a lovely Ryokan poem in a Dharma talk the other night and a student responded by sharing a matching parable from the Bible about a man who discovered a pearl of great price buried in a field and went and sold everything he had to buy that field. No, no…he joyfully sold everything he had to buy that field.

Where is this field and what is the pearl that could cause such joyful generosity? (For God so loved the world, that he gave his only son…) The pearl of incomparable value is the essence of this life of ten thousand joys and sorrows. Where is it now? How could it be here even in this morning’s dull discouragement?

Hakuin Zenji says: ‘Why do people ignore the near and seek truth afar? Like someone in the midst of water crying out in thirst.’ And Jesus chimes in: ‘The Kingdom of God is within.’ (But it will cost you everything you own and you will joyfully pay.)

Wasn’t yesterday’s reflection something about hanging around long enough to appreciate what is already here? Might that apply to even this?

This quiet morning. The cold sun of early spring illuminates the eastern side of the leafless tree across the street. I slouch easily on the couch in mild discomfort. The street outside is empty. Everything waits here.

Instructions for Wanderers

The point is to try to hang around long enough
in any one particular place to sense what is actually happening.

(Unless we go beyond our opinion,
we cannot receive what is already here.

Without intention, our determined illusion of isolation
separates us from our true kinship with all things.)

Three hanging around skills to test out:
• slow down,
• have no useful purpose,
• be surprised with what you find.

But don’t worry—even without summoning some clear intention and before every employing clever tricks, you have never, not even for one second, been separated from the fulsome love of the universe that holds, sustains, and delights in you.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Exploring the Gap

The other day, I wrote about education being about relationship rather than curriculum. Another way to talk about this is to use the conceptual tools of overt curriculum and hidden curriculum. The stated curriculum is the course content: the subject matter, the syllabus, and the facts and theories that the teacher expects the students to learn. The hidden curriculum points to the human learnings and assumptions that are conveyed in how the course is structured and taught, how the interactions between student and teacher take place, and everything else that happens in the class.

The hidden curriculum overwhelms the stated curriculum every day. One of our local luminaries, R.W. Emerson, put it this way: ‘What you are doing speaks so loud, I can’t hear a word you are saying.’ I can say that I expect everyone in my classroom to act with respect, but if I make arbitrary rules, treat individuals by different standards and don’t really listen, then that message is what communicates most directly.

In organizations, we can talk about the gap between mission statements and operations or between organizational policy and organizational culture. There is who we say we are and then there is the reality of who we are in our actions. One insightful commentator, when considering our attempts to re-envision and reform policing warned; ‘Culture eats policy for breakfast every morning.’ They meant that we can pass enlightened and transformative policies, but if the culture of the police (or any organization) does not change, very little will be different.

(Or ‘Change must come from within.’ which is what the New York City hotdog vendor reportedly said to the Dalai Lama when the Dalai Lama asked for change from a ten-dollar bill he gave the vendor when Dalai Lama asked: ‘Make me one with everything.’ )

This gap between espoused values and lived values is true in our personal lives as well. We often state clear and reasonable intentions and then are surprised that we are not able to follow through. I believe it’s very important for me to get regular vigorous exercise. I say this with what feels like full conviction. But if I look at my life, I see that this does not really appear to be true.

It turns out that it is extremely difficult to close the gap between what we intend and what we live. Author and activist Sister Helen Prejean said ‘I always watch what I do to see what I really believe.’  We say we are against racism and prejudice of any kind, but in a culture where we find racism embedded in the structures of the institutions that support our lives (like the police), do our actions really reflect what we feel in our hearts?

Thinking back to my experience in school, ostensibly, the learning was about math, history, English and the other subjects. But I knew that what was most important was obedience and conforming to teachers’ expectations. I was not consciously aware of this at the time, but I made sure to behave (mostly) and instinctively knew that being a ‘good boy’ was more important than learning.

Over the years, when I have been a guest lecturer on Zen and meditation at highly selective colleges around the area, I have found that many of the students (who did well in high school and on standardized tests) behaved like me. While I wanted them to look into their own experience and engage with the moment, they were carefully hiding themselves while trying to learn what I (and their teacher) expected them to learn. The hidden curriculum teaches habits that grow deep and usually operate beneath the level of our awareness.

I wonder too about the hidden teachings of the online learning that so many of our children have just been through. I know that some students were allowed to have their cameras on or off during classes to protect their privacy. One of the unintended learnings of this might be ‘I don’t really make a difference. I can have my camera off or on, no one knows (or cares) what I think, feel, or wonder.’ I’m sure this was not what any teacher intended, but just the structure of on-line learning might make this a likely and unfortunate outcome.

So how do we close the gap between what we say and what we do?

One way, as Sister Helen Prejean suggests, is to pay more attention to our actions than to our words. If someone watched your life for several days without being able to hear any of your words, what assumptions would they make about what is most important to you—about what you really believe? Does how you actually spend your time reflect what you care about most deeply?

Another entry point might be to pay attention to the attitude with which you do the little things. It’s not just the task itself (overt curriculum) that matters, but the care and presence we bring to it as we engage with it.

Another of our locals, H.D.Thoreau, put it this way: Why, then, should man hasten as if anything less than eternity were allotted for the least deed? Let him consume never so many aeons, so that he goes about the meanest task well, though it be but the paring of his nails.

So get the nail clipper out and have at it!

Not Multiple-Choice

Fortunately, this morning, all I have is a sore arm.

I got my second vaccine dose yesterday afternoon. After a negative COVID test in the morning, taken in precaution due to a slight fever, chills, and exhaustion of the evening before, I got better as the day went on, and, at the doctor’s recommendation, followed through with my 3:15 appointment at the CVS in Sturbridge, MA. I seem to have had my primary reaction prior to the second shot rather than after.

I wonder if this was some mystical heightened sensitivity, anxiety, or something else altogether? I love how the mind wants to know. We want a clear reason for everything that happens, so we create a list of possible culprits and then interrogate the whole gang, certain that one of the suspects must be guilty. But rather than singular and simple, the ‘answer’ is just as likely to be ‘all of the above’ or ‘some of the above’ or ‘none of the above.’

One of the tricks I learned that allowed me to do well in school (and on standardized testing), was that the likeliest answer provided was probably the one they were looking for. Beneath this conscious knowledge which allowed me to eliminate the answers it couldn’t be and then guess between what was left, thereby greatly improving my chances, was my unconscious awareness that tests are never about ‘the truth’ but rather about the expectation of the person designing the test. Doing well in school was not a matter of learning about the world or myself, but rather having a clear understanding of what each particular teacher wanted.

Since then, I’ve come to realize how relational education is in another way as well. The relationship between the student and the teacher is equally and perhaps more important than the content that is covered. Most all my teacher friends know this and have been struggling to maintain these relationships on-line over this past year. Real learning is not about memorizing facts (though I am a great believer in memorizing poems which I believe have a salutary effect on one’s general well-being and sense of appreciation of life). Real learning is allowing oneself to go beyond the security of one’s opinion into the unexplored and unsettling world that is just beyond. And venturing beyond what we know entails danger and loss.

We rarely talk about the personal costs of learning. In the mid-’90s Robert Evans wrote a wonderful book called The Human Side of School Change: Reform, Resistance, and the Real-Life Problems of Innovation in which he looked at the many factors in play when we are trying to create or encourage or even allow change. He writes specifically about educational organizations, but I think his insights apply equally to our internal efforts as well.

…the key factor in change is what it means to those who must implement it, and that its primary meanings encourage resistance: it provokes loss, challenges competence, creates confusion, and causes conflict.

I have long loved Evans’ writing about the often unspoken costs of change. His reflections seem equally true for learning as well. In learning, we lose the worldview that we had and therefore our sense of competence as an actor in that world. We are confused because the old rules and perspectives we had relied on are no longer applicable and this causes conflict as we work out new relationships and patterns of interaction.

Relationships and support from real people who can walk with us and reassure us as the world shape-shifts in our minds and around us are essential ingredients in learning and growth. Our job as parents and grandparents and friends of young people is not to tell them what we think they need to know, but to walk with them as they discover and rediscover the world around them. I suppose this equally applies to all the other human beings we encounter.

We can never know what someone else ‘needs’ to know. But we can be curious and supportive as they go through their many learnings. We can push back and challenge sometimes, but always with respect for the mysterious process of life unfolding in the form of each particular person. Life is not a multiple-choice test and my ‘answer’ is only one possible choice among the many that are allowed, encouraged, and celebrated by this vast and creative universe.

The Answer Isn’t So Simple

Precisely at five a.m. this morning, the birds begin to sing. Lying in the dark I hear them clearly though the windows are shut. I smile as I remember other mornings of other springs and I wonder what is on my mind this spring morning. It seems a simple inquiry, but it always takes me a while to come up with an answer beyond, ‘Not very much’. Fog and murkiness are a regular feature of my life.

I have a close friend who is irritated when they ask me a question and my response is silence. I try to explain that my quietness is actually a good-faith attempt to find an answer rather than an evasion or a dismissal. I love the British TV shows where the leading characters always say they are fine even when the suspected murderer has just held them hostage, blindfolded and tied to a chair for four days without food and water. A hoarse and weary, ‘I’m fine,’ accompanied by a faint smile is always their response to the question ‘How are you doing?’

Their thoroughly British friend immediately decodes the nuance of the answer, taking into account their recent near-death experience and noticing the trembling of the upper lip and the red-rimmed eyes. The good friend does not disagree with the statement that is clearly false, but rather offers a cup of tea and responds directly to the human truth of the situation as opposed to the verbal construction.

The fullness of any situation is far beyond whatever words we say. I used to think it was important to ‘talk things out’ and ‘get to the bottom’ of issues. I still believe in the power and necessity of words to help us go beyond our limited perspectives, but being close and being in relationship now appears to be a more mysterious and imprecise adventure than I had thought.

So I ask myself again, ‘How is it with you this morning?’ I now accept my slow response as information. All night I have been dreaming, both asleep and awake, of the satisfying solidity of the rectangular granite blocks I was working with yesterday. The terrace walls I am constructing to contain a new garden linger sweetly in my mind with their comforting repetition and variation of simple shape and muted color. Each roughly rectangular stone weighs between five to twenty pounds and I remember the satisfying thud each one makes as I drop it on the bare earth when I move it from place to place.

I once read that in making a wall, you should never pick up a stone twice. This may work for other longer walls with more skilled wall-makers, but I seem to be doing a lot of moving of rocks that don’t yet find their place in the wall. So I try to enjoy each stone I pick up as well as appreciate the warmth of the afternoon sun on my shoulders. I move granite blocks from place to place, finding the precise length and height and width for the next piece of wall. I am delighted by the heft and ancient provenance of these sparkling gray companions.

I make some neighborly ‘beautiful-afternoon-to-be-outside’ talk with a visitor in my neighbor’s backyard and he responds by telling me these granite blocks are cobblestones. That hadn’t occurred to me, but it seems likely enough. He claims to work for the largest distributor of these stones in New England and tells me they are imported from India where they have been cut by hand. With so much granite here in New England, I secretly hope this is not true. I don’t like the idea of their carbon footprint being so much larger than the stones themselves. But since I am repurposing them from former uses around the property, I am somewhat soothed.

Now I notice that I have successfully evaded my own question. Or perhaps the true answer to how I am this morning is: ‘Dreaming of the solidity of granite blocks.’ This morning they appear as the kindly mooring of my soul—a life-line to keep me happily tethered to this earthy world of dirt and rocks, of flowers and trees, of bird-songs and mental images. Each thing itself goes beyond murkiness and words to present the fullness of life as just this.

Only Two (or more) Right Ways

I started building a small terraced garden yesterday behind the south-side wall of the garage where I am starting to live. The ground slopes down gradually from east to west, about five feet over the twenty-foot run, but the siding on the wall steps down (and up) in three increments. I thought about just outlining a sloping garden there but then had the bright idea that it would look better to make some terraces that would repeat the steps of the siding (and hide more of the concrete).

When I begin a project, I rarely have a clear picture in mind of where I am going to end up. I used to envy people who seemed to know exactly what they are doing and where they are going. But then I realized that 1) most people actually don’t know what they are doing, even if they speak and act with great confidence, and 2) even the people who do know can end up quite wrong. I’ve had genuine experts offer various and contradictory opinions about the same problem.

When I studied Aikido, a Japanese martial art of self-defense, there were two Aikido Masters who taught the simplest and most basic move in diametrically opposed ways. The move, called tenkan, is a simple pivot and is usually practiced with the uke (attacker) grabbing the wrist of the nage (thrower) which is extended with the foot of the same side. (e.g. right hand and right foot forward) The nage then pivots on their front foot until they are side-by-side with the uke, all the time keeping their hand in front of their torso.

This simple move changes the relationship from face-to-face conflict to side-by-side collaboration, and if, as nage, you’ve kept your hand in front of your center, the uke is off-balance and you can easily extend forward and ‘throw’ your partner. (DISCLAIMER – do not try this with your partner at home as they may not be amused.) As an aspiring Aikido student, you do this over and over until your wrists get sore from the friction of being grabbed and then breaking free.

The disagreement between these two teachers was that one thought this simple move should be done with concentrated energy. He taught that, in doing this move, you should imagine energy flowing through your arm and out your fingers, extending this energy throughout the move. The other teacher taught that the key is looseness. He said not to focus on the hand but to keep everything in alignment during the move and allow the whole body to be relaxed and in a state of enjoyment.

Who was right? Each teacher was aware of and rather dismissive of the other’s position. Each would demonstrate the move in the ‘correct’ manner, then have a student try the other teacher’s method, which, of course, wouldn’t work at all. Physical reality seemed to shift depending on the views and teaching of the teacher.

At first, I was troubled by two masters directly disagreeing with each other and teaching contradictory techniques. But over the years, I have come to appreciate the creative and fungible aspect of reality. Not just Aikido Masters, but each of us participates in creating the world that in which we live. Our beliefs, assumptions, experiences, perceptions, thoughts, and actions all swirl together with everything we encounter to create what we call our ‘life’. It is (and we are) not a thing that can ever be fully described or understood. Any technique or teaching is only a provisional suggestion that may or may not apply to the current situation. You and I are ongoing processes that are constantly coming into being, maintaining, and falling away. Whatever worked yesterday may or may not work today.

But back to my intended terraced garden behind the garage. It’s 20% done and I’m now at the head-scratching place—stepping back considering proportions, available materials, and the myriad necessary decisions that were hidden from me in the vagueness of my good idea. I’m still hopeful that I can learn enough and be responsive as I go to create a simple terraced garden that rests easy with the garage wall behind it and brings a small portion of delight to me and others who may wander by.

The Peepers Call Out

Yesterday’s warm drizzle spread quietly into the sleeping earth and roused the cold blood of us all, including the tiny amphibians, the peeper frogs, who suddenly came alive and began singing for their lives. From puddles and vernal pools throughout the neighborhood, the males began their shrill chirping and whistling–enacting the ancient call of life for attention and sex.

I suppose the little frogs have no awareness of their purpose. The male frog does not think ‘I’ll call out especially fast and loud to attract a really hot babe so we can have sex and have a nice family of eight or nine hundred little ones who will be so cute and fun to play with.’ He calls out because he calls out. In his pure expression, there is no gap between intention and action. The calling, as well as the subsequent conjugal activity, serves life’s essential purpose that is unknown to the one who calls out.

On some level, for all our painful human self-consciousness, each one of us too lives by instinct and acts without knowledge. Current research shows that our awareness lags several milliseconds behind our actions. Like the little peepers, we act first, before we even know we have decided. It is then, a fraction later, that the thinking mind comes online and scrambles to figure out a ‘reason’ why I ‘decided’ to do that which I have already done.

Aside from the vast majority of our ‘thinking’ which happily trundles on beneath the level of our consciousness and beats our heart and breathes our breath and constantly maintains our precarious constantly moving exchange with the world we live in—aside from all this, most of our thinking is post hoc—it comes after the fact of our activity. Our thinking is simply our best guess as to why a certain feeling is arising or why I said or did what I just said or did. Its assertion of agency and authority is an elaborate (and often quite convincing) charade.

Mostly we’re like the eight-year-old boy who trips and falls, then quickly leaps up and looks around to see if anyone was watching. And if they were, he defiantly proclaims ‘I meant to do that.’ The ancient delusive claim of purpose and control. Though I spend a lot of time encouraging people to clarify their purpose and to act in alignment with whatever that deeper direction may be, in the end, I find life to be much more mysterious (and interesting) than that.

Our lives unfold through each action we take or don’t take. I have no idea why one day I get out and go for the brisk walk that I know is good for me and the next day hardly get out of the house. Why I have continued to meditate and lead Zen groups for the past thirty years is also a mystery to me. I can, of course, make up a thousand reasons and some of them feel true, but really, my life is simply what I have done.

I’m not advocating we let libido run wild and imitate the licentious behavior of this season’s cacophonous vernal pools. But maybe I am. Maybe I mean to say that we can appreciate the ten thousand joys and sorrows of our lives as part of a bigger movement of life, as not quite so personal and therefore not quite so fraught with regret and anxiety. Maybe we are not as separate as we think and we are all simply calling and responding to the ancient necessities of attention and reproduction. In that case, I’ll just follow what calls to me and sing as quickly and as loudly as I can and hope for the best.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

On Being Related

The birds sing enthusiastically in this morning’s drizzle though the skies are still dark. My laptop opened to an op-ed piece in the NY Times by a Korean-American woman, Mihee Kim-Kort, who is a Presbyterian minister, theologian pondering motives for the shooting of eight in Atlanta last week.

Rev Kim-Kort begins the piece by referring to the Korean practice of using filial names rather than given names. As the oldest in the family, her parents referred to each other as “mi-omma” (“Mihee’s mother”) and “mi-appa” (“Mihee’s father”) after her birth. Before Rev. Kim-Kort knew their names, she thought of the Korean women killed in the shootings as Daughter, Big Sister, Mother, and Aunt. Rev. Kim-Kort suggests that this custom of relational labeling reflects the Korean understanding that we are inseparable from who we love and who we are loved by.

All of us are sons and daughters—murderers and victims alike. Many of us have brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. We may have sons and daughters and non-binary children ourselves. We may still live with or near our parents and grandparents or they may no longer or may never have been part of our lives. But we are all related.

Family is a blessing and a struggle. In close families, we may have to fight for enough space to feel that we can be seen for who we really are. In a distant family, each member can feel alone and cut off. Yet our relationships and the issues of our family of origin are with us through our lives. What we learned, how we were treated, what was acknowledged, what was hidden—all this stays with us as the great source and the great challenge of our lives.

Acknowledging and appreciating our connection to each other begins with understanding our connection with the particular gifts and burdens of our familial heritage. None of us are independently appearing individuals that get to create ourselves ex-nihilo. We are all wired through our biology and through our upbringing to see certain things and not others. Studies show that our capacities to distinguish one face from another is directly related to the faces we see in our world in the first years of our lives. To individuals who have never seen ‘white’ faces as children, their capacity to distinguish one from another is physiologically limited.

The issues of our family come down through us and are our opportunity to make a difference. Each successive generation works the rich soil of confusion and clarity that has been passed on. To work with the legacy of our ancestors requires humility and determination because these inherited forces are both subtle and fierce. Going beyond simply enacting the beliefs and blindnesses of our ancestors requires intention and effort over time.

Rev. Kim-Kort goes on to say that the Atlanta killer was responding to a toxic brew of anti-Asian and anti-woman prejudice as well as to the ‘purity culture’ of conservative white Christian teachings—what she calls ‘toxic theology’ that leads to an ‘extreme fear of God and an equally extreme self-loathing.’ Another perspective is that the Atlanta killer was just a disturbed human being with mental illness. Perhaps the correct answer can only be ‘all of the above.’

But the birds sing undaunted and the morning light gives brings shape and color to the world outside my window. My eyes see and my ears hear. We are all related—to each other and to the calling birds and to the rain that falls this morning to bless and nourish the flowers. Let us not forget.

Going Beyond Limitations

I have a bad memory for names and I don’t do much better with faces. This is why I never became a politician. It hasn’t been a terrible liability, but it is a hindrance in my spring project of getting to know the neighbors.

I already know some of them and have been conversing casually with some for a number of years. The thing is, I don’t know some of their names. I asked them so long ago and have had so many brief conversations that I am now afraid to ask again for fear of offending them. But I’m actually not afraid of offending them, I’m afraid of looking stupid or like I don’t care. It’s very important for me to appear to others as a person who cares.

I suppose I learned from my parents: #1—the most important thing in the world is to care about other people. If you don’t care about other people, you’re selfish, mean-spirited, and not worth very much. The corollary of this is #2—the worst thing others can think of you is that you don’t care about them. And the hidden assumption from which #2 arises is #3—your worth as a person is directly linked to what other people think of you.

This all leads, in a way that makes perfect sense until you think about it in more detail, to a life of spending a lot of time trying to look good. ‘Trying to look good’ sounds pretty selfish and mean-spirited when I put it so bluntly, and I would generally and passionately deny its truth, except that I realize it’s getting in my way of getting to know my neighbors.

My other hurdle is that I’m an introvert by nature. In spite of my wild self-revelations in these small reflections, I don’t generally feel a need that others know how I am feeling or what I am thinking. Not everyone who practices Zen is an introvert, but sitting long hours in silent contemplation is clearly a practice that appeals more to some than to others. One of our standard jokes at the beginning of a Zen retreat is that this is a ‘party for introverts.’ We get to be in close proximity with others without having to talk and make polite conversation.

But my vow is to do my part to heal our divided country by making connections to the people around me. I have the advantage of living in a fairly mixed neighborhood in terms of race and national origin. And, due to my natural reticence and fear of looking bad or causing trouble, I have no idea how most of my neighbors voted in the past election—or the shape of their lives—or the issues that mean the most to them.

So yesterday, I asked the guy who often has the boats in his driveway and who I have spoken with several dozen times, I asked him to remind me of his name as I introduced myself. He said ‘I know who you are, you live up the street and do meditation. I haven’t forgotten.’ I took his implied criticism and repeated his name silently to myself over and over after he said it. Was it Dick? or Richard? or something else? I can’t quite remember.

It’s a shaky start, but a start none-the-less. Note to self: learn how to use cell phone to record all new names within thirty seconds of hearing them.

Too Much To Do

It’s been a squirrely few days for me. While the warm and delicious spring weather has melted all but the most stubborn piles of snow, I have felt overwhelmed and lost amid all the to-do lists of my life. I have lost my sense of what is most important and have been wandering in a world of a thousand equally urgent things calling out to be done.

Of course, there is always more to do than we have time to do.

Of course, this statement is not necessarily true. Or perhaps it is only true when we make certain assumptions. Perhaps any statement that presents itself as presenting the obvious truth should be approached with caution. ‘Of course’ encourages the mind to travel the familiar pathways of opinion rather than consider afresh the matter at hand. A warning sign for the careful traveler.

‘Always’ should probably be another alarm-bell for the aware reader and thinker. ‘Always’ statements can be quite comforting as they lead our mind toward the fantasyland of a dependable world that conforms to our understanding. Nothing ‘always’ happens. Some things, like the coming of spring, may happen on a fairly regular basis—we can safely plant our seeds at a certain time—except that sometimes snow comes in May as it has on occasion.

So then, what is this ‘more to do?’ Is it that my mind can always imagine things I could do? In a split second, I can imagine having breakfast, reading a book, responding to email, having a conversation with a friend and going for a walk. Yet, as I think ahead to this morning, I know I probably won’t have time to do all these things. I will, most likely, have to choose.

And what is this time that I have or don’t have to do or not to do? There is this moment of living action in which I am sitting on a brown faux-leather couch with a laptop in my lap and a cup of tea that sits patiently on the bench beside me. Is this ‘my’ time? And what about all the time I can imagine having or not having?

Today will be a ‘busy’ day. Really?

We order the world with the thoughts of our mind, and then we complain at the order of the world. There are days when I seem to ‘do’ more things than other days. Or would it be more accurate to say that some days I’m more active than others? I suppose some days even have more breaths in them than other days – when I’m moving and my muscles call for deeper breaths at a quicker pace.

But can you find busyness except in some combination of images in the mind and feelings in the body at this moment? The mind in this moment dreams my past and my future—makes infinite predictions of what will happen and what won’t happen. Each instant I am doing one thing and not another.

Now that I have thoroughly confused myself, I feel a little lighter. Today I will do some things and the things I do and the thoughts I think will be my life—the life that I create together with the world that I encounter. Sometimes at ease, sometimes feeling lost. Today, I’ll try to just follow my feet and see where they lead. I’ll ignore the opinions of the many others that reside in my head and trust the emerging moment to lead me truly.

Spring Dancing

Astronomical spring has officially arrived and yesterday’s weather, here in New England, was right on schedule—a cool morning giving way to warm sunshine and clear skies. It was the kind of day where you start off with a light jacket and then, at some point, are compelled to disrobe in response to the delicious and unfamiliar sense of the sun’s radiant warmth.

The clumps of crocus that had the good sense to be planted in south-facing locations have finally joined the snowdrops to be available to the small bees and the other ardent admirers who carefully search them out. Small splashes of purple and gold are the new and welcome decoration to the still mostly gray and brown landscape.

Out for a Sunday morning stroll, two veteran observers of spring and one small rookie ‘keep our eyes open’ and call out the sightings as they come. We walk to the edge of each garden and crouch down for a better look. We’re a good team. We wouldn’t crouch down to look closely if it was just us old folks, and our two-year-old rookie probably wouldn’t think to stop if he were by himself.

Watching for a few moments, we see the nodding white snowdrop blossoms quiver in the light breeze while the crocus stand upright with unmoved intent. Is the movement of the snowdrops a functional adaptation? Is their small white dance on a green stem a necessary device to attract the attention of pollinators (both human and insect)? Or is a slim stem simply the most efficient way to hoist aloft the reproductive organs for better access and all the wiggling without purpose? In either case, we appreciate their delicate and concerted response to the breeze we can barely feel.

Later, sitting lazily on the deck talking about things of small importance, I am overwhelmed by the unfamiliar brightness. Unused to so much warmth and sun, my head begins to ache and I go inside for a nap.

Still later, I give a Zen talk about how the ‘Dharma a thusness has been intimately transmitted by Buddhas and Ancestors’ and illustrate it with a poem by the great Japanese poet-monk Ryokan:

The wind has settled, the blossoms have fallen;
Birds sing, the mountains grow dark—
This is the wondrous power of Buddhism.

The intimate transmission is nothing but the seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching and imagining of this moment and all the Buddhas and Ancestors are here with us as the earth once again dances the slow and sensual dance of spring awakening.

Saying the Names

Soon Chung Park, age 74
Hyun Jung Grant, age 51
Suncha Kim, age 69
Yong Yue, age 63
Delaina Ashley Yaun, age 33
Paul Andre Michels, age 54
Xiaojie Tan, age 49
Daoyou Feng, age 44

These are the names and ages of the eight people who were killed by a 21-year old white gun-man in the Atlanta area on Tuesday. Seven of them are women and six of them are Asian-American. On Friday, President Biden and Vice-President Harris visited Atlanta and met with Asian-American leaders in Atlanta, and spoke publically in response to this violent tragedy.

“Whatever the killer’s motive, these facts are clear,” Harris said, “the shootings took place in businesses owned by Asian Americans…The president and I will not be silent. We will not stand by…We will always speak out against violence, hate crimes, and discrimination, wherever and whenever it occurs….Racism is real in America and it has always been… Xenophobia is real in America and always has been. Sexism too.”

The President followed her remarks with messages of sympathy to the families and friends of the victims, but also with a vow: “Because our silence is complicity. We cannot be complicit,” he said. “We have to speak out. We have to act.” Biden

The swirling debate in the aftermath of these killings this past week was: were they racially motivated hate crimes, were they crimes against women or were they random acts of violence? The answer to this question has to be yes. We live in a world where gender, race, and religious affiliation intertwine. There can be no separation, we are all, all of the above.

These terrible murders call attention to the rise in violence against Asian-Americans over this past year and also to our country’s long and shameful history of racism and violence against Asians.  They are also a terrible reminder of the ongoing national and global reality of violence against women. UN Women, a United Nations entity dedicated to gender equity and the empowerment of women, estimates that ‘Globally, 35 percent of women have ever experienced physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence, or sexual violence by a non-partner. This figure does not include sexual harassment.’

Racism is real in America and it has always been… Xenophobia is real in America and always has been. Sexism too. (Misogyny—the hatred of, contempt for, or prejudice against women or girls—would probably be a more accurate term than sexism.) The degree to which these forces and fears limit us all and are embedded in the fabric of our society is becoming more and more evident.

We must stand in solidarity with all of our brothers and sisters, for our wellbeing is directly tied to theirs. We must name hatred and violence wherever it appears and do what we can to publically stand against it. We must continue to raise awareness of our complicity through our actions and inactions so that we can find ways to continue to move toward a safer and more just world for all.

The Path Back to Normal

A short walk to the lake with my grandson yesterday gave way to a longer conversation with his parents about how we’re going to handle the safety and boundaries of our COVID bubble over the weeks and months ahead. Melissa and I are scheduled for our second vaccine shots in a little over a week, then we wait two more weeks, and then comes the surprising question of post-vaccination behavior. Somehow I had imagined that all this caution and careful behavior would all be over for me after the vaccine—but that’s not the case.

After the waiting period after both shots, we vaccinated folks appear to be quite safe. While no vaccine is 100%, all the COVIC vaccines on the market greatly lower our risk of contracting COVID and also appear to guarantee us against hospitalization and death. (I’d always hoped for a ‘guarantee against hospitalization and death’, but as I looked closer into this claim it appears to only apply to COVID-related instances and does not protect us from runaway busses, falling trees or germs, diseases and morbid conditions of other kinds.)

I have to admit that even as I feel the strong urge to resume ‘normal’ activities, I have also grown quite used to how things are now. I do want to gather in our meditation hall again with real people rather than with flat images on the computer screen, but I don’t want to have to work out all the details and figure out all the things we will need to do to protect ourselves and those we go home to.

The 1.9 trillion dollar question is: ‘Can people who have been vaccinated be vectors of transmission to others who have not yet been vaccinated?’ It looks unlikely, but unlikely is not the same as a clear answer. (Or as a friend who used to teach sex education to high school students said, ‘Hope is not a method.’)

After a year of avoidance, uncertainty, and fear, how do we find our way back to some semblance of ease in each other’s presence? How do we begin to unclench our lives? Living always involves risk. And for risks below a certain threshold, most of us don’t actively worry. Each time I get in the car, there is a chance that I could be seriously injured or die. While I try to be a careful and alert driver, I don’t spend my time driving worrying about that small likelihood. How do we transfer our daily unconscious care for our human vulnerability into this new sphere of ongoing concern?

And, perhaps equally important, how do we talk together with our families, friends, and associates about how close we come and under what situations? Communication and appreciation of differences in comfort levels are critical to help us move together through this unsettling and encouraging time. ‘Too fast’ and ‘too slow’ are phrases that convey important information both about our perception of danger and our perception of reality. Both parts of the equation need to be honored.

A student once asked a great spiritual teacher, ‘How do we cross the raging torrent of the river of life?’ The teacher replied ‘By not straining and not tarrying.’

So may it be as we individually, within our families and within our various communities and nations, move beyond this fearsome pandemic. Can we together discern the middle way together? Not too fast and not too slow. Can we deepen our trust and understanding of each other as we move with determination, patience, and courage toward the ever-evolving world of full engagement that awaits us?

Grateful

1.
Too many candles now
to count on the wondrous
birthday cake that is
the life you have lived.

Born in the center
of the twentieth century
to parents whose parents
parents had traveled far to be here,

you have faithfully continued
their courageous journey
through your relentless search
for the truth of the human heart.

2.
So always this day on the cusp
of new spring rising
from the dark winter,
we remember and celebrate

you.

3.
I am happy for all
the years and stories
and wrinkles that are
our life together.

Yet beyond the two of us
you have touched many
and amended the world
with the gifts of your heart—

humor and wisdom,
clarity and compassion,
determination and doubt
all swirled together into

a confection so definite and
delicious that even after
all these years I still
smile in awe and delight.

— for Melissa, March 19, 2021

The Things of Our Lives

When I was little, coloring books were still considered creative entertainment for children and I received great praise for a picture of a person that I colored in at the age of four or five. I may still have it in the folder of mementos that my mother remanded to my care some years ago as she was lightening her load (and increasing mine.)

These objects of the past have a mysterious claim on us—the things we created and the pictures of who we were—the certificates of achievement or graduation—the faded clipping from local newspapers from when our name or picture appeared. Then there are the hundreds of beautiful and unique objects that we have gathered along the way—objects found or purchased in exotic locations or given to us at significant moments. Not to mention the innumerable file folders from projects and workshops. A lifetime recorded in the precious and sometimes overwhelming detritus of things that surround us.

It used to be my job to work with our daughter cleaning her room. I think this was because her tendency toward randomness was directly inherited through me, so the role of clean-up supervisor was both punishment and matching my extended study of disorder with her need for support in the midst of a chaotic room full of her things. This was before Marie Kondo had taught us about sensing what ‘sparks joy’ but long after my mother used to lie on my bed when I was growing up, supporting me with encouragement and suggestions while I cleaned my room every nine months whether it needed it or not.

With our young daughter, and as I recall this worked all the way up through high school, I used to bring three bags because there were four categories of things. The first category was things to keep and they had to find a home in a drawer or closet, or on a shelf or bookcase. The next category was the bag for the things that were going to be thrown away. Category three was the bag for the things that were no longer wanted but had enough remaining life and value to be worthy of being given away. But it was the fourth category which was the most helpful—the black bag that contained things that were to precious to release, but not important enough to find a place for. By the time we finished, this bag was almost always the largest one and was carefully labeled with the day’s date and stored up in the attic. The rule was that anything that she wanted from this bag she was welcome to get, but that after six months, the bag would be thrown or given away.

What my system had in common with Marie’s (she encourages her clients to call her by her first name) system was the reliance on cognitive overload. Marie recommends going through your things one category at a time. You begin with your clothes. Every article of clothing you own gets put in a big pile on your bed. You then pick up each shirt, sock, sweater, scarf, etc and hold it for a second to see if it ‘sparks joy.’ My theory is that in this decision-making process, as in the four-category process I used with my daughter, the endless pile of stuff and the repeated decision-making eventually weakens the brain’s attachment muscle and it becomes easier to let things go.

Over the years that my daughter and I brought bags of questionable stuff up to the attic, I never remember one instance of her going up to get something. The things she could barely stand not to have in her room one day, were forgotten the next as the new things of life easily filled in available space in her room and in her mind.

The line drawing picture I colored in that my mother saved was carefully done—not a small accomplishment for little hands holding crayons. But the remarkable thing to my mother was that I had used color with no regard for realism. The face was purple and the shirt yellow and the hands red. She thought this was wonderfully precious, that I hadn’t yet realized the correspondence of the pictures to real life. I think that I was, like Matisse, simply more focused on the reality of the paper and the color than on the image it was supposed to be representing.

All this holding on and letting go is alive for me this morning as Melissa and I continue our slow but definite move from the Temple to a small nearby cottage. There are closets to be excavated, file cabinets of a decade of work and play to winnow through and the challenging opportunity to release the accumulated things of our life as we lighten our load in preparation for the new life (and death) that is coming.

Angelic Sightings

Ten days ago I sprinkled twenty-some tiny seeds as randomly as I could into a four-inch square pot of soil. The seeds themselves were so small, I couldn’t even see where they landed, so I kept my hand moving like a priest giving a blessing as I scattered the minuscule dry bits. I resisted the urge to cover the seeds with soil as these seeds (Lobularia/sweet alyssum) are among the ones that need light to germinate.

These particular seeds were the remnants of the package that grew with great success into last year’s garden. After a slow start, the seedlings grew into a lovely and fragrant covering for the feet of the morning glories and also did well in small pots on the porch. Each seed directed itself into a small sweet-smelling carpet of tiny white flowers that bloomed through the summer. But I wasn’t sure if the over-wintered seeds would have survived into this year in their condition of dry stasis.

I sometimes forget that seeds, though appearing dry and inert, are as alive as the plants that sometimes grow from them. Their space capsule of hard fiber protects the embryo until conditions are once again conducive to growth. When enough moisture, warmth and light return, the container of the seed shell dissolves and the spark of life is thrown out into this uncertain world.

I had checked the pot once or twice over the past week, but nothing was stirring. It wasn’t until yesterday that the miracle once again manifested. When I looked, not expecting much, I was amazed to see in the four-inch square field of the pot, a dozen or more pairs of tiny oval leaves floating a quarter-inch above the damp brown soil. Each of the paired leaves was no bigger than the size of a pin-head and yet it was undeniable that innumerable angels were dancing on each. Looking closer, I saw that each round pair was held aloft by the thinnest translucent thread of green wire—a wonder of tender engineering.

Viewing the modest scene, I was filled with an oversized joy.

What is this disproportionate delight that comes over me at the sight of such a small occurrence? How is it that each emerging green being so clearly sings to me with the voice of the divine? I don’t know, but I am grateful that my eyes and ears are tuned into this particular channel of grace.

I suppose part of our human search is to find the channels of grace to which our particular senses and self are tuned. How are you tuned? What is it that in the doing, seeing, or sensing a deep joy arises within you? Is it in the stories you watch or read? Is it in the sounds of music and voices harmonizing? Or the rhythmic running of your legs beneath you? Or the smells and sounds of food cooking or the delicious taste of a well-seasoned soup? Or walking amidst the murmurings of a forest of trees?

Whatever it is, know that this channel is how you and the world snuggle up to each other—this is how you and the world were designed to touch and be touched. Do your best to notice and appreciate the resonance of the unprecedented giving and receiving that is your true nature.

And, for my part, I will keep you posted on the sweet alyssum seedlings.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Working With What Comes

The wind has died down but the bitter cold is still here. The protective sheet I carefully placed over the hydrangea blew off so the buds that were just swelling with the promise of this summer’s flowers will have to fend for themselves. And I’m only slowly emerging from yesterday’s deep hole of discouragement. It wasn’t just the weather or my concern for the fragile buds, but something more pervasive that just came over me.

From the place of dark discouragement, everything feels overwhelming. All the plans and projects that usually hold some excitement and promise become burdens that have to be carried and pushed forward. I feel compelled to make some progress, in the midst of my certainty that my eager busyness will only lead to more of the same. I become conscious of my familiar buoyancy of spirit only in its absence. I don’t feel like ‘myself’ and wonder who or what I am.

A friend calls these places realms. Realms are worlds of experience that we fall into that are self-contained, self-reinforcing, and self-limiting. Self-contained in that our experience in these places of great difficulty allows in no information that might contradict or shift our thought process. Self-reinforcing in that everything that appears in the realm is interpreted as evidence of the truth of the realm. And self-limiting because, at some point, the state of dark limitation ends by itself—not through our own efforts, but through the grace of the movement of life itself.

To me, it feels like I have been dragged into the underworld and possessed by dark spirits that won’t let me go. My resistance and my attempts to fight my way out only add to the stuckness. Everything I tell myself gets used by the process of darkness to reify and elaborate my sense of separation.

Over my many years of meditation and life coaching, I have learned that sometimes there is nothing that can be done. Sometimes we are just where we are whether we like it or not. (This is, of course, the truth of our lives at every moment, but I’ll confine my remarks this morning to the case of the dark realms.)

But just this realization of being caught in some unavoidable place of stuckness allows a slight easing of my desperation. Though I don’t want to be where I am, at least I know that I am in a realm. This is a kind of freedom. Certainly not the great American individualist freedom of ‘I should be able to do whatever I want because I’ve earned the right to be happy.’—but rather the freedom of not having to struggle anymore. The freedom to give up a certain kind of narcissistic fantasy that is actually part of what keeps me lost in delusion.

The growing awareness of the truth of my predicament—that I am in a realm, or I might say just a really bad mood—allows me to try and remember what I know about these places and behave as skillfully as I can.

1) Wherever you are, it’s not just what you think it is. The mind creates endless stories and all the stories tell some truth about the moment and the moment is larger than any story that is told about it. From this place, if I’m lucky, I can begin to get curious about aspects of this place that I haven’t yet noticed.

2) At some point, this will be over. This leads me to struggle a little less and to do what I can do from where I am rather than spending time trying/wishing/hoping to be somewhere else. Then the darkness is just the darkness. I can’t be very productive, but I’m usually good for some rudimentary cleaning and practical simple caretaking.

3) This is how human beings sometimes feel. From this perspective, I can do my best to be compassionate with myself. This state is not an indication of what is wrong with me. It’s not even personal. This is just how it is for human beings sometimes. I realize I too am a human being, sharing this mysterious and sometimes frightening journey with everyone else who has ever lived.

This morning, though the bitter cold persists, the wind and I have quieted down. I notice a particular flavor of quiet that sometimes comes after the storm has passed. I am grateful to have survived once again and wonder what will come today.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

If We’re Lucky

I covered the hydrangeas
in the Temple garden
with a sheet last night
in hopes of protecting
their tender buds from
the predicted bitter cold.

Their azure future,
precariously held
on the brown tips
of old stalks is
nothing to look at
now, but in July,
if we are lucky,
their deepest blue
will survive the freeze
and extravagantly appear
in puffy balls of blossoms
held aloft on the same
woody stems that wobbled
through the long dark winter.

Virtually Touching

It was a year ago yesterday that we had our last in-person meditation service at the Boundless Way Temple—and a year ago tomorrow that we had our first Zoom meditation service. Since then our daily attendance at morning sessions has increased four or fivefold and our overall attendance has doubled. Our ‘regulars’ are no longer confined to the greater Worcester region and now live in Boston, Hartford, Pittsburgh, Atlanta, Tulsa, Los Angelos, Brussels, the Isle of Wight, and beyond. Almost every day we gather virtually to meditate and to support each other in walking the path of awakening.

Religion and spirituality are almost always communal endeavors. Just setting off on a personal journey to find God or to wake up or to be saved is rarely enough. Of course, it is about that personal existential journey however we define it, but this journey is almost always taken with the support, guidance, and encouragement of other like-minded spirits. Hermits and recluses, though a revered part of many traditions, are the exception rather than the rule.

Most of us need each other. We humans are herd animals. Like horses, when we gather, we sense and respond to each other’s energy and intentions. The first time I ever galloped on a horse, it wasn’t my choice. I was simply carried away on my horse who was carried away with the energy of the other horses around us. We were riding one early summer morning through a dewy pasture when we came to a small hill. One of the riders decided it would be fun to gallop up the hill. She began and the other (experienced) riders urged their horses to follow. The small group of horses gathered energy and surged forward. Before I knew what was happening, my horse was galloping up the hill with all the others. It was astonishing to feel the power of the horse and rider community manifesting through the four-legged being I was riding. We quickly reached the top of the hill and paused—horses and riders were all elated.

It was somehow similar when I began going back to church in my early 40’s at the local Unitarian Universalist church on Main Street here in Worcester. I was amazed at how powerful it was to gather with people and to turn our attention together toward these ultimate questions of life and death and the meaning of existence. I found myself delighted to be sitting in a large room with people I knew from other roles in the community, and for once we were all setting down our organizational and political agendas to sing together and to listen to inspiring words that caused us to think deeply about our human existence.

In the Zen tradition, we have honored this ancient wisdom of communal worship in its simplest form. We sing together (mostly just on one note) and listen to inspiring talks, but the heart of our worship (which we call ‘practice’) is simply sitting still together in silence. And in this stillness and silence, even as it is conveyed over Zoom, we find some ineffable, undeniable, and ever-changing connection that supports us.

In years past, I probably would have refused to participate in a virtual meditation session. I would have said that authentic Zen has to be in-person. Zen practice is a physical practice—one position yoga, we sometimes say. An upright, balanced and dignified posture—or as close to that as you can come—is essential. But the energy we generate, share and receive as we practice together is not some physical, measurable substance that has a limited range of effectiveness. Just like the power of prayer that is conceived as reaching beyond the room where you pray—just like the correspondence of the spin of related particles that shift instantly with each other no matter the distance—our connections to each other and to life are not as limited as we imagine.

In our Zen community, we are now talking about how and when we will return to some form of in-person practice. With the vaccine rollout progressing so quickly, we are hopeful that the early summer will see us physically together again in some form. But we are clear that we are not simply going back to how it was. We are adding in-person local practice to the vibrant and virtual community of practice that has so surprisingly emerged over this year of the pandemic. How to mix and match virtual and in-person will (hopefully) be the learning of the year to come.

Dreaming of Reality

I was talking with a friend the other day about Arny Mindell’s trinitarian model of reality. He says there are three levels of reality that are operating all the time. I’ve heard these levels referred to with different names, but the ones that stick with me are consensual reality, the dream world, and the source world.

The first level is consensual reality. This refers to all the stuff we can see, touch, measure, and agree on. The green couch, your to-do list, bank account, and what you ate for breakfast are all on this list. Consensual reality is the world of rational thought, analysis, and problem-solving.

The second level is the dream world. This includes everything present that is amorphous, intuitive, and what cannot be precisely pinned down. Your hopes and dreams, the odd thought that flits through your head, the glance that passes between you and a friend, all this is included. The dream world is not rational and cannot be measured or precisely pinned down.

The source world is the third level. This is the unspeakable source of all that happens. We might also call this the Tao, the cosmic origin, or the Prime Mover. It is the origin of everything—before language and thought. We can point toward and perhaps even follow the movement of the source world, but we can never fully describe, name, or comprehend this realm.

Mindell’s teaching is that everything that happens is happening at all these levels, but it can be useful, in working with persistent or important problems, to consider which levels are being ignored. Usually, we get stuck in consensual reality. Anyone who has tried to reason through a recurring problem with a partner or a parent can verify how little success this approach yields. A discussion of the persistence of crumbs on the counter that focuses on the crumbs themselves is unlikely to lead anywhere productive.

Our western-rational-analytic bias often undervalues the dream-like quality of our lives. From consensual reality, I am here and you are there, but in the dream world, things are much more fluid and provisional. You are a part of me and I am a part of you. The issue we are dealing with is not just the content, but also includes the history of our relationship and many people and events that are not physically present.

The Buddha also taught that our lives have a dream-like quality. In the Diamond Sutra, he encourages us to ‘view this fleeting world’ as ‘a phantom and a dream.’ While life is certainly not a dream (if you jump off the top of a tall building, you will certainly end up in a crumpled heap on the ground), this teaching points to the co-existing truth of the evanescence of life.

We can talk about yesterday afternoon when it was mild and the sun was shining—or reminisce about a year ago, before the pandemic—or tell stories of things that happened decades ago. But where are all these events and conditions now? And have you ever spent a single moment in the future? All our planning and worrying never leads anywhere but to this ever-changing moment.

So perhaps today, while you honor the many demands and plans of your life, you might try going a little dreamy. Let your gaze soften and your focus go fuzzy. What if the tree branch moving in the morning wind is dancing or waving to you–signaling something or singing a song? What if you are the tree? Or you are the wind? What if you jumped up so high that you could see the whole world and could spend the day gazing down on the beautiful and intricate patterns of everyday life? What if the whole world is your dream and you are the dream of the whole world?

I think of the lovely small song attributed to the Ojibwe Indigenous American tribe:
Why do I go about pitying myself, when all the time I am being carried on great winds across the sky?

Sleepless in Worcester

Awake at three a.m. with a mind not interested in rest, I try not to wish my life away. Appreciating life is easy on a sunny afternoon that is unseasonably warm and spring’s first flowers are poking out of the frozen ground, but it’s a little more challenging in these places where we clearly wish it were otherwise. This morning’s too early awakeness is not terrible, just inconvenient and slightly irritating.

I have a strict rule with myself that I don’t get up at these times. Anything before 4:30 is still night. I reason that even lying awake in bed has some restorative qualities so I don’t get up and start writing or reading or meditating. I stay where I am and try to be patient and gently interested. Is a particular place my thoughts are going? What is it like to lie in bed and want to go to sleep? What is there in this familiar place that I have never noticed before?

Sometimes I think of an old woman I once saw in a documentary film about the lives of people who were Japanese National Living Treasures. She was a weaver and must have been in her eighties or nineties. Her health was poor and her vision was deteriorating. She said she often woke very early and lay awake in the dark before someone would come to help her get up. She claimed she didn’t mind this at all. With a twinkle in her eye, she said that she listened to the birds and lay there excited with the knowledge that soon she would be able to get out of bed and sit at her beloved loom again.

She came to me again last night. She is always kind and gentle. Comparing myself to her, I see how young and impatient I really am. Apparently, I am a slow learner. I write and I teach and I practice Zen and walk attentively in the garden because I don’t yet get it. I mean, I can say the right things and point in directions that people find sometimes useful, but I, myself, am still a work-in-progress.

The great abstract expressionist Willem de Kooning painted huge canvases and would spend weeks, months, and even years on the same painting. Over this time, there was a lot of painting, but there was much more just looking. Even after it was nearing completion, he would spend hours and hours smoking cigarettes and just staring at what was in front of him. I suppose he was trying to figure out what he was doing and what, if anything, to do next. I still appreciate his tenacious patience and wonder if I should take up smoking. Probably not.

This morning, I longed to release back into sleep but some part of my brain clung obstinately to consciousness. Looking around for things to think about, I started thinking about this book I am working on and came up with a provisional title. The book will be a second collection and arrangement of these daily writings. For now, I’m calling it: How to Live: Consolations, Reveries and Reflections. But since I also have a rule not to turn on the light and didn’t have a pen handy anyway, I repeated it to myself over and over in hopes of not forgetting.

I liked it better in the dark early morning, but even in the light I still think it captures some of my intention and describes some of what the book will be. I’m glad I remembered it and wonder if I should consider changing some of my rules so I don’t keep myself awake trying to remember all my good ideas.

Honors and Ambivalence

When I earned my black belt in judo, the paper in Nagasaki, Japan, where I was living for a year as a Rotary Club exchange student, sent a reporter to my home for an interview. My host mother and father and I met with the reporter in the living room of our house—the only room that contained western furniture. I remember feeling proud and uncomfortable.

Earning a black belt in judo in Japan was not such a big deal. Most young people of high school age were able to do it in several years of intensive practice. It was the equivalent of being on the varsity sports team in your local high school, a mark of dedication and modicum of talent, but not much more.

We usually think of judo as the standing throws that are so quick and flashy. Two people stand facing each other grabbing onto each other’s jacket and suddenly one goes flying and lands with a thud on the mat. These throws are called nage-waza, throwing techniques. If the throw is clean and well-executed, the thrower wins the match, but if it is less than conclusive, as it usually is, the match continues on the ground, which is where ne-waza or grappling techniques come into play. It’s not as dramatic or elegant as nage-waze but ne-waza wins a lot of matches. And having been a minor star on my American high school wrestling team. I was very good at ne-waza.

My black belt competition was a city-wide event with students from all over the region coming to compete with each other and earn points toward earning a black-belt. As I remember, we had to demonstrate a certain number of required throws and then we competed in five matches to demonstrate our skill. I won all my matches, even a few with throws, but it was the final one that drew attention to me.

My opponent was skilled and tough though considerably smaller than me. I couldn’t throw him but eventually got him down to the mat where we grappled. Now part of ne-waza is joint immobilization techniques and chokeholds. When your opponent locks you in such a hold, you ‘tap out’ and the match ends with the other person winning. After a lot of back and forth, I managed to trap my smaller opponent in a strong choke-hold. I held on tight and waited. He refused to tap and finally, the referee called the match, but my opponent did not get up. He had passed out rather than surrender. Worse than that, he began convulsing. He was taken to a hospital and recovered fully, but at the time I was quite shaken though my coach patted me on the back and I said I had done well.

I earned my black belt, but the article written about me in the paper was mostly because I was an American. Out of the other twenty or thirty other black belts awarded that day, I was the only one who got his own newspaper article. I sat uncomfortably in the rarely used western chairs, in my judo uniform with my blond hair coming down over my forehead.  No one mentioned the convulsions or the chokehold.  My host mother was clearly very proud of me and, as usual, I couldn’t tell what my host father made of the whole thing.

About a week later, the coach of my judo team told me that the coaches of the other high school judo teams had gotten together and decided that since I wasn’t a fully matriculated high school student, I could not represent my high school in the upcoming matches. He said they were just afraid because I was so good. Whatever their reasoning, I was happy to not have to choke anyone else and never practiced judo again.

Definitely Coming

Patches of snow still cover the shady areas and a hill of frozen snow, plowed in February from the parking lot, blocks the front entrance to the Temple garden. But a familiar, small yellow flower whose name I can never remember is poking up near the pond and the first burgundy hellebore blossoms behind the gazebo—joining the dozen or so white snowdrops who are nodding in contentment despite their proximity to the still frozen ground.

Spring is definitely coming.

Nothing can hold it back now – not the pandemic, not systemic injustice, not the Republicans, not the Democrats, not the additional snow and ice that will surely come. The overall trajectory is clear and my inner self begins to feel safe enough to take off her clenched coat of protection and allow the sun’s nourishment and warmth to penetrate deep into my over-wintered heart.

Working On a Poor Tax Attitude

I spent an unpleasant morning yesterday working on my 2020 taxes. I make a point of trying to adjust my attitude to appreciate whatever it is I choose to do, but the collision of my relatively casual bookkeeping and my inner urge to make sure everything is right (especially when the IRS is watching) proved to be too much. So I spent the morning on my laptop feeling resentful, judgmental, and anxious.

As I reflect on this, I remember Byron Katie’s four questions that I first encountered in her book LOVING WHAT IS. Katie emphasizes the fact that our suffering is almost always due to our thinking. Many things happen in the world, but it is only when we expect reality to be different from what it is that we suffer. Posing these four questions and moving to the turn-around is her way to shift our thinking and perhaps even end our ongoing quarrel with reality.

Here is what I remember of Byron Katie’s process:
Write down the judgment or complaint.
1) Is it true?
2) Is it really true?
3) How do you feel when you think that thought?
4) Who would you be if you could never think that thought again?
TURN IT AROUND and compare.

(Stated this way, it’s clearly a 6 or 7 step process, but 4 is close to 6 or 7 and perhaps easier to remember. I wonder if the IRS would mind if I used this kind of rounding on my taxes?)

So, let me work the process with my lingering resentment from yesterday.

The complaint: ‘I’m resentful that I had to spend the morning keeping track of things I don’t really care about.’

Is this true? Yes, clearly!

Is this really true? No. On a deeper level, I really do care about being a good steward of what I have been given. These patterns of numbers appearing on my computer screen are a large part of what allows me to live in a warm house and pick random things off the shelf in the grocery store to take home to eat—not to mention buy books to delight me, seeds to grow in my garden and expensive craft beer to delight my palate and support the local economy. I also chose to spend the morning doing this task which means I had both the luxury of an open morning and that I still have the capacity to think and calculate well enough to attempt this cultural ritual one more time. It won’t always be so.

When I say ‘I had to spend the morning keeping track of things I don’t really care about?’, how do I feel? I feel resentful and agitated—irritated and slightly sorry for myself. I scowl and feel put upon.

If I could never have this thought again, who would I be? I would live a fine life. I might sometimes choose to work on my taxes, but I could be interested in finding the balance between being accurate and being exact. I could do as much as I was able to do that day and leave the rest for another day.

TURN IT AROUND   I am fortunate to have chosen to spend the morning keeping track of things I truly care about.

Is this as true or perhaps even more true than my original statement? It’s at least as true and probably more true! I am glad I still have enough sources of income that my taxes are still a little complicated. I am blessed to have so much money coming in that I don’t have to worry about it all the time, that I can have the luxury of just thinking about it seriously on occasion. I am blessed with such a wealth of choices. People give me money that allows me to do what I love. I have such freedoms and luxuries. Preparing an accurate summary of my financial year gives me a chance to look at the big picture and to be amazed at how much I have to be grateful for.

And…my preliminary calculations indicate that I will also have the opportunity to give some of the money which has been given to me, to the United States government. I am happy that just this week that same government is passing legislation to send money to individuals, small businesses, schools, and local governments to support a full and widespread recovery from the pandemic. I get to be part of the generosity and support extended to so many.

This is good. This is what is. I am lucky to be alive.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

More Instructions to Self

The first challenge is finding a place to start. The second is trusting that starting place enough to take the first step. From there on, it’s just a matter of following through.

Easier said than done.

EASIER SAID THAN DONE—perhaps that’s the title of my new book. One teacher said that these teaching on how to wake up are so simple that an eight-year-old child can say them but so difficult that even an eighty-year-old person can’t live them.

We’re all trying to close the gap between what we know and what we live—between what we love and what we do. The first step in this approach is, as they say on the London Tube, to Mind the Gap. Becoming aware of the distance between our intentions and our actions is full of possibility and potential—a good place to begin.

I am lost and discouraged much more than I would like to admit. As many times as I include my daily struggles and investigations in what I write and talk about, there is another level that remains hidden. I write about a particular morning and in the writing, I am committed to finding a way through. The writing is true and, at the same time, a fabrication—a story based on a true story Perhaps a true story can never be told, for in the telling it separates from the thing it was and becomes something new. Perhaps something in the story resonates with the experiences of others, but the thing itself, the thing that is being written about never happened before the writing.

Bodhidharma didn’t come from India to China, didn’t meet with the Emperor and tell him the essential teaching of Buddhism is ‘Vast emptiness with nothing holy’ and wasn’t the first ancestor in the Zen school in a lineage that has descended unbroken through my teacher to me.

But easier said than done is also another story. Sometimes it’s true and sometimes it’s not true. Sometimes just walking down the street with a very young friend in the late winter and noticing the buds on the trees swelling and explaining to him about spring and warmth and green leaves is fully enough and there is no difficulty to be found anywhere. Sometimes we catch a current of energy and are saved from our endless struggle. Or is it more accurate to say we are caught by a current of energy?

I’m reminded of my brief career as a trapeze artist. It lasted all of one afternoon and it was again in Costa Rica, at a resort where my wife was teaching and I was playing consort for the week—just invited along for entertainment and distraction. (Note to self: look into this as potential next career.) It was just an afternoon lesson but it was on the high trapeze. I still vividly remember climbing the tiny rope ladder up and up and how much smaller and higher the platform appeared from standing on it than from the ground.

It was a simple trick they were teaching us: to be caught. All you had to do was step off the tiny platform high in the air. Holding (tightly) onto a metal bar, you swung down and down, then finally began to swing up. At the top of the out-swing ‘all you had to do’ is to put your knees where your head was, bring them under the bar, then back through over the bar to catch the bar with the back of your knees as you released your hands and swung back toward where you started—upside down.

And if you had managed to do all this, the next part was to swing backward and upside-down through space holding on with your knees with your arms and hands extended. When you reached the apex of the second out-swing, the muscular and good-looking young man (who actually did this for a living), would ‘catch you’—would grab your forearms with his hands as you grabbed his forearms with your hands. You released your knees and flew through the air, held in his grasp.

And what I really remember are the instructions I was given as I stepped off the little platform. ‘Don’t try to find the hands that will catch you. LET YOURSELF BE CAUGHT.’ Let yourself be caught. Flying backward, upside down through the air, extend your arms and hands and let yourself be caught. I did reach out into the vast moving space and I was caught and for a small moment, was caught and swung free. It was truly astonishing.

So…putting this mornings lesson all together we’re left with:
1) Easier Said Than Done – remember that this life of being human requires a life of learning,
2) Mind the Gap – it’s actually in paying attention to where we fall short that is where the true journey begins, and
3) Let Yourself Be Caught – maybe God is a handsome young man (or woman or non-binary person) who is swinging upside down like you and is ready to catch you if only you will reach out and allow yourself to be caught.

Maybe enough instruction for one morning.

Good News!

The ambitious American Rescue Plan to support people and stimulate the economy as we move through the rest of the coronavirus recession passed the Senate yesterday on a party-line vote of 50 to 49. We should celebrate. This is a historic moment, indicating that the Democrats, under Joe Biden’s leadership and with their slim majority in the House and their non-majority edge in the Senate, are willing to lead the country. This economic relief package has the support of over 70% of Americans but not one Republican Senator. As Heather Richardson points out in her March 6 ‘Letters from an American’, this bill indicates ‘a return to the principles of the so-called liberal consensus that members of both parties embraced under the presidents from Democrat Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who took office in 1933, to Jimmy Carter, who left the White House in 1981.’ Richardson points out it was Reagan, who defeated Carter who ‘told Americans in his Inaugural Address that “government is not the solution to our problem; government is the problem.’

Roosevelt led a dramatic shift in our country that was partially responsible for our recovery from the Great Depression. He vigorously used the levers of government to balance and restrain the power and greed of the most wealthy. His patrician colleagues felt betrayed and predicted the end of America as we know it. In fact, just the opposite happened. Republicans since Reagan have been espousing smaller government with the notion that the free market is just and will protect everyone worth protecting. The dramatic expansion of the gap between the most wealthy and the poorest as well as the erosion of the middle class over the past forty years show the pernicious impact of unregulated capitalism.

As summarized by the New York Times, the American Rescue Package includes:
• Another round of one-time direct payments of up to $1,400 for millions of Americans; an extension of the $300 weekly unemployment benefits through Labor Day; and a benefit of $300 per child for those age 5 and younger — and $250 per child ages 6 to 17.
• $45 billion in rental, utility and mortgage assistance; $30 billion for transit agencies; and billions more for small businesses and live venues.
• $350 billion for state, local and tribal governments; $130 billion to primary and secondary schools; $14 billion for the distribution of vaccines; and $12 billion to nutrition assistance.
By one account, the package just passed will reduce childhood poverty in America by 50%. The passage in the Senate yesterday moves the bill back to the House where the amendments are expected to be accepted and the bill will become law.

Though Republicans are claiming this amount of spending, $1.9 trillion, is too much and will have the opposite impact on the economy, these are just the arguments Roosevelt encountered when he fashioned his New Deal legislation. It’s also worth remembering, as Professor Richardson reminds us, that the 2017 tax cut under Trump cost at least $1.5 trillion and benefitted the already wealthy individuals and corporations without having a significant impact on the economy for the rest of us.

The American Rescue Package shows that the Democrats are willing to take the mantle of leadership given to them by the people of this country and take strong and principled action to protect the most vulnerable and support the working class as the path to strengthening our society. Biden has also made this position clear in his support for the unionization efforts of the workers at the Amazon plant in Bessemer, Alabama.

In a video recorded on February 28, Biden said: ‘America wasn’t built by Wall Street, it was built by the middle class, and unions built the middle class. Unions put power in the hands of workers. They level the playing field. They give you a stronger voice for your health, your safety, higher wages, protections from racial discrimination and sexual harassment. Unions lift up workers, both union and non-union, and especially Black and Brown workers.’

Meanwhile, the Republican party has re-coalesced around Trump. His lies about a stolen election and his stoking fears of a changing society seem to lead the Republican party toward an endless cultural war, thereby avoiding altogether the need for policies and conversations to address the enormous challenges of environmental crisis, economic stratification, systemic racial violence, and COVID recovery.

But today, we should be happy. We have a functioning government and a President who is willing to use his power to take principled stands and to take action for the good of all. We must continue to reach across the polarizing divides of party-line ideology, but we must also move forward on the urgent issues of equality and justice that are at the heart of our dream of democracy.

Nearly a Year

I’m nearing the twelve-month mark in this phase of my writing. Friday, March 13, 2020 was my first daily post: COVID-19, Boundless Way Zen Temple and Blogging. The night before, the Temple Leadership Council (TLC) had met and decided that we would not have any more in-person meditation sessions ‘for at least two weeks’ after our meditation the next morning. We were scrambling to put together an on-line meditation for that Sunday. We thought we were exercising an excess of caution—two weeks seemed like a long time. But looking back, we were incredibly naïve.

I suppose we are always naïve about the future. Our assumption is that the future will be an extension of the past—that what comes tomorrow will be a development of what is here today. We spend our time evaluating what has happened and making plans based on some version of that repeating itself. This examination and reflection of the past can be useful and is often helpful making plans and carrying out projects. But large asteroids, new viruses, and other unexpected occurrences are also a part of what happens. We go for a routine visit to the doctor and find out we have a major illness. We get a cough and fever and our COVID test comes back positive. We slip on the ice and twist our knee and can’t walk for months.

Life is both somewhat predictable and wildly contingent. The web of mutuality that supports us also ties us to each other and to everything in mutual dependence. We cannot be fully prepared for what is to come. We may be captain of our own ship but the wind and the weather, the icebergs and the other ships on the sea (both friends and pirates) are all beyond our control.

‘Unprecedented’ is the word that was thrown around a lot in March and April. Eventually we began to refer to the ‘new normal’ or the ‘new abnormal.’ What was unthinkable slowly became our daily life. Now, as the vaccine roll-out continues at a vigorous pace, we are all beginning to think what life will look like when we can get beyond this phase.

Much has been lost. Over five hundred thousand lives just in the United States alone. Countless businesses and millions of jobs are gone and will not return. Old habits of gathering and socializing have been interrupted. Which will return? How will we be different? What will be familiar? We can’t know.

Our best bet is flexibility and clear intention. As our nation slowly moves back to some semblance of normalcy, how do we not fall into reckless eagerness while avoiding unnecessary caution? Even now some states have removed COVID related restrictions. Will the people in those states be responsive to the information of viral spread and adjust their behavior accordingly or will resuming ‘normal interaction’ too fast lead to another wave of infections?

Politics and culture wars still rage on, severely impacting our capacity to work together in meeting this ongoing health crisis. Our inability to talk with each other across the political divide is an ongoing crises too. How will we reweave our country? Perhaps the whole notion of ‘reweaving’ is incorrect. Our nation has always contained sharp and violently defended divides of privilege based on geographies and birth and skin color. Perhaps this current polarization is the necessary step to address the lies of white supremacy and the only way to move toward a more just and truly inclusive society.

Meanwhile, kudos to the Biden administration for leading by both example and coordinating efforts in rolling out the vaccine. Now the challenge is to continue with clear intention to move toward opening up while remaining sensitive to the permutations and unexpected events that will surely arise.

Appreciating Mistakes

Dogen Zenji said shoshaku jushaku. Shaku generally means “mistake” or “wrong.” Shoshaku jushaku means to succeed wrong with wrong, or one continuous mistake . . . A Zen master’s life can be said to be shoshaku jushaku.

                                         Shunryu Suzuki, ZEN MIND, BEGINNERS MIND

I often paraphrase this to say that the spiritual path is one mistake after another. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to broaden this to say that human life is one mistake after another. No matter how good or pure or mindful we intend to be, we can never outrun our blindness. Greed, anger, and ignorance rise endlessly. Our righteousness is always, at least in part, self-righteousness designed to protect our position and avoid our full humanness.

While this sounds rather depressing, when we look more deeply, it can actually be quite liberating.

There is no life apart from reactivity. In fact, reactivity is part of the definition of life. We might even say that to exist is to react. Even a mighty mountain, while apparently standing immovable, is eventually washed to the sea by the rain that falls. The great earth continually reacts and responds to the gravitational pull of the sun. And the sun is held and dances in response to her sister stars in the Milky Way and beyond.

We are all pushed and pulled by everything else. We are all being worn away by the winds and rains of our lives. (Not to mention the needs and desires of the people we have been cooped up with for the last year COVID precautions.) To exist is to be in relationship to the world around us. We reach out our hand to touch a smooth stone and we are touched by that very same stone. Life and non-life appear together. All life is supported and sustained by all life.

So what is this nonsense about mistakes? What is a mistake? ? Is it something I do that has consequences beyond my intention? If this is the case, then everything is a mistake. Every single action I take has implications that only unfold after my action and can never be known. Is a mistake something that harms others or doesn’t turn out how we intended? In this case too, all our actions must be included.

Of course, all our actions differ in their impact on those around us. Sometimes we do things that are clearly selfish, mean-spirited, and hurt others (and ourselves). Sometimes our actions seem beneficial and supportive to the life around us. We all should aspire to the latter and avoid the former. But this is impossible.

We can never know what comes from what we do. We must assume that any story we tell about who we are and what we are doing is inaccurate, biased, and limited. I might take an action motivated by kindness and generosity and only later discover that my actions created problems that perhaps even made this situation worse—or they may have helped the immediate situation but had a negative impact on some other situation I wasn’t even considering.

Only in acknowledging our incomplete awareness and the impossibility of moral purity, can we honestly commit ourselves to lives of kindness and compassion. We vow to do the best we can to keep our hearts open and to see as far as we can into our interconnection with all beings and with the planet. We examine our motives and stay alert to our bias toward self-righteousness. We practice listening to perspectives and positions that disturb us so as to learn what we do not yet understand. We act with as much integrity and conviction as we can muster.

Then we accept the consequences, both intended and unintended. We learn as we go. We practice apologizing. And we go on.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

Another Chance To Remember

In this very moment is there anything more vital
than the beating of your heart and
the breathing of your breath?

In this very moment can you slow your separate urgency
long enough to appreciate the life
that effortlessly gives itself to you?

Where else would you go? Who else could you be?
The time you imagined has already arrived and
connection richly sustains us all without reservation.

You must stop this pretense of poverty and return
your longing to the beloved who is already you
and is already here—incarnate everything encountered.

The generosity of the life that is beyond comprehension
will certainly hold you and will just as certainly
someday soon enfold you again into the infinite source.

Certainly, certainly you are not separate. Each particular thing
is the boundless presence of life
offering you another chance to remember.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)

The Night Wind

All night the wind
convulses frozen trees
in a wild howling.
I sleep fitfully.

Just before midnight,
the doorbell rings
and digital clocks
begin flashing.

After noisy hours,
creeping light returns
and the wind drops.
We all stand still
for a moment

before great gusts
rise up to push again
against the walls of my room.

The acerbic sun
illuminates the bare
branches responding
with fresh spasms of delight.

Snowdrop Delight

My Love Note from February 25

When will you come
my nodding friends
alabaster snowdrops?

was answered on February 26! The flowers are still budded and not yet nodding, but that is perfectly fine with me.

I thought to look for them the day after I wrote, but was genuinely surprised to find them. There are a few secret places I know to look, where they come up every year. Usually I forget and they catch me by surprise, when spring is far from my mind with cold melting snow all around. I’ll be on a backyard excursion to check for something else and they’ll catch my eye by the path, in a patch of frozen ground. I wrote another love poem on March 18 in 2019 about snowdrops, the first flowers of the year in the Temple garden:

As the snow retreats
they surprise me every year
in the same place.

But, as I said, this year I remembered to look even while the snow blanketed 90% of the garden and grounds.  And there they were by the lower entrance to the Temple. It’s not a particularly fertile part of the garden—nearly fully shaded by a spectacular crimson rhododendron that has risen beyond all reasonable rhododendron expectations and dominates the area. I have a couple painted ferns that seem to be happy underneath along with some ornamental ginger, but not much else seems to tolerate the shade and soil…except the hardy few snowdrops that return year after year.

After ten springs walking in this Temple garden, the larger patterns are just beginning to reveal themselves to me. This is the joy of gardening, to discover and work with the natural flow of things. The garden here has been a patient teacher. Though I am a slow learner, my stubborn enthusiasm keeps me around long enough to take in some small portion of the beauty and brilliance that surrounds me. The way things happen grows only slowly on and in me.

I am a great believer in the randomness of events. As we used to say in sociology, correlation is not causation—just because two events happen one after the other does not mean that one caused the other. I am a great believer in the staggering number of variables that lead to the occurrence of any single event. Freud called this overdetermination—there are a number of reasons why any particular things happens—each one is, perhaps, sufficient explanation, but not a full explanation.

Over the season and over the years things happen in a garden. Some plants flourish, some survive and many die. As a gardener, you are always working with failure and death. The plant that looked so healthy and lush at the garden center or in its glossy photo in the catalogue, looses its mojo when placed in what should be the perfect spot. Or it does well for a season or two, then mysteriously withers.

But in the middle of all the coming and going, a lot of things flourish—most of them not due to my care. I suppose that’s one of the criteria for succeeding in the Temple garden, to survive without a lot of fussing necessary. Now fussy plants are beautiful and we could also call them high relationship plants. Fussy is just the word of a lazy gardener who isn’t fully committed to the relationship.

We had a Zen student who had a thing with orchids. She would take our supermarket orchids after they had bloomed and before we took them to the compost pile. They would return several months later covered again with gorgeous blossoms. The orchids clearly delighted in her careful attention and she in theirs. The rescued plants would grace the Temple for weeks on end.

For me, however, I like the rough and tumble plants that, having found the right location, flourish with the proud neglect of a gardener who doesn’t like to work too hard—who just wants to appreciate the natural processes as they reveal themselves.

So the wild snowdrops have done quite well in the Temple garden and have finally taught me to look for them before I am even thinking about spring. I went down to the lower entrance on Friday afternoon, just on a whim because the snow was pretty much everywhere.  (It was the day after writing my poem of longing for them, but usually I’m so busy longing that I forget to look for what is already here.) There, in the small neglected area near the lower door was a small patch of ground not covered in snow. And there, to my delight and surprise, were the three first snowdrops of the year—each one just two or three inches tall, snuggled amongst the round wild ginger—holding aloft their white buds, almost ready for nodding.

Transitioning

This morning. I wake up in the dark with a sinus headache. It’s not terrible, but it’s not pleasant and I notice that I’m unconsciously clenched against the sensation. I feel not only the sinus ache underneath my eyes, but also a tightness in the whole area of nose, cheeks and eyes that feels like it extends to my brain. Now a little more awake in the dark, I turn toward this amorphous arising. It seems possible to release some of the generalized contraction around the ache itself. This reduces the unpleasantness and all I’m left with a dull sensation that’s surprisingly subtle and hard to describe.

Now, the urge to pee becomes strong enough to overcome the inertia of the beddrag* that entices me to stay under the covers. In a previously unpredictable moment, I uncover my formerly sleeping self, swing myself upright and make my way to the bathroom to pee, to the kitchen to make tea and finally to the living room to write.

Having turned up the thermostat when I started the tea, the heat now begins to come to the radiators. Here, in the front room, it comes with a pleasing hissing sound that reminds me of other houses and other cozy winter mornings snuggled reading or writing in a warm chair. But from the back of the house, a familiar hammering sound begins. It’s only when the heat comes on, and it lasts for just a few minutes, but it’s like the carpenters are back and doing a small bit of noisy remodeling in the very early morning. Or like we have a ghost carpenter who got lost on the job and wakes up every morning for just a short time to complain and rail against his lot. He’s a water ghost and is trapped in the pipes of the heating system.

I imagine it’s not a bad life—no deadlines or responsibilities. He gets to do a lot of local traveling around the house and he’s constantly changing states from water to steam and back to water again. My theory is that he only minds the first transition of the day. When the early morning blast of steam comes to rouse him from his dark slumbers, he’s shocked and disturbed. In panic, he hammers frantically on the pipe to get out, but realizes, after a short time, that it’s more fun to be the dancing energy of steam than to complain. So, after a short tantrum, he sets his hammer down and abandons himself to the flow of what is happening.

But really, I know it’s ‘water hammer’ and has something to do with water that has not properly drained back to the furnace encountering the fresh steam from the furnace. The incoming steam ‘rapidly condense over a puddle of water causing the water to snap violently up into the partial vacuum left by the condensed steam.’ I can’t quite picture this alleged ‘violent snapping’, but I can certainly hear it.

Later this morning, I promise myself that I will go and do my best imitation of a handy-man and see if I can notice anything off about the pitch of the radiator or the pipe that serves both as the conduit for the steam to the radiator and the path for the cooler water on its return journey. Mostly, on these handy-man adventures, I see little and give up quickly, but you never know.

Meanwhile, I’ll do my best to surrender to the thousand transformations of state required through the day. From sitting to standing, from inside to outside, from confused to clear and back again. Of course, a little complaining and clenching is to be expected, so I’ll try to include that too and see what I can learn.

• beddrag – the feeling of reluctance to exit the warm comfort of the horizontal life of dreaming and enter into the vertical exertions of daily life. See February 20 ‘Discovering New States of Being’

On Writing A Book

About a year and a half ago, for some unknown reason, I decided I wanted to write another book. I spent several months wondering and dreaming what it should be about. What do I have to say that might be both valuable to others and be attractive enough to a publisher to want to put it into print? I did a bunch of writing and reflecting but nothing emerged clearly enough to find a way forward.

Then the pandemic came last March and we were all forced to shelter in place. Part of my immediate response was to begin to write these daily reflections. I think I wanted both to clarify my myriad feelings and perceptions as we moved into this unprecedented territory and to offer support to others meeting the same challenges.

I had begun this style of daily writing about fifteen years ago when I began to take writing seriously. At first it was just for me, then I began posting occasionally on a blog. These posts led to a few magazine articles and eventually to a book proposal that was accepted by Wisdom Publications in 2009.

The book was supposed to be about Zen and Life Coaching – about their paradoxical overlap as seen through the three-step process of attention, intention and action. (Notice where you are, remember your purpose and take the next step.) I had a detailed outline that followed logically through the three areas and had even chosen anecdotes to illustrate various aspects. I took a three-month sabbatical from my coaching practice to write the book with very little to show for it. For more than a year, I continued to do my best to write the book I had promised. I wrote countless drafts and revisions of chapters, but it never came to life and it always felt like hard work to me.

Meanwhile, I was writing these daily, more personal and poetic (I hope) reflections of the various real experiences of my life and how the teachings of Zen and coaching are applicable in real time. I eventually realized that this smaller format that begins with my actual experience rather than some generalized theory felt much more alive and useful to me. I eventually convinced Wisdom to publish a collection of these pieces as THIS TRUTH NEVER FAILS: A ZEN MEMOIR IN FOUR SEASONS.

I still have many inspiring theories and wonderful schema to explain how life works, but when I elaborate them too far, they all fall flat. A friend of mine used to talk about the ‘shelf-life’ of inspiration. You’ll read a fantastic quote or find a new rhythm of exercise or a new diet and for several day or weeks everything will be clear and bright. But eventually, every new program or perspective wears out and becomes just another technique.

Life is much more complicated than a simple three-step or twelve-step or even 108-step process. Not that these frameworks aren’t helpful and necessary for navigating the territory of being human, it’s just that they can easily hide the wildness and unpredictability that is at the heart of our human experience.

Most non-fiction, self-help, spiritual-inspiration books I read have enough content for about twenty pages. Successful authors keep it simple and repeat their main point over and over. I am congenitally unable to write (or read the entirety) of a book like that. I want more surprise and variation. I want play and different perspectives. I want something that doesn’t claim or attempt to be complete.

Life is not sequential, reasonable or ultimately workable. We can grow in love and understanding, but we cannot outgrow our limited and mortal nature. Our vision will always be partial and our solutions only temporary. The good news is that this is not a problem, but rather simply the invitation into the provisional ongoing dance of life.

So I am realizing again, that my new book has to come from these shorter bits of reflection/life. I’m a little overwhelmed by how much I have generated over the past year, but am recommitting to finding/creating a new book from the richness of all that has come through me.

This morning, I feel a special gratitude to my regular and occasional readers who have been my appreciative audience this past year. Likes on Facebook and short messages of gratitude and acknowledgement have been crucial to my capacity to sustain this exploration and sharing.

A deep bow to so many.

Cow Paths

Breathing in and breathing out. Trying to be still enough to find the beginning of the path this morning.

I’m sitting on the familiar brown couch some friends gave us when they moved to California. It’s awkwardly proportioned and for years we have intended to replace it, but I’m growing used to it and with every passing day, the likelihood of its escaping its present circumstance diminishes.

There is an inertia to the way things are. I remember from school: a body in motion tends to remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. Is it also true that the longer a thing is in one place, the more likely it is to stay in that one place? Or the more often a particular thing happens, the more likely it is to happen again?

Apparently, the likelihood of repetition is indeed the true for our brains. Every time a particular neural circuit (emotion, thought or action) happens in the brain, the more likely it is to occur again. In Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction, they used to talk about these repeated paths of the mind as cow paths. The (apocryphal?) image is that of cows that tend to take the same way back to the barn every day. And every day their feet wear down the path a little more until the path becomes visible; slightly, then eventually significantly, below the level of the rest of the field.

The path starts in the habit minds of the cows, then appears in the world as a response to their repeated actions. It’s almost as if the world and their minds are not separate things, but each one responds to and shapes the other. This is the Buddhist teaching of the mutual causality between the self and the world. This perspective of mutuality is increasingly supported by the burgeoning field of neurology. We create and are created by everything that surrounds, supports and challenges us. Each of us is an ongoing interplay between what appears within and what arises without.

But back to the neurology of our minds. The more often we participate in any thought, feeling or action, the more likely we are to do it again. The neural path becomes a groove that the feet of our thoughts naturally fall into.

It’s interesting to think of thoughts as having little feet and having some choice of paths. This image may actually reflect some truth of the choices we constantly make as we interpret the sensations and signals we receive from the world.

What just happened? How should I react to what that person just said? Were they being hostile or just distracted? Do I need to defend myself, set them straight, or thank them for their honesty? Was it a big deal that I need to figure out or was it just my stomach rumbling to tell me that breakfast is coming soon?

The story we tell about what is going on is a choice that impacts the quality of our lives and creates part of the world we live in. Each story is a kind of hypothesis about what is going on in the world around us. We create our stories from scattered bits of input we take in from the world which we then mix with a big dollop of our experiences and stories from the past. From this invisible recipe, we internally create the ‘reality’ which we experience as external to us. Mostly, we are happily (or unhappily) unaware of our part in the construction business.

So I sit here on the brown still couch. (It is both remains brown and is continually unmoving.) The inertia of my intention to write and share has once again led to this small creation. I found a trailhead, followed/created some winding path, then found my way back to the end/beginning to make a clean getaway.

I am not really sure of my purpose or the further shape of these musings. What is this life that comes through me? I follow, elaborate and play as directly as I can–appreciating and performing the cow paths, highways and open fields of life.

Love Note

When will you come
my nodding friends
alabaster snowdrops?

Claiming Authority

A friend sent me an article on Dogen that will soon be appearing in some prestigious academic journal. It was fifty pages long and led deep into the thickets of commentaries on commentaries—ancient and fierce arguments over Dogen’s true meanings and intentions. Reading of the polemic point and counterpoints I was reminded that the literary and artistic treasures handed down to us have a long provenance and our current view is influenced by arguments we will never know.

Alan Cole, in his irreverent and closely argued book FATHERING YOUR FATHER, claims that history is the donkey we dress with bells and whistles to pull the cart of the present in the desired direction. The commentaries on Dogen through the centuries since his death certainly bear this out. Each one interprets Dogen to support their own position which is sometimes directly contradicting a previous interpretation. Everybody uses the text to justify and bolster their position, all the while claiming the authenticity of their position through pointing to the text.

Cole elaborates the surprising degree to which the history of one-to-one transmission of Chan (Zen) was consciously created to bolster the fortunes and fame of those looking back. It was Chan teachers in Song dynasty who were vying with each other for imperial patronage and support among the intellectual literati that ‘fathered’ or created their own lineage—arranging historical stories in such a way to place themselves and the pinnacle.

I suppose we all must claim and thereby create our fathers. The identity of our biological fathers is usually pretty well set, but the process of telling and retelling the story of who they are and were is one of ongoing creation. Any individual is a universe of thoughts, feelings and actions. Understanding our fathers (and mothers) is part of coming to terms with the gifts and the curses we have to live with. Cole’s gift to this enterprise is the demand that we accept responsibility for the role that imagination and invention invariably play in the stories we tell about what came before us.

Then there are the fathers and mothers we claim. The heroes, teachers, and mentors we find along our journey that teach and guide us. Some we meet and learn from in person while some touch us through their words or creations from centuries ago. Whenever I read Thoreau and Emerson, I sense how the roots of my words, thoughts and perspectives draw nourishment from the soil of wonder and direct experience which they cultivated. I am a product of their words and thoughts, but I only understand their words through the lens of my own experience. When I quote Emerson (or Dogen), I am selecting only a small portion of his writing—that small portion that supports and authenticates whatever point I am making. I claim him as my source in order to bolster my authority.

Cole’s cynicism about our uses of history and tradition points to important truths, but misses the creative and necessary possibility of something more. While we can only understand something new based on our experiences of the past, we also have the capacity to receive new perspectives and make new connections. Hearing a Dharma talk or reading a book or sitting in meditation, we can hear words and phrases that turn our mind—that point us to something we have never noticed before.

Perhaps the take-away from all this is to cultivate a conscious openness to what we encounter. Rather than just looking for points of agreement and disagreement, can we watch for what is new and unexpected? Can we appreciate resonance and dissonance at the same time we maintain a heart that is open to what has not yet been known?

Refusing To Go Numb

Yesterday, on February 22, 2021 at around five o’clock, America passed the 500,000 mark in the tally of COVID-related deaths. Church bells tolled at the National Cathedral and about an hour later, our President and Vice-President, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, and their respective spouses appeared on national TV to mark this grim milestone and to offer words of consolation and support.

Biden expressed his sympathy with those who have lost loved ones, referring to the personal tragedies of his own life:

“I know all too well,” he said. “I know what it’s like to not be there when it happens. I know what it’s like when you are there holding their hands; there’s a look in their eye and they slip away. That black hole in your chest — you feel like you’re being sucked into it. The survivors remorse, the anger, the questions of faith in your soul.”

He also mentioned that half a million lost lives is more than the number of American deaths in both World Wars and the Vietnam war combined. And more than any other nation on earth. More people have died in America, one of the most advanced and affluent countries on earth, than in any other country on the face of the planet. This is a terrible tragedy that did not have to happen.

Aside from Republican and Democrat, aside from any animus at the antics of our most recent former President, we need to take a deep look at the failures of our system of government that allowed this disaster to unfold. Even as the current administration, leaders and health professionals across the country work to distribute the vaccine and even as numbers of deaths and hospitalizations are dramatically decreasing, we need to begin to uncover the individual and systemic failures that led to this devastation.

In his brief remarks, Biden also urged us all to ‘resist becoming numb to the sorrow’. He demonstrated this when he pulled out a small card from his jacket pocket on which is updated each day with the number of those infected with the virus and the number who have died. It’s a small gesture and it’s easy to dismiss whatever politicians do in their hyper-self-conscious world of power, but somehow with Joe Biden, I believe his sincerity and am touched.

The New York Times article from which I got most of the information for this post used the word ‘emotional’ several times in describing the brief ceremony. I have not yet witnessed the event itself, but I did see Biden and Harris at a brief ceremony honoring the COVID-related deaths just prior to the inauguration. It was emotional and brief. It was just a photo=op for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, but was a demonstration of them using the power of their position to direct the attention of the nation in a certain direction. I got the sense that yesterday’s ceremony was the same.

Biden appears to be setting the new standard for emotional intelligence for politicians. President Clinton was often referred to as mourner in chief. He showed up after a number of national disasters, including a warehouse fire here in Worcester in 1999 that claimed the lives of six firemen, and led us all in mourning. Clinton had the capacity to exude sympathy, but it never seemed fully connected to him as a person. Biden’s personal tragedies and his long career of civil service give his gestures and words a sense of lived reality that is quite different.

So let us heed Joe Biden’s example and encouragement. Let us not become numb to the numbers of people who have suffered and died with this virus. Let us not forget the daily struggles of blacks and people of color who live in a society that does not treat them as the full citizens they are. Let us not turn away from the pain of physical and emotional violence directed against women and children on a daily basis. Let us also remember the daily degradation of our planet in the service of profit and comfort that puts all of human life at risk.

This is not a small thing in a world that encourages us to be happy and seek the quick fix. This is an intentional reorientation of our hearts to honor the mutual interconnection that is the true fabric of our lives. Let us turn toward the suffering around us and the suffering in our own hearts in order to continually rededicate our lives to making a difference. Let us all vow to use whatever resources of position and power—of heart, mind and wealth we have to push the world toward connection, consideration and safety for all.

Magical Thinking

In another year, the date will be 2 22 22. Will something special happen on the day when the 2’s all come up together? Will something special happen on this day when we are only one digit off from full numeric alignment? Let’s imagine Yes.

Let’s imagine that today something special will happen but that it might not occur in any recognizable form. Like the small event that happens early in the novel, the significance of which is only revealed toward the end. And only later do you get to look back over what has happened and say ‘Oh, now I get it, that was the turning point.’

It’s kind of a lovely feeling, when the brain rearranges the furniture of the mind and a new room, a new life is created. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions and all that. These maps of the mind that masquerade as the world we live within. This life that is invisibly co-created in each moment.

Our understanding is only ever partial. Our small conscious minds alive in the middle of the vast cosmos. The vast cosmos alive in the middle of our small conscious minds. Outside only appears because of inside. Inside appears only because of outside.

My Zen teacher used to say ‘Subject needs object. Object needs subject.’ There is no self, no perceiver without something to perceive. I know myself only when I meet something that is not myself. The thing perceived, the object, is a mutual creation arising spontaneously in my neural circuitry as I receive bits of information from the world around and within me.

In Buddhist philosophy this mutual creation is called dependent arising (pratitya samutpada). It’s a fancy word for the natural and subtle process of awareness. (One that has been supported by current brain research – see once again Lisa Barrett’s How Emotions are Made)

But back to the notion that we might imagine that something special will happen today because we are only one digit off from all 2’s in the numeric writing of today’s date. Of course, this is a silly notion based on superstition and magical thinking. Why would all 2’s be any different from any other random combination of digits?

We could also say that any numerical (or other) representation of the date of today is magical thinking. Days don’t really contain numbers. The first day of the year is just another rising of the sun, albeit usually a cold one for those of us in the northern hemisphere. February is just eight letters strung together that we have agreed, here in the English speaking world, that refers to a series of days that come after January.

When we look closely at time and language and the myriad social agreements that we take for granted, it all gets pretty squishy. The whole world, it turns out, is pretty much a magical and jointly agreed upon construction. So why not appreciate and play along with this ongoing impossibly and constantly constructed universe?

For my part, I will set reason just a little to the side today and keep my eyes open and my senses alert for something really special—some intimation of radical change coming, some sense of a hitherto unrecognized gift or talent, some precious aspect of life which I never noticed before.

And I suspect the looking (not even the finding) will take me through the wardrobe to Narnia once again.

Asking For Help

I woke up this morning wondering what kind of help I need.

This is a harder question than it seems, especially for those of us who were trained in the value of independence. As a child, I looked forward to being an adult so that I would no longer need to ask for help. Being dependent always felt like something I needed to fix. The message I heard from grown-ups in my life was ‘Take care of yourself and don’t be needy. Be a big boy.’

Well, I’m as big as I’m going to get and find myself still dependent on the people around me. Of course, I appreciate this dependence more than I used to. Needing others, asking for help, giving help are part of what it means to be alive. Marshall Rosenberg, creator of ‘Nonviolent Communication’ claimed that our needs are our gifts to each other. We are, he wrote, hard-wired to receive great satisfaction from helping each other.

This doesn’t make sense to me when I think about my own needs which often feel like they must be an imposition on others. But when I think about times I’ve been able to make a real difference in someone else’s life, I feel a sense of fulfillment and gratefulness that I was allowed to give something of value. We all want to be able to give something of value to people we care about and to the world we live in. Few things are as satisfying as making a difference. While parenting young children (and older children too) is incredibly demanding, it is also incredibly satisfying. To be able to support and protect and guide another human being is a deep privilege.

The traditional model of giver being the powerful one and the receiver being the weaker one who is in debt relies on a kind of common-sense theoretical thinking that is not really true. There are different roles and different levels of capabilities and influence, but beneath these differences is a web of interconnection where all the roles are necessary and equally valuable.

But many of us are more comfortable being the helper rather than the helpee. We’d rather be the one being thanked than the one expressing gratitude. We’d rather not be beholden to anyone for their kindness. But the truth is that we’re all dependent on each other’s consideration. Blanche DuBois said it memorably in A Streetcar Named Desire: ‘I have always relied on the kindness of strangers.

So if we all need each other and depend on each other, can we give up our need to appear to be grown-up and independent? Let’s be grown-up and interdependent. And maybe, if we get really advanced on the path, we can even be grown-up and needy. But that is probably a higher level of development than most of us can aspire to.

What is the help I need? How can I clarify and ask for what I really want? It’s precarious business, to be self-aware of our incompleteness, our longing, our dreams. What do I really want? What do I really need?

When I was writing my first book, I asked for help from someone who worked with aspiring writers to support them in clarifying their ideas and intentions. She coached me to ask two different groups of friends and colleagues to come together to help me understand more deeply what it was that I was trying to say. It was a little awkward to make the calls, but every person I asked was happy to help out by being part of the process. And the two sessions I convened gave me information about myself that I could not have received any other way and were critical to my discovery of the book that it turned out I had already written.

Part of the trick of asking for help is really meaning it. That’s part of the danger as well. Asking for help when the stakes are low (‘I could really take care of this myself.’) is quite different from asking when you really mean it.

So the question with me this morning is ‘What is it I could ask for that would make the biggest difference in my life?’ Or, perhaps starting a little less grandiose, ‘What is one next step on my path and what is the help I need to take it?’

Discovering New States of Being

1. It snowed all day yesterday. Not in a serious kind of way, but more as if point were atmospheric rather than accumulative. Maybe three or four inches of the fluffiest crystals landed around the Temple. Not a lot by Worcester standards. Still it was pretty and enough to have to do something about. The gasoline driven environmental polluter snow blowers which have saved my back and given me hours to sit inside instead of shoveling endlessly came out occasionally, but a couple quick passes with a snow shovel worked as well for most of the clean-up.

As this morning dawns, trees are laden and streets are white. It’s a lovely sight, this monochrome coating. As if some child was charged with whitewashing the world but only managed to get the topsides of things before she lost interest and moved onto something else. Vertical surfaces, tree trunks and sides of houses are their natural color while roofs and branch tops and sidewalks are all fluffy white.

2. I woke early this morning without much feeling. I always check, first thing, when I’m just beginning to know I am me, to see how I am doing. ‘What is the state of the Dave?’ as a friend of mine likes to inquire. I begin with bodily sensations, then go on to emotions and thoughts. It’s a fuzzy process as there is no specific moment when I’m asleep and then suddenly become awake. Some hazy process lies in between—a place where the snow of sleep is not deep or restricting but is still everywhere to be muddled and waded through before arriving definitively in the land of consensual reality.

3. The in-between places, the boundary places, the liminal places are the most interesting. And since nothing is really fixed or permanent, life is, essentially, only and always in-between. Though the words I use imply clear (and useful) distinctions, my actual experience is much more fluid, borderless and inclusive.

Awake is a state. Asleep is a state. Then there is the vast expanse of waking up and falling asleep. Even within awake and asleep, there are infinite variations. A friend has a watch that charts her sleep. She can read out the story of her night on her computer screen the next morning as a line of peaks and valleys with some plateaus along the way. I would suspect any measure of ‘awake’ would also have to include the sluggishness of the late afternoon and the arousals of various events and times of the day.

4. In the book HOW EMOTIONS ARE MADE, Lisa Feldman Barrett makes a compelling case for emotions as complex constructions rather than fixed responses in regions of the brain that are triggered by outside events. Things don’t happen and ‘make us’ feel a certain way. We experience emotions based on the concepts and words we have learned. We interpret the signals we are receiving from the various parts of our body and make creative guesses about what it is and how we should respond. In order to appreciate the subtlety and variation of our emotions lives, Ms. Barrett encourages expanding our awareness of the particularity of our moment-to-moment experience, learning new words that describe specific emotional states, and even making up words that describe specific new states.

5. This morning, as I lay awake in my warm bed on a cold winter morning, I wasn’t particularly tired nor particularly anything at all as far as I could tell. I was just slightly reluctant to get out of bed even though I was looking forward to a quiet morning of writing, sipping tea and looking out the window at the new fallen snow.

I have decided that this feeling of slight to moderate disinclination to get out of bed should be called an instance of beddrag. (Pronounced as a combination of bed and drag with the emphasis on the first syllable.) Beddrag is the feeling of reluctance to exit the warm comfort of the horizontal life of dreaming and enter into the vertical exertions of daily life. It doesn’t refer to the dread of facing life again or the exhaustion that sometimes accompanies morning, but just that almost sweet disinclination to change state. Perhaps one might even experience some beddrag after reading a good book in a comfortable chair and then having to get up to get on with life.

Exploring with this new concept, we might even begin to distinguish different versions of beddrag based on the temperature in the room, whether one is sleeping in flannel or regular sheets, whether one sleeps alone or with a four-legged or two-legged partner(s). A whole new universe opens up with one word.

6. The morning light has fully arrived. Snow and icicles decorate the neighborhood. It’s quiet and cozy here on the couch looking out through the windows. I’ll just enjoy a few more moments of beddrag before I get up to go out to clear the front steps.

Waiting in Line

My partner and I are now waiting in line with millions of other Massachusetts residents aged 65 to 75 to get an appointment for the vaccination shots now ‘available’ to protect us from COVID-19. Our official eligibility began yesterday. I dutifully switched on my computer at five a.m. when I first got up, naively thinking I might be ahead of the rush. The web site crashed several times over the first two minutes I was on. Apparently I was not the only baby boomer up early to catch the worm.

We baby-boomers are a fairly entitled generation. Born between 1946 and 1956, we grew up in America’s post-war boom of jobs, houses and optimism but also remember hiding under our desks in elementary school to ‘practice’ for the looming nuclear war. We came into adulthood with soaring rates of college attendance, the Vietnam war, Woodstock, and LSD. Some of us thought we were going to change the world from the sordid commercially driven oppressive social structure it was to a utopia of peace and love. The adults of our country had made a mess of things and we were sure we were just the ones to correct the wrongs and live into the dawning age of peace and love.

Many of my friends in college had long hair and we were suspicious of anyone who was over 30 or wore a tie. We were arrogant, innocent and incredibly hopeful. But, after often circuitous routes, most of us became lawyers, doctors, entrepreneurs, teachers, insurance agents, artists and members of the professional class of power and privilege. I too eventually got a full-time job and wore a tie and joined the local Rotary Club.

A close friend, just a year older than me, became (along with millions others) a Trump supporter, perhaps seeing in his anti-establishment authoritarian message a new hope for what we had dreamed of fifty years ago. The age of Aquarius has certainly slipped through of our grasp. Though we have all done the best we could, the crises of environmental degradation, economic oppression, and institutional racial injustice seem worse than when we came into adulthood.

But however my generation has failed or succeeded, I still wanted to get a vaccine. On and off yesterday, I dutifully went to the web site to find an appointment. The site mostly crashed, though occasionally I got messages that some appointments were available in scattered locations across the state. For twenty tantalizing minutes there were three spaces available at a site down the street at Worcester State College for Saturday afternoon. They eventually disappeared. My efforts were slightly frustrating and ultimately fruitless. But not unexpected.

So I’m thinking this morning about the spiritual virtue of patience, the third of the six paramitas of Mahayana Buddhism. One writer describes the paramitas as the ‘bases of training’ for those of us wanting to wake up to the fullness of life. (The other paramitas are: generosity, discipline, effort, meditation, and wisdom.)

I suspect, if I am disciplined in my effort, I will eventually get an appointment. In the meantime, I’d rather not disturb myself by feeling righteously entitled, anxious, left out, or angry. All those are possible and perhaps inevitable, but this might also be an excellent time to practice ksanti: tolerance, forbearance, acceptance, endurance and patience.

I’ll be interested to see how well my plan works out.

Profession of Love

Maybe he was inspired by Valentine’s Day. Maybe because I hadn’t seen him for a while, I’ll never know. But he finally said it to me. I know he’s felt it for a long time, but until yesterday he hadn’t managed to say the words. It’s funny what a difference it can make when someone finally finds the words. You may know they care about you, you may know you’re in a serious relationship, but until the words ‘I love you’ are spoken, something is missing.

We were just hanging out. It was the late afternoon and we were sitting across from each other drawing on the large white board that covered the whole surface of the small table between us. We were so focused on our lines and colors, so physically engaged by our co-creation that sometimes our heads would nearly touch as we leaned in to fill the white space. He was into large and quickly repeated purple circles. I was focusing more on smaller orange and red highlights. We would draw with our erasable crayons for a while, then he would decide it was time to clean the board. I let him take the lead.

He began to notice that the color trails left by the crayons on the board would actually color the damp paper towel that he used for erasing. I suspected, as he vigorously wiped away lines and images, that he was investigating the transitory nature of life as well as the surprising possibilities of the conservation of matter. I myself was pondering the de Kooning drawing that Rauschenberg erased in 1953 and is still on display at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. We kept our thoughts to ourselves and I wondered if our erased white board was perhaps the best display of the ocean of feelings between the two of us. But I digress.

I was singing softly as I drew. Sometimes I would stop and he would happily demonstrate his knowledge by filling in a word or two. For some reason, I was inspired to render a very slow version of that perennial classic ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’ Other people were in the living room with us, but they were reading or computing or doing something. ‘Up above the world so high.’ In my mind, our simple activity filled the universe, drawing and singing and being together. ‘Like a diamond in the sky.’ Of course we are not special, thousands and millions of humans are enacting this ancient drama of care and creation at each moment, yet the mystery and preciousness of it all. ‘How I wonder what you are.’

I finished and paused and looked at my grandson—a small miracle of universal proportions. In the silence, he looked up at me and said ‘I love you.’ Softly. And I said, ‘I love you too.’ Softy.

Having spoken our truths and exposed our deepest feelings, we went back to drawing and erasing and singing as if nothing had happened—as if we had not both been forever changed by this one passing and indelible moment.

Three Essential Skills     

Life is essentially unworkable. Impossible stuff happens. No matter how smart or how wise or how lucky you are, things will not always go your way. Failure, loss and suffering are inevitable. Clarity of purpose will come and go. Confusion, anxiety and despair will be occasional or frequent companions. Important things like relationships, plans and your body are guaranteed to break down.

None of this is a problem that can be solved, it’s just how life is.   Like my friend, an Episcopal priest, once said: sin (missing the mark/imperfection/forgetting) is not an issue to be fixed, it’s just a condition to work with. So how do we meet this life (and ourselves) that cannot be fully fixed?  What skills are helpful in the face of the full catastrophe of life? Here are three fairly durable skills that I have found useful in the face of it all:

#1 Staying – In difficult situations, most of us want to fix, ignore or get away from whatever it is. None of us like to be uncomfortable for very long. When things and situations can be fixed or straightened out or clarified, I’m all for it. Fix it if you can and move on. Likewise, ignoring difficulty is a terrific skill to have. Sometimes avoidance is simply the best option available—at least for a time. And there are some situations that are so toxic, or violent, or dangerous that leaving is the appropriate, compassionate and wise thing to do.

But when none of these three strategies work—when it’s important not to leave and you can’t fix it and can’t ignore it—STAYING is a powerful strategy. Staying means choosing to remain in the middle of the impossibility of the situation without a plan. This is not the same as physically remaining present while you escape to distant regions in your mind. Staying is the practice of choosing to be present even after all your good plans and strategies have crumbled to the ground. Staying means being alive to your own feelings, thoughts and sensations as well as to the presence, thoughts and words of the others who are there with you (either in person or in your heart).

#2 Doing Nothing – This is a subset of Staying. Doing nothing is a good option only after you have tried everything else. Many daily problems can be resolved by improved communication, working together and being reasonable. But the big ones that appear in our lives often don’t yield to these common-sense strategies. The only way to know what kind of a problem you are dealing with is to do your best to work it out using the rational skills at your disposal. When these don’t work (and I guarantee there will be times when they don’t) your next best option is to Stay and Do Nothing.

This doing nothing is not the same as spacing out and is not to be confused with not caring. Doing Nothing is an active intention to be present without manipulation. Not running away, not fixing. Being alive and aware, but giving up the delusion that it’s all up to you. You become an interested and intimate participant in something that is happening through you and everyone involved in the situation. You give up your pretense of control and stay to learn and be transformed.

#3 Following – Following is a shift from trying to lead a situation in the direction you think it should go, to a willingness to stay with what is unfolding moment by moment. True following usually is only possible when we have given up our delusion that our perspective and our solution are the best way. True following comes only after the failure of all our usual success strategies—after we have been as wise and clear and strong and direct as we can and it has not worked.

Following then means to turn our attention to the unworkable situation itself, not to fix it or even to move it forward, but rather to notice and be present with what is already going on. Following means being curious about what is here in this impossible place. We begin to listen for what we have not yet heard and look for what we have not yet seen. Then we practice going along with whatever is arising.

These three seemingly simple skills can be useful reminders in almost any situation. If you’re interested, you might want to try practicing these skills today. In the next even slightly uncomfortable situation you notice, see what happens is you simply stay, do nothing and follow what is unfolding. It might be quite interesting.

Frozen In Place

A light winter rain falls from the night sky as a thin sheet of ice ominously thickens here below. Not flat like a lake, but ice shaped to every sidewalk and tree and leaf. Perfectly encasing every fence, car and house. Life sheathed in ice.

We once sat a Zen retreat through an ice storm. The rain fell through the night as we sat. We lost power and sat in the dark with candles and blankets. The next morning the temperature dropped and a brilliant sun sparkled on the nearby forest of thickly iced trees. Our quiet meditation that winter morning was punctuated by an occasional ferocious crashing. Huge branches and whole trees gave way under the terrible weight of their transparent burdens. Tree limbs and ice gave way together, shattering our silence momentarily and then quickly finding their new tangled and broken rest.

There was nothing we could do. We kept on sitting. I still remember.

Now I wonder at how each of us can become encased in the transparent shell of our selves. The accretion of who we are and what we do, under certain circumstances, grows so thick we strain to move under the weight and restriction of it all. Frozen in familiar positions of defensive complaint, we may suddenly discover nothing else is possible. Suddenly immobile when the temperature drops, we await our still fate. Will we break before the warmth comes back? Some fall around us, broken by the weight of life or suffocated still in place. Will we loose limbs and survive disfigured or fall entirely? Or nothing at all?

The cold rain falls darkly and the clock ticks for all of us. Sometimes it is like this, these trials, these frozen sentences. Without choice, we hold still and await the outcome. No one is to blame. Sometimes it is just like this.

Trackless

frozen flat

lake white

snow walking

nowhere footprints

only lead here

Without Justification (v.2)

Rather than diagnosing
this morning and
heartfully prescribing
in pragmatic prose,

a way through
the current crisis,
I sip tea and
practice being
irresponsible.

The dark masters
gather and grumble
at my indolence,
but I courageously
resist their muttered
insults and seductions.

I have grown weary
in steadfast pursuit
of their fickle approval—
as if freedom could happen
at some other time.

Every action creates
the life I lead—
a continued quest
for self-earned grace or
some wilder enterprise
of unknown provenance.

So again this morning
I practice resistance
to the ancient gods
of Self accomplishment
and vow to leap
wholeheartedly into
just this one life
without justification.

Looking For The Truth

The impeachment trial of our former President is going in the Senate chamber of the Capital building. A little over a month ago, these same halls were filled with angry insurrectionist doing their best to prevent Congress from carrying out its democratic duty. Mike Pence was being hurried down back stairs while armed individuals were calling for his death by hanging just a few hundred yards away. Nancy Pelosi and other members of Congress were hiding in fear before they too were ushered to safety just before the doors to the chamber were breached. Now the Senate is deliberating to determine whether the former President should be convicted of inciting this insurrection.

Given the past unwillingness of the Republican Senators to challenge Trump, the final outcome of the trial will most likely be acquittal. But history is being written through the exposure of email and video footage of the events leading up to and including the armed assault on the Capital building. We, as a people, are trying to get to the truth of what happened.

The Senate is being asked to look at the events that happened from several different perspectives. The Democratic House Managers of the impeachment are presenting many perspectives showing Trump in the worst possible light. Then his lawyers will have the opportunity to present the same evidence in the best possible light.

This is a time-honored practice in societies that value truth and justice. It sounds like it should be simple and that after looking at all the evidence from a variety of angles, the ‘truth’ should be obvious. But ‘reality’ is not as straightforward as it seems. Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable and many a trial ends with doubt and continuing differences of opinion.

Polls are showing that most Democrats think Trump is guilty of the charges and that most Republicans think that he was just exercising his right to be inflammatory and politically incorrect. But lives were lost and the government of the United States was directly attacked, with nearly catastrophic outcomes. This is not a small matter and the issues of how much was planned and who was involved in that planning are of central importance.

One of the key issues of this impeachment trial is the degree to which someone, in this case a sitting President, can be held accountable for their words. While our country takes great pride in our ‘so-called’ freedom of speech, in fact, we have always recognized that some speech should not and cannot be allowed. You can be sent to prison for being involved in plotting a crime. You can be fined thousands or millions of dollars for willfully telling lies that damage another person’s reputation or income.

News outlets and public figures have always been liable for the impact of false words they may speak. Part of the way out of our current state of polarization may be to begin to hold virtual platforms accountable to some modicum of truthfulness as well. The righteous anger of the insurrectionists was clearly fueled by lies that were told and repeated leading up to January 6. That you can be held accountable for the truthfulness of your statements and for inciting others to violence seems a fairly reasonable position.

The stories we tell about how we got where we are are part of how we create the future we move into. I hope that the Senate proceedings may allow us all to see more clearly into the events leading to the storming of the Capital and might allow us to recognize the value of a shared truth and the power of our words.

Soft Distractions

Snow fell through the day
in the smallest possible flakes
as if there was an inexhaustible
endowment of beauty available.

I accomplished little but
did manage to notice how
the evening’s meager accumulation
required the falling of a whole day.

In the end, I quickly pushed
it all aside to keep steps clear
and paths free for the necessary
busyness known as daily life.

Dreaming of Lucky Shots

I dreamt I was playing golf in the snow at a friend’s wedding. We were in the rugged mountains of north Wales with piles of bare rock instead of sand traps. I realized these were unusual conditions and asked my friend to take a picture of me making a put. I felt bad asking him to take a photo of me since it was his wedding, but he was happy to oblige. But when he took the photo, he took it looking back at the lodge where the reception was being held rather than against the picturesque rocks. I decided not to say anything.

My first shot was quite poor but my second shot was superb and landed me near what appeared to be the hole. I asked my friends where the hole was. They didn’t know either but said that I should since I was the one making up this game of snow golf. We decided it must be the small furrow nearby. For some reason, I got to pick my ball up and drop it wherever I wanted. It seemed unfair to put it too close to the cup, but I put it close enough that I had a reasonable shot through the uneven snow.

My friends were amazed at how skillful I was in my playing of snow=golf. I explained to them that I was sometimes very, very lucky, but that the luck came and went with such frequency that I never made bets on my playing.

Once, in real life, I was invited to participate in a rodeo in Costa Rica. Really. I mean, I was already there at a resort and it was after the real cowboys had put on the real show, but still, I was invited. The resort was in the rain forest and had been a cattle ranch in a previous incarnation. I was there with a mindfulness program while there the other group was practicing some wild kind of horseback riding and sensuality. I never quite figured out what they were doing, but they loved to ride horses fast and I got into the action to ride with them a few times.

When I asked their leader (a self-styled sensualist who never seemed to wear a shirt) how to ride, he said to feel my energy sinking down through the horse’s hoof’s into the ground and to call on the body-wisdom of my ancestors who rode bareback across the great plains—to trust that the horse and I were part of the same knowing. With that one riding lesson, I began galloping across open fields and even taking small jumps with the others. And, sometimes indeed, I did feel the energy of the horse and the earth and the wind as part of me.

At the end of the week, the local cowboys put on a small rodeo for the forty of us at the resort. These guys grew up on horses and were as comfortable riding as I am sitting on the couch writing these words. One of the contests at the end was to gallop across the arena at full speed and spear a small brass ring (about size of a quarter) from where it was clipped to a wire running across the ring. They tried it several times to no avail and then asked if any audience members wanted to try.

My enthusiasm got the better of my judgment and I went down into the ring with a few other guests. I waited while a couple others mounted up tried unsuccessfully to get the ring. Then it was my turn. The horses, by this time, were quite excited. All the racing around and the excitement of the riders was absorbed by these amazing creatures who love to run. The horse was practically prancing as I mounted. It was willing to wait for only a moment and then took off across the dirt ring.

I remember thinking ‘I hope I don’t fall off’ – mostly because I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of everyone, but thinking back, serious injury would have been much worse. I held my small stick up in the general direction of the ring so as not to appear as fearful or out of my league as I really was. When the horse stopped on the other side of the arena, I found, to my amazement, the ring was on the small stick in my hand. Everyone cheered and hooted at my demonstration of skill. I proudly took it over to the owner of the resort and he gave me a couple bills that he was handing out to the cowboys for their antics.

At breakfast the next day, several people were quite impressed and attributed my success to a combination of horsemanship and Zen. I maintained, and still do, that it was all luck.

Choosing Obligation

A joke that circulated among some progressive educators I knew in the day ran like this: The little boy comes to school on Monday and says: ‘Do we have to do what we want again today?’ This is funny because progressive education is about allowing children to be active participants in shaping their education. The most radical experiments, like Summerhill School in the UK in the 70’s and the Grassroots Free School in Tallahassee allow the children to pretty much decide how they want to use their time. Adults are there to keep them reasonably safe and to support the natural process of learning.

For a number of years, my Zen teacher and I led week-long silent retreats in a small house that abutted the school property. The school was struggling to find enough families were willing to trust the natural curiosity of their children beyond the first five years. There were only about ten or so young people who would roam the fields and gardens during the mornings and the afternoons while we sat still in the living room on our black cushions.

What I remember most from the intimate mornings of meditative silence is how long these young people could scream and shriek together in joy and excitement. The delight and wildness of their social freedom was not lost on these young practitioners of progressive education.

But the joke, ‘Do we have to do what we want again today?’, is also funny because it’s actually challenging to have nothing to do.

Also in the 70’s, I took a solo backpacking trip in the Beartooth Mountains in Montana, just north of Yellowstone National Park. With my trusty orange backpack and tent, I hiked several miles in to a pristine lake up above the tree line. Crystal clear glacier melt water nestled below fields of mountain flowers—just like the Sierra Club calendar photos. I figured I’d stay there for several days and just ‘peace out.’ (It was the 70’s after all.)

After several hours of taking in the beauty, with no books to read and no projects to do and no drugs to take (I had already passed through that phase of the 70’s) I got astonishingly bored. My mind’s daydreams got weirder and weirder. I suddenly understood what a gift responsibility and even busyness is. Without the usual pressures of work or school or social expectations, I was utterly adrift—and not in a pleasant way.

I had enough sense about me to get out my map and make up something to do. I planned and then started out on an adventure through the mountains. Up and over, around and through. Making up a destination and walking, it turned out, was enough activity to keep my mind tethered to consensual reality and allow me to appreciate the gorgeous scenery.

But remembering the gift of having things we have to do can create new possibilities of appreciation in our lives. While it’s lovely, as I wrote yesterday, to follow some sweet aliveness that calls to us, it can also be lovely to feel like we have no choice.

But it’s not really true. Obligation is a social construct. Indeed you never have to do anything. You may choose to do things because you don’t like the potential consequences of the alternatives, but choice is the reality of our lives.

The freedom we speak of in Zen is not the freedom of sitting by the pristine lake in the mountains, though that is nice too in small doses, but the freedom to engage with what is right before us. The freedom to shovel the snow, to wash the dishes, to make sure the children are logged into school and not the video game with their friends.

So whether your day is the responsibility of choosing what you want to do or the freedom of meeting the responsibilities you have chosen, can we all appreciate whatever invitation the moment offers us?

Taking a Chance

Discipline is the courage to follow what we love.

I first heard this empowering definition many years ago and immediately adopted it. The words made intuitive sense and offered a whole new to approach discipline.   Instead of a necessary moral work that I should do, discipline might be about following an unfolding path or moving toward some mysterious aliveness that beacons.

Over the years, I have found this definition to be more complicated than it appears on the surface. The first problem is ‘What do I love?’   I love my partner, my daughter, my friends, my garden. I love connecting with people, being of use, sharing what I know, going for walks, sitting in meditation, being in nature, going on canoe trips with my sisters, playing trains with my grandson. I love watching TV in the evening with my partner, drinking a delicious craft beer, eating blue cheese, learning some new skill, using my body, making sculptures out of random rocks, finding the right words and rhythms as I’m writing, being surprised, talking to my mother on the phone, accomplishing things with other people, improvising.

So what does all this, and more, have to do with discipline? Discipline is the courage to follow what you love, sounds like some great romantic adventure toward a lofty goal. I imagine the music I might have played if I had practiced my alto saxophone in high school and beyond with discipline and intention. What gorgeous jazz I might have been a part of? What compositions and recordings might have emerged? What adventures would I have been part of?

But perhaps following what we love is easier and less heroic. Or maybe easier and still, in some way, heroic. What if the small things count? The little things that catch our attention and tickle our fancy? What if there is not some great love that we have to uncover and follow like the knight in a fairytale? What if we don’t have to be artistic geniuses or find our one true love? What if a full life has a thousand loves and each one is true?

Then where does the courage come in? How much courage does it take to do the little things that bring you alive? How much courage does it take to notice the little things that bring you joy and give yourself to them? In my experience—plenty. Though once we give ourselves permission and step over the line, the thing itself flows with its own rhythm, it is the stepping over the line that takes the courage.

We are the only ones who can allowing ourselves to love what we love, to be drawn to what we are drawn to and to move in that direction, if only for a few moments. It is not about waiting for someone else’s permission. Following even these little streams of life, even for short intervals of time requires us to trust our inner lives. To plant a few seeds inside in a pot of damp earth while the snow is still on the ground. To make a pot of tea and sit down with a magazine for twenty minutes in the middle of it all. To spend an hour arranging the objects on your mantle until they are just right. To call a friend to talk without any special need or purpose.

These are all acts of following—acts of courage. It’s not about the outcome but about the following. The point is not what happens next, the point is what’s happening now. When we head in this direction, toward what brings us alive, it’s not about the outcome. Of course we may hope that our seeds sprout and grow strong and end up in this summers garden. Or that Jill Lapore has written another article in this week’s New Yorker. Or that we find the perfect arrangement (for the moment) or that our friend is there when we call. But the real point is the following and in the following no measurement is possible.

So maybe discipline doesn’t have to involve a grand love and a huge amount of courage. But maybe it matters a whole lot just the same. So my prayer for today is to be awake to the many streams of life that call to me. May I practice saying yes, even briefly, to the love that touches me in a thousand ways.

Starting Nowhere

I sit down to write this morning and nothing comes. I try going in a couple different directions, but all the paths peter out. So how to enter into life from nowhere? For this is the point of my writing—to try to find some way to touch the aliveness of the moment—to enter into and appreciate the particular form in which life is appearing now—and in doing so to invite you, the reader, to do the same. I’m always trying to demonstrate and practice that which I’m trying to say.

While wise and true words may flow easily onto the page, they are indeed hard to live. Of course, this moment of no inspiration is equally part of life as every other moment. But some moments we would rather just pass over. ‘I’ll wait for this to pass so that I can live my real life.’ But we only ever live at this moment and it seems we might as well try to make the best of wherever we are—though going numb or avoiding or fixing are always options.

I suppose a reasonable person would just not write when nothing comes to write about. But I continue to refuse to be a reasonable person.

Which reminds me of the new wonderful book I’m reading at my daughter’s suggestion: How Emotions Are Made by Lisa Feldman Barrett. (And so a gust of wind fills my sails and the boat which was dead in the water begins to creep forward.) Barrett is a down-to-earth writer who reports on contemporary research (including hers) showing that emotions are not ‘things’ that are triggered, but ephemeral events arising from the ongoing and complex substrate of neural activity that we call life.

The model of the triune brain with the thinking section (neocortex) sitting safely on top of the feeling (limbic) section and presiding over the survival (reptilian) base, though reassuring, is not accurate. Feeling is involved in everything we think, say and do—and usually this engagement happens beneath the level of our awareness. So we are free to imagine that we are perfectly reasonable people making perfectly reasonable decisions based on the facts of the world we encounter.

But, it turns out, we human beings are not reasonable creatures. (Given the last four years, this should not be news to any of us.) Current brain research aligns with the teachings of the Buddha 2,600 years ago—that we are constantly experiencing some ‘feeling tone’ of like dislike or neutral (2^nd foundation of mindfulness) and that ‘reality’ is a participatory phenomena. Barrett puts it this way:

“you might think about your environment as existing in the outside world, separate from yourself, but that’s a myth. You (and other creatures) do not simply find yourself in an environment and either adapt or die. You construct your environment—your reality—by virtue of what sensory input from the physical environment your brain selects…”

She reports that it’s not just the selection of sensory input, but how we make meaning of the input that constructs the world we experience as ‘out there.’ It turns out that our sense perception involves much more input from what we remember and know from the past than what we are receiving from the outside at any moment. So our brains construct the world and then react to the world we construct as if it were real. In the actual brain, there is no inside or out, just the constant darkness within the skull that is illuminated by a constant wash of billions of neural circuits firing in an emerging web of dynamic complexity.

So, this morning, this constant wash of dynamic complexity first appeared as little energy and no inspiration. In claiming my intention (to participate and play in and with whatever is here) and refusing to be reasonable, space was created for something else to appear and be known.

This is what I believe in and want to stake my life on. Life is always happening here and that life is big enough to encompass everything: something and nothing, inspiration and dullness, excitement and discouragement. And the only way in is to hang around long enough, to pay enough attention, to be unreasonable enough to join in.

No Need to Panic

Sometimes meaning slips away
without prior arrangement and
I am left exposed once again.

The tattered clothes of habit
refuse to cover the nakedness
of my inner darker confusions.

Left alone to my own devices,
without access to the familiar
landscape of routine, my constructed

world reveals itself insubstantial.
I want to run for the hills or dash
for the door or cry for help—

but the terrain is jumbled
and my voice has already fled.
I am not very brave. I am prone

to faint at the sight of syringes
and blood. I have very little tolerance
for pain and always ask for extra Novocain

at the dentist’s office. But I’ve been
here before and I remember a thing
or two. So I lay low and give up hope

of anything else. Tossed and swirled by
my fears and sure that no good will ever re-emerge,
I go along for the ride as best I can. Only this.

Only this now. Maybe breathing is
the only true work we can ever know.
Maybe there is no need to panic.

Time With an Old Friend

Having run out of options,
I give myself permission
to be tired and unuseful.

I surrender to the brown
couch and repeatedly read
the many versions of Mary Oliver’s
one poem of appreciation.

I dreamily wonder if life
could possibly be
made as she claims—
for such easy delight.

If so, what about
the fierce intention that
brought these lovely
poems into the world?

Smiling at my
relentless complaint,
I dog-ear the best
for future remembering.

Snowy Considerations

Tuesday morning. The storm has mostly blown through. In the early darkness a few neighborhood snowblowers begin their happily ferocious roar. The snowplows that have been scraping the streets all night are quiet for the moment and the accumulation of the past 18 hours has ceased. The wind continues, but the worst/best is past. I sip my morning tea and appreciate the warmth of my laptop on my lap as I tap away on the black keys—writing and preparing for meditation, breakfast and then a morning of snow removal.

I did go out briefly last night around eight to have a small adventure and to perhaps do some initial clearing. By that time about eight inches had fallen. I easily cleared the backstairs—the snow was light and fluffy. I then wandered across the wind-swept parking like an arctic explorer treading over vast white expanses. At the street, I paused to assess the situation and to make my official-snow-removal-guy assessment. There’s a certain self-importance that comes with these practical jobs. Perhaps it is our innate desire to be useful or perhaps it’s that so much of what we do is hard to measure and snow removal is a job with a clear and satisfying end-point. With the strong winds and the continuing-through-the-night forecast, I decided to ‘keep my powder dry’ and wait till the morning.

Snow removal in New England is an art and a science. Shovel too early and you waste valuable energy and time. Wait too long and the drifts get soggy or frozen or simply too high to penetrate. The solution for the city snowplows is simply to go through the night. Worcester (unofficial snow-capital of Massachusetts) owns a fleet of snow removal vehicles driven by city workers and also relies on a militia of independent drivers, guys (there must be some women who are in the business, but I have yet to see one) with pick-up trucks and snowplows, to clear the miles of city streets.

It’s been a quiet winter for these snowplow drivers. It’s a seasonal business with no guarantee of steady or even adequate income. You’ve got to be willing to go out at all hours and keep going. To be able to stay in the business, you’ve need enough regular customers that you maximize your income but few enough that you can get to them all in a timely manner. A delicate balance.

But I’m just an amateur and have the luxury of waiting till later. I looked out the back door when I got up at 5:30. I was pleased to see that the small shoveling I did on the back stairs was completely filled in with the wind and the overnight snow. This validated my decision to wait and also meant the temperatures had not risen to the wet-heavy-snow range so the shoveling and the blowing later on this morning should not be too difficult.

I am happy to have these considerations. I am blessed to have the (new!) snow-blower and the physical constitution to still be able to perform this necessary winter ritual. So after I finish my tea and after meditation and after breakfast, I will gear up and tromp out to fulfill my important responsibilities. Such is the shape of the good life this morning.

100% Snowfall

The storm has begun. Up from DC, Baltimore and NYC; the snow has begun to fall. The latest predictions call for 9 to 15 inches before it passes out to sea tomorrow morning. A white day. A snowy day. Memories arise of assembling a pile of books and some hot chocolate along with a blanket and a young daughter to sit by the sliding doors to the porch and watch the snow fall. We were safely snuggled and inspired by the water-color pictures of Miss Rumphius planting her blue, purple and pink lupine as we watched the porch slowly disappear under fluffy mounds. Over a quarter century later, I am still warmed and delighted by that one white morning.

Now having another young friend who’s almost two, I’m amazed again at the life-giving properties of very young people. As a child, I was sure that I was just waiting to become an adult for real life to begin. I thought being a child meant being only a partial being—someone who was limited by physical, emotional and mental immaturity. But now that I’m nearing the end of my 7^th decade on this planet, I’m much more aware of the equality of it all.

Of course there is little and big, young and old, strong and weak, more able and less able. But looming much larger is the beingness of it all and some mysterious exact intertwinkling necessity of each and all. As living beings, we are always limited, dependent and contingent. Even a person at the ‘height of their powers’ cannot jump over tall buildings nor survive without food and shelter, nor exist except within the interactive support of sun, earth, water, plants, stars, stray dogs and mosquitoes. Limitation is not a limitation, it is life itself.

In some ungraspable way, we are, each one of us, a part of it all—perfectly arising beyond our intentions and plans, perfectly manifesting ourselves in each moment, and perfectly passing away at some appointed and unknown time. In each moment, from our first breath to our last (and I have had the privilege to be present with others both in the arriving and the departing) we are 100% full of life. 100% living into the circumstances of our life. Even resisting and complaining and wishing it were otherwise is 100% too. Beyond measure.

Yesterday I walked with a friend beside a partially frozen river yesterday where geese swam easily in the water that would quickly kill either one of us. We, for our part, did our best to resolve the great issues of life-and-death, meaning-and-purpose, red-and-blue. We didn’t get very far, but we did arrive at the realization that measuring is irrelevant to the most important things in life. While there are innumerable and fierce measures that are pressed upon us from the earliest ages, many of which become an unthinking part of our constant self-evaluations—none of them can measure life, nor tell us what we should do.

Buddha spoke of the eight worldly winds: prosperity, decline, disgrace, honor, praise, censure, suffering, and pleasure. We are all subject to these dynamic, erratic and unavoidable conditions. His teaching was that it is our attachment or aversion to the coming and going of these conditions that causes our suffering. Prosperity comes and we feel good. Decline comes and we feel bad. When we allow ourselves to participate in whatever condition arises, we can appreciate the fullness of our unlimited conditional lives.

So I appreciate the perfect ‘help’ of my two-year-old friend when we wash the dishes together and am honored to help him change his soaking shirt after we tire of our chores. He is 100% full of life though he does sometimes seem to leave me at about 30% as I do my best to keep up with him. Nothing lacking on either side. Exhaustion is 100%. Squealing and jumping up and down is 100%.

As the snow falls today, the little ones of past and present are here with me. We are all playing and working and struggling and delighting as best we can. May we all today appreciate the whole miraculous catastrophe of our 100% life—in whatever form it may appear.

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.

New Beginnings of Our Continuing Work

What an astonishing and moving day yesterday was. To see, at a little after eight in the morning, a lone helicopter rising in the clear sky over Washington, D.C. and to know it was bearing away our not-quite-former President—clearing the ground for something new to happen, was an auspicious beginning. Then the rest of the day, as I was able to tune in after the fact and during the fact to the in-person and virtual happenings, unfolded as a vision of America as a nation of proud diversity and hope embodied in the persons of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris and in the artists and ‘ordinary people’ of all ages, colors, backgrounds, beliefs and styles who were part of the ceremonies and celebrations. It was an historic and inspiring day.  Our first female and first Black and first Vice-President of Southeast Asian descent! We have indeed come so far.

During these past four years it has been easy to lose hope. We have witnessed some of the darkest strains of the American Dream. Our former President, just like our current one, was a manifestation, a reflection of who we are. His greed, fearfulness, boundless narcissism are woven deeply into our national history and into us all. He made it impossible to look away from the violence and discrimination that is the history and part of the current reality for every woman in our supposedly great land of ‘equality’. We were confronted with the continual demonstration of how immigrants and people of color and people who are ‘different’ are marginalized, stigmatized and objectified. Seeing the ongoing police violence against Black people, we were horrified and then horrified again as we looked closer at the ongoing history of violence that is indeed a part of who we are.

Anger, fear and divisiveness were the currency of our former President from his inaugural address through his final rallying of the crowd to storm the Capital. And these dark forces reside in every human heart.

But yesterday, amid the pomp, circumstance and celebration, not one speaker mentioned his name. Instead, Biden and his team (because the country is never run by one person, but by a far-flung team working in service of and co-creating that one person’s vision) delivered a carefully orchestrated day that demonstrated and laid out another true vision for America. They did not fight their predecessor, they did innumerate his sins or give him any attention. (I’m reminded here of the coaching adage I always share with my clients: If you fight with your gremlins, the gremlins always win.) The day was instead devoted to expressing, evoking, and embodying our better angels as we come together to meet the very real challenges that are before us.

Biden, in his inaugural address, did not shirk from the difficulty of our current situation. His straightforward language was both unflinching and inspiring. Biden invited all of us to join together and renew our resolve to meet the challenges set before us.  He said:

The American story depends not on any one of us, not on some of us, but on all of us.

On “We the People” who seek a more perfect Union. This is a great nation and we are a good people. Over the centuries through storm and strife, in peace and in war, we have come so far. But we still have far to go.

 We will press forward with speed and urgency, for we have much to do in this winter of peril and possibility. Much to repair. Much to restore. Much to heal. Much to build. And much to gain. Few periods in our nation’s history have been more challenging or difficult than the one we’re in now.

I was inspired and reassured. To be able to say, after all that we have witnessed in these past four years, that we are a great nation and we are a good people was to call us to a renewed vision. To hear the voice of the heart and possibility coming from the mouth of our President was tonic to my soul. His acknowledgment of pain and struggle were not the cry of one who is defeated or looking for someone to blame, but a clear-eyed look at the work that calls to all of us. Biden reminded us:  

Our history has been a constant struggle between the American ideal that we are all created equal and the harsh, ugly reality that racism, nativism, fear and demonization have long torn us apart. The battle is perennial. Victory is never assured.

But it was the songs and the poems, the myriad colors and backgrounds of the artists and ‘ordinary’ people that were most inspiring. Our young poet laureate who sang and moved her deep words of inspiration. Jennifer Lopez’s soaring voice claiming a land that ‘was made for you and me.’   In the virtual evening celebration, the variety of musical styles and voices were demonstrations of joy and love in the midst of it all. Even my concern that Tom Hanks would turn into a block of ice before my eyes didn’t dampen my feelings the hopefulness, relief and joy that are present in this current moment.

Of course, now the work begins and now the work continues. The tasks ahead of us all are monumental. As Biden said, there is much to heal, much to build and much to gain.

For this brief and nourishing moment, let us once again touch and be touched by the high dream of this great and eternally imperfect country. Let us find new ways to come together. Let us each give our energies and talents wherever we can to join with those who came before us in creating and embodying our highest ideals of justice, liberty and possibility for all.

To Celebrate And To Remember

It is a joyous day for those of us who have suffered through Trump’s self-serving lies, indecencies, and continual attacks on the democratic principles on which this country was founded. This morning in his daily newsletter, Robert Hubbell wrote a chilling and poetic evocation of what we have endured these past four years:

  Vulgarities. Daily assaults on decency and civility. Sordid affairs with porn stars. Islamophobia. Anti-Semitism. Nepotism. Defending white supremacy. Cloying praise for dictators: Putin. Kim. Duterte. Collusion with Russia. Obstruction of justice. Withdrawal from Paris Climate Accords. Pardons for racists. Children in cages. Assault on NATO. Profiteering in the Oval Office. Bribing Ukraine. Impeachment. Firing whistleblowers, Lies. More lies. Conspiracy theories. QAnon in the White House. Blaming Black victims of shootings. Defaming Black Lives Matter. La Fayette Square. Claiming election fraud. Subverting the Constitution. Inciting insurrection. The Capitol Insurrection. Impeachment (again).

It has been a terrible time, but much has been revealed. That Trump could rise to the Presidency and maintain his grip on power in spite of his egregious behavior is a clear sign that our vaunted democracy includes forces and people that have little interest in democracy. The urge to authoritarianism is not something we had taken seriously before Trump’s Presidency. The willingness of politicians to bend reality to their purposes is nothing new, but the new dynamics of the social media information systems have created the possibility for untruths to be cultivated on an unprecedented scale. These are disturbing truths that will not end when Biden is sworn in at noon.

This morning Trump will, however, leave the White House greatly diminished with the Republican party and the people that supported him these four years is in the process of self-destructing. Trump has made it clear there is no party except him and that he will stop at nothing in his desire to maintain complete power. Republicans now must choose their party or their allegiance to Trump. Trump has pardoned many of his accomplices and will take millions of angry and disturbed followers with him. The QAnon lies and anti-immigrant, anti-black, anti-Semetic, anti-other zealots will follow him and will be the cauldron he continues to simmer and stir—hoping for some magic elixer to sooth his wounded ego and make him the Grand Ruler of All.

But there is some wisdom in the hackneyed saying ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ The body’s natural response to a virus is to create antigens that recognize and fight against it. Of course, as in the case of COVID-19, sometimes the virus overwhelms the individual body or the collective body and leads to great loss and even death. But when we face adversity, there is the possibility of learning and growing. We are called to remember what is most important and we are challenged to exit our self-reinforcing bubbles of contentment and engage in the world in new ways.

The flip side of Hubbell’s distressing list are the deep shifts in awareness and action that we have seen over the past four years. Beginning with the Women’s March on Washington right after Trump’s election and continuing to the Me-Too movement, we have seen a renewed recognition of the rights and power of women. Women are running for political office and winning at historic highs, both at the state level and at the national level. Trumps unrepentant misogyny has awakened a necessary and ongoing movement toward gender awareness and equality.

And Trump’s continual race baiting and bigotry is part of what led many into the streets and revivified the Black Lives Matter movement earlier this year in response to our ongoing police violence against black and brown bodies. We are in the midst a national conversation about the impact of racism at every level of our society. There is an emerging national consensus that we must consciously work to guarantee the basic rights for safety and security for all members of our society regardless of the color of their skin or where come from.

Though Joe Biden and Kamala Harris will not be sworn in until noon today, they have already begun their leadership of our country. Yesterday they presided over a brief and moving remembrance for the over 400,000 victims of COVID-19.   Biden spoke simply from the heart as Mourner-in-Chief for our grieving nation. His words and his actions give hope that the coming four years will lead us toward a new healing. This healing must include a reckoning with the pain and violence that implicates us all. The way forward is not a recreation of ‘how it used to be’, but a brighter and more creative possibility in which we learn new ways of being together with freedom and justice for all.

In Biden’s own words: “To heal, we must remember. It’s hard sometimes to remember. But that’s how we heal. It’s important to do that as a nation. That’s why we’re here today.”

Mutual Vulnerability

Many years ago I did a two-day training with the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF), a social action organizing group that works to bring people together across differences to mobilize for positive change. As I think about how we might begin to rebuild connections across the acrimonious divide of red/blue and white/black, several things from the training arise that may be useful tools.

The IAF taught that effective social action and change requires organizing people around their own self-interest. The training I took did not teach us how to convince people to care about a cause, but rather how to have conversations to uncover what people already cared about. At that time, they called these conversations one-on-ones.

The skills involved in these one-on-ones are:

• • clarity of purpose,
  • curiosity and deep listening and
  • mutual vulnerability.

Clarity of purpose means to be intentional about the reason for the conversation. Most of our conversations drift from one place to the next. We talk about the weather, then politics, then our latest Netflix binge. These are fine and even nourishing conversations. But he purpose of a one-on-one is to deepen a relationship through sharing stories of personal events that have shaped our lives.

William James, the founder of modern psychology, wrote that each person has a ‘hot spot,’ where we truly come alive—some thing or cause or activity that lights us up. When he spoke with people, he was always looking for what he called ‘the ground of a person’s joy’. As we meet each other, can we discern this beating heart of interest in the person in front of us or on the screen with us? It’s often easier with children who are less self-conscious about their dreams and fears. But we adults have been carefully trained to cover over what we really care about. We hide it from others for fear of being disappointed or ridiculed. Eventually we hide it from ourselves because we have grown so discouraged or distracted that we simply forget.

The curiosity and deep listening in a one-on-one conversation are listening for this aliveness. These are exactly the skills I was taught in my life-coaching training—listening and following the aliveness. We all care about something, but clarifying that something and then acting on it is the work of a lifetime.

But the part of one-on-ones that was most surprising for me was the mutual revelation and vulnerability. From the time I was a young boy, I observed and absorbed my mother’s endless curiosity about other people. When we went on family vacations to new places we would often lose her. The rest of us would be moving on and notice she was no longer with us. We would then retrace our steps and find her in deep in animated conversation with some random shopkeeper or bus driver or passerby. She was promiscuous in her interest of the world.

My early training in one-on-ones also involved our Saturday morning trips to the local downhill ski area. We would get up in the dark to make sandwiches and take advantage of the ‘early-bird special’. While skiing individually, we played a family game. The object of the game was to see how much you could learn about the person you rode up on the lift with. (These were the days of ‘T-bar’ lifts and allowing ten-year olds to practice independence through wandering up and down snowy mountains.) Exhausted at noon, we would eat our sandwiches on the way home in the station wagon and tell stories of the strangers we had interrogated.

But the idea of sharing parts of yourself in conversation was not something I was accustomed to or comfortable with. While it may surprise the readers of these daily reflections, I tend to be rather introverted. I have this odd enjoyment of being up front and being the center of attention and have taken up this public practice of exploring my inner life through these daily writings, but in individual conversations I’m much more interested in listening to other people than I am in talking about my inner life. (We are all such a wondrous blend of this and that – of open and closed, of private and public.)

But in the one-on-ones, you ask questions about what people care about—about what has led them to where they are—about turning points in their life. Then you respond by sharing the same for yourself. The main focus is on the person you are talking to, but the practice is intentional mutual vulnerability.

I’m incredibly excited about the inauguration tomorrow. Joe Biden and Kamala Harris will be our new President and Vice-President! This, for me, is incredibly good news. But the work ahead to bring our country together will take years and will require the ongoing engagement of us all. Perhaps these few skills from the IAF may be useful tools for the journey.

MLK Day: Celebrating Truth

Martin Luther King, Jr was not a gradualist. He was not willing to wait patiently for things to change. Many of his colleagues, both black and white, urged him to be more conciliatory, not to do things that would upset the status quo. ‘Don’t poke the bear’ they might have said. ‘Don’t do things that will further antagonize the people in power.’ ‘Don’t cause trouble.’ King heard their voices of moderation, then went ahead organizing and leading courageous non-violent actions which exposed the violence and hatred that were woven into the fabric of our country.

King’s words and actions and the words and actions of those who stood with him, changed our country and changed the world. But the events of January 6 make it obvious that the violence and hatred of people with black and brown skin, of immigrants, of Jews, of intellectuals, of women—of anyone we perceive as different, is still very much present in our country.

Being nice and engaging in polite conversation is fine, but on the most important matters, it is not nearly enough. This applies in our civic life as well as in our daily lives. In a relationship, you might not want to share some important truth for fear of upsetting the other person. ‘They wouldn’t understand.’ ‘They won’t be able to hear this.’ These statements may or may not be true, but they often function as excuses to avoid life-giving conversations. We can feel righteous in our ‘care’ for the other while, at the same time, protecting our fragile self-image against information that might be disturbing. Often, it’s not really that I don’t want you to be upset, it’s that your upset will be upsetting to me, so I hold back to protect myself.

There are a thousand excuses for not telling the truth and for letting things be. But most of them are self-serving and ultimately lead away from the authentic connection and truth that we long for.

What is ‘the truth’? Of course, no one knows. Or there are multiple truths. Perhaps a working definition of truth could be that which leads to reconciliation and authentic connection. This kind of truth requires naming what is going on and what has gone on. When lies are told—lies about things that have happened, things that are happening, things that will happen—they must be confronted or they will fester and lead to more of the same, but bigger and more harmful.

The storming of the Capital on January 6 by people carrying Confederate and Donald Trump flags was a demonstration of the destructive power of lies. Trump’s barrage of patently false statements about November elections were repeated and amplified by Republican Congressional leaders for two months leading up to the events of that day. While the names of all who supported and participated are still emerging, the resulting images are seared in our collective memory.

Now there are calls for unity and harmony from these very people who spread lies in order to retain their grip on power, even if it meant overturning the very system that elected them to power in the first place. ‘Lets not focus on the past.’ ‘Let’s not hold the soon-to-be ex-President accountable because it will further divide the nation.’ These calls from extreme Republicans are the ones that would have us avoid the reckoning and the truth-telling that must be part of any genuine reconciliation.

It’s probably not surprising that these calls to move on and forget mirror the calls by many about race in our country. ‘Let’s not talk about slavery, or lynchings or the raft of legislation passed over the years that has inflicted violence against black and brown people.’ ‘Let’s just move forward.’ But we cannot forget or move beyond what we are unwilling to acknowledge.

Forgetting is a kind of pretending. But the damage of lies is ongoing. The pain and violence of the past can never be undone. Only when we are willing to honestly confront what has happened and what is happening even now, can we find a way forward together.

So, this morning, in honor of one of our great national heroes, Martin Luther King, Jr., let us recommit ourselves to truthful and courageous conversations grounded in love. Let us be willing to disturb ourselves and others on the path to the reconciliation, justice and harmony that we all dream of.

Winter Gardening

The first sign in my household of the coming spring is the arrival of seed catalogues. They come with a reliability and glamour that belies the real nature of gardening which is much more provisional and gritty. I like both. But the catalogues have come this year, as they do every year, to remind me that in eight to ten weeks, I’ll be stumbling upon my first snow drops back by the side door where they seem to spring up overnight next to the snow piles.

Without periscopes or even eyes to look in the periscopes, how do they know the snow is gone? Do they grow in the frozen ground up to near the surface and wait to sense the warmth of the early spring sun before they make the final break into the light? Do they feel the release of pressure as the snow melts? And do I never notice them until I see their tiny nodding white blossoms a few inches above the ground because of the pace of their sprouting and blooming or is it that over each winter I loose the habit of paying attention to the earth at my feet?

So many questions. This lovely wondering is one of the delights of the gardening life. Even as I write this, my heart warms slightly and something, in the middle of winter, begins to grow inside me again.

I had a friend who taught art in high school and she said that her job was to teach her students to pay attention. It wasn’t about aesthetics or creativity or problem solving—all those things are a secondary outcome to the paying attention. I think it’s so with gardening and perhaps with most of life. Master gardeners, carpenters, lawyers and teachers are people who have learned to pay attention in particular ways.

Paying attention and wondering. If you ask me, this is the good life. I’ve never been good at being an expert. Though I have been known to have a strong opinion or two, what I like most is to appreciate the infinite wisdom and variety of the world—both around and within me. I’m enchanted by stories of the Chinese hermit Zen poets who refused positions of prestige and accountability. They lived lives of intentional obscurity and freedom. Of course the ongoing irony is that the ones we know about are the ones who were less successful. The truly successful hermits were never found and left no stories to seduce us. But perhaps the intention of some of these wild seekers of beauty was not to cut off connection, but to be free from the praise and opinion of others.

In Loving What Is, self-realized teacher Byron Katie wrote: “If I had one prayer, it would be this: “God, spare me from the desire for love, approval, or appreciation. Amen.” Many of us contort ourselves into intricate pretzels trying to be good or wise or competent enough to earn the love, approval and appreciation of others. Being free from the desire for these things that come and go is a great blessing.

But you can’t just say: ‘I don’t care.’ I mean you can say that, but it doesn’t change anything except to require more work to pretend that what is true is not true. These desires for approval and appreciation are natural and, despite what Katie preaches, are not a problem. Being human is complex, problematic and painful, but it is also wondrous, fascinating and endlessly emerging.

A better way to work with our human dependence on others is to let it be and learn to pay attention to what really interests us. Each of us are drawn to different parts—different aspects of the world. For me it’s the mud—the wet earth from which we and the tiny snow drops and the mighty oak all spring. The wet earth, that when it’s sticky enough can be shaped into vessels and containers that we can drink and eat from. These basic earth things delight me both in the doing and the considering.

Now, mid-January, is the time of considering and dreaming of the gardens to come. I avidly page through the glossy photos, all perfect exemplars of what might be. I dreamof paths lined with blooming flowers and I look forward to the actuality of the thing itself which is gritty and emergent in ways photos can never be. My disappointments and inevitable failures will be more than balanced by the first green sprout that splits the moist earth and the fully improbable reality of those delicate snow drops that will be coming in the not too distant future.

Blursday

Saturday morning. Blursday morning. These days the days and weeks have a weird sameness. Shorn from their usual geographic reference points they blend together. Many of us no longer traveling to work or to see family around the country or even going out to diner for breakfast and coffee with a friend. My meetings have no specific place, they simply appear, one after another on the computer screen. My days and weeks have no specific place, they mostly happen here. And, now that it’s winter, here is pretty much inside—in these rooms where I live that are now more familiar to me than every before.

The new normal is not moving around too much—not consorting with human beings like we used to. We are told we must carefully keep our distance and stay safely beyond the point of contact. Invisible enemies surround us, now killing nearly 4,000 of us Americans per day. We must be constantly on alert. We have to stay away from each other. Our situation is beyond serious and yet some of us can still not comprehend the danger enough to wear masks, wash our hands and stay safely distanced.

This time is hard for us all.

The vaccine is here, but the coordinated roll-out will not apparently begin to begin until January 20 when a new administration is formally sworn in. The lies and rumors spread by the outgoing administration, including a number of ongoing Congressional Republicans, have created a culture of paranoia and disregard for basic science and the hard-won wisdom of our public health officials.

But I don’t want to go all political again this morning. I’m tired of writing and considering and wondering about the current state of our democracy. I’m tired of being outraged. (At this point, I notice the urge to list all the things I am outraged about. But, alert to my own part in disturbing myself, I choose, this morning to walk down another path. I’m taking an outrage break. Enough for the moment.)

So bleary eyes in the dark this morning. Cold January rain falls outside. The gutter company scaled the Temple building two weeks ago during one of our thaws and cleaned out the gutters, so the water that was spilling noisily over the roof edge above my window now quietly follows the gutter to the silent downspout.

Recently I’ve been singing ‘Itsy-bitsy Spider’ to my grandson on Zoom. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a dramatic song with gestures for little ones. A spider of diminutive proportions bravely ascends the water spout only to encounter a reversal of fortunes when the rain water sends him back to where he was before. But there’s a happy ending as the brave spider is heartened by the reappearance of the sun and sets out once again on their perpetual task.

Itsy-bitsy spider went up the water spout.
Down came the rain and washed the spider out.
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain,
Then the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again.

Though the functioning of zoom and the reality of people on the other side does not appear to fully make sense to my grandson as he approaches his second birthday, he seemed to recognize the song and be curious about the hand gestures his Nana and I were making as we tried to make virtual connection. But the puzzling thing to me, was that when the sun comes up, the gesture he made was covering his eyes (with his cute little hands) rather than spreading his arms to be the reappearing sun.

I’m wondering if he is perhaps being taught an alternative version at nursery school. The correct version of the gestures encourages identification with the sun—manifesting self as the whole world. Apparently there is a heretical version circulating where you are supposed to respond as if you were there and the sun was bright in your eyes. This is clearly an inferior interpretation that not only encourages separation from the world around us but also leads to smaller gestures and diminished engagement.

But, I suppose this rainy morning, it’s all academic. Any spiders that had been safely playing and living in the non-functioning downspouts of the Temple with no need to climb back after every rain, are now fully washed out. It’s still dark, but the rain continues and there will be no visible sun this morning to dry up all the rain. We’ll be wet for the day.

So this wet day is all we have.  Cars pass on Pleasant Street as per usual. The pandemic rages and drags on. Democracy holds for the moment. My pleasantly mild oolong tea is now cold in my cup. Time to cease and desist with the complaints and speculation. Time to make my bed, fold the clean laundry that has been patiently waiting in a pile on the floor and climb up the waterspout of this new day.

Two Questions

1. What do I want?
2. What do I really want?

I spend a lot of time asking questions—not because I know the answers, but because part of my role as teacher and life-coach is to invite people into the possibilities of their own lives. These possibilities dance before us. Sometimes quite clear, sometimes shrouded by fog, and sometimes fully obscured. Yet, we all long for something and this longing is an important resource in creating and sustaining a full and authentic life.

Even in the midst of abundance and seeming ease, there is often a disturbance—sometimes just barely discernable and other times almost overwhelming. We all face the inevitable changes of growing up and growing old. Our friends and partner change. People come and go without warning—and even when we are forewarned, still the parting still surprises and shocks. Amidst these changes, we must ask again: ‘What shall I do?’ ‘Where shall I go?’ ‘Which path shall I choose?’ Sometimes the answers are quite clear but other times it’s hard to know which path to take. Or, if the direction is clear, how to we find the energy and courage needed to follow?

In these cases when things are confusing and we really don’t know, I find these two questions of great use. They are not magic potions to straighten out all the tangles of the moment, but they can allow us to settle into where we are and connect to some deeper intention that can both guide us and provide the courage to take the next step.

First question: What do I want? This is a question that we are often encouraged to ignore. We might feel that everything in our life is set and we have no options. Or we’ve been taught that we must be ‘realistic’ and that ‘dreaming’ is a waste of time. It is true that there are many things in our lives that are unchangeable. We can’t undo anything that has already happened. What we have done, what others have done cannot be undone. We can’t be anyone other than who we are. But ‘what has happened’ and ‘who we are’ is actually much more malleable than it first appears. Past, present and future all arise in this moment and are all shape-shifting constantly. The feeling-tone and the story that feels overwhelming at one moment can change in a heartbeat—can intensify, can vanish, can become something altogether new.

So the first question, What do I want?, is an invitation to stop trying to solve problems or to assign proportionate blame or even tell new stories. What do I want? focuses our attention inward. You may have clear answers for this question or you may have never given yourself permission to ask. Either way, it is a useful question because we all want something.

Now the Buddha taught that wanting is the source of our suffering. But the solution to this is not to pretend that we don’t want anything, but rather to clarify the wanting itself. Because the Buddha also taught that suffering is an unavoidable and essential part of life. Suffering, the discomfort and even the agony of life, are, paradoxically, the entry points into a larger life of freedom and connection.

So ask yourself: What do I want? Allow yourself to be selfish and want what you want. Don’t judge yourself or censor yourself. What do I want?

Then ask the second question: What do I really want? Another way of putting it: If I got what I wanted, what would that give me? If I had a comfortable cottage on the coast of Maine, what would that give me? I might answer ‘I’d be able to sit and look out the window and see the ocean.’ Then ask again, What would that give me? Keep asking this question until you get the same answer over and over. This is what you truly want.

We often imagine what we want is a particular set of circumstances. I want my body to be like this or my finances to be like that or my relationships to appear in this configuration—then I will be happy. But when we look deeper, we can begin to discern that our true longing is for something deeper. The surface configuration of our lives, while important, turns out to have not nearly as much to do with our happiness as we might imagine. Money, fame, even relationships cannot bring us what we truly want.

Next time you come to a decision point or are feeling disconnected or lost, try asking these questions and see where they lead. You may be surprised.

Hatred and Delusive Certainty

I ended my post yesterday with this inspiring quote from Martin Luther King, Jr:

‘Hating someone will destroy you, not the people you are hating. If you‘re in a place of hating someone, you need to let go. Choose love over hate.’

I’ve also heard King quoted as saying to a group about to engage in civil disobedience: ‘If we hate the people who hate us, they have won.’ King’s concern with our hearts, with our inner landscape, was a fully aligned with Gandhi’s understanding of nonviolence as not just a political expediency, but as a way of being. Gandhi was adamant that the path of nonviolence is only effective if the participants have done the necessary inner work.

Gandhi himself continually returned to his own spiritual community for rest and renewal between his many travels and conversations and actions. Daily meditation and regular fasting were part of his everyday life. Gandhi also called off several large scale campaigns of civil disobedience when violent incidents made it clear that the partisans of his cause were not yet able to live up to the demands of nonviolent action, that they had not found yet found a way through the tangle of their own inner hatreds and violence.

That’s a high bar for engagement.

Yesterday, I was caught by King’s words: ‘If you’re in a place of hating someone, you need to let go. Choose love over hate.’ This is inspiring advice and it sounds quite simple, but how do we do it?

I don’t think many people consciously choose hate over love, but we are always beset by the seduction of righteous certainty—the mirror side of hatred. The human mind loves the feeling of certainty. The mind was apparently designed to solve problems and move on. Uncertainty requires the ongoing energy of wondering and not knowing. And while we may generally be in favor of the idea of wondering, in practice, not knowing can be very taxing. Part of the brain simply wants to clear space in our consciousness for the next problem. Being certain, even if we are wrong, is often accompanied with a sense of relief and ease.

The brain cannot distinguish between its view of reality and reality itself. Stephen Covey once said ‘We see the world not as it is, but as we are, or as we were conditioned to see it.’ We live in a world that we unconsciously participate in creating. We live with strong psychic pressure to clarify things into black and white so we can move on to the next problem. Once we know that we are the good guys and they are the bad guys, we settle into certainty.

Consequently, hate and its near relatives of blame, resentment and righteousness often feel quite good. I mean they don’t feel good, but they are solid positions that allow us to create a sense of a stable self. And on some level, the brain only wants to create a stable sense of itself and the world—it often cares more about resolution than whether the resolution is accurate, beneficial or even if it really makes sense.

From the Zen perspective, the self—who we think we are—is the subject of great interest. As we look more closely at our actual experience, it’s quite hard to find the self who is allegedly at the center of it all. I might reasonably say, ‘I am writing these words on my laptop.’ But who is the one who is writing these words? I respond, ‘I am having thoughts that I’m typing onto the keyboard.’ But who is the one having these thoughts? Words and thoughts are certainly arising in my awareness, but where are they coming from? Who is the one who is doing the thinking? Who is doing the typing? To say, ‘I am.’ begs the question. Who is this ‘I’ that ‘I’ talk about so often? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I have no idea who is at the center of it all. There are thoughts. There is typing. There is wondering. That’s all I can really vouch for.

While this may sound interesting, it can be quite unsettling when we begin to realize that we really don’t know who we are on this fundamental level—that this self and personal history that we will go to extreme lengths to defend, is not as solid as we would like to believe. And this is not just academic because this unconscious urge to solidify the self is at the core of the hatred and self-righteousness that tear us apart.

The urgent work of our country and the urgent work of our planet is to find ways to cut through the separation of certainty that leads to hatred, violence and endless suffering. Courage is required to do the necessary work of the moment—courage to face our own internal demons and delusive certainties as well as courage to take action and stand up for justice, accountability and compassion.

These are not easy times, but these are times of great opportunity—to step beyond whatever bubble we have been living in, into the great diversity, confusion and vividness of life itself. We are called to do this for ourselves, for our brothers and sisters, and for this fragile planet that is part of who we are.

Continuing Commitment

The Joint Chiefs of Staff sent a letter to the 1.3 million men and women that comprise our active-duty armed services and the 811,000 more that are serving in the National Guard condemning the action of January 6 and reminding them of their sworn duty to the constitution. NPR reported part of the text:

“The violent riot in Washington, D.C. on January 6, 2021 was a direct assault on the U.S. Congress, the Capitol building, and our Constitutional process,” the memorandum said. “We witnessed actions inside the Capitol building that were inconsistent with the rule of law. The rights of freedom of speech and assembly do not give anyone the right to resort to violence, sedition and insurrection.”

This is good news. The coup has clearly failed and Trump’s support for his spurious contention of a stolen election has splintered. Though a small number of right-wing extremist groups have been roused to a white heat by his ongoing rhetoric, many of Trumps former supporters, both on Capital Hill and throughout the country are finally stepping out of his self-justifying and fear mongering toxic bubble. There is still real danger of sporadic acts of violence but the military and the FBI now seem to be taking this threat quite seriously and making preparations.

The Republican Party seems to be in the middle of extricating itself from its four-year love affair with a genius narcissist. This will not be an easy parting.   The reckoning between the Trumpists and those who would hope to reclaim the name and genuine meaning of conservative will be bitter and fierce. Then there will be the accounting for the lying and misdeeds on both sides. It will not be pretty or smooth, but for many of us it has been a long four years (or more) in the coming and the marginalization of Trump and all he stands for cannot come soon enough.

There will also be specific charges against Trump and those who have done his bidding. I suspect today’s impeachment proceedings in the House are just the first of many public trials for Trump and some of his most ardent followers. Trump has spent five years egging crowds on with ‘Lock her up.’ chants about his former Presidential opponent. Many of us were shocked with the idea of locking up one’s political opponents, but Trump’s behavior as President has been immoral and, I believe, illegal and he himself may end up with the fate he has so fervently wished for his opponents.

We should all continue to be nervous, but we should all resist the temptation to while away our days glued to our media sources. The wish for revenge is near to the wish to scapegoat. Though they rouse our passion, they do not lead toward lasting solutions to the very real problems we face as a nation and a world. As MLK Jr. said

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

Let us not fall into the world Trump has created around us. Let us not fall into the facile escape of dividing the world into ‘us’ and ‘them’. We must acknowledge our common ground as human beings even as we stand firm for accountability and a reckoning with the truth. Reconciliation must be our goal but we must not forget.

Our democracy appears to be coming back from the brink of dissolution, but there is much work to be done. The inner work for all of us is to deal with the personal fear, anger and even hate that arises. Returning again to the words of MLK Jr.:

‘Hating someone will destroy you, not the people you are hating. If you‘re in a place of hating someone, you need to let go. Choose love over hate.’

Choosing love, as MLK Jr. demonstrated with his life, is not about inaction, weakness or sweeping things under the rug. It requires a fierce confrontation with the realities of institutional racism, classism, sexism that are woven into our better intentions for justice, equality and fairness.

So let us proceed together in facing the truth and re-weaving the fabric of this grand experiment in democracy in which we find ourselves.

Some Encouraging Signs

Our national crisis continues. Yesterday, the House of Representatives filed Articles of Impeachment against Trump. This time, the charge is ‘incitement of insurrection’ and includes excerpts from the speech he gave his supporters before they stormed the capital and also his January 2 phone call to the Georgia Secretary of State in which Trump asked him to ‘find’ the votes Trump needed to win the state. The House will vote on the Articles today and begin the impeachment on Wednesday.

Meanwhile, Trump and his administration appear to be in hiding. There have been no briefings from the White House, FBI, Department of Homeland Security or the Justice Department about what happened on January 6 and what is being done to contain the ongoing threat of violence. The investigation of the insurrection, arrests, and preparation against future threats does appear, however, to be continuing.

But today, I am most encouraged by other events over the weekend:

• Twitter and Facebook have ‘deplatformed’ Donald Trump and all his accounts.
• Major US Corporations (BlueCross-BlueShield and Marriott among others) have announced they will stop contributing to Senate and House members that voted against counting the Electoral College for Joe Biden.
• Deutsche Bank, one of the only banks that would still work with Trump has announced it will no longer do business with him.
• The PGA has announced they are moving the 2022 golf championships from Trump’s golf course in New Jersey.
• Even my Wesleyan classmate and football coaching genius past Trump supporter Bill Belichick has turned down Trump’s offer of a Presidential Medal of Freedom saying: ‘Above all, I am an American citizen with great reverence for our nation’s values, freedom, and democracy.’

Though I don’t think Trump will lose sleep over being jilted by Bill, the tide has clearly turned against him and the backlash that many of us have hoped for for the past four years appears to be gathering momentum.  All of these sanctions and consequences of Trump’s actions diminish his power right now and over the coming months and years. This is indeed a good thing for us all. The economic ramifications for Trump and the whole Trump brand are significant and will greatly reduce his influence and power going forward.

In the midst of all this, we are engaged in coming to a new understanding of how a democracy can function in the time of the internet. Part of Trump’s power has been his ability to say anything, and we know this really means anything, without being held accountable. Twitter and Facebook have allowed him to make patently false claims as if they were true – without having to answer questions.

Trump’s steadfast creation of an alternate reality to suit his purposes has been the hallmark of his time as President. He and his allies in the media and online have created a full service information system that reflects and amplifies itself to the delight and detriment of millions of Americans. This perpetuation of misinformation has given cover for those Republican politicians who know very well that the election was free and fair, to falsely claim otherwise to satisfy their base and to maintain their power. These ongoing and mendacious statements led directly to the violent attempt to seize the Capital on January 6.

This kind of false free speech cannot be tolerated if our democracy is to function. While we are all against censorship, apparently we need to adjust our limits of what kind of speech is acceptable and useful. Already we have libel laws and other limits on public speech, so that there must be boundaries even to free speech is not a new idea for us Americans, but it will be a difficult discussion to have to find our way to new limits to protect our democracy and ensure that we are not as vulnerable to an authoritarian movement as we have found ourselves to be.

(For a more thorough exploration of our current issues of free speech see Thomas Edsall’s presentation of the issue and opinions both pro and con in his op-ed piece in the New York Times that came out on January 6, the day the Capital was stormed, Have Trump’s Lies Wrecked Free Speech?)

Some of Trump’s former Congressional supporters are now trying to avoid accountability by calling for ‘lowering the temperature’ and not moving forward with impeachment. Now, in the wake of an armed insurrection that came terrifyingly close to harming or kidnapping the three highest ranking government officials beneath the President, the Republicans who supported and stirred up this movement are now calling for moderation.

My friend Robert Hubbell calls this False Equivalency (though I have to claim prior trademark on that title from January 8) in his post today:

 As Americans continue to grapple with the ramifications of the Capitol Insurrection, we must refuse to accept false equivalency from those who seek “healing” without accountability. Those who encouraged or excused the violence must not be recognized as responsible members of our democracy unless and until they admit their complicity, ask forgiveness, and make amends. To date, those responsible for the violence are refusing to acknowledge their role in encouraging violence.

We should be moderate but determined. We must hold people, especially our elected officials, accountable for their words and their actions. But as we pursue this accountability, let us remember how easily we become infected with the virus of hate and either/or thinking. We are all always in danger of falling into our own self-reinforcing bubble of ignorance.

Let us proceed with courage and compassion. Let us act in alignment with the values of justice, truth and decency as we work to repair the ancient wounds that are woven into our country and to meet the grave challenges of this political moment.

(I would urge you all to at least occasionally read Robert Hubbell’s daily summary of the news along with Heather Cox Richard’s ‘Letters from an American’—both are referenced from a wide variety of news sources and well worth the time.)

#4 Zazen is Participation in Life (part 2)

My second understanding of the fourth of the 31 Fundamental Teachings of Zen (Zazen is participation in life) comes from a teaching my teacher passed on to me decades ago in the first years I was studying with him. I came to him one day distraught and in tears. I think it was about the pressure I was feeling in my new job of being Headmaster of a private school. Whether it was about finances or student or staff behavior, I can’t remember. But things were really not going well and I was feeling totally overwhelmed. I went to him as a teacher and exemplar of Zen, hoping he would have an answer.

He listened as I talked and cried, then said in the kindest voice, ‘You don’t expect Zen to save you from your life, do you?’ As I write it, it sounds almost cruel, but in that moment, it felt incredibly loving and shifted something deep inside. He was inviting me to give up the impossible task of fixing and controlling and to begin to fully participate in my life.

The path of Zen is not about withdrawing into states of equanimity and bliss, but rather to find our true home right in the middle of what is happening here. When I am feeling exhausted and overwhelmed, the way of Zen is to be fully exhausted and overwhelmed. Looking to fix or escape just increases the suffering.

Fully allowing what is here to be here can be a great relief. Our lives are continually flowing on—one mind state constantly turns into the next. Thoughts and opinions, feelings and sensations continually arise and pass away. We solve one problem, then the next problem appears. Control is impossible. Any fix we come up with is temporary at best. It appears increasingly evident that neither you nor I are the ruler of the universe. Everything around us and we ourselves are coming into being and then certainly passing away. A life spent trying to fix or manage reality is exhausting and futile.

Zazen is participating in life.

We are invited to give up our endless objections and join in. The entryway to our true life is whatever is going on right now. Right here where you sit and read these words. Perhaps you are feeling energized and inspired to fight for our democratic institutions that were so visibly threatened in the insurrection of January 6. Or maybe you are feeling discouraged and overwhelmed by the ongoing conflict and division of our country. Or sick and tired of it all. Or just enjoying how effortlessly life goes on amidst all the drama.

THIS IS IT.

As I continually delight is saying – This is the bad news and the good news. There is not some other place we should be. We cannot someday escape to the fantasy land of enlightenment.   There is no way around the impossible and truly ungraspable situation of this moment. But this is it, also means that this very place is the place you have been looking for. This very moment with all the thoughts, feelings and sensations that are here, is the entryway to your true life—a life of freedom and appreciation.

This is not an invitation to abdicate our responsibility to stand up for compassion, justice and fairness. Allowing things to be as they are creates the space for us to see clearly the pain and suffering going on around us and to act boldly against all forms of oppression, intimidation and injustice.

In our wholehearted participation in our lives, in the fully impossible and wondrous conundrum of being human, we can find a place to rest right where we are. Winning and losing, solving and not solving, engaging and withdrawing—life flows on unimpeded and available to each one of us.

I’m reminded of the wonderful song from the Native People of this land: ‘Why do I go about pitying myself, when all the time I am being carried on great winds across the sky?’

** I forgot to mention in yesterday’s blog that you’re all invited to join the Boundless Way Zen Temple in any one (or all) of our eight weekly meditation on-line practice periods. We practice participating in our lives together through zazen, chanting, talks and discussion. No experience necessary, just use the link at our website (www.worcesterzen.org) and come ten minutes early for a brief welcome and introduction.

#4 Zazen is Participation in Life (part 1)

Zazen is a fancy word for seated meditation. Za means seated and zen means meditation. In the Zen Buddhist tradition, zazen is our primary practice. We are encouraged to make time every day to sit in an upright and motionless posture and practice zazen. We can do this alone or in the company of others, in person or virtually**. As students of the Zen way, we also gather for intensive periods of practice that include chanting, walking meditation, work practice, listening to talks, going to individual meetings with the teacher—but are primarily centered on ongoing periods of sitting in stillness and silence. The traditional image of a Zen practitioner – a monk in meditation robes with a shave head sitting serenely motionless in front of a carefully tended garden of raked stones – embodies this ancient practice of zazen.

But point #4 from 31 Fundamental Teachings of Zen says: ‘Zazen is participation in life.’ What could this mean?

I understand this in two ways. First, when we are doing our zazen practice of sitting still, we are not practicing for some other time. We are not practicing music to be able to perform it at the recital. Our stillness and silence IS our life. We are not trying to achieve special states of concentration or transcendence. What we are doing as we sit is intentionally, in that moment, participating in living our true lives.

Many of us associate living with doing things. We are eager to make good use of our time. We often want to make sure we are doing what we should be doing, that we are using our lives well. Sitting still in meditation can look like it is simply a break from the busyness to pause and catch our breath before we jump back into our routine busyness. In one way, this is true. It genuinely can be a real relief to interrupt the incessant activity of our lives and DO nothing for a while. Just a short break can clear our heads and allow us to be more present in whatever we were doing.

But anyone who has sat still for more than a few moments knows that though the body may come into relative stillness, the mind is much more unruly. After a few breaths in stillness, the mind is often off to the races. Like a little puppy, it dashes here and there—thinking about what just happened, what is happening and what will happen. It doesn’t like to stay still. Though we may be in a meditation pose and even in a meditation hall, we quickly discover that the whole world has come with us.

Our zazen quickly becomes learning how to meet ourselves and work with ourselves in all our many different mind-states. Rather than trying to cut everything off (which is impossible except for brief moments) we practice the skill of appreciating what is arising without getting carried away with it. We don’t resist and we don’t follow. We learn how to participate in the life that comes to us. Rather than trying to escape or control, we pay attention and practice allowing what is already here to be here.

We really don’t have a choice, but as we slowly release our certainty that things should be different, we can participate in the fullness of our life as it actually is.

It’s not that we have to like everything, but we can slowly learn to give up our ancient struggle and allow ourselves to join in the life that is already here.

Personal Practice: Find a quiet room (in a pinch, a bathroom will do just fine) and set the timer on your phone for two minutes. Settle into an upright and dignified seated posture. Start your timer. Notice your breath. Notice the sensations in your body. Notice the feelings and thoughts that are present. Let everything be as it is—even your wondering if you are doing this right. When your timer sounds, take a deep breath, smile in appreciation and go about the rest of your day.

(Tomorrow: A second take on Zazen is participation in life.)

A False Equivalency

Being heroic for the cause of overthrowing the Constitution of the United States is not equivalent to risking personal danger for the cause of defending human dignity and justice.  We don’t celebrate the bravery of the perpetrators of 9/11 or of suicide bombers or of other terrorists. Though these individuals construe their actions as the highest patriotism to what they love, their actions are a form of violent extremism that must be sanctioned and stopped.

The generals and soldiers of the Confederate Army may have been brave individuals, but they were fighting to retain their inhumane privilege to treat other human beings as property, for the right to be able to inflict bodily harm on men, women and children whose skin was a different color. Their choice to give their lives to the cause of brutality does not make them heroes. The Confederate flag that flew over the Capital along with Trump’s personal flag is a symbol of one of the sources of Trump’s power—the desperate fear of some whites of a society in which the whiteness of their skin does not guarantee power over others whose skin is a different hue.

A friend spoke last night of their anger at the mob that overran the Capital building on Wednesday. Then they remembered their participation in demonstrations to end the Vietnam War in the early 70’s and said they would have welcomed the opportunity to storm the Capital building at that point. They talked about the humanity of those breaching the capital and the need for understanding.

This is true—each person in the mass of people that stormed the Capital is a human being and was most likely acting in a manner that they viewed as brave. They were following Donald Trump’s explicit directive to prevent the ‘stealing of the election.’ In their minds, they saw their actions as trying to ‘preserve our democracy.’

But the voter fraud that Trump and other Republicans have been talking about has no basis in fact. Despite unprecedented scrutiny and countless recounts, no significant fraud has been found anywhere in the country—not one county or precinct has been found to have unfairly voted, counted or reported. Not one.

The purpose of those who stormed the Capital on Wednesday was to overthrow the legitimate result of the Presidential election and thereby overthrow the rightfully elected government of the United States. This was an act of domestic terrorism aided and abetted by Donald Trump and the Congressional Representatives and Senators that have promulgated these unfounded allegations in the face of all evidence.

Sadly, there is increasing evidence of intentional efforts on the part of the Capital Police leadership and the Department of Defense to ‘stand down’ in the face of the expected violent demonstrations. The Washington Post reported that the Pentagon, led by Trump sycophant Christopher Miller as Secretary of Defense, set strong limits on the District guardsmen that contributed to the catastrophic failure of security at the Capital on Wednesday.

Speaker Pelosi and Majority Leader Schumer have jointly called for Pence to evoke the 25^th Amendment and remover Trump from power. Failing that, they are threatening to begin impeachment proceedings. Trump has been banned from Facebook until after the transition of power and a number of members of his administration are resigning in protest. This is all good news.

Whatever happens over the next ten days, Trump’s power will continue. But the growing number of Republicans who have finally stood up and repudiated the logical conclusion to the Trumpism that they have supported for four years is encouraging.

Meanwhile, Biden has been a steady presence. He directly and immediately denounced the violence and has continued gathering his team and preparing to assume the reins of a country in crisis. Trump’s seditious actions have directly contributed to a emerging realization of the true danger he poses to this country and, perhaps, to a willingness of Republicans to work with Biden for the good of the country in the days and months ahead.

And, lost in all this drama, buried far down the front page of the NY Times, is the article ‘US Sets New Death and Daily Case Records’ that reports pandemic deaths in the United States have exceeded 4,000 per day for the first time since the virus began. As these current historic events get to be written down in history books, I suspect the lead story and Trump’s greatest culpability will be for the hundreds and thousands of deaths that have come from his refusal inability to lead the country in a united response to this pandemic.

No happy ending this morning, except to continue to appreciate the determined actions of the majority of Senate and House to validate the election, to condemn the violence Trump has incessantly incited and to move us closer to the end of his disastrous tenure.

Democracy Prevails

One hour ago, the Senate and the House of Representatives voted to confirm the election of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris as the next President and Vice-President of the United States! They fulfilled their constitutional duty in spite of a coup attempt by an angry mob inspired by Trump’s lies of voter fraud. For several unbelievable hours, the mob of Trump loyalists waving Trump flags and Confederate flags roamed aimlessly in the Capital building, vandalizing the building and forcing elected officials to evacuate under threat of bodily harm.

How the mob breached the building so easily is a mystery, but nowhere did we see the militarized police response that seemed to be the norm when the protestors in the streets included black and brown bodies. Though the Capital police kept the elected officials safe, they seemed to treat the insurrectionists with respect and deference, even as they breached the sacred halls of democracy.

Make no mistake, this was a coup attempt, inspired and led by our sitting President. His months of lies, his calls to come to Washington and even his remarks to the same crowd that morning urging them to march to the Capital were the source of this rage and violence against the institutions of democracy. Republican Senator, Mitt Romney put it this way: “What happened here today was an insurrection incited by the president of the United States.”

The good news is that they failed.

It turns out that even Mike Pence and Mitch McConnell, who have been enablers in chief for Trump’s lies and ongoing seditious behavior, stood firmly against Trump’s mob. Republicans and Democrats, minus a small minority, stood together to defend the election and the will of the American people. Both chambers immediately reconvened after the Capital building had been cleared and proceeded to duly ratify the results of the Electoral College.

This morning, though we have less than two weeks until Trump will be duly removed from office, there are calls for the invocation of the 25^th amendment that provides for the removal of the President in case of his incapacity to govern or for his immediate impeachment. He has demonstrated, now even to most of his formerly loyal cronies, that he is unfit for the office of President of the United States—a fact that some of us have believed for the past four years.

The drama of yesterday afternoon almost obscures the wondrous news that was emerging earlier in the day that BOTH senate races in Georgia were won by the Democratic challengers. Four years ago the Presidency, the Senate and the House were all controlled by Republicans, as the inauguration on January 20, they will be controlled by the Democrats. Along with the incalculable damage Trump has wrought on our democracy and the dangerously insular right-wing conspiracy-driven media bubble he has promoted, this shift of governmental control is part of Trump’s legacy as well.

But we are not home free.

No matter what happens between now and the Biden-Harris inauguration, it will take us years to recover. And we must go beyond ‘recovery.’ The racist roots of our political divide were on full display yesterday in both the seemingly lax actions of the police in response to the ‘white’ mob who seemed to stroll into the Capital and in the flying of the Confederate flag – a symbol of a system of brutal oppression and torture of millions human beings of black and brown skin – fondly remembered and mythologized by Q-Anon and Trump’s most ardent right-wing followers.

All decent Republicans should put as much distance as they can between themselves and Trump’s racist and authoritarian view of our country. We should unite to condemn the insurrectionists that stormed the Capital yesterday as well as Trump and the other political leaders who have fanned the flames of false conspiracy for their own personal gain.

The Politics of Treason

As I write this, on Wednesday morning January 6, 2021, one Democratic incumbent, Rev. Raphael Warnock has defeated Republican Senator Kelly Loeffler and though the second Democratic challenger, Jon Ossoff, is slightly ahead in his race, the results are too close to call. This is an extraordinary result already, and to think that the Democrats might regain control of the Senate is something that seemed almost unthinkable a year ago. But whatever the outcome, the challenges facing our country over the next four years are huge.

For the past several weeks, I have been limiting myself to skimming headlines and reading about sports and have enjoyed writing about Zen, being in a bad mood and my grandson (my favorite topics). But this morning I feel compelled, once again, to consider the wild and treasonous actions of our sitting President. Today is the day a joint session of the House and Senate convenes to accept the results of the Electoral College.

Over the weekend Trump called Georgia’s Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger, and spent an hour on the phone trying to convince him to ‘find’ the votes necessary to change the results of the election. This was a brazen (and recorded) attempt to tamper with official election results, a clear breach of our constitutionally protected right of free and fair elections. After Trump made spurious allegations about the call the next day, someone released the recording of the call for all to hear Trump’s baseless claims and perhaps not so baseless threats.

Trump has also been publically pressuring Mike Pence to use powers he doesn’t have to refuse to accept the results of the Electoral College in the Senate. Pence, who has been Trump’s fawning and willing accomplice over the last four years, is said to be trying to lower the President’s expectations while staying in his good favor.

And on top of all of this, there are the Republican Representatives and Senators who have publically said they will be officially objecting to the Electoral College results presented today. This logically indefensible stance appears to be their way of showing their allegiance to Trump who still appears to control the base of Republicans he has radicalized over his four years in office.

The good news is that a number of Republican Senators have strongly condemned the brazenly self-serving and extremist position of their colleagues (though no one appears to be willing to take on Trump directly, even after all this.)

In discussing this in his post this morning, my still favorite political news source, Robert Hubbell, refers to a Facebook post by Republican Senator Ben Sasse:

See Senator Ben Sasse, “What Happens on January 6th?” Although the entire post is remarkable, the most remarkable passage is this Q&A:

         ‘Do any of your colleagues disagree with you about this [not objecting to Electoral votes]?  When we talk in private, I haven’t heard a single Congressional Republican allege that the election results were fraudulent – not one. Instead, I hear them talk about their worries about how they will “look” to President Trump’s most ardent supporters.’

         Please go back and read the quoted passage again, carefully. Ben Sasses admits the ugly truth of the radical extremists’ motivations. In private conversations, “not one” of the congressional Republicans “alleges that the election results were fraudulent.” Instead, they worry “about how they will “look” to President Trump’s most ardent supporters.” In other words, the radical extremists are cowards who are willing to abandon the Constitution to curry favor with Trump’s base. Shameful.

Trump’s actions since the election on November 3^rd have been increasingly blatant in their treasonous intention. Since early October, many of us have had real concerns about the possibility of a political coup—an illegitimate grab for power or attempt to stay in power in contradiction to the laws and practices of our constitution. Speaking with a colleague in Belgium yesterday, I expressed my continuing concern with Trump’s ongoing and illegal power grab.

I am hopeful, but not certain, that the so-called ‘guardrails of democracy’ will hold. Both the House and Senate would have to agree to dismiss the results of the Electoral College and this will not happen. (See NY Times article What to Expect When Congress Meets to Certify Biden’s Victory for a clear explanation of today’s process.)

We are in this for the long haul. Whatever happens today, the work of staying engaged and moving our country back toward a civil society based conversation, respectful disagreement and democratic principles is an ongoing process. Free and fair elections must be protected and authoritarian impulses of Trump and many of his followers must be actively countered with principles, information and dialogue.

Today’s encouragement:

• Stay informed (but don’t read/watch/listen too much),
• express your opinions (with respect and conviction) and
• talk-and-listen to people who do not share your views (even family members).

#10 There is no roadmap

# 10  There is no roadmap. There is no system – only the trackless love of the universe. Burn your rule book. Beyond form and emptiness, beyond koan practice, beyond Zen. The point of our practice is not Zen – it is aliveness.*

It is easy when hearing about or even studying Zen, to imagine that you are being presented with a clear path (Zen practice) toward a clear goal (enlightenment). From this perspective, we listen to Dharma talks and read books to try to understand the Way so we can dutifully follow the path and then someday arrive at the destination. This is a misguided understanding of Zen that, rather than liberate us, simply holds us in a new kind of bondage.

There is no roadmap.

The true teaching of the Zen way is that the world is not an object that can be considered and mapped out. Life is not a ‘thing’ that can be comprehended by the pre-frontal cortex. Our human minds of reason are a wonderful resource in certain situations, but they are quite limited when we begin to turn to the essential nature of life itself.

The words and images that arise in the mind, including the words and images that arise when we talk about Buddhism and Zen and enlightenment are all delusions. They may be temporarily useful, but they are not the thing itself. There is no way to capture the Dharma or God or reality in any descriptions we use.

While the guidance of a teacher and a tradition can be a wonderful and perhaps even necessary part of an authentic spiritual journey, there is no road-map. There is no set of practices or procedures that will get us from here to there.

In Zen we sometimes say ‘Practice teaches us how to practice.’ By ‘practice’ we mean this intentional turning toward life itself. In our tradition, this practice is centered around our devotion to sitting upright and still as a way of expressing our willingness to allow the world and ourselves to be just as we are. Seated meditation is a way to relax our ancient habit of trying to control and to cultivate a basic friendliness toward whatever arises.

It is impossible to ‘know’ what we are doing. We can never measure our progress in any meaningful way. We can find ease and clarity, but if we try to put it into words or to ‘know’ it in the traditional sense, we have moved one step away the very thing we are after. Our path, our practice itself then becomes simply another idol to worship and we are lost once again. This is what the great Chinese teacher Linji meant when he said ‘If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.’

Anything you can concretize, imagine and hold onto is not what you are after. ‘There is no system – only the trackless love of the universe. Burn your rule book.’ The path of Zen is not an intricate and subtle wisdom system that, if you learn it, will save you. We are all perpetual wanderers in ‘the trackless love of the universe.’

The mind is certain of its position. The mind/self says: ‘I am in here and the rest of the world is out there.’ ‘There are certain things and qualities of being that I don’t have, that if I did have, my life would be better.’ While we might appreciate these internal perspectives as signs of realism and good mental health, they are, at the same time, limited and even false perspectives.

We abide and are held in a vast mystery that is both totally incomprehensible and intimately available. When we ask the question ‘Where is the Dharma?’ or ‘Where is God?’ or ‘Where is this trackless love you speak of?’—the answer is always: ‘Right here.’ There is nothing but this one moment that fills the entire universe. There is no path to what you long for, because what you long for is already here. You have never, from the very beginning, been separated from this.

As we practice (and I do believe practice is required), we are not progressing along some path. We are not accumulating tokens and advancing toward some destination. We are wandering in the boundless and incomprehensible fields of aliveness. No measurement is possible or necessary.

Settle in and appreciate your life.

* from the unpublished and apocryphal text 31 Fundemantal Teachings of Zen

31 Fundamental Teachings of Zen

While looking for something else, I came across several pages of notes I had jotted down ten years ago. The notes are in the form a 31 bullet points followed by a short passage from the medieval Chinese Zen teacher Hongzhi. The title of my notes is ‘The Single Flower Way’. Single Flower Sangha is the name my teacher gave to the group he gathered around himself after he left the organization his teacher had gathered around himself (the Kwan Um School). His teacher had left a prestigious position in the hierarchy of Korean Zen (Son in Korean) to come to America and teach a group of hippies and intellectuals in the mid-1970’s. My teacher followed his teacher’s footsteps in the 1990’s and stepped away from a senior position in the world-wide organization based in Providence, Rhode Island that his teacher had created.

The Single Flower Sangha had no fixed geographic location. The only property it accumulated were the two-dozen pamphlet-style chant books that one of his students had made. My teacher carried these chant books and a few bells around in his suitcase as he led silent Zen retreats in people’s homes around the country, including here in the Boston area. There would be anywhere from six to twelve people who would come together for a weekend or week of intensive Zen training. Lots of sitting and silence. Simple food eaten in an informal style. One meeting with the teacher per day in the afternoon and one long Dharma talk in the morning. (Those were the good old days.) My teacher was uncomfortable with large crowds and suspicious of ongoing institutions, so this small and constantly vanishing community of students worked pretty well for him.

From the beginning my teacher encouraged Melissa and me to lead the group we were already leading. At first it was just four of us who gathered weekly in the back room of our house to sit quietly together. After a few years, with his permission and with the permission of the teacher Melissa was then studying with, we turned our weekly gathering into a Zen group and began giving short talks.

My teacher’s permission to me went like this: Me: ‘Would it be OK for Melissa and I to turn our meditation group into a Zen group and begin giving short talks about Zen?’ My Teacher: (after a short pause to look at the floor) ‘Well, I guess if you make sure to only speak from your own experience, you probably won’t do too much damage.’ So began my career as a Zen teacher, first with this informal and cautionary approval, and then, ten or so years later, with his formal (and still cautionary) approval.

My teacher was suspicious of all teachers and all organizations, including himself. He was right to be so. Even his small organization was subject to the conflict and blindness that run through all human affairs—just as we have been here at Boundless Way Temple—just as the Buddha’s first community was.

But my recently rediscovered notes on ‘The Single Flower Way’ are a series of 31 bullet points about the Zen way as I understood my teacher taught it. Most, but not all, the points have some phrases or sentences bolded for emphasis. I remember mentioning to my teacher that I was working on a list like this. He was utterly uninterested and even actively skeptical that there would be any value is a list of his particular Zen teachings.

As I look over the list, what I see in those bullet points this morning are the topics I come back to again and again in hundreds of Dharma talks I have now given. Reading each point, I smile and nod in recognition. I don’t know whether these are indeed my teacher’s teaching or my teachings. Perhaps it might be more accurate to say that they are simply the teachings of the Zen tradition that have come down to and through me.

The one that catches my attention this morning is this:

• There is no road-map. There is no system – only the trackless love of the universe. Burn your rulebook. Beyond form and emptiness, beyond koan practice, beyond Zen. The point of our practice is not Zen – it is aliveness.

I love this! (Of course I wrote it, so I may be biased.) Maybe tomorrow I’ll explore what it might mean. Maybe these 31 points are something that might be useful to share in some manner.

P.S. – I was taken by the idea that there were 31 of these bullet points (I counted carefully) but did not make the association, until I went to post this on my blog, to the 31 Prayers for January 2021 which I posted on the first day of this year. Hmmmmm….

Or Both

I wake up

this morning

in vast space

without knowing

I lie still

and wait.

It’s not so bad

right here.

What if

this is

the blessed spaciousness

I have

been longing for

and not

the fearsome darkness

I have

been avoiding?

Or both.

What to Remember When Writing Poetry

I’ve always wanted to be a poet and I suppose I am, because sometimes I write broken lines on the page and I find myself continually willing to step through the barrier of ‘Who do you think you are?’ to see what happens.

Words sometimes cohere like strange attractors to reveal patterns that bring me deeper. Finding some shape of sound and meaning that pleases me, I am send it off—post it as my gift to the universe. I suppose I should be more careful with creations. I should work longer to ensure only the highest quality. But I refuse to work that hard, so when there’s a spark, I trust that to be enough. (Even when there’s not a spark, I try to trust that too.)

For me, this trusting is the key to creating anything—remembering that there is nothing to prove, we are already OK. Since whatever we do will never be good enough to earn our keep, we don’t have to try so hard. It’s not not caring. It’s just remembering the beating heart has been given and already fills our entire body with the red elixir of life – the energy that sustains us – the life that is us. Whatever our considered opinion on the matter, we are always and nothing but the universe universing—the incarnation of God’s love.

The key to dancing (or writing poetry) in this life is to know that nothing could ever be good enough to earn this love that has already been given. As we consciously receive this unmerited gift of life, then we are free to take chances–to twirl and hop, to leap and stomp or to move so slow that everything appears to be still.  Words come together (or not) and express some fraction of life. And that minuscule fraction manifests the fullness of the universe.  Everything we do, every word we write, every move we make is our perfect love song to the mystery—a deep bow to all that is already.

So, under the cover of the darkness of January, take a chance!  Write a poem, compose a song, draw a picture, make a collage of whatever images and words strike your fancy, glue a few random things together and call it a sculpture. Make something and see what it has to say to you.

Allow yourself to sing the song of your life out loud.

(Over the next two weeks, I will be interspersing some pieces from my archives as I devote part of my mornings to considering how (or whether) to manage everything I have written over the past year.  The original version of this piece appeared 2/7/2017)

31 Prayers for January 2021

1. 1. 1. 1. May my thoughts, words and actions
            align with the deeper love
            that always sustains me.
            
            
         2. May I freely offer all I have
            in each moment
            with no expectation of return.
            
            
         3. May my feet be guided
            by the immeasurable love
            that fills universe.
            
            
         4. May I dance freely
            wherever I find myself.
            
            
         5. May I laugh and cry
            without restraint.
            
            
         6. May I give myself away
            in service of love,
            again and again.
            
            
         7. May I find
            the courage to ask
            for what I really want.
            
            
         8. May I follow whatever is alive
            with curiosity and irreverence.
            
            
         9. May I be willing to be ridiculous
            in service of awakening
            all beings (including myself).
            
            
         10. May I be
             an instrument
             of Peace.
             
             
         11. May I delight in
             small things.
             
             
         12. May I be comfortable
             being uncomfortable.
             
             
         13. May I allow each person I encounter
             to be who they already are and
             may I learn what they have to teach me.
             
             
         14. May I freely give
             and freely receive.
             
             
         15. May I treasure the rising
             and the falling
             of each moment.
             
             
         16. May I fall down
             to the earth
             again and again.
             
             
         17. May I be a comfort
             to those around me.
             
             
         18. May I be willing to disturb
             those around me
             in service of
             awakening truth.
             
             
         19. May I joyfully admit my mistakes
             (even the small ones)
             with embarrassment and humility.
             
             
         20. May I delight in my accomplishments,
             knowing they do not belong to me.
             
             
         21. May I wander widely
             and smile often.
             
             
         22. May I never forget
             how briefly
             we are all here.
             
             
         23. May I remember that
             these are
             ‘the good old days’.
             
             
         24. May I be foolish often
             and apologize rarely.
             
             
         25. May I learn
             from all
             my mistakes.
             
             
         26. May I be ever braver and bolder.
             
             
         27. May my wisdom
             and my blindness
             lead others
             to awakening.
             
             
         28. May I continually abandon
             all that comes
             between me and Life.
             
             
         29. May I serve Life
             with joy and delight.
             
             
         30. May I ask for help
             and really mean it.
             
             
         31. May the ten thousand
             joys and sorrows of life
             course through me
             like a river in full flood.

All The Help I Can Get

Last morning of the year. Cold rain falls outside in the darkness. Inside where I write from the warm comfort of my antique barkalounger, the Buddha and Bodhisattva statues gather in their usual silence on the bookcase next to me. They’ve been there so long, I rarely see them. It’s a cluttered arrangement with an old damaged enamel bowl, a small orange porcelain koi and a brass turtle spread throughout the convocation.

One of Bodhisattvas, Jizo, resides in a cup. Jizo is the guardian of travelers and the unborn. I wonder if his job has been easier this year with so few of us willing to travel? In his cup, he’s tilted a little, leaning against the side. He’s standing on some ashes. I like to think he’s watching over them. I’m not sure whether he’s protecting the ashes or me. His small stylized hands are in the prayer position and with his particularly round bald head he seems very serene. Just now, I straighten him up and I think he appreciates that.

Just next to him is a slightly smaller and much more delicate white porcelain statue of Kannon, the Bodhisattva of compassion. She is the one who hears the cries of the world. It is said that she responds immediately to each cry, though depending on the day, I might or might not be willing (or able) to stand by that statement.

As long as I can remember, calling out and hoping/waiting for a response has been a theme in my life. For some reason, calling out to something beyond has always made sense to me. I don’t remember ever struggling with the existence of God. I’m sure there is a God—some inconceivable source that goes by many names. My question has always been as to the nature of this being/force/principle that is beyond comprehension. I like the Jewish tradition of honoring the unimaginable quality of God by writing G-d instead of the full word.

And I have always loved the Psalms—these ancient songs of calling out. Calling out in both praise and lament. These human voices from so long ago have been companions and guides for me along my journey. They have made me feel less alone—have given me hope in dark places. Maybe, if we mush the traditions together for a moment, we could say that the Psalms are one of the voices of Jizo to the traveler. Of course, we are all travelers through this world of joy and sorrow. And we all need comfort.

Sometimes on especially dark mornings, lying in bed I put my hand on my cheek to reassure myself. ‘There, there sweetie,’ I say to myself, ‘everything will be OK.’ It’s kind of extraordinary how many days have, in fact, been OK. I might even say that since I’ve made it to this morning, the last one in 2020 that all the days since I tumbled, messy and helpless, out of my mother’s womb have been OK. And by OK I mean that all of the wonder, difficulty, dullness, excitement, anxiety, confusion and clarity that have filled them have led me to the next thing. I have not been abandoned to float through endless darkness and yet the ancient dread still arises.

And maybe even floating through endless darkness would be OK. I wonder what I might see or imagine as I floated through the dark universe. Maybe there are terrors and wonders to behold. Maybe I could just relax and enjoy the ride. Weightless and tumbling once again. I imagine myself as the astronaut in 2001: A Space Odyssey summersaulting over and over into the endless darkness. Only you can’t tumble over and over if every way is the same. With no gravity, everything is still. I would let it be still. I imagine. And Jizo and Kannon and G-d and the many other gods and Buddhas would accompany me. And they would be me. And that would be that.

But this morning—not yet. Apparently still more to come in the New Year. The good earth continues to hold and orient me with inescapable gravity. The breathing and the blood pumping and all that sustains me happens of its own, just as it has for the past sixty-eight years. And I continue to ponder the great matter—grateful for all the help I can get.

Walking With My Grandson

Having walked to the edge
of the street he pauses
as I sternly call his name.
‘Isaiah! No!’
He looks back and I
hold his gaze from a few
feet away with my best
‘I really mean this.’ face.

There is no immediate danger,
the street is empty
but there are so many
future streets to be
crossed and I must keep
my little friend alive
long enough to absorb
the calculus of urban life.

He will surely and gradually
internalize the invisible
boundaries of protection
I now cast around our
rambles around the neighborhood.

But at not yet two, his
full comprehension is still
in the future, so I quickly
walk over to grasp
his hand mittened hand
and direct his attention
elsewhere—no show-down
of authority necessary.

I explain again the dangers
of the rushing cars and trucks
he adores and offer the ancient
truism of not playing
in the street but there’s
no traffic now and I know
he’s still too young to fully believe.

So for now, I stay
close and keep careful
watch for both of us.

Year-end Completion Exercise

One useful human skill that we rarely think about is the skill of completion—that is to consciously bring some event or time in our lives to a close. We turn our attention backward over what has happened to honor, learn and grow as we move forward. It’s kind of like a memorial service for what is now over. But not one of those services where the deceased is spoken of in exaggerated and unlikely praise. To really complete something we need to honor and include the fullness of all that happened. The process of completion praises all that has happened, allowing us to begin to come to terms with both the good and the bad, both our successes and our failures. Not only can this lighten the load of unprocessed feelings we carry forward, it can also help us gather hard-earned learnings to bring with us as resources for our next adventures.

The first life-coach I ever worked with in the early 2000’s suggested I do a very simple year-end completion exercise like this that I found surprisingly useful. It takes anywhere from ten minutes to several hours to complete. I offer it here in case you are in a reflective mood during these last three days of the year. There are four parts: Joys and Accomplishments, Disappointments and Failures, Learnings to Take Forward, and Vision from One Year From Now.

If you’re interested, get a piece of paper and your favorite writing implement, or just sit down at your word-processor.

At the top of the page write 2020 Year-End Reflections. Then the heading Joys and Accomplishtments. Now make a list of all of the things you are proud of over this past year—all the things you accomplished or brought you joy. These can range from ‘I survived.’ to specific things that come to you as you scan back over the year. ‘The annual black-eye Susan vine (thunbergia) I grew from seed looked spectacular on the back railing.’ It could be about relationships that have deepened, challenges met, risks taken, adventures begun.

The point here is to remember the good stuff. Many of us have minds that so readily focus on past disappointments and future problems that we rarely find time to acknowledge the many things that go well, the many times we have successfully met the challenges of our lives. Looking back and appreciating your own resilience, ingenuity and courage is a way of claiming the skills you already have as your own.

These accomplishments and joys can be a quick list with just a few words, or it can be a long and detailed list. Follow whatever feels right. I often find when I do this that as I write, other things occur to me that I had almost forgotten. If your list begins to get embarrassingly long, take a deep breath and enjoy it.

Next is the heading Disappointments and Failures. This is the list of all the things that didn’t work out the way you wanted. They may be due to things you did or didn’t do, or they may be events far out of your control. But everything on this list is, in some way, something you didn’t want (or something you did want that didn’t happen.) Some positive-minded people might ask what the point is to going back over painful things. Why not just move on and focus on the good stuff? Much of the difficulty in our lives stays with us far beyond the time when it is ‘over’. Consciously turning to examine the things that have been disappointing or even heart-breaking gives us the opportunity to feel whatever we feel about them as well as to begin to learn what there is to learn from them.

We human beings are learning machines. If you are living a creative life (and we all are) you will sometimes, even often, fail. This is not a sign you are doing things wrong, but rather a sign you are willing to take chances, to go beyond the safety of what you know how to do. Picasso once said ‘I am always doing that which I do not know how to do in order to learn how to do it.’ This is each one of us, every day. Reflecting on our successes and failures is a way to support our natural and incessant learning.

The third heading is Learnings to Take Forward. This is where you list what you have learned over the year. These learnings may be quite specific ‘Rabbits in the Temple garden love to eat cosmos seedlings.’ to much more general ‘I am more and more drawn to wandering without purpose in order to find my way.’ Again, trust whatever comes to you, but consider what you have learned from both successes and failures.

Finally, imagine it is one year from now (12/29/21) and you are looking back on the coming year that has passed. You are amazed at how well it went—surprised by the wonderful thing you accomplished and that came to pass. You can label this section Vision from One Year From Now. Use the past tense as you write this, as if what you are imagining has already happened. Again, it can be as specific ‘Created a new terraced flower bed by the garage.’ or as general ‘I met the pressures of the continuing pandemic with equanimity and ease as the vaccine became widely available.’

That’s the exercise. You can put these lists in a safe place to take out again at some future date, or you can tear it up and burn it as an offering to the gods or even just put it on top of the pile of papers on your desk and let it fend for itself.

(If you’re really in the mood for an adventure, you could ask someone to be your ‘life-coach for an hour’ and read your reflections to them. If you do this, please instruct your temporary life-coach to just listen and appreciate. No advice is necessary or helpful. They don’t have to analyze or figure you out, they are just the witness and cheerleader as you notice what you notice.)

Appreciations

When I was 16 years old, I spent a year in Nagasaki, Japan as a Rotary Club exchange student. Four different families opened their homes to me and took care of me as if I was their own son. Looking back, I can’t believe my American parents let me go half-way around the world and stay with total strangers—strangers who had been mortal enemies of this country just 25 years previously. (Thank you Mom and Dad for letting me go. I had no idea what a big deal it is for a parent to let their children go off into the world until many years later when I myself was a parent watching my daughter go off—and she was only going to college a few hundred miles away.)

Looking back, I remember so many moments of kindness—from my host families, teachers, friends and also from complete strangers. Everyone helping me find my way in a culture that was so different from anything I had ever encountered. I had never been out of the United States, and at first I couldn’t even really believe that people didn’t understand English. I mean, of course I knew they spoke Japanese, but to my naïve American ears, English was not one language among many, but was language itself. The year in another culture opened me to the possibility and the wonder of difference. Many of my assumptions about the way life is are just one choice among many alternatives.

In 1969, when I went, westerners were still a rarity away from the city center of Nagasaki, a prosperous and hilly city of 400,000 residents. In the outskirts of the city, away from the Western-style affluence of the downtown, little children would startle at my blond hair and strange appearance and would run fearfully to their mothers calling ‘Henna gaijin! Henna gaijin!’ (weird foreigner). Their mothers would shush them and look embarrassed. I would smile and do my best to look non-threatening. (OK, this didn’t happen all the time, but even having a few young children run screaming to their mothers at the sight of you is an impressive and memorable memory.)

But what caught my mind this morning about Japan is the New Year’s Day celebration I remember from my time there. New Year’s Eve was not a big deal, it was New Year’s Day that was the real event. We dressed in our fancy kimonos and went together to the main Shinto Shrine of the city where thousands were gathered to celebrate the coming of the New Year. We ate delicious food, wished for good fortune in the coming years and remembered our ancestors—those who had come before us and made our lives possible. And then, every time for the next few days and weeks when you saw someone for the first time, you made a big deal out of your first meeting of the New Year. A new beginning.

So as the New Year bears down on us to end this weird and dangerous year, I’m thinking with gratitude of those many people who sheltered and protected me, a vulnerable and competent man-child far from home. And all of us who are here at this unsettled time have made it this far because of the kindness of so many people—most of whom we will never know.

Perhaps these next few days are a good time to remember all the acts of kindness and support that have helped us get to this point—especially the ones who have been there for us over these past twelve unprecedented months. The old friends and acquaintances we have taken socially distanced walks with, the family we have zoomed with or met with as safely as we could, and the new people who have virtually and otherwise come into our lives. And also the myriad people who have grown our food and driven it to the supermarket and worked in the supermarket on eight-hour shifts while we have run in and run out to lower our chances of infection. And the nurses and doctors and attendants. The fire fighters, the essential workers who have shouldered the risk for us all.

We are supported by a web of life that covers the whole earth. As we consider this reality of interdependence it feels appropriate to send our thanks out to everyone we know and everyone we don’t know, in appreciation of their role in our ongoing life of wonder, weirdness and difficulty.

Dream, Movie, Memory

A Dream: I was applying for the job of leading a private school. I had been the Head of the school previously but was not currently. I wasn’t totally sure I wanted to do it, but applied because I thought it made sense to offer my skills once more to guide the school. There were a number of other candidates. The trustees called a meeting in a large auditorium with hundreds of people. Three men in suits spoke at some length and then announced they had chosen someone else to be the Head of the school. I was sitting in the back with a friend, she looked over at me to see if I was OK. I was shocked and unsure what to do.

I decided to quit my job then and there—to empty my desk and leave the school by the end of the week. I was angry and disappointed. While I was gathering my things, the new Head came by before a meeting to ask me some obvious questions about the budget. I was amazed he didn’t know what was plainly evident and was sure he was incompetent to run the school.

I was also relieved to be leaving. I spent the rest of the dream coming to terms with both the loss and the freedom that would now be possible once I left. There was one scene where Wonder Woman (in her street clothes) and two other women were comforting me and gently expressing their confidence in my abilities to find my own path and flourish on my own.

A Movie: We watched Wonder Woman 1984 last night. I wouldn’t call it a great movie, but it was good fun and (spoiler alert) ultimately sweet and positive though not everyone gets everything they want at the end. That, in fact, is the subject of the movie—our wants and desires and what happens when we get what we think we want. Turns out (surprise) that it’s not purely good for us to get what we want.

A Memory: When I was in high school, my father, who was the minister of the local Presbyterian church, was also the assistant coach of my wrestling team. I had been wrestling since 7^th grade and had gotten quite good by a combination of determination, innate capacity and hating to lose. Before each wrestling meet, my Dad would gather us together in the locker room to pray before we went out to wrestle. He always prayed that we might stay safe and that we would do our best.

Secretly, I always prayed to win. At that age, staying safe and doing my best seemed like getting sox for Christmas—nothing worth wishing for. Looking back, I see it differently. I think of the sweet gaggle of tough and vulnerable high school boys trying to prove themselves—and, in retrospect, I see that my father’s prayer was sincere and true. But at the moment, winning seemed like the only thing worth wanting.

One day (and here’s the point of the story that ties it in to the movie and maybe even the dream) I confessed to my father that my prayer was to win. I pressed my theological point by saying ‘You say that God always answers our prayers. How come I don’t always win?’ Without missing a beat, as I recall, he responded ‘Sometimes the answer is no.’ His response was surprisingly satisfying to me. I didn’t really like it, but it made sense.

So What?: We don’t always get what we want. And when we get what we want—the victory, the job, the relationship—it turns out to be different that we had imagined—more complicated, fluid and short-lived. This is one of the teachings of life-coaching I most appreciate—that fulfillment is not a destination but a process. Fulfillment is what happens when we act in alignment with what we love.

Success and failure, gain and loss, praise and blame are pairs of human experience that are neither good nor bad. In not being chosen to lead the school in my dreams, I was disappointed. But who were the three beautiful women offering me comfort and encouragement? The three Muses? Three parts of me with hidden powers, one of whom can fly through the air with her ‘lasso of truth’ tangling up bad guys and making sure children are saved from harm (even in the middle of a chase scene when she is fighting for her life).

Personal Practice: What if what you have is what you need? Can we choose this life—even with it’s impossible difficulties and disappointments? What if what you have is what you really want? I pose these questions not as theological positions, but rather as lines of inquiry and investigation.

Take a moment as you read this and look around. Take a breath. Listen to the sounds. See what is around you. It could be otherwise. It will be otherwise.

Getting Over It

The day after Christmas is always an anti-climax. In fact, Christmas itself is usually an anti-climax—even before this weird year of social and familial distancing. What can live up to all the hype—the gloss and glitter that comes before this magical day? If your spouse doesn’t pull back the curtains to reveal the black muscular jeep you’ve been longing for or doesn’t produce the diamond necklace of your dreams—whatever else comes is a letdown that one tries to bravely meet with a smile and positive attitude. I suppose that even the Jeeps and Jaguars, diamond necklaces and tiaras that are given are not enough either. Or they are enough for a brief moment, then the brief flood of serotonin recedes and we’re left once again on the arid beaches of everyday life.

For a wonderful illustration of this, I’ve especially enjoyed watching ‘The Crown’, a ‘based-on-real-life’ Netflix drama about England’s royal family through the long reign of the current Queen. Beautifully filmed in sumptuous interiors and casually fantastic cars and castles the series gives a palpable sense of the fantastic pressures of public scrutiny and the hollowness of the consequent human relationships. (Spoiler alert) The Royal family is not a happy family. Apparently even being married to a beautiful princess and having scores of gardeners at your beck and call is not enough to satisfy.

I turns out that all the things we think will make us happy, don’t really work. The possessions, the positions, even the relationships don’t save us from the ten thousand joys and sorrows of everyday life. This is ultimately good news. Because it means we can give up our grand dreams of how it, or we, or someone else should be and begin to work with and appreciate what is already here.

The ancient Greek Stoic philosophers clearly understood these issues and preached a brand of practical acceptance and enjoyment of life. One modern day adherent recently summarized this philosophy as ‘Do what you can, where you are, with what you’ve got.’ Sound advice for us all as it is pretty much our only option. Our sense of ease and freedom doesn’t come from having superpowers to control the kingdom (which even the Queen doesn’t have), but the gradual acceptance of how little is actually within our control.

One Stoic story that got passed down is about the philosopher who got in political trouble and was banished to a small barren island off the coast of Greece. The weather was good, but apparently the Internet was terrible and the local cuisine even worse. His devoted disciples would occasionally visit him to comfort him in his lonely exile. But he, in fact practices what he had taught and did what he could, with what he had, were he was and was quite content. He, the one who had lost everything, ended up being the one that comforted the students who had come to comfort him.

So here we are, back to sea level once again after the Christmas boondoggle or the Christmas non-event or whatever it was or wasn’t for you—back to everyday life. I find myself kind of relieved and curious about what comes next. I’m looking forward to this one weird week between Christmas and New Years. My goal for these days ahead is to be reasonably non-productive, to do some reflecting and writing. To do what I can, when I can, with what I’ve got.

Loneliness, Politics and Christmas

Several years ago I was speaking with a friend on the phone. I was feeling quite blue and told my friend I was feeling kind of lonely. I fully expected her sympathy and encouragement as I went through these painful emotions. But she surprised me by saying: ‘Oh, I really like feeling lonely. Isn’t it interesting?’ She wasn’t being mean, but I was shocked—and kind of curious.

These feelings of separation and sadness that are so familiar and unwanted (especially around the holiday season)—might they be something other than the stories I tell about them? I suppose this possibility, that the most troublesome things in our lives are not what we think they are, is at the center of what I’ve been thinking about these past few days.

Speaking of unwanted things, yesterday Trump announced that, after months of negotiating, he now thinks the Congressional compromise passed for economic relief and for continuing the government is terrible. He is threatening to veto the whole bill and shut down the government unless the individual relief payments should be $2,000 instead of $600. This position, that surprised his aides and his Republican congressional colleagues alike, has kept him in all our minds and put the Republican Party in quite a fix. (see NYTimes Trump’s Attack on Coronavirus Relief Divides G.O.P. and Threatens Recovery)

While it seems irresponsible of Trump to threaten to scuttle this relief package to offer some support to those suffering with unemployment, missed rent payments and economic hardship, this could be the turning point in the Georgia Senate runoff elections. Both Democratic candidates Jon Ossoff and Rev. Raphael Warnock have backed the President’s proposal for raising payments to individuals. Rev. Warnock: “As I’ve said from the start, the Senate should have acted on this months ago, and support for Georgians should have been far greater. Donald Trump is right, Congress should swiftly increase direct payments to $2,000.” The Republican candidates now have to decide whether to support the President or their party.

Hopefully, this will be enough to tip the scales in both races so that the Democrats can indeed regain control of the Senate. I am trying not to get too hopeful, but it seems increasingly apparent that if the Republicans control the Senate they will block most measures for government support to help us through this economic recession—preferring the austerity measures that increase suffering for those at the bottom of the economic ladder and keep things pleasant for those at the top.

All this comes along with the second wave of self-interested and politically motivated pardons. Robert Hubbell says: “Trump turned up the corruption factor to “11” by issuing twenty-six new pardons, which included Paul Manafort, Roger Stone, and Charles Kushner. Trump is intent on destroying the Republican Party on his way out the door so that he can appoint himself king of the tattered remnants of a party that will consist (in large part) of QAnon adherents, coronavirus deniers, and conspiracy theorists.” Trump is inflicting as much damage as possible to the country and even to the Republican Party that has so faithfully supported him unprincipled and unethical behavior.

Maybe he’s just lonely? Maybe he’s truly evil? Maybe he’s caught up in a frantic bubble of narcissistic rage? We should expect him to continue to pardon his political allies as a quid pro quo for their silence and support. We should expect him to fall deeper into patterns of erratic and malicious behavior. For four years, I have hoped that he would become so outrageous that more and more people would begin to see through his bluster and destructive acting-out. I’m not hopeful there will be a mass defection, but I do hope that even four or five percent of his core supporters will begin to re-think their position and begin to see a broader perspective.

All this goes on and still tomorrow is Christmas. The guardrails of democracy have held so far and the present I’m most looking forward to is Joe Bidden’s inauguration as our next President on January 20^th.

But what if these difficult times we find ourselves in are more than the painful stories we tell about them? Unprecedented indeed, but isn’t all of life unprecedented? Could our current struggles the birthing of the possibility of a more equitable and just country? Have we all been disturbed enough to re-examine the ways we have all been complicit in the economic and racial violence around us?

As we move into the Christian remembrance of a star brightly shining in the midst of dark and of a defenseless baby born to marginalized parents, let us take heart in the ancient story of an oppressive system that was transformed by the fierce power of love and vulnerability.

A Different Kind of Holiday

We live our lives in cycles. The diurnal rituals of night and day deeply carved in our circadian circuits. The palpable rhythm of the seven-day weeks we grown up with (I used to really believe that a Monday was different from a Thursday but the pandemic has slowly eroded most of these usual distinctions). The familiar passage of the seasons and the associated holidays. It’s easy to think that we know what’s coming.

It’s partially true. Or maybe we could say there’s enough truth in our foreknowledge to get us in trouble. One of my current prediction is that we will go through several months of cold weather while the days keep growing slowly longer. Then, in three months, some reliable warmth will return and small green shoots will begin to poke up through the frozen ground. I also imagine, and here’s where it gets dangerous, that I will begin planting seeds in small pots indoors in preparation for the summer’s garden. With this image in my mind, I can already sense how delightful it will be to see the tender green bits of life erupt through the moist soil on the shelf where I keep them. I’ll have lots and lots this year and may even need to buy another grow-light.

I have a pretty strong confidence in my general prediction of the weather pattern and my forecast of unlikely green appearances in late March. Chances are good that I will start seeds indoors at the same time, but maybe not. A thousand things could happen between now and then that would turn those personal predictions into pure fantasies. It’s true these imaginings of my future doings bring me pleasure, but just the other week as I was working through a difficult situation, my future thoughts were equally disturbing and brought me anxiety and discomfort.

So much of what we experience in any moment is about the futures we are continually creating in our minds. We all live an infinite number of futures—right in this moment of the present. Some of them bring us great suffering and some might bring us great pleasure and…none of them will never arrive. Even if you’re ‘right’ it will be different than you imagine it. Or our future fantasies may be pleasant enough but bring us great disappointment when what actually arrives is different from the ideal we imagined. If I had been hoping to get new grow light for my spring seedlings and all I get are some warm argyle sox, even though it’s a lovely pair, I might be very unhappy.

Our minds are such troublesome places. Just writing this, trying to make some sense of it all, I’m becoming irritated. It’s all too complicated. Can’t we just enjoy what’s here? Why all this explaining and posturing? Why all this hope and disappointment?

Can’t we just enjoy what’s here? Obviously not. I mean, we can, but it’s much trickier than we imagine. Without intention and patience and some appreciation for the unexpected we will just be carried away by our thoughts of how it was and how it should be.

Why all this explaining and posturing? The explaining never fully explains things, but I have found it so helpful in pointing directions of travel. We human beings are so much more similar than we usually imagine. Words, tips and stories from others can reassure us of what we know and help us feel less alone. (I do, however, take slight offense and embarrassment in above the self-accusation of ‘posturing’, though I suppose that to do or say anything involves some element of self-consciousness.)

Why all this hope and disappointment? What is the survival value of creatures whose inner lives are an emotional roller-coaster? Why so easily aroused to joy and discouragement by mere thoughts and images that run through our heads? It’s quite a mystery to me, but it does seem to be part of being human.

What I really want to get to this morning, and I think I finally have, is that the regions of joy and suffering that we humans traverse are part of our connection to each other. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s never just you. It’s never just personal.

I know a lot of people who will be spending the holidays separated from people they love dearly. This physical and sometimes emotional distance is a part of every holiday season, but it is especially pronounced this year with the Covid restrictions still in place. The annual ritual of travel and sharing food and arguing with relatives and rekindling ancient animosities and primal connections—it’s all being disrupted this year.

My encouragement for us all over the rest of this holiday season is to say ‘yes’ to as much of our inner life as we can. If the Christmas spirit is about warmth and welcoming, we get to practice it this year within ourselves, wherever we are. Whatever arises, can we meet it with compassion and curiosity–welcoming it in out of the cold of judgment and disapproval?

Though the circumstances and location of your holiday may be different than in past years, the fullness of life courses through your veins flows undiminished. The very place you find yourself in is the pulsing center of a vast web of life. Take as many moments as you can to stop and remember the beating heart of life that so faithfully sustains you and from which you can never be separated.

The Perfect Gift

I wrapped presents last night and was reminded of why I don’t like Christmas—how I automatically evaluate my expressions of love as performances and almost always come up short. While wrapping presents for people I really love, I’m wondering: ‘Will this gift be enough or will they be disappointed?’ ‘Is this wrapping job creative and fun, or just plain sloppy?’ In some part of my mind, the balance is delicate and the consequences overly consequential. While wrapping, I notice this internal conversation and work to ignore the critical one who chatters away so relentlessly on my shoulder.

But maybe I should give him a gift? He’s a hard worker, this little fellow—constantly vigilant lest a mistake be made. It’s a dangerous, nerve-racking job. Always on the alert. Always imagining the dire repercussions that would cascade down from some possible unskillful action. Most of his attention is devoted to worrying about how others are feeling and will be feeling—how they will react to something I do or don’t do. He’s not really concerned about me and how I’m doing. Or rather, he is concerned about me, but from the perspective that my happiness will only be possible when everyone else is happy with me—especially those people closest to me.

On the plus side, he does want me to be happy and safe. Now that I think about it, he is more into safety than happiness. From his perspective, this is life and death stuff. Negative reactions to my actions feel life-threatening to my critical little buddy. He lives in constant fear of doing the wrong thing and being cut off. ‘What if we do something wrong and everyone leaves us?’ ‘What if they decide we’re not worth their time anymore?’ Poor fellow.

He tries so hard. He’s quite admirable and inspiring in that way. Relentlessly working though his fear, he thinks and plans far into the disthymic future. If everything is so delicately balanced and the stakes are so high, there is no time to rest or slack off.

He lives in the world of a scared little boy. This little boy can’t quite figure the world out and is sure it’s all up to him to make everything come out right. He constantly works hard and things do come out right so he has learned he must keep working hard in order to keep things coming out right. Trapped in a never-ending feedback loop.

So, for Christmas this year, I’m getting him an all-expenses paid vacation to Costa Rica. Since he’s not real, Covid-19 is no problem. He can just slip into an empty seat on the next flight down. But as I think more deeply, I realize that that’s not what he wants. He’d just lie there on the white sand beaches under the warm sun and be worried about me.

No, what I need to give him is a stay-cation. That’s clearly the perfect gift! I’ll get him a mini barcalounger for use on my shoulder. I’ll also give him a four-pack of Greater Good ‘Pulp Daddy’ Imperial IPA and some 1,000 day aged gouda cheese. He can sit back in the lounger, sip beer, nibble cheese and survey the world from his advantaged perch on my shoulder. And the final gift, the one that will really let him know how much I love him and change his life forever, will be a copy of the Tao Te Ching so he read about the glories of ‘doing not-doing’ while he’s lounging around at home.

I can just see the surprised and delighted look on his face as he opens the wonderful presents I have gotten for him. He’ll look at me with wondrous disbelief that, having a choice, I would still be willing to have him stay. With slightly watery eyes we’ll remember our deep love for each other. And as we hug, we’ll both appreciate the intimacy and immediacy of our sometimes challenging relationship. We’ll remember again that though we can never get it right, that’s part of the fun of it all.

Celestial Stories

As I write this, it is exactly 5:02 on December 21^st, 2020. Winter solstice. For those of us in the northern hemisphere, the shortest day of the year is finally here. It’s caused by the angle of the earth’s axis and the consequent angle of the sun’s rays as we stand here on the surface of this spinning chunk of rock and water. Today the sun’s elevation above the horizon will be the lowest of the year.

Though the coldest months are still to come, the days will now begin to grow longer. Slowly at first, then comes the lengthening of the lengthening—accelerating till we reach a maximum of around two minutes of extra daylight every day. I’m already wondering how I should spend my coming treasure trove of minutes. One might think that two minutes isn’t a long time, but don’t be fooled.

These days, my sense of time seems rather erratic. On the one hand it feels like I’ve been in some kind of lockdown for years. On the other, I can’t believe Christmas comes on Friday. Where did the month go? Where did the year go?

Last night, a friend gave a lovely Zen talk that featured the image of erratic boulders. These large standing rocks are the ones dropped onto the New England landscape 22,000 years ago by the glacier that then covered this whole region. They had been picked up further north as the glacier carved the valleys and shaved the mountains on its southward journey. Then, as the ice melted, these stones of sometimes great proportion were left like travelers stranded in a foreign country with no means of return.

But how could travelers be stranded for such a long time? Maybe they lost their wallet and your passport. Maybe they couldn’t speak the language. Or maybe the foreign country was an island and all the boats were sunk and the airport was destroyed. The local inhabitants had had enough of all of this coming and going—were tired of exchange rates and the globalization of their traditional jobs—decided they didn’t want to be part of the world-wide-web or any other webs of commerce, intrigue and deceit.

Maybe everyone was going native, just as you happened to arrive. And since you had always hoped to lose everything anyway, you decided to join in. You finally gave up on the person you were and decided to join in the insurrection of disconnection. Slowly you learned the beautiful language of where you were. You found friends and learned to fish and grew a few vegetables in a small plot by your kitchen door. (I’m now thinking that your island was off the coast of Greece and the weather was nearly always perfect.) Or maybe you just became a storyteller and entertained the next generation with tall tales of the mythical world across the waters. You walked a lot, were happy to work hard and enjoyed the rest of your days on the island.

Now that would be erratic.

But last night, my friend, who had never, to my knowledge, been stranded on such as island as described above, told all of us who were webbing together on Zoom Zen that the word erratic comes from the Latin root erraticus which means wandering and also mistake or error. Certainly we are all wanderers living lives that, as one Zen teacher put it, are one mistake after another. We find ourselves deposited in this moment of time at this particular place. We don’t really know where we came from and the sheet of ice, or whatever it was that brought us here, has long since disappeared. So we make up stories. My father was of royal parentage but I was born in humble circumstances. There was a big star that was really two planets, but that’s just incidental. It’s a long story and with an R-rated ending. (graphic violence)

Believing the story or not, this will still be the shortest day of the year. We are all stranded here on the shores of present—carried here by vast depths of time beyond comprehension. We do our best to learn the beautiful language of this true place, but the syntax is hard and the subtle sounds nearly indiscernible.

And all the while this blue-green pearl of a planet twirls on its imagined axis as it hurtles through space—held in the magnificent thrall of a burning orb. I’m reminded of the ancient Native American song: ‘Why do I go about pitying myself, when all the time I am being carried on great winds across the sky?’

Balancing Both

I have recovered from my alarm of yesterday morning when after writing a reasonably reassuring blog about the psychological processes that lead toward extremism I read some very disturbing news about the Russian cyber attacks, the refusal of some parts of the military to continue to work with the Biden team in transition and ongoing reports and investigations about the Trump camps fund-raising practices, and I got so upset I posted the whole article/newsletter that had upset me.

Was that an incidence of exactly what I was warning about? I was certainly emotionally reactive, but was I moving from denial into a more realistic assessment of the dangers of this moment of transition and alternative realities? Or was I getting carried away by bits of information that I put together in ways that confirm my worst fears about ‘those people’?

As a good Zen practitioner, I have to assume that it’s both. In our linguistic world, things are either this or that—either light or dark—either good or bad. But when we look more closely into our experience of life, we can notice that these clear boundaries and demarcations are nowhere to be found. I might say that I’m upset, but I’m also eating my breakfast and planning for the day’s events. In the dark there is light, and in the light there is dark. Events in the past that seemed good at the time led to some very difficult times. Conversely failures and disappointment may have turned out to had some unexpected gifts. It’s never just one thing.

But yesterday, I was surprised by the duration of my disturbance. My emotional state is usually fairly stable, but yesterday morning I was deeply agitated for several hours. I was worried about the Presidential transition and the ongoing damage of Trump’s baseless but powerful challenge to the legitimacy of the election. Trump is attempting a self-coup. He is doing whatever can to undermine the lawful transition of power and to stay in office. He is not defending the country (has said nothing about the Russian cyber-attack or about the rising Corona virus deaths) he is defending himself and his grip on power. He is openly spreading unfounded rumors and fanning the flames of conspiracy theories. He urges all toward extremism then presents himself as the only one who can bring stability.

Though Republicans in Congress are increasingly coming out and publicly accepting Joe Biden’s Electoral College victory, they are still unwilling to directly take on the President’s preposterous lies and his passionate supporters. This is not a good thing. We are still in danger. Biden’s election was a huge victory but Trump’s influence and attempts to subvert our democracy are ongoing and need to be taken seriously.

This morning, as I open this can of worms again (and remembering that cans of worms, though perhaps slimy and icky are also wondrous and life-giving) I am not nearly as disturbed. Yes, there is ongoing danger and we should all do what we can. But many people are awake to this and we are, generally, moving in the right direction. Here are some suggestions I have for moving forward, honoring both our social responsibility and individual sanity:

1) Stay informed, but not too informed. Don’t imagine ‘it’s over and we won’ but also don’t stay glued to the constant agitation of information. Also remember to listen to a variety of voices, not just the ones that shout the loudest.

2) Find some small actions you can take for the good of all. I recently called my state representatives to urge them to fight Governor Baker’s amendments that weaken the recent Police Reform bill. I sent some postcards to George to urge people to vote. Not much, but it’s something.

3) Remember what you love. Don’t let the behavior of others be the focus of your inner life. Be intentional with your attention. Don’t wait until thing ‘settle down’ to appreciate the simple things that are already here.

Letter from an American (repost)

I have never posted twice in one day, nor have I reposted someone else’s writing.  But I read this after my reassuring post urging caution, and I feel compelled to repost Heather Cox Richardson’s December 18^th ‘Letter from an American.’ I have been reading her posts for the past six months and find her to be reasonable and direct in her reporting and analysis. I pass this on because I find it so disturbing and important. In our intention to move toward a civil society we must also be realistic about our assessment of the dangers of the moment.

A year ago today, the House of Representatives voted to impeach President Donald J. Trump on charges of abuse of power and obstruction of Congress.

In his plea to Senators to convict the president, Adam Schiff (D-CA), the lead impeachment manager for the House, warned “you know you can’t trust this president to do what’s right for this country.” Schiff asked: “How much damage can Donald Trump do between now and the next election?” and then answered his own question: “A lot. A lot of damage.” “Can you have the least bit of confidence that Donald Trump will… protect our national interest over his own personal interest?” Schiff asked the senators who were about to vote on Trump’s guilt. “You know you can’t, which makes him dangerous to this country.’’

Republicans took offense at Schiff’s passionate words, seeing them as criticism of themselves. They voted to acquit Trump of the charges the House had levied against him.

And a year later, here we are. A pandemic has killed more than 312,000 of us, and numbers of infections and deaths are spiking. Today we hit a new single-day record of reported coronavirus cases with 246,914, our third daily record in a row. The economy is in shambles, with more than 6 million Americans applying for unemployment benefits. And the government has been hobbled by a massive hack from foreign operatives, likely Russians, who have hit many of our key departments.

Today it began to feel as if the Trump administration was falling apart as journalists began digging into a number of troubling stories.

Acting Defense Secretary Christopher Miller, appointed by Trump after he fired Defense Secretary Mark Esper by tweet on November 9, this morning abruptly halted the transition briefings the Pentagon had been providing, as required by law, to the incoming Biden team. Observers were taken aback by this unprecedented halt to the transition process, as well as by the stated excuse: that Defense Department officials were overwhelmed by the number of meetings the transition required. Retired four-star general Barry R. McCaffrey, a military analyst for NBC and MSNBC, tweeted: “Pentagon abruptly halts Biden transition—MAKES NO SENSE. CLAIM THEY ARE OVERWHELMED. DOD GOES OPAQUE. TRUMP-MILLER UP TO NO GOOD. DANGER.”

After Axios published the story and outrage was building, Miller issued a statement saying the two sides had decided on a “mutually-agreed upon holiday, which begins tomorrow.” Biden transition director Yohannes Abraham promptly told reporters: “Let me be clear: there was no mutually agreed upon holiday break. In fact, we think it’s important that briefings and other engagements continue during this period as there’s no time to spare, and that’s particularly true in the aftermath of ascertainment delay,” a reference to the delay in the administration’s recognition of Biden’s election.

Later, the administration suggested the sudden end to the transition briefings was because Trump was angry that the Washington Post on Wednesday had published a story showing how much money Biden could save by stopping the construction of Trump’s border wall. Anger over a story from two days ago seems like a stretch, a justification after the briefings had been cancelled for other reasons. The big story of the day, and the week, and the month, and the year, and probably of this administration, is the sweeping hack of our government by a hostile foreign power. The abrupt end to the briefings might reflect that the administration isn’t keen on giving Biden access to the crime scene.

Republicans appear to be trying to cripple the Biden administration more broadly. The country has been thrilled by the arrival of the Pfizer-BioNTech coronavirus vaccine that promises an end to the scourge under which we’re suffering. Just tonight, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) authorized a second vaccine, produced by Moderna, for emergency authorization use. This vaccine does not require ultracold temperatures for shipping the way the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine does. Two vaccines for the coronavirus are extraordinarily good news.

But this week, as the first Pfizer-BioNTech vaccines were being given, states learned that the doses the federal government had promised were not going to arrive, and no one is quite sure why. The government blamed Pfizer, which promptly blasted the government, saying it had plenty of vaccines in warehouses but had received no information about where to send them. Then the White House said there was confusion over scheduling.

Josh Kovensky at Talking Points Memo has been following this story, and concluded a day or so ago that the administration had made no plans for vaccine distribution beyond February 1, when the problem would be Biden’s. Kovensky also noted that it appears the administration promised vaccine distribution on an impossible timeline, deliberately raising hopes for vaccine availability that Biden couldn’t possibly fulfill. Today Kovensky noted that there are apparently doses missing and unaccounted for, but no one seems to know where they might be.

Today suggested yet another instance of Republican bad faith. With Americans hungry and increasingly homeless, the nation is desperate for another coronavirus relief bill. The House passed one last May, but Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell refused to take it up. Throughout the summer and fall, negotiations on a different bill failed as Republicans demanded liability protection for businesses whose employees got coronavirus after they reopened, and Democrats demanded federal aid to states and local governments, pinched as tax revenue has fallen off during the pandemic. Now, though, with many Americans at the end of their rope, McConnell indicated he would be willing to cut a deal because the lack of a relief package is hurting the Republican Senate candidates before the runoff election in Georgia on January 5. Both sides seemed on the verge of a deal.

That deal fell apart this afternoon after Senator Pat Toomey (R-PA) with the blessing of McConnell, suddenly insisted on limiting the ability of the Federal Reserve to lend money to help businesses and towns stay afloat. These were tools the Trump administration had and used, but Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin tried to kill them after Trump lost the election. The Federal Reserve’s ability to manage fiscal markets is key to addressing recessions. Removing that power would gravely hamper Biden’s ability to help the nation climb out of the recession during his administration.

It’s hard not to see this as a move by McConnell and Senate Republicans to take away Biden’s power—power enjoyed by presidents in general, and by Trump in particular—to combat the recession in order to hobble the economy and hurt the Democrats before the 2022 election.

Money was in the news in another way today, too. Business Insider broke the story that the Trump campaign used a shell company approved by Jared Kushner to pay campaign expenses without having to disclose them to federal election regulators. The company was called American Made Media Consultants LLC. Trump’s daughter-in-law, Lara Trump, was president, and Vice President Mike Pence’s nephew, John Pence, was vice president until the two apparently stepped down in late 2019 to work on the campaign. The treasurer was the chief financial officer of the Trump campaign, Sean Dollman.

The Trump campaign spent more than $700 million of the $1.26 billion of campaign cash it raised in the 2020 cycle through AMMC, but to whom it paid that money is hidden. Former Republican Federal Election Commission Chairman Trevor Potter is trying to take up the slack left by the currently crippled Federal Elections Commission. His organization, the Campaign Legal Center, a nonpartisan clean election group, last July accused the Trump campaign of “disguising” campaign funding of about $170 million “by laundering the funds” through AMMC.

This news adds to our understanding that Trump is leaving the White House with a large amount of cash. He has raised more than $250 million since November 3, urging his supporters to donate to his election challenges, but much of the money has gone to his own new political action committee or to the Republican National Committee. Recently, he has begged supporters to give to a “Georgia Election Fund,” suggesting that the money will go to the runoff elections for Georgia’s two senators, but 75% of the money actually goes to Trump’s new political action committee and 25% to the Republican National Committee.

Shane Goldmacher and Maggie Haberman at the New York Times note that are very few limits to how Trump can spend the money from his new PAC.

The Seduction of Being Right

Many years ago a friend of mine who studied the Middle East gave a talk in which he spoke about how the radical fringes of each side, both the Israeli and the Palestinian, functioned to potentiate each other. The extreme actions of one side served as evidence to validate the extreme views and actions of the other side. This dynamic is present in every polarized situation, whether it is between countries, within countries, within organizations, or even between two people.

Once we become polarized, our beliefs and opinions of the situation tend to increase the gap between us. Part of this is due to the confirmation bias—the tendency of our minds to seek out information that confirms our opinion and to ignore information that would bring our beliefs into question. All of us want to be confirmed in our position. Much as we might not want to admit it, we like to be right. If I think you are out to get me, then I will notice and interpret everything you do and don’t do as evidence to support my theory. It feels good to be right.

One of the most challenging parts of confirmation bias is that it mostly operates below the level of our awareness. Most of the time, most of us think we are seeing the world as it is. From the perceptual point of view, I am rarely aware that I am creatively participating in constructing the world I see. The fact that I am paying attention to some features of reality while ignoring everything else is usually hidden from me. One researcher estimated that there at 8 billion bits of information available to us at any moment and we can only process approximately 8!

It turns out, that our input awareness apparatus, our senses and our brains, are woefully outmatched by the richness of the cosmos. One confirmation of this (and notice I’m presenting bits of evidence that confirm the rightness of my position) is that when we slow down, it is often possible to see and sense more about where we are than we had previously been conscious of. When you are looking into the world, any place you start turns out to be more interesting and complex and interconnected than you had previously imagined.

In my work as a life and leadership coach, I find that wherever we start our coaching conversation leads to everything else, including the center. The particular issue you are dealing with at this moment, contains everything else that has ever happened to you. When we look closely at the world we are encountering, we can begin to see both our part in creating whatever is here as well as the choices available to us that had previously been hidden.

I’m thinking of all this because of the ongoing polarization of our country with Trump’s relentless assertions of election fraud. Some people say Trump is really a sadist—that he enjoys the pained reactions of liberals like myself when he does or says something outrageous. Certainly some of his followers delight in his outrageous behavior that is so upsetting to us New York Times and Washington Post type people. There is some release from feeling ignored and powerless in this quickly changing society.

And the primacy of conspiracy theories—about the election, about Q-Anon’s wild assertions of a deep state that is running child slavery rings that only Donald Trump knows about and can truly fight—these are believable to many because they fit our human psychological need to be right. When we are upset by the actions of those we disagree with, there is something thrilling about imagining our worst fantasies.

Ross Douthat of the NY Times put it this way last week when he wrote of:

a fantasy in which your political enemies are poised to do something unbelievably terrible — like all the right-wing militia violence that liberals expected on Election Day — that would vindicate all your fears and makes you happy in your hatred. (bolding added)

Being confirmed is a wonderful and dangerous thing. The workers at security check-in at the airport, there must be some excitement and sense of confirmation when they actually do uncover something of danger. Given how rarely their search uncovers anything more than too much shampoo or a Swiss pocket knife I wonder how they stay awake and alert through the endless lines that used to be a normal feature of airports.

So how do we stay alert to the damage and potential hazards Trump continues to pose to democracy and to our country without falling into the world of emotional whirlpool of happy hatred? How do we stay focused on what incremental steps are possible right now rather than the many fantasies that swirl around us?

Peter Block, author and organizational consultant, once said ‘If you want to change the world, change the room you’re in.’

Manifesto of Liberation

I didn’t want
to get out of bed
this morning
so I didn’t—
until just now.

So there!

The Sound of Snow

If you listen carefully, you can hear the weather outside. Last night was peculiarly quiet with snow. I didn’t really listen all night, but the absence of sounds was vivid with me as I slept. In the quiet darkness I dreamt I was given a complex problem to solve. There were four elements involved in the issue. They were presented on a clipboard and I had to come up with a solution. The problem wasn’t clear. There wasn’t enough information. But I dutifully worked hard on the problem, thereby creating a problem for myself.

The dream went on and on, as I am both a dedicated dreamer and a hard worker. I suppose I am most familiar with myself when I am working hard. As a younger man leading a small internship-based school, I was often exhausted and overwhelmed by the pace of my work. When I began to investigate why the boss (me) was making me work so hard, I realized that I was only comfortable when I was working hard. There was always so much to do—so many problems arising and so much that couldn’t be fixed—that only when I was at a near frantic pitch did I feel like I had a plausible excuse for not setting everything right.

My unconscious operational theory was: ‘You can’t be blamed for what doesn’t get done if you’re visibly and earnestly working hard all the time.’ It turns out not to really be true. But I also noticed that when I slowed down, I felt more guilty about all that was undone. How could I not give my all when there was so much more to do? Hard work was a shelter, a pre-emptive escape from the awareness of all that is undone. Exhaustion was preferable, for a time, to the discomforting realization of my inability to control and fix the universe. (These days, and at this point in my life, I spend much more of my time leaning and easing into the manifest realization of my lack of control.)

The other factor was, and is, I love to be engaged. Working hard, getting things done is fun. To give myself to something (like writing every morning) that requires attention and effort is clearly what I am designed to do. Like the sled dogs that love to pull. When you harness them to the sled, the main thing to remember is to secure the sled to a tree, or the excited dogs already tied in will run off with the sled before the final dogs are engaged.

My dream problem last night was a difficult one. After much tossing and turning and partial waking, a solution emerged. I realized (for the umpteenth time) that the problem was not the problem. The four elements on the clipboard could be combined in any number of ways. The only stable solution was to be present with the people around the clipboard.

This was not a satisfying solution at first. I abandoned it several times to back to the familiar sense of working hard. Then, in a combination of exhaustion and insight I realized that abandoning focus on the purported problem was the only true solution. The four elements on the clipboard could be continually reshuffled, some combinations would work better than others, but there could be no resolution in that realm. And it wasn’t even about getting the people around the clipboard to do anything or be in any certain relationship, it was just being present with them. That’s my real job. That’s the durable resolution: resting in the web of dynamic relationships.

That was the revelation in the long silence of last night’s snow. Now, in the early morning, the beams of streetlights sparkle with the fine and cold falling snow. The wind sounds a low and ominous hum. Pleasant Street is wonderfully vacant. Like the ancient days of the early pandemic, this main thoroughfare lies empty. Just an occasionally truck going slowly. The hard-driving lawyers are not driving into the office to produce early morning billable hours and the early morning cleaners too are sleeping late.

The grand gears of corporeal life have mercifully slowed with the snow. Though the high pitched inaudible whine of the internet will screech forcefully on and a day of work will appear for most of us, the wind and the continuing snow will keep us safely contained within our warm homes. (Here I insert a quick prayer for those with minimal or no shelter. May they be find warmth and safety in the midst of these life-threatening conditions.)

Later this morning, the same snow will drive some of us to the streets and sidewalks to clear paths and have neighborly conversations about the weather. I promise to pay as much attention to our idle chatter as I do to the snow we are clearing.

Learning To Remember

He held my hand on the
way home and I was
in heaven. We were
together in the backseat,
happy to see each
other after school after
a week apart. He was
talking excitedly and I
couldn’t help reaching out.

At first I pretended
I was just warming
his cold fingers, but then
we kept holding on—
contented to hold
hands and chatter away
about the color of passing
cars and his new sneaker-shoes.
His vocabulary is limited
but his brilliant being
shines without constraint.

In the back seat, as his
mother drives us all home,
miraculous life passes
between and through us
as if it were the most
ordinary thing in the world.

He already knows there is
nothing else to wait for,
while the rest of us are
still learning to remember.

Supporting Democracy

President-elect Joe Biden’s victory was officially confirmed by the Electoral College yesterday! Sadly, this is heartening news. Each state, whether Republican or Democrat, whether supporting Trump or Biden, carried out their duty to provide, guard and report a free and fair election. In any other year, the confirmation of the Electoral College would barely be a blip on the radar screen. But given Trump’s unabating and malicious actions to undercut the results of the election, the confirmation of the election results by the Electoral College was significant.

In a recent op-ed piece in the New York Times, Ross Douthat, a conservative commentator, drew a distinction between Republicans at different levels of government.   Republican officials at the state level have acted ‘normally’. They have resisted intense pressure from Trump and his allies to break the law and throw out votes. While Republicans at the national level have silently refused to acknowledge the legitimate results of the election or have joined in Trump’s baseless challenge of the election he lost.

‘The Republicans behaving normally are the ones who have actual political and legal roles in the electoral process and its judicial aftermath, from secretaries of state and governors in states like Georgia and Arizona to Trump’s judicial appointees. The Republicans behaving radically are doing so in the knowledge — or at least the strong assumption — that their behavior is performative, an act of storytelling rather than lawmaking, a posture rather than a political act.’

By one count, over sixty legal challenges to the election have been filed and there no major illegalities or irregularities have been found. Most of the suits have been dismissed with scathing rebukes from justices (both Democrat and Republican) about the lack of evidence and lack of even semblance of legal coherence. In all his hollering and complaining, Trump has neither presented, nor presumably found, any evidence of significant voter fraud.

Yet his destructive charade continues, supported by the fires of grievance he has so carefully tended throughout his time in office. The Congressional Republicans who have been following his lead must feel they have no choice. Most are silent, perhaps fearing to cross this malicious man and the passions he has fomented within the Republican Party and within this country. Crossing a vindictive and powerful man has consequences beyond what most of them are willing to bear.

Douthat goes on to compare Trump to a cult leader whose prophecy has failed:

Crucially, as in certain famous cults, the failure of these prophecies doesn’t undo the story. It just requires more elaboration and adaptation, more creative fantasizing — and meanwhile the gears of normal politics grind on, choked with sand but still turning steadily enough.

Trump will not stop. He laid the groundwork for this far-fetched challenge four years ago.   He cheerfully proclaimed ridiculous lies about the size of his inauguration crowds and claims that the only reason he lost the popular vote was due to massive voter fraud. The performative actions of Congressional leaders and the alternate reality he has so carefully crafted are what allow him to keep going. The majority of individuals who identify as Republican now believe, without legitimate evidence, that this past election was marred by a significant breakdown in our system of voting.

These baseless accusations will not, ultimately prevail. President-elect Joe Biden will, I believe, be sworn in on January 20^th. But his job of leading the country in dealing with the raging pandemic, the struggling economy, the ongoing systemic racism and the continuing environmental crises will be made even more difficult.

As Robert Hubbell often says, this is a generational struggle we are witnessing. The demographic, economic and social changes in our country and in the world have created fertile ground for the resentments and fears to blossom into an antagonism and distrust so deep that even verifiable events (the Presidential election) cannot be agreed upon.

The road back to a functioning two-party system at the national level will be a long one. We will all need to stay involved in both the performative and the normal political acts that foster the kind of democracy to which we aspire to. What we think, say and do matters. Let us continue to act with strength and compassion to use these times to move toward a country more fully realizes its highest ideals.

Choosing Our Lives

Many of us imagine that we’d be happy if only things would go smoothly. If only things were more predictable and less challenging, then we’d be able to get to all those things we’ve been meaning to do. I remember learning many years ago when I was leading an organization and making a practice of schmoozing with ‘important’ people that when someone said ‘Let’s get together when things settle down,’ that meant they didn’t really want to take the time to meet with you.

What do you want to take the time to do? What will you say yes to? What will you say no to? In the midst of an ever-expanding number of choices, what’s worth doing? What’s most important. These are the urgent questions that arise for us humans again and again.

I first heard Mary Oliver’s poem The Summer Day read at a Pottery and Zen workshop I attended in the mid-80’s and her formulation of these questions has stayed with me ever since. In the poem, she wonders about the meaning of life then quickly falls into one of her now-familiar reveries about the specifics of the outdoor moment in which she finds herself.

I’m reminded here of the Zen practice of calling out and receiving. It’s a kind of Zen prayer in which you internally call out to the universe from the place of your true need. You can call the universe whatever you want: God, Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, my True Heart, Life or even Hey You. You call out asking for help from the deepest and most desperate place you know. THEN, you stop calling out and receive whatever arises in that particular moment as the response to your calling out. It may be just the sensation of your breath, it may be a sound or an image. It may be nothing at all. It may be, as it apparently was in Oliver’s case, a grasshopper.

Oliver observes the grasshopper ‘who has flung herself out of the grass…who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.’ She then extols the general virtue of paying attention to the particular and claims she is ‘idle and blessed.’ (Through this we have to assume that her carefully crafted and apparently natural poems are part of her idleness and her blessing – for she is not just ‘strolling through the fields’ as she claims. She is also coming home and writing about it as well, otherwise we would never know of her wondrous wonder.)

Then, in the poem, everything changes. She brings in death as an unexpected ally in her defense against the tyranny of busyness and productivity: Tell me, what else should I have done? / Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?. Funny—to invite death in to bolster your case for ease and reverie.

So often we think of death as our adversary—our mortal enemy. We use all the tricks available to us to avoid meeting directly with this most universal and unavoidable reality. We deny, we bargain, we rage, we withdraw. Yet as long as we push away the reality of death, we have no place to rest because we are constantly running from one of the most dependable aspects of our life.

I’ll never forget a conversation many years ago with my Zen teacher under a huge live oak near the retreat center where we were teaching just outside of Tallahassee. The old live oaks in that area are stunning. Enormous, spreading, and draped with Spanish moss, their leaves are green all year and they can live for over 500 years. The one we stopped under was an ancient and stunning specimen that some of the neighbors had honored by putting a park bench under its capacious spreading limbs.

It was there he spoke of his gratitude for death. Not that he wanted to die, but he imagined how unbearable an unending life would be. All your friends would die and you would be left alone in the vast infinity of space. Perhaps we can speak of the vast infinity of space being right here in each moment, but the certainty of change and the certainty of death are also part of this moment without borders.

Oliver closes her public reverie with the two lines that I have carried with me these last forty years: ‘Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?’ In these concluding lines, Oliver shifts her keen focus from her dreamlike meeting with her summer day and the grasshopper to you and me, the readers. Suddenly, we are in her crosshairs. ‘Tell me, what is it you plan to do’… In her challenge she affirms the possibility and the urgency of having a plan for the direction in which we intend to move.

So—in the face of the wonder and the inescapable brevity of life, how will you move forward into this day in which you find yourself? How will you meet the clamor and disturbance that will certainly come your way? What intention may guide you? What will you give your life to today?

Not Yet a Coup, but….

Trump, flailing in the waning days of his Presidency, continues to do everything he can to maintain his hold on power. Though Republicans and Democrats at the local level have refused to be pressured into ignoring the votes of millions of Americans, Congressional Republicans at the national level continue to be intimidated or actually supportive of Trump’s active undermining of our system of free and fair elections. Though the Supreme Court threw out the Texas AG’s baseless case, more than 100 Republican members of the House signed on in support of this desperate attempt to invalidate the election results of four key swing states. They signed on after one of their number, Mike Johnson of Louisiana sent an email asking for their support and saying that Trump was ‘anxiously awaiting the final list.’

I am still confident that our democratic institutions will prevail, but the seeds of fear, hatred and suspicion that Trump and his allies continue to sow are an ongoing threat to this election and to our capacity to function under our incoming President.

One of my self-care practices is to occasionally read Robert Hubbell’s wonderful, informative and encouraging Today’s Edition Newsletter. In last Friday’s edition he wrote:

“An essay in The Atlantic by Zeynep Tufekci reflects on the fact that our language has no word for Trump’s ongoing efforts to overturn the election. See “‘This Must Be Your First’.” Tufekci writes that

         “Much debate has ensued about what exactly to call whatever Trump is attempting right now, and about how worried we should be. . . . Coup may not quite capture what we’re witnessing in the United States right now, but there’s also a danger here . . . The incoherence and incompetence of the attempt do not change its nature.”

Tufekci wisely counsels that “acting as if Trump is trying to stage a coup is the best way to ensure he won’t.” I agree. Despite the buffoonery of Giuliana and Sydney Powell, despite a litigation strategy that borders on incoherence, and despite the wink-and-nod charade of Trump hostages joining the Texas lawsuit, what they are proposing is the end of constitutional order.”

Trump uses the language of democracy to undermine democracy. His power is diminishing by the day, but he will be a severe threat to our country until January 20^th, when Biden is sworn in. And even then he will be a continuing threat to our country. Trump has a cult-like hold on a substantial number of his followers and a strong influence on many others who share some of his alleged discontents. I say alleged because it seems Trump will say or do anything that will enflame the fears and grievances of his base—not because he believes it but because he wants to stay in power.

So, it continues.

Over the past nine months, I’ve been talking about the two pandemics: the corona virus and the ongoing systemic racial violence of our culture. I’m considering adding Trump as a third pandemic all to himself. The damage he has done in polarizing the country and the danger he continues to pose to our democratic institutions is real and will take years to heal. Trump has undermined our ability to talk and work and live with each other—the very bedrock of our democratic republican system.

Hopefully we are flattening the curve of the Trump pandemic and things will not advance to a full-scale coup. But each one of us needs to stay informed and engaged. Our individual and collective actions to build the bridges of communication and respect are the only way to realize the great dreams on which this country was founded.

May our thoughts, words and actions move us toward genuine equality under the law and may they help re-weave a social fabric that supports each one of us to create a life of dignity, meaning and fulfillment.

Getting the Message

The sun set at 3:30 yesterday. I was by the lake to witness when it happened. Cars were rushing by on the other side, but I was hidden from the busyness by the quiet of the trees. We were all silent in the late afternoon.

Most of the deciduous trees around the lake are now bare of leaves, though one oak tree I walked under on my way still maintained its full compliment of leaves. I noticed because of the sound. There was no wind but the brown suspended leaves were all in a soft clatter of wordless conversation. It sounded like rain but the sky was clear. What were they up to, these dead leaves that should have been on the ground weeks ago? Were they collectively considering how long to hold on before giving way to the inevitable? Were they delighting in their aerial vantage point—gloating in the good fortune of the continuing suspension?

I don’t suppose the leaves care one way or another about their color or position, about their life or their death. Equally at home as tiny spring buds, as fully functioning green leaves and as leaf litter decomposing on the ground. The generations of flat factories play whatever role is assigned to them. In the summer they freely transform the sun’s light into portable packets of energy. Photosynthesis. Chlorophyll is the miracle worker that takes sunlight and water and carbon dioxide and rearranges it all into the sugars and oxygen that make our lives possible.

But these clattering leaves on a warmish December day have burned out. Probably yellow in October, today they are dull and brown and serving no discernible purpose. The green chlorophyll that hummed with life sustaining life all summer has fled. Factories are closed. Every one put out of work. What are they doing? Why hang onto the tree when usefulness is past? Are the brown leaves complaining about the brevity of their lives? Six months is not a lot of time in the scheme of things. The tree that still holds them this winter afternoon has seen sixty or seventy generations of leaves come and go without pity or gratitude.

Pity, gratitude and wonder are left for us two-legged creatures who pass in generations nearly as quickly as the leaves. Or do the tree beings and the leaf beings dream with us? Are they alive and conscious is some manner that is undetectable to our limited senses and imaginations?

I love reading snippets of the new research that is uncovering the multiple channels of communication among trees and other members of the ancient plant kingdom. I appreciate the native traditions that honor and respect the wisdom of each species of green living beingness. Of course there is more going on than we can measure or understand. I feel this standing under this medium sized oak tree on the side of the road the December day. Some subtle presence announcing itself. I stand still and try to receive the wordless teaching of this particular oak tree.

Trying too hard is an exercise in frustration. I remember visiting the Museum of Modern Art decades ago with a sculptor I apprenticed with briefly. Walking through the city to the museum, I confessed to him that I really didn’t understand modern art, it just confused me. He laughed and said ‘You’re trying too hard. Just stand in front of a piece and if you like it you like it. If you don’t, you don’t. That’s enough.’ Sure enough, on that visit, I noticed that some of the weird and crazy things I saw appealed to me and others didn’t.

So under the oak tree, I notice that I like this collection of inaudible sounds that adds up to the gentle shushing which touch my ears. Perhaps the tree is my mother and is comforting me. Perhaps she is singing a lullaby to the trees around her as they prepare for their long winter hibernation. Perhaps the sound simply soothes some restless part of my brain or tickles a tiny funny bone in my inner ear.

I pause and allow us both to be here together for a moment before I head on to the lake—in time to watch the winter sunset and appreciate my solitude in the good company of my quiet tree companions.

A Radical Perspective

A friend recently told me of a conversation she had with Arny Mindell, author and founder of Process Work, where he said how excited he is to be alive in these times of conflict and difficulty. I was surprised and delighted to hear this as it directly contradicts the story of struggle and unknown danger that I have often told myself over these last nine months. What if this is a time of opportunity, new possibility and adventure?

In LEADER AS MARTIAL ARTIST, published in 1992, Mindell writes of a reciprocal beneficial relationship between the self and the world. Rather than viewing this life as a series of challenges to see who is fittest and who can survive, he suggests the world is more like a fantastic playground in which we can uncover and develop our as yet unknown capacities and strengths. He writes:

…the world is here to help us become our entire selves, and that we are here to help the world become whole.   …we seem to use the world as if it were a workshop, a testing ground to challenge ourselves and one another to open up to everything in our inner and outer universes.

The first phrase brings me up short: ‘the world is here to help us become our entire selves’ What an amazing perspective to consider! So different from my usual assumption that life is just one challenge after the next. What if the world is here to help? What if life is not a succession of tests? What if, as one Buddhist teacher says, ‘The world is kindly bent to ease us.’ ?

Then I wonder what it might be like to live in a world of support? What if everything that happens to me and around me is an opportunity to wake up to the fullness of my life? What if everything is an invitation rather than a challenge? An invitation to uncover the fullness of who I am?

Living in a world of support would mean I could relax and be more playful. The serious heaviness would vanish. I would be constantly curious about what wonderful adventure might befall me today as I wander through this wise and kind world.  Though even in this lighthearted dreaming I suspect this way is not just easeful and is not, as we say, for the faint of heart. Adventures often involve dangerous monsters and impossible quests. But who doesn’t long to be the hero—to be the one who discovers their true super powers just in the nick of time to save the world?

Mindell goes on to say that ‘we are here to help the world become whole.’ He dreams a world of mutuality between inner and outer. Inner needs outer to develop and know itself. And, amazingly, outer needs inner in exactly the same way, to develop and know itself. What if the world really needs you? What if you have a part to play in the unfolding of your community, of your country, and of this fragile and wondrous planet we live on?

I know I’m back to ‘what if’, but I can’t find any other way to express the invitation I feel in these teachings. There is not need to work yourself up into a state of belief in these teachings. (Zealots are rarely helpful to a situation, though even for them (us) there is a time and a place.) As human beings we get to step in and out of many perspectives. Each story we tell about what is going on, each view of the world, is a world in itself.

The story you tell is the world you inhabit. If you believe that everyone is out to get you, then this is what you encounter wherever you go. If everything is working to teach and support you, this can also be the world you live in. Of course, we all move through many worlds in the course of each day. Each story we tell (That shouldn’t have happened. / I’m quite a competent person. / I’m an idiot.) is a universe in itself. None of them are, however, permanent, personal or perfect. (Thank you Ruth King.)

So today, if you’re up for a small adventure, try being Arny. Imagine, for even a few breaths, that the world is here to help you become whole. (Pause here and consider this.) Imagine that the intractable problems of your life and the world around you are fantastic puzzles that will allow you to access important parts of yourself that are still hidden from you. (Pause here and consider this.) And imagine that your presence, love and courage are the gifts that the people and the world around you need.

Pause here and consider this.

Working With Undone Tasks

The Temple pond has frozen over. Nearby stands one large planter that should have been moved to the shelter of the garage long ago. I’m hoping it has not already cracked from the freezing of its wet soil. Again today, I vow to roll the hand-truck down and take it to the safety of the garage. It’s a ten-minute task that has been on ‘my list’ for weeks. Today, I also want to get some exercise, use the aging vegetables in the refrigerator before they disintegrate, go through the piles of paper on my desk and try to install the honeycomb shades whose ‘easy installation’ defeated me yesterday. It would be good to go shopping, make notes for a sermon I’m preaching in January and begin the campaign to raise money to buy a new snow-blower for the Temple. I’m sure there will be enough time……

Our lives are filled with things to do—things we should do, things we could do—things we want to do, things we don’t want to do. There are always too many. Sometimes, when contemplating the multitude that surrounds me, I feel beleaguered and overwhelmed. But once I had a waking dream of walking into the middle of a ballroom. Lovely music was playing and all the things of my life were in a circle around me. I was happy to see them all and I got to choose whom I wanted to dance with. As I slowly turned around, encountering all the things I could and should do, I might do and must do, I was able to notice and act on what called to me. I danced for a while with one, then gracefully moved onto the next.

This was a new possibility—that the choice was up to me and that I could and should use my intuition to choose. This contradicted my default association with choosing whom to dance with: all the ones I don’t choose will be disappointed and angry. From this perspective I must choose everything and everyone at the same time. But choosing everything at once means standing frozen in the middle. Or choosing everything means rushing from one to the next in sequential dissatisfaction and agitation.

What if (and this appears to be my new mantra – see yesterday’s poem) I really did get to choose? And it was just fine?

I’m reminded of Marshall Rosenberg’s insistence on the power of owning the power of our choices. Part of the lovely framework he calls Nonviolent Communication is making sure that we are consciously owning our responsibility for doing what we are doing.

We often use the language of ‘have to.’ We might say ‘I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, but I had to to make breakfast for my family.’ While this may feel accurate, it hides a deeper truth and there is a cost in using this language. ‘Have to’ is the language of resentment and blame. Rosenberg doesn’t deny there are consequences to our actions and non-actions, but he insists that, even when the choices are unappealing, we are still choosing and that owning the power of our choosing is essential in a healthy and fulfilling life.

Rosenberg went so far as to make a list of all the things he didn’t want to do and then committed to find some way to have someone else do it, find a reason that he really did want to do it, or simply not do it. Going back to the example of getting out of bed to make breakfast for the family, you actually have many choices. You could start a rotation with all the members of your family that are competent to make breakfast. Or you could remember how much you love nourishing your family and giving them all a good start as they begin their days and choose to continue. Or you could announce that you are no longer taking responsibility for their morning meal. These are just a few of the choices available to you. The important thing to remember is that they are all your choices.

No one is forcing you to do what you are doing. Using the language of ‘have to’ is inaccurate and creates a greater sense of powerlessness that diminishes the natural dignity of our lives. Mary Oliver says: ‘Tell me, how is it you will spend your one wild and precious life?’ And we spend our lives moment by moment. Most are not grand and flashy, but these moment by moment choices are how a life is lived—how we spend our lives.

I wonder what I will choose today? Going out in the bracing cold of the morning for the satisfaction of tending to the garden and taking care of the beautiful things of my life is beginning to sound more and more attractive. Who knows, maybe the planter will finally reach the shelter of the garage…

Just Wondering

What if:
you are already
who you dream
of being but you
just haven’t yet
woken up?

What if:
it all doesn’t matter
quite so much because
anyway life is just
a dream you’re having?

What if:
the dream you’re
dreaming is simply
the universe dreaming
the gazillion stars into
being through you?

What if:
the river of stars
that constantly flows
through you is
endlessly content
with how it’s doing?

Could this then
be enough?

Seeing Into the Darkness

This time of year, we Zen Buddhists, like the followers of most wisdom traditions are concerned with darkness and light. We tell the story of a young man who left the comfort of his familiar surroundings to set off on a pilgrimage to find the meaning of life-and-death. After a long and arduous search, he settled into the darkness of one tumultuous night, vowing not to move until he understood the truth of life. Seeing the morning star rising the next morning, he had a great realization of the nature of life and was set free.

Every pilgrimage begins with leaving home. Even the virtual Zen Zoom retreats we’ve been holding since May, the ones that take place right where we are, require a leaving of the familiar routine. We intentionally step back from the normal flow of ‘the way things are’ in order to begin to see into the conditions of our lives that are mostly hidden from us.

We humans are like the young fish that David Foster Wallace described in his commencement address at Kenyan College in 2005:

There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys, how’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What the hell is water?”

The title of Wallace’s address that day was ‘This Is Water’ and these are his opening lines.   Wallace goes on to present himself not as the wise old fish offering platitudes for to the young graduates, but rather he boldly claims his status as a deluded human being:

A huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded. Here’s one example of the utter wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of: Everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe, the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely talk about this sort of natural, basic self centeredness, because it’s so socially repulsive, but it’s pretty much the same for all of us, deep down. It is our default-setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth. Think about it: There is no experience you’ve had that you were not at the absolute center of.

As Wallace points out in the joke and elucidates here, we live in midst of delusions that are so close they are invisible to us. Zen retreats offer us the possibility to see into the nature of the mistaken ideas of separation and inflation that we barely notice in our everyday lives. All spiritual practices and retreats offer the possibility of de-centering the self and seeing though our deluded ideas of importance and control.

Another example of ‘the utter wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of’ is our equation that comfort is good and discomfort is bad—the easy is to be preferred and the difficult is to be avoided. Our basic urge is to control the universe and get more of what we want and less of what we don’t want. While this is healthy to some extent, when this is the unconscious driving force of our lives, we are in trouble. We are neither the center of nor the master of the universe. This is the bad news and the good news.

Leaving familiar surroundings and engaging in spiritual practices can allow us to begin to see the operation of these and other hidden delusions that keep us scurrying around on a desperate search for happiness. On Zen retreats, the discipline of sitting upright and still for long periods of time allows us to come face-to-face with our urge to control the universe. We human beings naturally turn away from things we don’t like and toward things we do like. Though this is basically a healthy impulses, when all we do is turn toward comfort and away from difficulty, our lives become smaller and smaller. Our natural freedom to follow what we love is eroded by our need for safety and security.

Simply sitting still allows us to see the operation of this endless desire for comfort and allows us to cultivate the courage to choose for ourselves. When the urge to scratch my cheek arises, though I may feel like I really need to scratch, if I resist that urge, I can begin to learn that sensations come and go. The same with discomfort in the body. While we need to be wise and not go to extremes that would injure our bodies, there is a fair degree of aches and pains that we can merely watch arise and pass away.

We can begin to greet the urgencies of our minds—‘I must do this.’ ‘I must have that.’ ‘I cannot tolerate this.’—with a little more spaciousness. Our minds, in many ways, are like two-year-olds that just want what they want when they want it. ‘If I can’t have that new toy, there is no meaning to my life.’ ‘If you won’t do exactly what I want, I won’t ever talk to you again.’ Though we can laugh at these silly examples, on some primal level the delusion runs deep. Of course we see clearly and are reasonable and should always get our way. Only when we begin to see how subtly greed, anger and ignorance operate, can we begin to awaken to our true freedom.

It’s a never-ending path, this road to freedom. The little self is wondrously persistent and creative. Though we all have moments where we see through the thin façade of rushing around trying to get and be particular things, we are all endlessly limited and deluded.

Going on retreat, we have to come back. Climbing to the top of the mountain, we get a wonderful view, but then, as we keep walking, we naturally walk down the other side and back into the valleys and forests of everyday life. This is not a problem or a mistake. Everything comes and goes, even our great liberating insight.

This is the water we swim in, the water that is our life.  This is why we keep practicing—keep meditating—keep praying—keep retreating. This endless journey is our great freedom and our great joy.

Back From Retreat

Zen meditation retreats are an acquired taste.

In the early days of my Zen career I heard Thich Nhat Hanh talk about how meditation retreats are really ‘treats’ to be savored. I had no clue what he was talking about. I knew that ‘real’ Zen retreats were arduous affairs requiring intense effort and were only for truly devoted spiritual seekers. Calling them ‘treats’ was like saying that running a marathon is a stroll in the park or a three-week Outward Bound course is a pleasant afternoon in the forest. But now, almost forty years later, I’m beginning to understand what he meant.

The long hours of sitting in stillness and silence, the sense of camaraderie (even over Zoom) allow me to touch something of incomparable value. Studying and practicing the teachings of life in the company of friends and colleagues is one of the great pleasures of my life. A real treat each time. But like learning to appreciate a fine wine, I have had to learn how to savor the many flavors—the bitterness that balances the sweetness—the darkness that allows the light.

Zen meditation retreats are indeed a treat, but are not recommended for the faint of heart.

I suppose it’s like learning to appreciate life. While it’s easy to enjoy the ‘good stuff’ like success, connection and energetic activity, how do we find a way to meet the inevitable arising of failure, loneliness and illness as well? The Buddha suggested that one way to encounter these mostly unwanted experiences of being human was to begin by remembering that they are unavoidable.

Usually, when something ‘bad’ happens, not only do I feel bad, but I think there must be something wrong with me for feeling bad. One of the Buddha’s first teachings was the prosaic observation that, in human life, suffering and discomfort are unavoidable. While this may seem obvious, in practice it is very difficult to remember.

One of the gifts of retreat is that in the simplicity of stillness and silence, we can see how difficulty and ease arise and pass away continuously. With very little going on in the environment around us, the activity of the mind becomes a little more transparent. We can begin to see that the difficulties and the accomplishments we take so seriously do not have the substance that we usually accord them.

When difficulty arises, perhaps discomfort in the body, I can see how naturally and immediately I add to the discomfort with my internal complaining. ‘It shouldn’t be this way.’ ‘Oh no, not this again.’ I can try to stop my complaining, but this rarely works. Or I can accept my internal complaining as a naturally arising phenomena and see that, if I just let it be, the complaint, like the experience of discomfort simply arises and passes away. When I don’t add more suffering on top of my suffering, then I can find the ease that is possible even when I am ill at ease.

This might be what Jesus was referring to when he spoke of ‘the peace that passes understanding’—a peace or ease that is not conditional on good circumstances but peace is broad enough to include all circumstances.

When we don’t have to judge ourselves or our experiences, then we can begin to appreciate our lives in their fullness. We don’t have to expend so much energy trying to avoid the unavoidable. We can be at peace in the midst of turmoil. We can rest right where we are. Of course we still prefer some experiences to other experiences, but we don’t have to get so worked up about the continual changes in circumstance and mood that are a natural part of being human.

So, this morning, after our three-day Rohatsu Boundless Way Zen Distant Temple Bell retreat, I am grateful for this ancient practice, for my colleagues and students who are willing to journey with me, and for the precious gift being alive.

Looking Into Life-and-Death

Tonight we begin our fourth non-local Zen retreat here at Boundless Way Temple. In ‘the before-days’ our retreats meant a wonderful influx of human beings into the Temple and any number of days of hushed and vibrant activity. Now it means gathering ourselves where we are and practicing together from a distance. It’s surprisingly powerful and intimate as we weave meditation into the rhythms of our everyday lives. Together from a distance, we support each other to set aside several days of our lives to look into the great matter of life-and-death.

This being human is not a picnic. Or it is a picnic, but the weather is wildly unsettled. Sometimes the sun shines, the breezes are fair and the food is delicious. Sometimes a storm blows in and cold rain drenches us and ruins our ideas of a pleasant outing. However we turn the image, the reality of our lives often refuses to conform to our wishes and desires. For most of us, the reality that we are not in control of the universe is quite disturbing.

But, when we begin to accept the truth of our real position in the universe, we can finally find some place to rest. Recently, one student reported what a relief it was to notice that she was not in charge of breathing her breath. Breathing out and waiting, she noticed that the in-breath came on it’s own. Breathing in, that the out-breath as well needed no instruction. The intelligence of the mind-body is stunningly brilliant. But usually we’re too busy with our schemes and worries to notice the natural wisdom that courses through every cell and every molecule of our being.

Sometimes it’s easier to appreciate this primal intelligence in other life forms. Personally, I’ve always admired the gray whales that migrate up and down the west coast—a 12,000 mile round trip which they make at the leisurely and determined pace of five miles per hour. How do they know where to do? How do they keep going? After spending the summer feeding in the nutrient rich Arctic waters off the coast of Alaska, they swim the length of the North American continent to have their babies in the warm lagoons of Baja, Mexico. During their annual pilgrimage, they even swim while they are sleeping! (Warning: do not try this at home.)

And consider the knowing of the trees that have now dropped their leaves and wait without complaint or fear for the coming cold. The tilted earth that predictably spins as it hurtles around our dependably exploding sun. The sound of traffic, the smell of moist air, the taste of our food and drink—all this is a manifestation of the intelligence of life. We were exactly created for this world. Or, it might be more accurate to talk about our lives as the marvelous meeting between us and what is not-us.

Many vibrations come into my ear, but I only call sound that which resonates with the structure of my body-mind. We live in the world perception that our mind-bodies co-create. Everywhere I turn my attention, I perceive something. Even blankness or darkness – even absence is a perception, is a something.

In the midst of this mutually arising world, we human beings have the fore-knowledge of the future that awaits us. We will, each one of us, die. Being human is like setting out to sea in a boat that you know will sink. No one in their right mind would do that. But here we are. Zen meditation and perhaps all spiritual paths and religion arise in response to this human conundrum.

In Zen, we call this the great matter of life-and-death. For the next three days, three dozen or so of us will be studying this matter—not as an intellectual investigation, but through being present with our own experience. We say that it’s all happening right here—this life-and-death is not some philosophical abstraction, but rather is the experience of breathing in and breathing out. Each moment contains our life—is our life. And this life can never be separated from our death—hence we call it life-and-death.

Such a mystery and such an invitation to briefly abandon the myriad concerns that usually occupy our minds—to step back from our consuming busyness and consider the whole enchilada. ‘Who am I?’ ‘Why am I here?’ and, with a bow to Mary Oliver, ‘What do I intend to do with this one wild and precious life?’

(Note to regular readers: I may be sporadic over the days of the retreat but will definitely be back on Monday.)

Shifting Perspective

The hum of hot water running through the radiators is familiar in the quiet of the early morning. When the new boiler was installed ten years ago, I was startled for weeks by this same sound every time the heat came on. Now I only hear it occasionally and find it a comforting. Cold outside, warm inside. All systems working well.

This morning (and every morning) the clock on my desk joins the ordinary symphony as rhythm section. Being battery operated, its treble ticking seems fully unnecessary, but it long ago became an indispensable member of the orchestra. The voice of an old friend, I would never choose it, but now rely its unnoticed auditory presence to know I am home in my familiar life.

One of my dear friends used to apologize for talking too much and often asserted with great delight that she was trying to learn to be more like me and talk less. I used to be afraid she would succeed, but then I realized her light-hearted assertions of imminent change were simply part of her effervescent presence and there was no need to worry.

Many of us think we should be someone else, be quieter or louder, taller or shorter. But in the end we don’t have much choice. Of course we could all do with some cleaning up around the edges—but I’ve come to believe that we’re pretty much stuck with being who we are. At some point, or at many points, we must learn to give up on our critical dream of who we think we should be and begin in earnest to work with what we’ve got.

David Ignatow’s wonderful poem Self Employed illustrates one such moment of grudging self-acceptance, when he relents from his decision to fire himself.

I stand and listen, head bowed,
to my inner complaint.
Persons passing by think
I am searching for a lost coin.
You’re fired, I yell inside
after an especially bad episode.
I’m letting you go without notice
or terminal pay. You just lost
another chance to make good.
But then I watch myself standing at the exit,
depressed and about to leave,
and wave myself back in wearily,
for who else could I get in my place
to do the job in dark, airless conditions?

The poem is a lovely evocation of our internal divisions—the critical one who is almost always judging our performance or our essence as being insufficient, and the one who is judged—the one standing at the exit, / depressed and about to leave. But what if the beleaguered inner self just walked out the door? What if they said ‘No more!’ and exited up the stairs to the street?

Greeted by the bracing winter air and the full cacophony of life itself, I would be invigorated. All directions being equal, my feet might decide to head north. I would swing my arms and take great strides in the most unsophisticated way. Grinning with freedom, other city-folk might think me unhinged, but I would take that as a compliment.

Walking north, breathing deeply of the crisp winter air, I have no destination. All I see and hear brings great delight. What I’ll do isn’t clear to me, but for now there is only walking—great strides of freedom enliven me and make me wonder why it took so many years.

Having escaped once more, I smile as I listen to the ticking clock on my desk. Looking around at the familiar piles of books and my perpetually unkempt office, I notice it’s actually my internal supervisor who has been fired. I am where I was before, but now noticing and appreciating rather than complaining. I suppose the supervisor will wheedle his way back into employment soon enough, but for now, I’ll enjoy these new working conditions.

Dark Days

December begins. The darkness is heavy this morning and I don’t want to get out of bed. The winter solstice is three weeks away and already I’m over-darkened.

I’ve been dreaming about an old job I had running a school. In the dream, I’m about to lead a meeting and I have no idea what the purpose of the meeting is. Staff and students begin to drift in, I don’t know anyone, but they seem to know me. I’m slightly panicked trying to figure out what to do. It’s a familiar dream and in thinking about it now, I wonder why I never even consider asking someone to help me. In this dream, and too often in my life, I figure I’ve got to figure it out on my own.

In the early morning darkness, the feeling of the dream reverberates through me as I drift into consciousness. It’s quarter to five in the morning, time to get up and make tea and write, but I don’t want to get out of bed. I decide to wait a little to see if I can figure out what is going on. What is this place I’m in? I wait for some inspiration but nothing comes. Maybe I won’t write this morning. I’m trying to write about the fullness of being alive, and this dark place is certainly part of the experience of being human. But I worry that I write about it too much. Once in a while is fine, but shouldn’t I be over this by now?

I remember what I wrote about yesterday and decide try to follow my own advice: feel your feelings, remember your purpose, then take the next step.

I lie still in the warm darkness of my bed. I notice a general sense of dread. Just yesterday I was adventuring with my grandson—out for a walk in the wonder of the twilight wind and rain, delighting in stomping and splashing in the large puddle at the end of the driveway. This morning, I don’t want to get out of bed.

What am I feeling? It seems like a simple question, but it’s actually quite challenging and profound. It’s hard to pause long enough to look around. I’m either lost in thought or just wanting not to be here. I don’t want to move. Heavy. Dull. I’m not really sad or angry. The sense of dread is non-specific. Some kind of fear. I scan ahead over the day ahead—there’s nothing much there. Some ongoing issues, but nothing to match this feeling of darkness.

I roll over and face the wall, staying in the country of darkness. I am sleepy. I really don’t want to get up. OK – I guess this is what I’m feeling this morning. Not a pleasant place and not a place I’m particularly proud to be in, but here I am.

So what’s my purpose? Here I get stuck all over again. All the words I say to myself feel dead and powerless. I can’t think of any purpose that makes sense. I’m just lying under the covers of my bed and don’t want to emerge into the cold of my morning room.

What is my purpose? To be truthful (with myself and with others) about the fullness of my experience of being human. This has a glimmer of resonance in the dark world and will have to do for this morning.

Now—take the next step. I roll over, turn back the covers and put my feet on the floor. I put on sox and a new birthday sweater then walk quietly through the darkened house to the kitchen to make some tea.

Now, as I write, the darkness inside recedes slightly. I am comforted by my tea, the warmth of the blanket over my legs and by this weird place of self-revelation and self-exploration. I am truly embarrassed by myself sometimes and yet continue in this practice of daily exposure.

I suppose it’s the adventure of it all that keeps me going. I never know what I will stumble upon as I write—the aliveness of an image, a thought, a memory. Like my grandson, though I rarely venture out beyond the end of the driveway of my experience, I do seem to find ample puddles to stomp in. Like him, I sometimes sit down in the puddles to play with the floating leaves—without worry of wetness or cold or what happens next. And I suppose, like him, I am protected and supported by forces in the universe that are beyond my comprehension.

There is danger in the wind and water of a cold night. There is danger in the hidden places of the psyche. But also, there are adventures to be had and new wonders to be uncovered. This morning I suppose it’s enough to drag the wet leaf of myself through the puddle once again and exclaim, in the middle of a rainstorm, at its marvelous wetness.

Simple Advice for Complicated Times

Most all of us have been coping with increased anxiety and uncertainty since the pandemic began nearly a year ago.  Sometimes the issues are personal, stemming from our intimate relationships or work situations (or lack there-of). Sometimes they seem more global as we try to find our way through the animosities, half-truths and outright lies of our polarized politicized predicament.

These times make clear to me the thinness of the line between personal and political, because when we are in the terrain of disturbance, the internal  landscape is similar regardless of the cause. We are living in a field of intense uncertainty. Problems that appear to be personal are, in some way, a manifestation of the emotional atmosphere of fear and uncertainty present our country these days. It can be helpful to remember that what we are feeling is not just personal, but is also an expression of something being worked out in the culture.

The culture uses individuals to come to understand itself and to, hopefully, move forward.  The internal work we do to come to terms with the range of emotions and thoughts we experience is part of our gift to each other.  As one person turns toward active compassion rather than externalized blame, as one person acts decently and with conviction, all of us benefit.

One of the tools I have found helpful in working with states of fear and agitation is a teaching from David Reynolds, the founder of the short-lived branch of new age psychology known as ‘Constructive Living.’ He offered a three-step teaching for living in disturbing times: 1) Feel your feelings. 2) Remember your purpose. 3) Take the next step.

1. Feel your feelings. Reynolds begins his book Constructive Living with a wonderful rant about the unsolvable mystery of feelings. In spite of what psychology sometimes claims, he says that no one knows where feelings come from, what they really are, or how to ‘fix’ them. Feelings come and go. You may have noticed this yourself. One morning you feel panicky and uncertain, the next you feel settled and grounded. Feelings are the weather of our lives. Sometimes the sun shines, sometimes the snow comes. Sometimes the shift is gradual, sometimes sudden.

To feel your feelings, means to be present to the weather of the moment. They’re already here anyway. Instead of fighting them, trying to change them or getting lost in figuring out who is responsible for them, you can just feel them. We can simply be present to what is already here.

2. Remember your purpose. This instruction invites us to turn our attention to something deeper. Rather than trying to fix our feelings, we let our feelings be whatever they are and turn toward some sense of what it is we want to move toward. This purpose appears at many levels. Purpose may mean what we want to accomplish in the next interaction: ‘I want to communicate my position clearly and without blame.’ Or it might be more global ‘I want to be an instrument of peace in the world.’ Purpose is what is calls you to a larger frame than simply the emotional valence of the moment.

A purpose might be prosaic – to find a job that pays me enough money to live on. Or it might be transcendent – to wake up to the truth of life—to move closer to God.  Whatever purpose you find when you turn toward your heart is fine. The point is to touch something more than the weather of the moment – to remember what you’re really here to do.

3. Take the next step. This is the step that moves us from navel gazing into engaging with the world. We take some action in the direction of our purpose. It doesn’t have to be the best step or even a big step. The point is to DO something.  Reynolds writes;“…give up the ephemeral task of working on yourself and realign your life toward getting done what . . .needs doing.”

When we do something, we learn something. Even the wrong direction is fine because we learn what not to do. Every action we take leads us into the world that generously gives us feedback. This world teaches us how to be ourselves – teaches us what works and what doesn’t work. The only thing necessary is to step in the direction our what we truly want, then notice what happens. You don’t have to be right or wise or good.  Just one step is enough.

So, a big thank to David Reynolds, whom I have never met, as I pass this framework on to you. If you’re intrigued, give it a try and see what happens.

(This morning’s entry is a very slight re-write of a piece that originally appeared on November 30, 2016…how constant the turmoil of the world and the challenges for us human beings seem to be.)

Visiting Buddha’s House

A Burmese Buddha sits quietly on the mantle in front of me while a wriggling blue snake, crudely drawn on a nearby white board, stands on his tail and threatens his flat universe. The beige Buddha is unmoved by the snake’s apparent aggression. The only sign of Buddha’s distress is his right hand which reaches over his knee to touch the earth.

It is said that during the night leading up to his great enlightenment, the Buddha was assailed by the armies of Mara—the forces of delusion—who mounted an all-out assault against his effort to see into the truth of things and to find freedom.

I always appreciate that the night of Buddha’s great awakening was a difficult one. Not that I want it to have been so difficult for him, but because it gives me hope for myself. It’s easy to imagine that meditation is, or should be, a kind of blissful floating away from the troublesome things of this world. I suppose there are meditation traditions that have that focus, but our Zen way is quite different. In Zen meditation, our intention is to fully be with whatever is arising.

In human life, of course, many thing arise. Sometimes we are content, sometimes we are disturbed. Sometimes alert, sometimes sluggish. We feel connected, then we feel isolated. We see clearly into the coming and going of life, then insight vanishes and we sit in darkness. This is how it is to be human.

On the night of his awakening, Buddha was confronted by all these conditions. Mara, the embodiment of delusion, did everything in his power to unseat the Buddha. Buddha did not fight back, but rather saw through to the true nature of these energies and saw that all of them are forms of life and light.

Finally Mara challenged Buddha’s intention. ‘Who do you have to witness, to validate your insight? Aren’t you just on a self-centered path like everyone else? Who do you think you are?’ The Buddha, as the story goes, reached his hand to touch the earth as his witness and the earth responded with a roar of confirmation and Mara disappeared.

The morning star appeared and it is said that the Buddha saw that the true nature of the universe is enlightened—that we are all already awakened, we have just forgotten. And, in spite of this great realization, the realization that continues reverberating through human lives even today, Buddha was periodically visited, challenged and assailed by Mara.

So I suppose this morning, Mara is visiting the Buddha as a blue snake standing on its tail. Maybe he’s just dancing and wanting to play—not threatening but enlivening. Maybe delusion is just the rising energy of squiggles and squaggles on a white board that cohere momentarily in the earnest and playful vividness of this life.

A Short Excursion

I went down to the lake yesterday in the mild and gray late afternoon. It’s an easy half-a-mile walk from our house on Grenada Street. Down the steep hill where cars will be slipping and sliding in the snow in a few weeks. Right onto the short and profusely puddled dirt road with the extravagant name ‘Tiverton Parkway’. By the humming and slightly ominous but well-landscaped power sub-station. Then right onto Tory Fort Lane, a woodsy well-paved dead-end road with no fort, Tory or otherwise, anywhere to be seen for the last quarter-mile. The dirt road leading off to the left to the lake is gated and marked with ‘Private Property’ signs. But the lake itself is owned by Worcester Conservation Trust and everyone knows its fine to walk there.

Walking the few hundred yards to the lake on the flat road through the trees, I like to pretend I’m in Vermont. While I know Vermont is just another state, albeit a beautiful one, and that living there in the green mountains is the same as living anywhere else—the ten thousand joys and sorrows—in my mind, it’s a place of beauty and ease. So many childhood summers, when the family was together and the only obligations were made up on the spot.

That’s the state I enter as I amble alone in the falling afternoon light. I pass a mother and teen-age daughter out walking their large black dog who is much more interested in sniffing than in walking. All I smell is the sweet dampness of the lake and the fallen leaves beginning to decompose, but I know the dog with his rich black nose is appreciating a symphony of notes in an olfactory landscape which is beyond my meager senses.

When I get to the lake, it’s just me. I wander off the main trail to a spit of wooded land between an inlet and another small pond. It’s quiet. No wind and no people. The surface of the lake is smooth and the pine trees are still as I walk down to the edge of the water. Crouching down I settle into stillness for a few moments.

Two mallard duck couples swim together in the late afternoon. Nothing else moves. I reach my hands out over the lake like I’m warming myself by a fire. Why is it that we humans love water in all its forms? Is it the ancient memories of the safety of being in proximity to this primal necessity? Is it the water in my body that feels a kinship with it’s larger family?

I don’t know, but I enjoy a moment of intimacy with these particular waters. I dip my fingers in the cold water and then touch them to my forehead. After a few moments, my legs tire of the crouch and time calls me onward. Standing up, I retrace my steps on the empty streets, avoiding the puddles and happy for my Vermont excursion right here in Worcester.

Leonard Visits Me

I recently heard a friend sing a lovely version of Leonard Cohen’s Anthem. Not many people know, but Leonard and I grew up together. We met when I was in high school. He wrote the songs and did the singing and recording. I bought the records and sheet music and sang along. I loved his unapologetic sadness—his joyous expression of the mysterious impossibility of life. His songs were never about resolution, but were a celebration of whatever particular imperfect moment you happened to be in. Leonard’s vocal range was small and his guitar abilities limited, but he found a way to bring his heart and soul to every note.

I first got to know Leonard through Judy Collins’ version of his earliest big hit, Suzanne. I was just learning how to shave, how to play the guitar and how to kiss girls. I never really knew what the song meant or when was the exact right moment to kiss or not kiss. But I never tired of singing about the ‘tea and oranges’ that came ‘all the way from China’ or of imagining that perfect kiss. Suzanne’s hypnotic melody and the mysterious romantic yearning were a perfect expression of my own confusion and endless longing.

Thirty years later, my Zen teacher would tell stories about sitting retreats at Mount Baldy Zen Center with Leonard and his gravely voice. The senior monks, like Leonard and my teacher, were sometimes invited to drink sake and smoke cigars after hours with ‘Roshi’ – the old Japanese teacher who was a fierce, brilliant and, as it turned out, a serial sexual predator that maintained a cult-like hold on his Zen acolytes. Leonard had left his high-profile pop-star life to live the austere Zen life, but he was eventually disillusioned and returned to life in LA.

While away at the Zen center, Leonard’s personal fortune had been squandered by his financial manager and that led to a new burst of necessary creativity and a world tour by the then old man. I bought the London album and had the good fortune to see him when he came through Boston. His voice was lower and more limited than ever. He was old and creaky and delivered an amazing and exactly choreographed show. At one point, he knelt down in a romantic gesture and it was clear how much that physical effort cost him. He managed to get back to standing, but it was not a sure thing.

But I woke this morning with the chorus of Anthem going through my head:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

 These lyrics have become an anthem of the Mindfulness movement and have been dutifully recited in mindfulness classrooms around the world. Assuming iconic status is a mixed blessing. Having heard them so often, I usually just tune them out, but yesterday, heard them fresh again.

Humming to myself in the dark room, I was first struck by the injunction to ‘forget your perfect offering’. How necessary it is to abandon our notions of perfection and how things should be. How easy this is to say and how difficult to live. Moment after moment is filled with expectations about myself and those around me. Part of my brain is constantly comparing what is happening with what I think should be happening. Only in the moments when I give up how it should be, can I fully appreciate how it already is.

Then I moved on to the humor and the poignant acknowledgment of the first line ‘Ring the bells that still can ring’. A sweet reminder that, as we move on in our lives, not all the bells can still ring. We can’t walk as fast or work as long as we used to. The capacities of youth stay with the youth as we cycle through the stages and ages of life. Not a problem. Use what you have. Sometimes you can run, sometimes you’re lying in bed. Sometimes you have words, sometimes just a glance or a squeeze.

So, the encouragement for us all this morning is to forget how it should be and let whatever is here be enough. You are already the full presentation. Just a few notes or no notes are more than enough. In each kiss the universe finds itself again. The light has already entered and nothing can be fixed.

Coming Out of the Darkness

I recalculated this morning in the dark as I lay awake in my bed. November 26, 1952 to November 26, 2020—that’s sixty-eight years. I’ve always made it a point of honor to not quite remember my age—refusing, in my own mind, to be defined by a number. It’s getting easier to forget. Even as I write sixty-eight, seventy-eight comes to my mind and it takes me just a fraction of a second to locate my self on the alleged time-line. Both are big numbers reserved for ‘old people’ and feel somewhat alien to me.

When I was in fourth grade I knew that a man was always ten years older than the woman he married. Being nine, I calculated that my future wife had not yet been born. Little did I know that my wife of the years to come (which I am living at this moment) was already a precocious student of the second grade—delighting her teachers and teaching her friends.

School was arduous for me. I was so eager to please and the rules kept changing. I’m reminded of my daughter once saying to me that I was lucky to be a grown-up. When I inquired as to why that might be, she said that when you’re a kid they expect you to learn something new all the time, but when you’re a grown-up it’s all the same. I think I made some feeble counterargument about life-long-learning, but I got her point. In school, they keep moving the goal posts. You master one skill—or get enough of a sense of it to fake your way through a test—then you have to go on to the next.

The good news and the bad news about learning is that it never ends. Life is an ongoing experiment of trial and error. Just after we finally arrive at some brilliant insight and an elevated equilibrium, life gives us the next impossible issue. Each new problem requires we use everything we have already learned as well as uncovering some new tool, understanding or perspective we can’t even imagine. I think it was in the movie Junebug where one of the characters says ‘God loves you just the way you are but he loves you too much to let you stay that way.’ The ultimate tough love of the universe. We’re always on the edge. What we know up to this point is all necessary but not sufficient to get us to the next place we need to go. As one author put it succinctly in his book title: ‘What Got You Here Won’t Get You There.’

One of the things we rarely discuss in our praise of continual learning is that all learning involves loss—loss of certainty, loss of mastery, loss of identity. Learning something new about ourselves or about the world means that some understanding we had is disrupted—made more nuanced, experienced at a deeper level, or even directly contradicted. In many areas of our life, this is not a big deal. When I learn that margarine is a decent substitute for butter for the topping of an apple crumble, it doesn’t cost me a lot of anguish. I just tuck that new understanding away in hopes of making future deserts that the whole family can eat and appreciate.

But when the new understanding has to do with the ongoing nature of my capacity for unskillful action, and when I see anew the impact of those actions on people I care about, I am chagrinned, sad and angry. After all these years, I still don’t like to make mistakes – especially when my mistakes cause pain to other people. (Actually, I don’t mind making mistakes, because when I’m making them, I don’t think they are mistakes or I wouldn’t do them. It is the realization that I have made mistakes that I find particularly painful.) My first reaction when confronted with this ongoing realization of imperfection is to withdraw—a kind of ‘If you don’t like me, I’ll take my marbles and go home.’ On some deep internal level, I have equated making mistakes with being unworthy of human contact. I preemptively withdraw into a very dark place. Any contact, even well-intentioned feels almost unbearable.

This dark place is terribly familiar. It’s like I’m abducted into the underworld and am helpless to get out. Sometimes it’s for just a few seconds. Sometimes it’s a few hours or days. I have also known weeks and seeming months of dark disconnection. Recently, after a difficult conversation, I found myself in such a place. The new part was that in the middle of my confusion and anger, I was also curious about this place of dislocation and darkness. I thought of Dante’s preface to the Divine Comedy where he says ‘In the middle of my life, I woke in a dark wood where the true way was wholly lost.’ And I thought ‘THIS is the place he was talking about.’ It’s not just me.

I imagined I was sinking down into the darkness of the great ocean. Slowly and slowly falling deeper and deeper. Until a whale came and swallowed me up. And there, in the fetid darkness was my old friend Jonah, sitting in an easy chair reading a book of poetry and sipping a cup of tea. He warmly welcomed me and said that after his adventure in Ninevah, he decided to retire and come back here. ‘It’s quiet and still here. No one bothers you and, after a while, you get used to the dank smell and the low light.’ I settled in with him for a while, reassured by his story of being spit up at the appropriate time on the appropriate beach.

The next day, I called my mother who told me that she and my Dad went to the hospital in the morning, the day before Thanksgiving sixty-eight years ago, but then went home. Then, in the afternoon, they went back again and I was born. While her mother watched my 14 month-old brother, the doctor stood aside and positioned a mirror so she could watch as I emerged onto the beach of this world. My first and most appreciative audience.

I thanked her profusely for her labor and her gaze—then we went on to talk about other things.

Deep Democracy

We human beings are naturally inclined to either/or thinking. Should we reconcile or should we resist? Should we be worried or should we be hopeful? Are we OK or are we in trouble? The mind often prefers a simple answer, even if it’s wrong, to the challenge of the contingent and complicated truth.  Some part of us just want the matter settled.  But the answer to all these binary questions is YES!…or as one ancient Zen teacher famously said: NO!*

When we frame a problem from two opposing views, much is lost. There is always truth on both sides.  Both sides are not equal and there are truths and positions that need to be defended vigorously, but reality is subtle and infinitely complex.  We each see this ‘reality’ from different points of view. We might even say that we all live in different universes.

Part of our life as human beings is learning to acknowledge and even appreciate this fact. Arny Mindell**, author, thinker and founder of Process Work, has spent his life considering and exploring how we can work together with others who do not share our beliefs and world views—even those we radically disagree with. He calls this endeavor World Work and one of the foundational teachings is the concept of Deep Democracy.

Deep Democracy asserts that each person in a situation speaks not just for themselves, but for the situation itself. Each person deserves to be heard, not just because they have a right to be heard, but because they see and experience some unique aspect of what is occurring.

Mindell teaches that there is wisdom inherent in every situation – even situations of conflict and chaos. Our job as participants is not to control or fight to impose our will on a situation, but to support what is emerging. What if the current difficulty is the gateway to new understandings and new solutions?  As we uncover and support the deep currents of  what is already happening, we create the potential for new and sometimes paradoxical resolutions of ancient problems.

Curiosity and courage are the two essential skills here. We have to be willing to step beyond right-and-wrong thinking and to set aside, even briefly, some of our cherished certainty. This requires an intentional practice of flexibility and growing capacity to deal with the many inner opinions and feelings that inevitably arise. This is not easy to do, but we can grow our skill and capacity to appreciate and work with what is emerging.

So, this day before Thanksgiving, can we practice curiosity with whatever and whoever we encounter?  What if everyone (excluding no one) is speaking some important truth? What if these difficult times are part of an important transition into a better way for human beings to live together? What if our job is to not to sort and filter everything to confirm our position, but to be open to the new and unexpected that is trying to be born?

I wonder.

*for a wonderful collection of essays on this ‘No!’ see THE BOOK OF MU edited by my colleagues James Ford and Melissa Blacker

**Arny Mindell has written many books, but my favorite is still LEADER AS MARTIAL ARTIST

Another Moon

Nana cuts the pear
into small pieces
for us on the stools
in the middle of
the kitchen floor.
The pear is sweet
and he happily lets
the overflowing juice
dribble down his chin
while, out of propriety,
I dab at the excess
with a damp a cloth.

We want more
pear but it is close
to dinnertime and a
suggested walk distracts
us to the mudroom.
We don’t want the new
blue fancy mittens, insisting
instead on the thin white knit
pair with dinosaurs still
damp from the morning’s
adventures. We also don’t
want our new pretty down
jacket, and hold out for
the familiar hand-me-down
brown plaid and hooded one.
Shoes are next. While
he sits on Nana’s lap, I help.
Then he finds my big ones
and helps me too.

(Isn’t this the way it is?
No matter how it appears,
we are all cradled
in the vital web of mutuality.)

Out the door, he immediately
wants to be picked up in
the unfamiliar late afternoon
darkness. Happy to oblige,
I hold him close. Pointing
to the hazy moon above,
I whisper in his ear of
the ancient Zen poets
who sang love songs
to this same hazy moon of
enlightenment. He stays
very still for a moment,
then, instantly heavy, he
wriggles down, eager to stand
on his own two feet and
begin the exploration.

Around the block we
marvel and exclaim at
the wondrous rush
of traffic and the size
and sound of big trucks.
He wants to smell
the chrysanthemums that
used to be in planters
by the restaurant and I
have to explain they have
been ‘nupped’ (cleaned up)
for the winter. He seems
satisfied, but I’m not sure.

Half-way round the block
we stop as I explain the
esoteric meanings of the
traffic light’s green and red.
He listens patiently, then,
happening to glance up,
exclaims excitedly ‘Nother moon!’
And indeed, here at
another corner is another
moon, hanging still in
dark the sky. I abandon
the details concerning
perspectives, distance
and object permanence, and
this time, agree with his vision.
‘Yes – nother moon.’

We jump off the curb
a few times, see a
wondrous tree with
lights of all colors
shining, then get excited
about the possibility
of seeing Nana again
running together up
the driveway to the warmth
and safety the blue house
where he lives.

Favoring Connection Over Conflict

Good writers convey arguments with vivid images. While this often makes for memorable writing, it also obscures important issues and simplifies complex situations into binary choices. This morning, I’m thinking of Rebecca Solnit’s striking piece On Not Meeting the Nazis Halfway.  While I agree with the gist of her argument—that not every issue has two positions that are equally valid and that endless listening is not always an effective or even ethical strategy—I take issue with her literary choices that actually fan the flames she claims to be fighting. It makes good reading and it does inspire me to stand for what I believe, but the inspiration comes at a cost.

When we equate all people who disagree with us with the extreme exemplars of their position, we add to the very problem we say we want to solve.

One of the hardest things for us humans to see is that we each have a part in what is going on. From my common sense position (and almost all of us believe that our position is common sense), I clearly see that most of my problems come from outside of me. ‘If only other people would stop being so greedy and deluded, I would be fine.’ Our own attachment to drama and conflict—our attachment to a particular and necessarily limited perspective—is mostly invisible to us.

Our efforts to solve a problem contain a wide range motivations—many of which are hidden from us. Often, the very actions I take to solve the problem are part of the problem. Einstein once said that problems cannot be solved at the level they were created. In politics and in society, it’s important to have inspiring speakers, writers and leaders that remind us of our values and encourage us to keep working for what we love. But there is a danger of getting get locked in the thrill (and thrall) of opposition.

Conflict itself is wildly stimulating. Conflict is passionate and enlivening. It may be unpleasant and scary, but it arouses us all. In speaking with friends about Trump and the Republican denial of Biden’s victory, I notice that we sometimes go into a trance state of anger, outrage and powerlessness. It’s like a switch gets flipped and we fall into a pit of darkness and despair. We wallow there for a while, then something else catches our attention and we go on.

Altered states are actually a normal part of human life. While we pride ourselves on being reasonable, most of us are occasionally or often carried away with some emotion or powerful idea. It’s not a problem, but it can be helpful to know when we have entered an altered state so we can be skillful in working with and living through their power. In altered states we have less access to our reasonable selves (pre-frontal cortex) as our brains have been flooded with dire messages of danger from our more primitive selves (amygdala).

Altered states are often a part of conflict. It can be important to know that they come and go. These aroused or depressed states have their own half-life. The brain is overwhelmed with danger signals for only a short time. If we can wait, even for a little, these trance states pass. (Hence the origin of the time-honored self-management technique of counting to ten before speaking in an aroused condition.) Altered states also give us access to powers and perspectives that can be necessary and helpful. But our whole person reasoning that engages heart, body and mind is not available to us in these states of disturbed consciousness.

In contrast to writing that polarizes, I want to draw attention to the writing of David Campt. His recent op-ed in the Atlanta Journal encourages us to shift from debate to dialogue. Of course, this is not possible with people whose position is hardened and who are not willing to engage in this way. But in Campt’s Ally Conversation Toolkit (ACT), he is clear that his goal is more limited. We will not be able engage everyone in a meaningful dialogue, no matter how skillful we are, but we certainly can engage some people—and this can make a huge difference.

‘The ACT Initiative aims 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.’

In a polarized society, it’s important to remember that there are always those whose attachment is more to an ongoing process of discerning truth rather than to maintaining a pure position. If we ourselves can stay in that group and work with others from different positions who share this value, then a shift of even 10% can radically alter our whole society.

In his piece in the Atlanta Journal, Campt mentions three helpful intentions as we try to move into dialogue with those near the middle who hold different positions:

1) Shift your intention from trying to demonstrate your position to searching for places of authentic connection
2) Tell stories. Be curious about the personal experiences that undergird your position and your partner’s position. Facts and figures are rarely helpful
3) Listen with heart.

We are all part of the fragile tribe of upright, mostly hairless, wanders who call themselves human beings. Forging empathic connections with people who see the world differently is the most powerful tool we have to find our way together through these disturbing times.

Dreaming of the Good Old Days

The Temple is quiet this morning. These stairways and halls that have been the site of so many Zen retreats stand empty. I rise early, take a shower and walk down two flights of stairs to put my laundry in the washing machine. If we were in retreat and if we were not in the middle of a pandemic, this place would be filled with the silent sounds, smells and the bodies of dozens of people—bleary and quiet in the early morning. The wooden block would have just sounded its drawn out rhythmic pattern to call us to the first meditation session of the day.

Usually, in the early morning, a few days into retreat, I’m wondering how I’ll be able to keep going. I’m bleary and discouraged. I am quite familiar with this landscape. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t scare me like it used to. On retreat, we get a little less sleep than usual and Zen meditation is actually an incredibly tiring activity. Though in our tradition we only sit for 25 minutes and then walk for 10, we do it pretty much throughout the day. Silence and stillness is a wonderful thing, but in the seemingly endless ongoing nature of retreat—in the silence and structure—a space is created for everything to come forward.

The first time I remember having to deal with being alone with myself for an extended period of time was on a solo hiking trip in the Beartooth Mountains of Montana, just above Yellowstone Park in Wyoming. I had hiked above the tree-line to a gorgeous lake filled by glacial melt higher up. I pitched my tent, slept the night and decided to spend the day doing nothing. At first it seemed a spacious luxury. But by the afternoon I was bored out of my mind. I had no problems, no one to disturb me, nothing to do and I was very agitated.

It was then that I realized why we all keep so busy. We often feel so harried, rushing from one thing to the next, but in the end our busyness is a protection to keep us from having to confront the deeper fears and unknowns of our lives. The busyness and the pressures and the worrying are great distractions and even protections from our larger existential issues. We are, most of us, quite attached to our busyness.

Fundamentally, we human beings are uncertain about our existence. The Buddha observed that at the center of our lives is a sense of dis-ease—a sense that things are not right. The word he used to describe this, the Pali word dukha, is often translated as suffering, but also means unsatisfactoriness and difficulty.

On the one hand, this feels like a pretty obvious observation—that pain and discomfort are an unavoidable part of life. But to actually acknowledge this sense that things aren’t right can be a huge shift in perspective. Usually, when we are feeling bad, we try to do something about it. This is normal and healthy behavior. Many problems that arise in our lives provide the opportunity to do something—to make a change, to have a conversation, to find some new way forward.

But there are some problems that don’t go away. Among these problems I would include the fact that everything is continually changing, that the people we love do not stay with us forever and that the person we imagine ourselves to be is not nearly as solid or reliable as we would like. These are the conditions of human life. We can like them or not like them. We can admit them or pretend otherwise. But, in the end, we cannot avoid change, loss, sickness and death.

The value of the Buddha’s teaching is that when we acknowledge the unavoidable nature of unsatisfactoriness, we can abandon our endless patterns of running away and fixing and continually trying to make things different. We don’t have to take everything so personally. Life is continually shape-shifting, one moment we are at ease, the next moment we are anxious. One moment signs for a peaceful transition of the Presidency are obvious, the next moment I am caught in fears and struggling once again against lies and half-truths.

But at some point, each of us come face-to-face with the uncertainty and the pain that are part of being human. Even surrounded by beauty in the Beartooth Mountains, or in the warm protection of fellow Zen practitioners on retreat, these vast and fearful states arise.

The good news is that there’s nothing to do. When boredom, anxiety, fear—or any other difficult emotional states arise—the instruction is to let them be. Of course, if there’s something that can be done, do it. But when you’ve run out of things to do to feel better, perhaps you can settle by the lake of yourself and just feel whatever is present in the moment.

I miss the hustle and bustle of Zen retreats here in the Temple. I miss the bells, the exhaustion and the wild energy of human beings sitting together in silence and stillness. We still come together on Zoom and even do retreats together in our own homes. I suspect that one day we will be together in person again. These halls and stairs will once again resound with the padding of slippers and sox and I will once again be bleary and discouraged as I walk into a meditation hall filled with my brothers and sisters.

But for now, I remember the good old days and smile.

Active Engagement Still Required

I am troubled this morning. On the one hand I feel it is important to ‘lower the temperature’ and to end the ‘era of demonization’ as Biden eloquently said in his victory acknowledgment speech the Saturday after the election. On the other hand, Trump continues to use the power of his office to spread lies and undermine the credibility of our systems of government. Republican Congressional leaders, for the most part, remain silent—I presume in fear of Trump and in fear of the fears he has roused in his devoted followers.

Trump has tapped into a deep reservoir of fear and resentment. Many of us are puzzled by and have the urge to understand the antipathy he has aroused. But how do we live out an ethos of mutual respect in the face of one side’s blatant disrespect and refusal to be moved by facts on the ground? How do we stay open while we also claim the political victory that we have just won?

Rebecca Solnit addresses this question in her powerful (and evocatively titled) article On Not Meeting Nazi’s Halfway:

‘Some of us don’t know how to win. Others can’t believe they ever lost or will lose or should, and their intransigence constitutes a kind of threat. That’s why the victors of the recent election are being told in countless ways to go grovel before the losers. This unilateral surrender is how misogyny and racism are baked into a lot of liberal and centrist as well as right-wing positions, this idea that some people need to be flattered and buffered even when they are harming the people who are supposed to do the flattering and buffering, even when they are the minority, even when they’re breaking the law or lost the election.’

Powerful language and powerful ideas. Trump’s intransigence does indeed present a real threat to our country. Is it possible or necessary or even helpful to respect a position that does not value consensual reality and the democratic ideals and processes of our country? These days, I keep going back to Martin Luther King, Jr and the Civil Rights movement of the 60’s for wisdom and guidance.

King was committed to standing against racial bigotry and violence. Many of his liberal allies were against his decisions that led to confrontation. Many urged him to be patient, to be in dialogue and to not stir up trouble. But it was precisely King’s willingness to visibly and vocally stand against oppression that brought real change. He did not change the minds of the virulent racists of the south (or north for that matter). But the courageous actions that he led woke up the hearts of the rest of the nation—north and south—and led to significant steps forward.

King also spoke often of the need to avoid closing our hearts to the humanity of the other side. He was very alert to the danger of becoming like the enemy. If we meet bigotry with bigotry, disrespect with disrespect, the enemy has won for we have lost our principles. He exhorted his followers:

‘As you press on for justice, be sure to move with dignity and discipline, using only the weapon of love. Let no man pull you so low as to hate him.’

Trump is not an aberration. He has illuminated the fears and grievances—the racism and nativism that are woven into our history and are ongoingly present in the institutions and people of our country–and that, in some way, includes us all. The web of lies Trump and his allies knowingly spread has nurtured and enflamed the worst instincts of many.

But Trump has also disturbed and inspired many of us in a positive way. We have seen that the democracy and free society we take for granted is fragile and requires our ongoing engagement. We must work actively against the forces of separation and violence against the ‘other.’ We must stand up for facts on the ground and an information environment that does not prey on peoples worst fears. We must protect the vulnerable and strive to dismantle the institutions that have marginalized and harmed so many.

Republican Michigan lawmakers are defying Trump’s pressure and have said they are committed to following the law and certifying the votes in that state as they were counted. Georgia has certified Biden as the winner after a hand recount of millions of votes. Even Tucker Carlson, the Fox News host, has come out against the latest far-fetched fraud theory. But there is a long way to go.

Let’s be resolute and open-hearted as we continue to grow in understanding and commitment to create a society for the benefit of all.

Practicing the Undivided Life

Yesterday I wrote about closing the gap between ourselves and ourselves—the gap that finds us living at some distance from our true life. This morning, I’d like to offer a few practices for moving in this direction of an undivided life.

I use the word ‘practice’ with a very particular meaning. A practice is any activity we can do repeatedly in order to move toward a desired goal. But practice is also a way of life not simply a task we do to accomplish something else.

When I was a boy, I played the saxophone in my high school band. I liked being in the band and I liked the idea of playing the saxophone, but I never really enjoyed actually playing the saxophone. I rarely practiced and I never got very good. (The highlight of my musical career, in retrospect, was the day the band director, Mr. C, stopped the entire band rehearsal when I had just muffed a solo, turned directly toward me and said: ‘Rynick, stop sucking that horn and start blowing it.’ He was really upset but was not malicious. And I, somehow, I knew what he meant—knew he was inviting me to show up in a world of vivid experience—even if I couldn’t do it at the time.)

On the other hand, I had a friend whose brother loved to play the trumpet. Playing the horn was his escape from a chaotic family life and from the overwhelming demands of everything else. My friend’s brother would go to his room and play for hours ever day. Needless to say, he got to be a fine trumpet player and, last I knew, had built a life of playing for himself.

So it is with practice. If you do it as an obligation and just to get something else (praise or achievement), you will not be present enough in the activity to learn what you need to learn. And you will not have fun.

I’m coming to believe that having fun is essential to productive activity. If it’s not fun, we can do it, but we won’t do it very well or effectively. Having fun is being fully engaged and feeling alive in the doing. Fun can be hard work and fun can be challenging. We human beings love an engaging puzzle or game, one that requires our full attention and rewards us with the satisfaction of accomplishment even as we fully lose (and find) ourselves in the activity itself.

These following practices are invitations to move closer to yourself, to close the gap between the one who watches and the one who does. But the practice itself is not something other than what you are doing in the moment. The practice is the time to be doing what you are hoping to learn to do. Picasso is quoted as having said: ‘I am always doing that which I do not know how to do in order to learn how to do it.’ So it is with all of us.

Practice #1: Sit quietly and breathe. Find a quiet place where you can be undisturbed for several minutes. (In a pinch, a bathroom is a great option.) Come into an upright and dignified posture—feet resting fully on the floor and your weight balanced on your sits bones. Take a moment to notice whatever sensations are present in your body. No need to relax, just notice. Then turn your attention to the sensation of your breath coming in and out of your body. Long or short breath, easy or labored breath is fine. Just be with the breath you are in this moment. Don’t work hard. (Remember, this is so easy you can do it in your sleep.) Do the best you can to rest your awareness in the physical sensation of the breathing. Do this for a minute or two, a let that be enough.

Practice #2: Investigate the gap. Next time you are aware of watching yourself—of standing back from whatever you are doing and judging how well you are doing—stop for a moment and ask yourself who it is who is watching? Who is doing the judging? Who is the one who is making these certain pronouncements of your inadequacy? Who is sure you can’t or shouldn’t have or musn’t? These voices in our heads often boss us around with such an air of authority or pretense of helpfulness that we rarely question their provenance. So ask: ‘Who is the one who is making the pronouncement?’ If the answer comes back ‘Me.’ or ‘I am.’, keep asking. Who really is this ‘me’ who is judging? Keep asking and asking and see what you learn.

Practice #3: Give yourself to what you are doing. Pick a relatively simple repetitive physical activity. Washing the dishes, vacuuming the floor, walking, driving the car are all great possibilities. Decide to use this activity, for a short time (five or ten minutes) as a practice. Then, as you do this activity, allow your focus to be on the activity itself rather than on the outcome of the activity. In the washing of the dishes, give up the idea of ever finishing and allow yourself to be present to the sensations and actions of the moment. Touching each dish. Water splashing out of the faucet. The slippery soap. The sounds of squeaky hands on plates or the gentle sound of each dish as it touches the dish rack. Really notice what is going on—as if you were someone washing dishes for the first time. Join in your life and appreciate the time for what it is.

These are all practices that move us toward an undivided life by inviting us to be what we long for—right in this moment. No need to wait for some other time. Do the best you can. Don’t worry if you are doing it right or doing it well. As my QiGong teacher always said “Better to do it wrong than not to do it at all.”

If you do any one of these activities on a daily basis for thirty days, your life will be forever changed.

I’d like to close this morning with one of my favorite poems by the great Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa:

To be great, be whole; exclude
Nothing, exaggerate nothing that is you.
Be whole in everything, Put all you are
Into the smallest thing you do.
The whole moon gleams in every pool,
It rides so high.

Closing the Gap

My Zen teacher often said that meditation is about closing the gap between ourselves and ourselves. This teaching has always been resonant for me. Especially as a young man, I was painfully aware that while part of me was living my life, some other part was standing aside just watching and judging. James Joyce caught it exactly when he wrote in The Dubliners: ‘Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.’

This sense of separation—from ourselves, from each other, and from the world—is one of the great gifts and great challenges of being human. On the one hand, this separation is the source of the awareness that allows us to wonder and appreciate the immeasurable mystery of life. One image in the Sufi tradition is of the globe surrounded by throngs all-knowing souls who are eager to be born human. For only by being born human can they have the sense of separation that allows them to perceive, delight in and sing praises to the wonder of life.

No other life form we know paints paintings or sings songs of love and praise—or writes a daily reflections in their blog. Though other life forms certainly have awareness—even some of the simplest single-celled life forms have the capacity to move toward what they ‘want’ and away from what is harmful—the capacity for self-consciousness seems to be limited to humans. Other life-forms communicate (see the wonderful new research on the multi-modal communication of trees and other members of the plant kingdom), but we humans are the only ones with this added layer of awareness of our awareness.

But this awareness comes at a cost. Many of us feel separated, divided from ourselves. From our earliest records, humans have been troubled by loneliness and isolation. This sense of disconnection has direct and serious implications to our mental and physical well-being. These dangers of disconnection have all been exacerbated by the necessary physical distancing in this time of coronavirus pandemic. The number of individuals suffering with serious mental health issues is climbing, reaching and exceeding the limited mental health resources available. Forty states have reported a rise in already high rates of opioid-related deaths. And while some of worry about the danger of armed conflict that is rising with the record number of gun sales over the past three months, our past history shows that these guns are a greater danger to those who have access to them than to those around them. In 2017, 60% of gun deaths were suicides.

So there is some urgency in closing this gap between ourselves and ourselves. It’s not just a matter of spiritual or intellectual debate, but a matter of meaning and of life and death—for ourselves and for those around us.

And now, after the election, the internal gap many of us feel is mirrored in the outer world. The gap between huge swaths of our population feels larger than at any point in my memory. We are a country divided between red and blue—each side fearful and suspicious of the other—each side convinced of their own righteousness.

How do we cross over the divide to touch again our common interest as fellow human beings? How do we hold to our integrity and begin to have new conversations that, as Joe Biden says ‘lower the temperature’?

….to be continued

The Viruses: COVID-19 and Disinformation

My COVID-19 test came back negative, but new cases, hospitalizations and deaths continue to climb. Biden spoke on Monday about the necessity of federal action to coordinate and lead a response to the growing pandemic. Trump, with the support of his Congressional allies, continues to exhibit no interest or capacity to coordinate and lead a national response—even as the viral numbers continue to reach new heights.

The good news is that two drug companies, Pfizer and Moderna, have completed large-scale trials for vaccines for COVID-19 that have both exceeded 90% effectiveness. Numerous other companies are also working on additional vaccines with promising preliminary results. A highly effective vaccine is now a reality, not just a hope. Moderna predicts that if their vaccine receives approval, they could begin distribution for people at high risk by the end of the year. Widespread availability in the US should come sometime in the spring or summer.

Also in the news this morning is Trump’s expected firing of Christopher Krebs, the Homeland Security official who had overseen election cybersecurity efforts for the recent election. Krebs’s failing was doing his job and then having the courage to actively dispute Trump’s bogus claims of election fraud. By most accounts Krebs had led a successful effort to defend the integrity of the election. The New York Times reported today:

Mr. Krebs, 43, a former Microsoft executive, has been hailed in recent days for his two years spent preparing the states for the challenges of the vote, hardening systems against Russian interference and setting up a “rumor control” website to guard against disinformation. The foreign interference so many feared never materialized; instead, the disinformation ultimately came from the White House.

Such a time we live in—where the President of the United States leads the initiative to discredit the very processes that have secured our country for 250 years. And even as he acts as a petty dictator, firing any civil servant who dares to contradict his obvious lies, he continues to be supported by his political allies as well as a broad swath of the country. I do believe that a huge number who live within Trump’s information bubble really do believe him. I suppose they are to be forgiven, but the Congressional leaders who clearly know he is delusional, how can we justify their continued enabling of this destructive behavior?

Terrible and malicious lies are not new in American politics, or the politics of any other nation. General Washington’s rivals were actively undercutting his integrity even as he was out in the field with his rag-tag army trying to avoid being swallowed up by the overwhelming forces of the British army. Jefferson and Adams hated each other with a vitriol matched by the invective that passed between them and their followers. Ever has it been so.

We human beings are sensitive social creatures. We long for safety and security in a world that is ultimately unreliable. We tell terrible stories about one another – each of us projecting the fearful and unacknowledged onto the other in a bid to avoid knowing our own darkness. We all sometimes act in hurtful and heartless ways while holding fast to the transparent garment of our virtue and righteousness.

How do we fight our tendency to fight each other? How do we stand up for what is true and good without getting carried away in the exact same delusive certainty as our so-called ‘enemy?’ Purity of position is a poison that affects both sides. Progressives compete toward ideological purity and then silence voices that speak unwanted points of view—all in the name of democracy. (See Bret Stephen’s thoughtful op-ed Groupthink has Left the Left Blind.) Trumpers claim to be fighting for freedom against the incursions of the deep state and refuse to admit any evidence or reporting that contradicts that organizing principle.

Mahatma Gandhi lived in such a time as this. He was obsessive about his personal practices—his meditation, prayers and religious observances were a central part of his life till the very end. He was also willing to talk endlessly with people who disagreed with him. Sometimes he met for days with one official or another—often with no appreciable impact.

As I try to think of some way forward, I’m reminded of Angeles Arrien’s wonderful advice that a friend shared with me many years ago. There are only four things we need to do: show up, pay attention, speak the truth without judgment or blame, and don’t be attached to the results.

May we all join in the ongoing and impossible dance with as much joy, acceptance and courage as we can muster.

Can of Worms

In any situation, getting more information is often a helpful strategy. Learning more about wherever we are allows us to have more options and to be of more use to ourselves and options. Continual learning, whatever our age, affords us the pleasure of being in touch with this dynamic world that is always renewing itself.

While this sounds like such a great idea, I’ve recently been noticing all the barriers that get in my way of going beyond what I already know. It turns out we’re quite attached to the world we think we live in and this very attachment makes it hard to see what is right in front of us. This question is, as one of my former students so vividly put it: ‘How do we get out of the snotty-nosed neighborhood of our mind?’

Let me list a few of the things that I have noticed about what gets in my way of the genuine curiosity that is so natural for us human beings:

1) I think I already know what’s going on. Our human minds are structured in such a way that we are unaware of our own active participation in creating the world we perceive. From inside my experience, ‘I’ simply see what is ‘out there.’ I can’t see that I am only perceiving a small portion of what is going on. Without any conscious awareness, I assemble bits of information into a representation in my mind that feels ‘real.’ I naturally and unconsciously fill in all the gaps and simply do not perceive what I do not perceive.

2) I’m attached to how I think things are. All human beings I know rely on a relatively stable sense of ‘how things are’ to navigate the world. ‘How things are’ includes a story about myself and a story about the world. These stories can be negative (I’m a troublesome person) or positive (I’m a very helpful person) but they give us a stable sense of ourselves. Though these stories are always partial and often inaccurate, they give us a secure sense of at least being somebody. We all seem to have a primal fear of being nobody and are always, in some way, trying to make sure we really exist.

3) I’m not sure I really want to know more. This is a corollary of number two. Every situation contains ambiguities and unknowns. When we actively seek more information, we don’t know what we are going to find out. In relationships, we tacitly agree about what we won’t talk about. It’s too painful or too confusing. We avoid certain subjects to avoid ‘opening a can of worms.’

But now I can’t resist wondering about the potential joys of a wriggling can of worms. Aren’t the worms delighted to be released? Maybe we’re the worms and opening the can is the mercy that finally frees us. And wouldn’t it be a pleasure if you opened the can in your garden and all the worms escaped and then lived happy lives forever after; enriching the soil, nourishing the plants and living full and dark little wormy lives?

I suppose it all depends on your perspective. From my small sense of self, I mostly want to keep all the worms in the can. But it’s hard to fish with no bait. And maybe I’m the worms and not just the one who opens the can. And maybe this metaphor has already done more than its fair share of lifting this morning.

As usual, I would encourage you to see for yourself. The great American poet William Carlos Williams used to carry a notebook with him on his daily visits as a family doctor. The open page was always titled: What I have never noticed before.

Personal Practice: When you’re in some familiar situation today—with yourself or with someone else—try stepping back a little and just being curious. It’s not about trying to do something or make something different. What is there here you’ve never noticed before? What aspects or feelings or subtexts or unknowns are subtly or glaringly present? It may take awhile. Be patient. Just observe.

I guarantee that the world is bigger and more wondrous (and more self-revealing) than you could ever imagine.

Trying Not To Worry

Last night, lying awake in the darkness again, I wondered if I might not be suffering from stress. I fully expect Joe Biden to be sworn in as President on January 20. Republican lawmakers in contested states have come forward to side with reason and democracy rather than Trump’s delusional plans. Officials from Homeland security have issued a memorandum that this was the most secure election in our country’s history. Most of our allies from around the world have acknowledged Biden’s position as President elect. Even the Pope gave Joe a call.

But still, I’m worried.

I appreciate Biden’s diplomacy and confidence. He refuses to be drawn into outrage or to be distracted from the task of preparing to govern. When asked about the Congressional Republicans who are not yet acknowledging that he won the election, instead of railing against their treasonous lack of integrity in protecting the democratic process, he just smiled and said ‘They will. They will.’ I hope he’s right. Of course, refraining from calling your opponent names is time-honored strategy for moving away from antagonism toward respectful collaboration.

I guess that’s where I’m stuck. The Republicans seemed to spend the eight Obama years in full obstructionist mode. I believe it was Mitch McConnell who was quoted as saying early on that he would do everything in his power to see that none of Obama’s legislations was passed. In a system where elections are just two years away, there is strong incentive for the non-Presidential party to undercut whatever the President is trying to accomplish, regardless of its merit for the country. If Republicans control the Senate, I find it hard to imagine them doing anything but trying to make Biden look bad.

Republican Congressional leaders are still under Trump’s thrall. Trump cares about one thing only, totally loyalty to him and his interests. And Trump’s power has been carefully honed through his constant appeal to the fears and grievances of his loyal following. In a rapidly changing world where many of us feel less and less control over our lives, it’s easy to imagine that someone or someones out there must be doing this to us. There must be some kind of deep state conspiracy. Trump positions himself as the one to stand up for the interests of the common person at the exact moment he is doing everything in his power to consolidate and use the levers of government for his own enrichment and personal gain.

Trump has carefully cultivated a paranoia that is self-justifying and uses all evidence to strengthen its claim on truth. Evidence and fact-based reporting are easily consumed in its great maw. When everything is crooked, straight talk is just another kind of bent truth. It’s a dangerous bubble with no way out.

And now I’ve worked myself up again.

I’m reminded of a wonderful new trilogy of books about FDR and his leadership from the late 30’s until his death in 1945. He faced a nation in denial of the growing threat of war, then had to lead an unlikely alliance of partners to defeat the greatest military forces the world had ever known. Again and again he was faced with impossible situations and insoluble problems. Often times his strategy was to work on the thing that could be worked on and actively avoid talking about the rest. He focused his time and energy on whatever step, small or large, that could be addressed at the moment. And let the rest be.

I suppose that’s good medicine for us all now. I don’t know how we re-start our civil discourse based on facts rather than on accusations and vilification of opponents. I don’t know how Democrats and Republicans in Washington can begin to work for the good of the country rather than simply to preserve their power and prestige.

Our best option is to follow Joe’s lead and focus on moving forward. Rather than continue to call each other names, let’s focus on the team that Biden is assembling and the transition that is already taking place. We should all do what we can to support the Democratic candidates in Georgia to keep alive the possibility of a Democratic Senate. And perhaps, most importantly, we should forge relationship with people different from us—not starting with our points of disagreements, but beginning where we can find common ground.

As one lifelong peacemaker encouraged: ‘Make an unusual friend.’

Minister-For-A-Day

This morning, I’ll be offering the sermon at the on-line service of the Unitarian Universalist Church of Grafton and Upton. Having been very involved in the UU church here in Worcester in the past and continuing my involvement with UU’s through the institutional connections between Boundless Way Zen and UU churches, I occasionally get asked to be a guest preacher at different UU churches here in central Massachusetts. (On January 3rd, I’ll be preaching at the UU church in Harvard, MA.)

Being a guest preacher is getting to play minister-for-a-day. As a PK (Preacher’s Kid), being in front of a congregation and leading worship stirs up powerful associations. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting the back pews of a small Presbyterian church in northern New York as my father stood up front in his wonderful black robes.

I remember my brother and a friend and I passing Canada Mints back and forth as we tried not to crinkle the cardboard box. The mints were big and chunky and didn’t taste very good, but were a real treat for two little boys growing up in farm country. Mom would sit with us and supervise and as long as we were quiet we could draw on the bulletin with crayons she kept in her purse.

I didn’t really get what was going on, but I was wildly proud of my father. He was there up front and everyone was listening to him. Being a minister allowed him to be his best self. He was kind and warm. Wise and funny. Leading worship was something he clearly enjoyed and did well. His favorite part and the part where the whole congregation came alive was in the children’s sermon. My Dad was a wonderful storyteller.

For my brother and I, he told stories about Tuffy and Spence – two dashing adventurers of the ‘Beau Geste’ type who were always rescuing people in need, getting into terrible messes and generally having a wonderful time. They made plenty of silly mistakes, but in the end they always found their way through. We didn’t get a Tuffy and Spence story every night going to bed, but when we did, it was a good night.

It took me many years to realize that he made these stories up on the spot, I always assumed there was a compendium of traditional stories that he drew from. I suppose many of the plots were borrowed from different sources, but my Dad had a lively capacity for improvisation. Perhaps listening to those stories of twists and turns and encountering the unexpected was part of my earliest training for the dance improvisation I practiced and performed in my young adulthood.

In church, the children’s sermons were almost always stories about our Boston Bulldog, inspiringly named Myles H. Himlay, III. Myles was a small, friendly and inspiring bulldog. We all loved him. He must have died when I was three or four because I’m not really sure if I remember him in person, or just in the pictures of the two cute little boys cuddling with this small black-and-white bulldog—and the decades of stories.

Myles was my father’s alter-ego. He was the underdog with common sense that came through in the end. My father was small as he was growing up and often told the story about being picked on by bullies until he surprised them by fighting back. After that, they left him alone.

Once, in Sunday school in the third grade we were asked what we should do if someone hit us. I blurted out that my father said we should hit them right back—not exactly where the teacher was going. The encounter got back to my father who told me I was right, but that I should be more careful about who I say that to. Myles, however, didn’t have to worry about being appropriate. He was never afraid and stood up to bullies and also specialized in rescuing those in trouble.

Thinking about it now, I can’t remember a single story, nor how my father pulled off making these stories feel engaging and true. But I remember everyone in church listening with rapt attention. Even when we were the cool high school kids sitting in church until we were released to Sunday school, we stopped poking each other and flirting with the girls when my father told the children’s sermon story.

I won’t be giving the children’s sermon today, just the main event. I won’t get to actually be in the small white New England church with the many kind faces looking up at me, but I’m happy to remember this legacy and offer whatever I have to invite people deeper into their own lives and experiences. And to be minister-for-a-day.

The Things of My Life

1.
Is everything I own
growing legs or
is it just me?
These days when
I set something
down like my pen
or my watch
or my keys, some
universal force
of dispersion or
attraction seems
to lure it somewhere
else and I’m left
on my own searching
for what was just here.

2.
Like a game of
hide-and-seek
the things of my
life wander away.

I try not to take
it personally as
I’m sure they delight
in their liberation.
I like to imagine their
breathtaking adventures—
unburdened by reason
and responsibility. They
must giggle quietly at
our mutual escape from
necessary purposes.
Then, with no witnesses,
I’m sure they begin
dancing their secret
unclothed dances while
ominously intoning the
ancient incantations of freedom.

I’m happy for their
independent escapades
but sometimes I start
to worry and I wander
back to the point of
last contact. I look again
carefully and call out
softly. When they still
don’t come I have learned
to pause and breathe
so as not to raise my voice
in regret and frustration.
(That just encourages
their bad behavior.)

Eventually, most things
choose to return. I don’t
ask too many questions or
make a big fuss when
they sheepishly reappear.
I’m just happy to be
together again. Yet
the increasingly frequent excursions of the things
of my life remind me
of the days to come
when our mutual
wandering will certainly
increase toward full entropy.

I suppose in that future
illuminated darkness
we will all dance endlessly
together without containment.
But for now I’m happy
with our limited partnership—
temporary though it may be.

*Revised and renamed from 7/17/20 ‘Universal Movement’

Covid Comes Knocking

On Tuesday I went for a walk with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. We’ve been walking occasionally since the pandemic began and have done our best to maintain our distance despite our close friendship. But he has since moved away and it was especially nice to see him so I had to work hard to keep myself from hugging him when we met. In retrospect, I am grateful for my restraint.

Human beings are such lovely (and troublesome) creatures. I really miss being close to them. I miss the feeling of casually passing near someone on the street or being in a restaurant with the warmth and quiet hubbub of scores of simultaneous conversations.

I especially miss the days of people coming in and out of the Zen Temple where I live. It used to be a daily occurrence – sometimes just a handful and sometimes several dozen. We would smile and chat a little, then get down to doing nothing—but we would do this nothing together. A little chanting, then silence and stillness. Sometimes a talk was given and we would have a group dialogue about the teaching presented, but mostly it was just sitting. It turns out that just being in the company of other humans is a big deal for us upright bipeds. Every spiritual path I know places a great value on being part of a community—showing up with and for each other. We really need each other’s support, in words and in silence, in order to be fully who we are.

One of the worst punishments we inflict on each other is solitary confinement or, in a communal setting, social shunning. We have this ancient capacity to turn away from each other – to pretend another person doesn’t exist. He’s dead to me—is the ultimate social punishment. We close our hearts and move on as if that person was no longer walking the earth. But there is a terrible cost to this—both for the shunner and the shunnie.

In some ways, keeping our physical distance is a form of intentional and well-meaning shunning. I mean we can still talk across the six feet, but the physiological message of maintaining distance is one of distrust and danger. Perhaps none of us fully appreciated the nourishment we received from simply walking by or walking close to another human being until we learned to keep our six-foot distance. But as a country, we not been able to learn or remember consistently enough.

The COVID-19 contagion is spreading. On Thursday, we hit a new national number for cases diagnosed – 150,000. This comes just a week after we first experienced 100,000 in a single day. Hospitalizations and death rates are also rising. Hospitals are reaching capacity and sounding alarms all around the country. The upper mid-west has been hit especially hard, but it’s all over. The New York Times reports:

Case numbers are trending upward in 46 states and holding relatively steady in four. No state is seeing cases decline. Thirty-one states — from Alaska and Idaho in the West to Connecticut and New Hampshire in the East — added more cases in the seven-day period ending Wednesday than in any previous week of the pandemic. Vermont, Utah and Oregon were among at least 10 states with single-day case records on Thursday.

And one of those 150,000 cases diagnosed on Thursday was the grown son of my friend—the son with whom my friend had had breakfast before our walk on Tuesday. At breakfast the son was asymptomatic, but by the afternoon had lost his sense of taste and had a slight fever. He was tested on Wednesday and was diagnosed on Thursday. He called his father and his father called me. As I texted my friend after he left a message informing me: YIKES!!!

Suddenly, Covid feels much closer. My friend, who I have known for decades and is a part of my most intimate support circle, might have been contagious. The likelihood is low. He was exposed for forty-five minutes in an indoor setting (long enough to transmit), but I saw him just an hour after that. The contagion appears to spread through a ‘shedding’ of the virus after it has built up in someone’s system. You definitely are contagious before you have symptoms, but once exposed, it seems to take some time before you yourself, if you do indeed contract the disease, are contagious. My friend and I were outside all the time except for a three-minute tour of the new addition to our house where we wore our masks. We kept our distance. I’m probably OK, but there’s a chance…so I’ll be very careful and get a test in a few days.

A scientist friend who studies these things says my current odds of contracting Covid are probably about the same as they were before the walk.  But, this morning, I’m more vividly aware of how close the virus really is. Contact with one known and trusted person exposes me to wide swath of others who may or may not be practicing precautions and may or may not have come in direct contact with someone who has the virus. YIKES!!!

It’s hard to keep keeping our distance. We all miss each other terribly. But one good thing about this virus is that even though it’s invisible, it’s also quite predictable. No one catches it randomly and there are simple measures—mask wearing, physical distancing and hand washing—that are guaranteed to make your risk of infection practically zero.

May we all continue (or begin), with easeful care, to practice the precautions necessary to keep us all safe.

Rearrangements

Yesterday morning I sat for a while under the maple trees in the Temple garden. It was a warm day and I had taken an early cup of coffee out for a stroll before meditation. I was in no hurry. Being in the middle of inner rearrangements, I was strangely free from the plot of my usual timing.

There is a lovely release that sometimes comes from being deeply disturbed. I usually live within an unconscious sense of time and obligation—a day is a certain length and I’ve got so many things to do—but when I come up against something that threatens my inner psychic arrangements, I can find myself momentarily liberated from the certainty of time. The linear connection between the things of my life loosens and I am free to wander in the garden or down the street with no purpose. In the painful breaking down the world as I know it, comes the possibility of being in some new world without compulsion.

A friend who is a writer says that a good story puts characters in situations that challenge their view of the world and force them to come to a deeper understanding of life. Isn’t this what ordinary life does for us all? We’re all participating, willing or not, in the creation and destruction of serial stories about how the world is and how we are. My story may be a self-appreciative (I’m a clever fellow and things are going pretty well) or it may be a self-sabotaging (I’m an idiot who never does anything right). Any story we repeat long enough to ourselves will do to create a provisional sense of self—the necessary ground of daily life.

While we call this mental health, our current President is an example of someone who has taken this all to its logical and pathological extreme. He seems to think if he repeats something often enough and loud enough and refuses to entertain questions about the matter, it will then become the truth. (‘My inauguration was the biggest in the history of the country.’ ‘The only reason Biden appears to have won the election is because of massive voter fraud.’) The problem with Trump is that he has convinced others to enter his reality bubble and it has turned out to be a winning (hopefully just for a short time) political strategy.

Woody Allen tells a wonderful joke in Annie Hall about a guy who goes to a psychiatrist as says, ‘I’ve got a problem. My brother thinks he’s a chicken.’ The psychiatrist says, ‘Why don’t you just tell him he’s not a chicken?’ Allen replies, ‘We need the eggs.’ — Reality is more complex and inter-twingled than we could ever imagine.

We all live in a self-created bubble of understanding of the world that intersect with an uncountable number of other bubbles. A thousand thousand different causes lead us to the views we take of the world as a safe place or a dangerous place—as a place of connection or a place of abandonment. We need these stories as roadmaps to navigate our way through the things of this world. Our stories are necessary and never completely true. I suppose real mental health is have a reasonably workable story and to being willing to continually adjust as we get more information about the world.

The adjustments are inevitably painful. What we thought was true turns out to be only partial. What we were counting on reveals itself to be more provisional than we had hoped. The certainty and solidity that we crave is always crumbling around us. Holding on tighter and trying to keep the reality of change at bay is a recipe for great suffering. But if we choose, we can begin to learn to work with these cycles of understanding and disillusionment. We can even begin to appreciate the times of transition between old certainties and new possibilities.

But back to the garden, because I wanted to write about the falling leaves. It was, as I said, a warm and pleasant morning. The leaves were already covering the ground like a layer of large yellow snowflakes – light and fluffy. As I slowly walked down the hidden brick pathway, I carefully lifted my feet to preserve their lovely obscuring of the walkways and garden landmarks.

I sat down on a chair under the maple trees and sipped my coffee while leaves fell and fell. Sometimes just one or two lazily drifted to the ground. Other times a breeze would come and scores would make their short and final trip together. Each leaf fell with its own urgency and ease. No two paths downward had the same rhythm or trajectory. Each softly fell and softly landed. I watched and listened intently from the heart of my momentary freedom.

Eventually the whisperings of duty called and I reported in for morning meditation—a little late and little rearranged by the time away and by the teachings of the falling leaves.

Unfinished Business

Out of anger I have sworn
not to miss my father.
Out of loyalty to his victims,
I refuse to remember
the date of his death
or anything but his crimes.

But I was there at the end,
before I fully knew,
and it was late January.
Was it two or three
years ago? I pretend
not to care, but the cost
of not having a father is high,
even for an old man like me.

Others speak of fond memories
and there must be many but
I can’t forgive what he did
so I refuse to receive all
he also gave—the kindness and
caring that watched over me
and made sure I was safe.

I was one of his precious little boys.
His hands were big and careful
and strong and I used to wonder
if mine would ever grow
to such generous proportions.
He gave us baths and would sing
and make things fun. Sometimes
he even let us walk on the ceiling.

If there was room for it all
I would surely miss him so.

Relief and Challenge

I am somewhat reassured to have Joe Biden, as President-elect, beginning to assume the mantle of leadership. Even as Trump holes up in the White House refusing to acknowledge defeat, Biden is, very publicly, gathering his team and setting them to work. How long will the Congressional Republicans allow Trump to pout and obstruct before they insist he acknowledge the obvious? Given their behavior over the past four years, I am not hopeful.

National Republican officials are on a high-speed train with no brakes that is headed toward an immoveable object. Their only decision is when to get off the train. With a leader who operates through fear, ridicule and bullying, it’s hard to know when it’s safe to turn away. Probably never. But I keep hoping that some of them are actually working behind the scenes to promote an orderly transition of power. We’ll see.

In the meantime, I am enjoying the spate of articles in which Biden is saying reasonable things, is talking about ‘lowering the temperature’, and is using his position as President-elect to call our country to unite to slow the spread of the corona virus. In my universe, Trump’s voice has already dramatically receded. I know he continues tweeting and carrying on, but it’s fainter—more and more obviously the disconnected ramblings of a deeply disturbed individual. And while his most vociferous followers will continue to live in the paranoid fear of all things Democratic (and democratic?), my hope is that a number of those who voted for Trump begin to trust the evidence of what Biden is saying and doing.

As the wild anxiety of the past few months begins to tentatively settle, I’m aware of the shifts in my internal universe. I know we’re not out of the woods yet, that Trump will continue to cause as much damage as he can on his way out, but we’re clearly headed in the right direction and I’m appreciating the sense of hopefulness and possibility I’m feeling. But I’m not yet ready to let my guard down.

I’ve become accustomed to a certain level of distress. These past four years and especially these past six months have created a new level of normal for my internal systems. I’m used to bracing myself every time I read the paper or listen to the news. Am I willing to allow the perpetual defensive arousal to subside somewhat? I don’t want to fall back into assuming that someone else will do the job of resistance of injustice and the hard work of social change, but I want to lower the temperature of my internal operating system.

Even with a new President and a government that values reason and collaboration, we are still facing dire issues. Virus rates are rising in almost every state in the country and the coming winter may make it even worse. Police reforms have stalled everywhere as the depth of resistance and the complexity of the problem of systemic racism have become more evident. Many people are suffering economically from the pandemic induced recession and our ‘American’ way of life continues to be based on a level on environmental destruction that has catastrophic implications for this planet and ourselves.

We should all breathe a sigh of relief and appreciate the magnitude of Biden’s victory of decency and truthfulness (not to mention science)—and then begin to pivot to creating sustainable lives of ongoing engagement in this precious and fragile world.

Three Wanderers

Through the golden garden,
the old woman trails easily after
the flaxen-haired toddler—
content to let him find his own way.

Oblivious of her careful efforts,
the smaller wanderer quietly gathers
the detritus of dead leaves, sticks
and stones as casual treasure
offered to his appreciative protector
while she promises the watchful gardener
to replace all his disturbed stones
to their original duty.

The little collector has not
yet learned the desperate
importance of the way things are
and is free to plunder—
borrowing and rearranging
garden borders without malice.

Warm sun shines softly out
of the deep blue afternoon
into the yellow leaves.
They fall singly and in pairs,
silently dancing earthward
from unseen branches high above.

The platinum-headed boy
cares nothing for the gold.
He clutches a dry brown leaf
in equal wonder to the
freshly fallen yellow treasures.

The gardener and the old
woman know the difference
but still smile in wonder of
the gifts and losses of autumn.

Biden Elected!

The thirtieth time I checked my phone yesterday morning, I received the news I was all but certain would come: Pennsylvania was called for Joe Biden, putting him over the 270 vote threshold in the Electoral College necessary to become the next President of the United States! I quickly went upstairs to tell my wife, my daughter and my grandson. We were all delighted and relieved, though my grandson (19 months) appeared to be more interested in his wooden trains than in the Electoral College math of it all.

We talked and read more about it, texting friends and calling my ninety-one year old mother who lives just a little north of Philadelphia. Over the past four years she has been nearly disturbed by Trump and his predations as I have been. I thanked her for delivering Pennsylvania to the Democrats. She was happy to celebrate together and, as usual, deflected the credit.

Melissa and I ‘stayed up’ to watch Biden’s victory speech from Wilmington, Delaware last night. We rarely watch live news on TV – we get our information from the New York Times, the Boston Globe, National Public Radio, the New Yorker and the Atlantic. I mention these media outlets as the media we consume seem increasingly relevant and determinative to our view of the world.

Seeing Kamala Harris take the stage was a moment of real joy. We were delighted to see the first woman, the first Black woman and the first Southeast Asian to be elected to the office of Vice President of the United States. In the midst of our growing awareness of the violence and racism that are woven into the imperfect fabric of our country, this was a clear demonstration of our ‘better angels’—the fruit of hundreds of years of struggle for and progress toward equality and justice.

Harris was strong, clear and inspiring. Her message was one of possibility and hope. Her presence on the stage, before Joe Biden in his big moment, was a huge signal of his respect for her, his awareness of the historic significance of the moment and, hopefully, how he intends to govern by inviting others to work with him. Harris was so impressive that, while watching her, I began to have concerns for Joe Biden coming next.

But Biden did not disappoint. He was energetic, sincere and laid out a vision of healing and possibility. He acknowledged the magnitude of the work ahead with bringing the pandemic under control and ending this polarization that has paralyzed our country. He was folksy, direct and hopeful:

‘Let’s give each other a chance. It’s time to put away the harsh rhetoric.
To lower the temperature. To see each other again. To listen to each other again.  To make progress, we must stop treating our opponents as our enemy. We are not enemies. We are Americans.’

Last night, Biden represented the best of what it means to be a politician. He clearly loved being up on the stage, loved the idea of serving his country and expressed a desire to lead everyone, not just his partisan base. He was inclusive, hopeful and eager to take on ‘The battle to restore decency, defend democracy, and give everybody in this country a fair shot.’ With his lifetime of political experience, his natural inclination toward collaboration and his irrepressible enthusiasm, he seems uniquely suited for an utterly impossible job.

I watched for a while after the speeches to appreciate the fireworks and to listen to the PBS analysts and prognosticators share perspectives on what this moment might mean for our beleaguered country. Several things struck me.

Biden’s margin of victory was not ‘razor-thin’ as it had felt when everything seemed to hang in the balance, but rather typical for these days of partisan politics. And while he did receive more votes than any Presidential candidate in the history of American politics, the person who received the second most votes ever was his rival, Donald Trump.

Almost all the pundits talked about our current polarization as one of the biggest challenges facing the new administration—the one they will have to work with in order to make progress on the pandemic, the economy, the environment, and the many promises of working to end systemic racism.

Also reported was a bit of information from an exit survey of voters as they left the polls. 90% of Biden voters believed that if Trump was elected there would be serious negative consequences for the country. AND 89% of Trump voters believed that if Biden was elected there would be serious negative consequences for the country. If we assume that the relative ‘optimism’ of Trump supporters is within the range of polling error ;-), we’re left with a country in which we have lost all faith in the opposition. The parties now represent not different political choices, but the moral forces of good and evil. This makes collaboration a little more difficult.

Joe Biden spoke directly to this in his remarks when he said: ‘Let this grim era of demonization in America begin to end — here and now.’ As I examine my own feelings toward Mitch McConnell, Lindsey Graham, to mention just a few, I realize this will be hard work.

This morning, I am relieved, happy and only slightly apprehensive. It’s been a long month of tension, fears and hopes. This is a moment to rejoice in the regular functioning of our democracy and in the election of a decent and honest man into the office of the President. There are many weeks till it’s all official and enormous challenges ahead. We must remain watchful and engaged.

Emergent President & Beyond

The whole universe is a dynamic emergent process. Everything is constantly coming into being and passing away. And all this bubbling creation and destruction takes place through the portal of this moment and in this very place. Each thing gives way to the next. There are no permanent solutions or even permanent problems. There is just the ongoing beauty, confusion and mystery of being itself appearing now as this, now as that. Sometimes we say it’s going well, sometimes we cry out in despair. All this is included in the wondrous and terrible flowing and frothing of all things.

It looks like Joe Biden will become the next President of the United States. As of this Saturday morning four days after the election, the race has not been called, but Biden is leading in four key states: Pennsylvania, Georgia, Nevada and Arizona. His leads range from 0.1% to 1.8% with between 93% and 98% of the votes cast. Paper-thin leads, but most have been holding fast or even growing as the remaining ballots continue to be counted. Winning Pennsylvania alone would award him the number of Electoral votes he needs to be elected President.

The popular vote is not nearly as close as the votes in these battleground states. Joe Biden has so far received 74,391,033 (50.5%) votes to Trump’s 70,206,299 (47.7%). That’s four million more votes for Biden than for Trump! Late Friday night Biden gave an update of the ongoing counting and said ‘We’re going to win this race with a clear majority of the nation behind us.’ He continued to urge patience as the counting played itself out, but he was clear and optimistic. Within his campaign, transition planning is beginning in earnest, especially mapping out a new coordinated response to the enlarging coronavirus crisis. (In an ironic side note, Trump’s chief of staff, Mark Meadows and several other White House staffers have just been diagnosed with the virus.)

I am delighted and cautiously relieved that the voting and counting process is proceeding in good order. Many, including Joe Biden’s campaign, thought the remaining states would be ‘called’ by news agencies yesterday, but that didn’t happen. Perhaps today or we may have to wait a few more days. With the stakes so high and the margins so thin, an abundance of caution makes sense.

In spite of Biden’s clear lead in the popular vote and likely victory, our nation remains deeply divided. The hyper-segmentation of news and internet information means that the stories we are living about ourselves and each other are radically different. Reasonable people are caught up in a web of conspiracy theories and fears that are perfectly supported by an information bubble that reinforces itself. The resentment and bigotry that Trump has masterfully stoked for four years will not disappear overnight. It is a part of us all.

Over the past four years, many of us have come to see more clearly the injustice, bigotry and violence that are woven into the fabric of our society. Our self-image as a nation of freedom and justice has been appropriately shaken. All of us are, in some way, responsible for this. We have all been blind to so much. As we rejoice in the likely transfer of the Presidency, we must continue to listen deeply to voices we have not valued. This includes people of all colors and creeds—people who may look and speak differently from us. It includes people who supported different Presidential candidates and have fears and beliefs that seem irrational to us.

How do we begin to acknowledge and heal the grievous wounds we all bear? How do we come to terms with the fact that so many of us have benefited from the injustice and violence we have not wanted to see? How do we deal with our fears of this new emerging world which is so different from the world in which we grew up? How do we create lives of meaning and dignity for ourselves and for each other? How do we form a new relationship with our fragile and failing environment?

These questions and others have no easy solutions, but as we turn toward them with humility and clear intention, perhaps we can together allow the bubbling flow of life to teach and lead us into what comes next.

Waiting and Watching and Hoping

Five a.m. Friday, November 6, 2020: As of five minutes ago, Joe Biden has finally (and as predicted) overtaken Donald Trump after a long night of counting ballots in Georgia. In that traditionally Republican state Biden is now 917 votes in the lead out of 4.9 million votes already cast and 2% left to go. Unbelievably close.

As I write this, Biden stands at 253 Electoral votes with Trump at 214. 270 is the magic number with 71 votes remaining to be allocated from Pennsylvania, Georgia, Nevada, North Carolina, Arizona and Alaska. If Biden wins any two of these he will win the Presidency. (The AP has already called Arizona for Biden, but the NY Times, my primary news source, has not.)

But the count continues. Biden urges patience with the process. Trump fumes, lies and tries to stop the counting—the counting that seems to be inexorably signaling the end of his elected power. And the rest of us muddle through trying to glean useful bits of information as they trickle through the fire-hose of news and information sources.

At this point nationally, Biden has won 50.5% of the votes cast and Trump has won only 47.7. In national politics, this is a significant difference. Four years ago, to Trump’s everlasting shame, Clinton actually won 48.2% to Trump won 46.1%, but due to the structure of the Electoral College, lost the election. But this year, even with the Electoral College structure favoring Republicans, Biden is poised for victory.

One of the most encouraging signs of the past twenty-four hours was the fact that when Trump called a press conference last night and began rambling on about baseless claims of voter fraud and ballot suppression, ABC, NBC and CBS all cut away from the press conference. I do not believe this President has the capacity to accept defeat. He will continue to lash out against any part of reality that does not agree with his wishes. Trying to stop him or question him or counter with reasonable arguments does not work. Like a spoiled child, even giving him negative attention only prolongs the tantrum and encourages the behavior. But turning the cameras away, turning our attention away, this is the only effective strategy for someone so lost in their own pain and delusion. And some of the major networks did this last night.

In fitting contrast, Biden, along with urging patience for the ‘sometimes messy’ process of democracy, gave a briefing on the coronavirus which infected more than 121,000 people in the United States on Thursday, a record number with cases. Our viral pandemic is escalating in dangerous ways, apparently not believing Trump’s prediction that it would all disappear after election day. So Biden is beginning the enormous job he is (hopefully) about to take on.

But patience is still the order of the day. Patience is often thought of as an old-fashioned value. We are supposed to be confident and assertive. We are encouraged to have a clear plan and to make things happen. We are supposed to be in charge of ourselves and, if we can, of those around us. But life doesn’t really work that way.

In spite of all our efforts, the world and events happen in their own time. Of course we can do things that support or hinder the unfolding of events, but there is a larger pattern of rising and falling that is as dependable as it is unpredictable. And the counting of the votes will take exactly as long as it takes.

A commentator recently used the image of being strapped into a roller coaster to describe why many of us are feeling so anxious around this extended election. ‘It’s like you’re headed up to the top, you know the drop is coming and there’s nothing you can do.’ Being a contrarian at heart, I immediately thought of all the possibilities available to you in that situation—the most fun one being to get ready to throw your hands in the air, scream and have a wonderful ride down.

On second reflection, however, I thought that this image of being strapped in a roller coaster is a reasonably accurate description of being human. Our lives, even our vital signs, are a wave function. Guaranteed. No exception. If you find yourself in the body of a human being who can read and understand these words, there is no way to avoid the ups and downs of life. And these ups and downs can be accurately predicted to come at their own time, not necessarily when it’s convenient for you.

This is the bad news and the good news. The bad news is that there is no escape. There is no life without confusion, difficulty and pain. The good news is that when we take the larger view and accept these things instead of fighting them, life expands and eases—right in the middle of the ups and downs.

The election will be called in the next few days. If Biden wins, even by the narrowest of margins, those of us who supported him should be elated—just as Trump’s followers were delighted with his victory four years ago. We should celebrate and breathe a sigh of relief. Briefly. Then we should turn our attention back to the larger and longer struggle ahead.

Turning toward the challenges and possibilities is what we, as humans, are made to do. We are hard-wired to want to give our gifts in service of the world. To work on something important with people we love is a deep joy. It is not easy or straightforward. There are many setbacks and losses along the way. But the world calls to each of us to step forward and make a difference.

6:10 a.m. – Biden’s lead in Georgia is now 1,096. And so it goes.

The Day After the Day After

I’m bleary and my head aches as I wake up this morning. I spent what seemed like several hours in the middle of last night doing my small solipsistic part to solve the problems of the country. I don’t think I made much progress, but my mind would not give up until exhaustion set in.

Biden seems to be on a narrow path to victory and calls for patience until all the votes are counted. Trump continues his specious claims of victory, reports of imaginary voter fraud and attempts to stop the late vote counting that seems likely to put Biden over the top.

I am encouraged that the vote counting continues as planned and that Biden appears to be poised to gain the electoral college votes necessary to become our next President. It’s comforting to know that Biden has already received more votes than any Presidential candidate in the history of our country. He has not run a particularly inspiring campaign but Biden seems to be a genuinely compassionate human being who has a deep sense of responsibility to our country and our collective future.

On election night, one pundit observed that Donald Trump is the greatest fund-raiser and motivator in the history of the Democratic party. Trump has indeed aroused the passions on both sides. A record turn-out for this election. While many of us hoped the Democrats would be motivated to come out, none of the polls predicted the level of support Trump has received this election—seemingly above his anemic approval ratings that have never reached above 50% at any point in his Presidency.

And so we wait.

I was going to go carry a ‘PROTECT THE VOTE’ sign yesterday afternoon, but ended up deciding that going shopping was a better choice. I honked supportively as I passed the handful of people holding signs in front of the Friends Meeting House on Pleasant Street. I felt slightly guilty, but also somewhat confident that indeed the votes are being counted. So, for now, I have postponed taking to the streets. (Whatever that may mean or whenever that may truly be necessary.)

Now, as we wait, the ongoing conversation is about what this vote says about America. The polarization is vivid. We should, however, remember that a few percentage points swing in either way would turn the election into a ‘landslide.’ Victory is a funny thing. In our democracy, power shifts from one party to the other based on the smallest margins. And like the football team that wins by one or two points, the victor goes on to talk about their superiority that is actually based on the random bounce of an oddly shaped ball.

Robert Hubbell maintains that the Trump message resonating with so many voters is: “The privileged past was better for you, the future is frightening and uncertain.” The dream of the good old days is a powerful one. Based on both truth and imagination it creates a powerful, and ultimately unrealistic, nostalgia. When we focus too much on how things were we have less capacity to meet the challenges and bear the difficulty of the moment.

The future, and indeed the present, is frightening and uncertain. The work for all of us is to see as clearly as we can the challenges and possibilities of what is happening right now. This requires us to see things about ourselves and our unintended impacts that are painful and dispiriting. But until we see our current reality more clearly, we cannot move toward the dreams, principles and values that call to us all.

Advice for the day:

1) Feel your feelings,
2) Remember your purpose, and
3) Take the next step.

Election Hangover

I had hoped for a blue wave and a clear Biden victory though I knew the odds were small. As I write this at 5:30 a.m. on November 4th, the Presidential election is too close to call and looks like it will remain this way for several days. And, as predicted, Trump is making wild claims and threatening to go to the Supreme Court to claim his rightful victory before all the votes are counted.

I am incredibly disappointed that the election is this close. Trump, in my eyes, for the past four years, has so clearly mounted an all-out attack on our democratic institutions, has used whatever means at hand to enrich himself and his corrupt friends, has weakened our country internally through sowing discord and hatred, and diminished our national standing in the whole world. I am amazed and astonished that nearly half of the electorate still prefer him to Joe Bidden.

Biden may still be our next President, but the division in our country, the alienation from the news reported and fact-checked by mainstream media is deep and visceral. The chasm between red and blue America is wide and vast. How will we ever come together? Have the internet and the news bubbles so easily created and maintained brought us to parallel stories of reality that will never intersect? Trump’s continual and self-serving assault on the verifiable truth is still supported (or at least tolerated) by a huge swath of our country.

I heard Elizabeth Warren, Democratic Senator from Massachusetts and former Presidential hopeful, interviewed on the radio yesterday afternoon. She had just voted in person at her local elementary school and enthused about filling in the little bubbles on the ballot as a real-time demonstration of democracy at work. The good news this morning is that the election still happened, that the turnout was at historic levels and that the predicted violence did not happen. This is good news for all of us.

Warren was optimistic, as were all Democrats interviewed yesterday that Biden would win and the Senate would shift blue. I haven’t yet looked deeply into the news, but it looks like the Senate will remain in Republican control. Despite the huge amounts of money contributed to defeat Lindsey Graham and Mitch McConnell, both of these staunch Trump enablers have retained their seats.

But Warren also made a clear call for continued activism. Even in her dream of a Bidden Presidency and a blue Senate, she called for all of us to remain engaged. Democracy is not a spectator sport that happens every two or four years. The real work of our society—dealing with the pandemic, institutional racism, income inequality, opiate addiction and environmental degradation—all these are ongoing and deeply challenging issues. Warren called us all to stay engaged for the long haul, whatever the outcome.

There was some other thing I saw as a positive development. What was it? It’s fled my mind along with the fantasy of a dramatic shift in the tone and complexion of our government. Now I remember, it was the appearance of the news analysts on PBS last night. We don’t get cable so I didn’t see the other networks, but the analysts on PBS seemed to be at least half or more women. Brown and black people were also prominently visible. I’m sure someone will do the exact counting and comparing, but to see and hear significantly more diversity, even at PBS, is a heartening sign.

I’ll close this morning with the words of Richard Hubbell, who sends out a daily newsletter of information, perspective and inspiration that I find reassuring:

We must maintain our resolve. During difficult periods in the last four years, I have invoked the memory of the late Congressman John Lewis. As a young man, he marched with other brave men and women who sought to bring attention to the need to guarantee voting rights for Black Americans. Lewis, along with dozens of others, was brutally beaten while attempting to peacefully walk across the Edmund Pettus Bridge near Birmingham. Lewis’s skull was fractured, and he spent several days in the hospital. When he was discharged from the hospital, he rejoined his colleagues for a second march across the bridge. John Lewis did that for us, so that we could vote today. His act was selfless and forward-looking. He was a prophet of a future not yet fully realized, but one that is inexorably approaching because men and women like John Lewis were able to transcend the moment. John Lewis did not give up, did not feel sorry for himself, did not bemoan his circumstance, did not calculate the odds, did not stay in the fight only if he was winning. When he died, John Lewis was eulogized by three American presidents. Those who beat him are remembered today as symbols of the ugly legacy of slavery.

While we are waiting for votes to be counted after a surprisingly peaceful and uneventful Election Day, we must not give up, we must not feel sorry for ourselves, we must not bemoan our circumstance, we must not calculate the odds, we must not stay in the fight only if we are winning. Through our activism and resistance, we have become prophets of a future not yet fully realized. But it is the future that is rushing inexorably towards us because of our efforts over the last four years.

Let us take our role as prophets of the future seriously—for our children and grandchildren. Let us continue to work toward a just, equitable and sustainable future for all. Let us not measure our actions by the yardstick of momentary victories and setbacks, but by the importance of the goals we cherish. Let our actions reflect our highest aspirations and our words spring from the deepest and fiercest love we know.

Election Day Tips

Election day. A cold rain is coming down in the early morning dark here in central Massachusetts. In a few hours, I’m going to vote: carefully and in person. I’m going to vote in the election that both sides are calling the most important Presidential election of our time. Certainly the choice of candidates is stark and many of us are anxious both about the process and the results.

Relentless media coverage will continue through the day, will amp up around seven or eight and will carry on through the night. There are a few key states, like Florida, that will have early returns so there may be some early indication of final results, but votes will continue to be collected, counted and verified over a period of days and weeks. We will not know who won the popular vote for some time.

I fully expect Donald Trump, if he is ahead at any point in the count this evening, to declare victory and to do everything in his power to stop the further counting of votes. We all need to brace for this likelihood as well as for his other specious claims and insults. We all must do everything in our power to ensure that any illegal actions he encourages or orders through his tweets and rants remain just the final howls of a defeated strong-man. I hope that true Republicans at every level will join with the rest of us in defending the values of our democracy rather than bowing down to the outrageous demands of a want-to-be dictator who refuses any truth, however blatant, that does not give him what he wants.

We’re in for difficult times ahead.

I’m hoping for the best—a landslide victory for Joe Biden, a Democratic Senate and a relatively peaceful transfer of power. But I have also located a few socially distanced local gatherings on Wednesday to support the ongoing vote count and democratic process. I have also talked to most of my pandemic ‘bubble-mates’ about my intentions, as every exposure risk I take is a risk for each person in my bubble. (If you’re looking for actions in your area ChooseDemocracy.us is a reliable site that is providing resources to support organizing around nonviolent proactive measures to ensure our democratic processes are honored.)

In the meantime, there are a lot of minutes and hours—and probably days, weeks and even months of uncertainty ahead. How do we live in a world where our future feels so precarious? How do we live with a level of fear and potential violence that is utterly unfamiliar for many of us? And all this in the midst of a pandemic that not only is continuing but is rising with no end in sight?

A few tips that may help:
1) Take time to shrink your field of attention. Staying current and informed are important, but the daily acts of living are equally important. Detach yourself from your news device and turn to the immediate world around you—the running water that comes out of your faucet, the smell of coffee brewing, the way the morning light slowly illuminates the view from the window, the sensation of the breath that has so faithfully sustained your life all these years. Just this.

2) Appreciate the people in your life. (Even the difficult ones.) Whether you live alone or with others, we all have people in our lives that are actually part of who we are. Take time to notice and appreciate those people, near and far. There is no such thing and an ‘individual’ human being. We are all (even you) part of an intricate network of relationships of mutual nourishment as we rub up against each other, irritate and delight each other—both in person and afar. (As I write this, I am aware that even my dead father is still a part of my life–still sustaining and troubling me.)

3) Give yourself to what you are doing in the moment. We often suppose that the meaning of our life is somewhere else. But life only happens in this place where we are. Don’t hold back and wait for things to settle down. I don’t think that is going to happen, and even if it does, you might not be here to enjoy it. The precious gift of life is happening right where you are, don’t miss it.

4) Stay informed, but limit your intake of news. Constant consumption will serve the interests of media moguls who measure success in eyeballs on the screen, but will not serve you or your country. When you do watch, appreciate being entertained, informed, outraged, contradicted and confirmed. Media consumption at a time like this is a roller coaster guaranteed to stimulate and disturb you. When you do turn it on, prepare yourself for the ride and have an exit strategy in mind.

5) Consider that this is the time you were born for. All your life has led up to this point and you have the resources and skills to make a difference right here. You may not yet know what it is you are called to do. It may be much smaller or much larger than you had ever imagined. But your thoughts, words and actions have impact beyond what you can know. Stay awake to the possibilities and opportunities of this turbulent time.

Disillusionment Is The Beginning

The election is coming tomorrow and it’s just the beginning. The forces of division, greed and anger that Trump has aroused will not dissipate, whatever the result. Win, lose or delayed decision, Trump will continue to do everything in his power to stoke division and even violence. We must all vote and then peacefully, but with clear intention, do whatever is necessary to support the counting of all votes and the playing out of our legitimate democratic processes.

But it’s important to be clear-eyed about what we are dealing with. In a powerful op-ed piece in the New York Times last Friday, Don’t Fool Yourself: Trump Is Not an Aberration,  Jamelle Bouie eloquently points out that Trump’s Presidency, (‘the casual insults, the vulgar tweets, the open racism, the lying, the tacit support for dangerous extremists and admiration of foreign strongmen’) has only been possible because of pre-existing and still-existing currents in our American society. Bouie writes:

‘For as much as it seems that Donald Trump has changed something about the character of this country, the truth is he hasn’t. What is terrible about Trump is also terrible about the United States. Everything we’ve seen in the last four years — the nativism, the racism, the corruption, the wanton exploitation of the weak and unconcealed contempt for the vulnerable — is as much a part of the American story as our highest ideals and aspirations. The line to Trump runs through the whole of American history, from the white man’s democracy of Andrew Jackson to the populist racism of George Wallace, from native expropriation to Chinese exclusion.’

I often catch myself blaming Trump and the Republicans that have empowered him for disrupting the comfort and predictability of my privileged life. Trump has brought out into the open the forces of oppression, racism, sexism and nativism that, as Bouie says, ‘run through the whole of American history.’ But without these pre-existing currents, Trump would have remained a pretentious and self-congratulating con-man. Bouie goes on to say:

And to the extent that Americans feel a sense of loss about the Trump era, they should be grateful, because it means they’ve given up their illusions about what this country is, and what it is (and has been) capable of.

This reminds me of my sense of shock and disbelief in the days and weeks after Clinton’s loss four years ago. Trump seemed such a ridiculous mix of bluster, lying and fear-mongering, I couldn’t believe that people would actually vote for him. In the aftermath, I came to realize how unaware I had been of the depth and prevalence of the currents of dissatisfaction, alienation and fear in our country. Trump’s election four years ago proved that our country was not working for vast swaths of people who felt unseen, unheard and helpless in the face of the increasing cultural and economic changes of the times.

Over these past four years, I have continued to be shocked and disillusioned with our county. But much that has been hidden has come into the open. Trump’s anti-example has fueled the Women’s March and the unprecedented number of women entering politics, the MeTo movement which brought violence against women into the open, the Black Lives Matter actions that has brought awareness of systemic racism into our everyday conversations—all of this is a positive response to the loss of our comfortable status quo. The casually embedded inequities and violence of our vaunted ‘American Way of Life’ have been exposed for all to see.

These past four years have been painful for many of us and, in some way, necessary. Necessary because there is no other possibility—no other thing that could have happened, because this is what did happen. And necessary because only when we are willing to see and acknowledge the entrenched institutional inequities in our society can we begin to genuinely come together to move our nation toward its stated values and promises. Again I quote Bouie:

‘Perhaps more than most, Americans hold many illusions about the kind of nation in which we live in. We tell ourselves that we are the freest country in the world, that we have the best system of government, that we welcome all comers, that we are efficient and dynamic where the rest of the world is stagnant and dysfunctional. Some of those things have been true at some points in time, but none of them is true at this point in time.’

Whatever happens tomorrow is just the beginning. The fight is not really with Trump or even with the Republicans. It is a fight against disinformation, accusations and violence, wherever it occurs. We must stand up and be counted in the voting and after the voting to preserve and enhance our democratic forms of governance for the benefit of all. America IS an exceptional country. We were founded with soaring aspirations for a society of possibility. The right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are the promises we have made to each other. Now we are called, as generations before us have been, to give our energies to make these promises true.

The Final Word

A friend recently asked me ‘if belief in reincarnation is necessary to travel the Zen road.’ He claims that as he prepares to pass the ¾ century mark he feels some increasing interest in finding closure. So I offer a few words to my friend and to everyone reading.

The historical Buddha lived sometime around 550 BC in what is now northern India and Nepal. He gathered large numbers of followers as he wandered through the countryside but he established no monasteries and left behind no written words. His teachings were passed on orally for several hundred years before they began to be written down. When people began writing down what had been orally transmitted, these writings, or sutras as we call them now, were rich, varied and self-contradictory.

Re-incarnation was a common belief of the Hindu environment in which the Buddha taught. Many of the original sutras talk explicitly about the goal of practice being to escape this endless cycle of rebirth—that we will be born over and over until we finally see the full truth of the Buddha’s teaching. This teaching of reincarnation and focus on a path of many lifetimes to freedom is often thought of as a part of Buddha’s original teaching.

But in a number of the sutras, the Buddha is clear that Buddhism is not a path of belief in a set of religious or philosophical truths. The Buddha once said, ‘A proponent of the Dharma does not dispute with anyone in the world.’ Stephen Bachelor in his detailed exploration of these issues in AFTER BUDDHISM adds: ‘The Dharma cannot be reduced to a set of truth-claims.’ Later on Bachelor reports that his personal Buddhist path ‘has led me away from a religious quest for ultimate truth and brought me back to a perplexed encounter with this contingent, poignant, and ambiguous world here and now.’

‘A perplexed encounter with this contingent, poignant, and ambiguous world’ is a lovely description of the Zen way. The Zen tradition can be seen as a reform movement in Buddhism arising in medieval China. Zen was a reaction to the codification and solidifying of Buddhist teachings into something at odds with the primacy of experience over dogma that the Buddha taught. Zen claims that all the wondrous teachings of the Buddhist tradition are contained in each moment of our reciprocal encounter with life itself. The true Dharma is beyond whatever can be said or written or even thought.

I’ve often repeated the story of the student who comes to the famous Zen master and asks: ‘What happens to us after we die?’ The Zen master replies: ‘I don’t know.’ The student persists: ‘How is it that you don’t know? Aren’t you a Zen master?’ The teacher replies ‘Yes, I am a Zen master, but I am not a dead Zen master.’

Anything we say about the life that happens after the life we know in this moment is speculation. But we can know the life-and-death of this moment. We can also appreciate that all of us are continually ‘reincarnated.’ I used to be the father of a young daughter, now she is the mother and I am the grandfather. I used to be able to shovel snow, go skiing and then get on with the rest of my day. Now I shovel snow and then come back inside to rest for a while.

Each morning I am reborn as myself again. I do best when I can be curious about who I am this morning and not assume that I am simply who I was yesterday. In this way, I find the teachings of reincarnation quite accurate and helpful. But I am quite skeptical of anyone who claims to have the final word on the shape and size of life. Even the final word of Zen is not to be trusted.

An American Coup?

This morning I woke up pondering the chances that many of us who have not been in the streets since the sixties and seventies will have to once again take to the streets to stop an illegitimate power grab by our current President. Between the pandemic and the sense of a new generation taking to the streets up the struggle against injustice, I have tried to support Black Live Matter and other protests against systemic racism from a safe distance. Coming into this election in which our President is consistently trying to undermine the legitimacy of our electoral process and has refused to pledge to a peaceful transfer of power, I am preparing to be more actively engaged.

For many of us, the idea of a ‘coup’ in America has always seemed far-fetched if not impossible. But in four short years, with the support of his Republican colleagues in Congress, Trump has undermined the powerful system of checks and balances that have allowed our country to survive through good leaders and bad. His increasing calls of ‘voter fraud’ have no correspondence in reality. His efforts, and the efforts of the Republican hierarchy, seem to be to restrict the vote as much as possible and to preserve their power at any cost.

Trump has been consistently trailing in the polls. He was four years ago as well. He lost the popular vote four years ago too. But he was, through the unreasonable and legitimate machinations of the Electoral College, legitimately elected as the President of our nation. Though we howled and protested, we went along.

A landslide vote for Joe Biden may make all of these worries seem overblown and I will be happy for that. But the potential for Trump to be declaring victory before all the votes are counted is real. He will say, as all coup leaders do, that he is acting in the interests of ‘democracy’ and that due to widespread fraud, he is taking action in the interests of ‘the people.’ He has created a loyal and insulated group of followers who will believe him and the media empire that supports him, rather than the facts on the ground.

ChooseDemocracy has an informative and encouraging web site with many resources as we head into the election and beyond. In the essay Ten Things You Need to Know to Stop a Coup they say a coup would be in process if the government:

• Stops counting votes;
• Declares someone a winner who didn’t get the most votes; or
• Allows someone to stay in power who didn’t win the election.

Given the actual rules of our democratic process, I would have to disagree with the second point. We have agreed together that the President is elected by the Electoral College. So I would say that if the delegates to the Electoral College reflect the popular vote of that state, then we would have a legitimately elected President, even if (as with Hillary Clinton and Al Gore) that person has not received the most actual votes.

The first three of the Ten Things You Need to Know to Stop a Coup are:
1. Don’t expect results Election night. — Everyone I know and trust is urging patience in the weeks ahead. Don’t believe everything you hear and read. There will be outrageous claims on both sides. Don’t react to the terrible affront that is reported until you have that actually verified. Keeping cool and acting strategically is essential.

2. Do call it a coup. – ‘People who do power grabs always claim they’re doing it to save democracy or claim they know the “real” election results. This doesn’t have to look like a military coup with one leader ordering the opposition to be arrested’.

3. Know that coups have been stopped by regular folks. – This was the most heartening reminder to me. Even if Trump and his allies stop the voting process and even if the recently politically re-jiggered Supreme Court rules in their favor, an illegitimate government can only govern with the consent of those governed. A number of attempted coups around the world have been thwarted by citizens who refused to go along, who actively and publicly resisted. Coups are especially vulnerable as they are trying to consolidate power, this is why we need to be prepared to act quickly and in large.

My hope is that Trump’s outrageous behaviors and irresponsible leadership have mobilized enough of us, that the vote will be so clear and the will of the people so evident that he will be removed from office through normal channels. But we should all be prepared to exercise our responsibility to preserve the rule of law and democratic values through the power of non-violent actions.

Choosing Peace

I attended a Zoom presentation last night by Mel Duncan, one of the founders of Non-violent Peace Forces, a group that trains and deploys people to go into regions of violence to protect civilians from warring factions. The protectors carry no weapons and accomplish their mission through the non-partisan clarity of their purpose (to prevent protect unarmed civilians and to reduce violence) and the relationships they build will all sides that allows them to communicate with all parties. Their peace keeping force which is recognized by the UN and invited into situations of ongoing instability and conflict is nearly 50% women.

Mel is from the Minneapolis area and although his work over the past two decades has been internationally focused, he is now back in Minneapolis working with schools and police and activists to create strategies to reduce the violence. He reported that the City Council’s bold vote to ‘defund the police’ has become more and more diffuse due to the lack of consensus on alternative proposals. He also said that gun shops in Minneapolis are selling guns so quickly that they are having a hard time keeping guns in stock.

I have not yet digested all I heard last night but I had long and complicated dreams of being up through the night in parts of the city I could not recognize—of being lost and in danger without knowing how or when I would get home. Let me offer a few of the things still with me from this evening sponsored by the Worcester Center for Non-violent Solutions many issues were raised, I’ll relate just a few that are still with me this morning:

• Security is a basic need of all humans. We require security to live healthy and productive lives, no matter our age, political views or circumstances.
• Many acts of violence are perpetrated in the name of security and thereby engender less security.
• Taking guns away from some police and banning choke holds will not solve our problem. The necessary protesting violence must be linked to new ways of thinking and the creation of new models of peace keeping that involve everyone.
• Oftentimes, just the presence of people committed to non-violence is enough to dramatically reduce acts of violence. One of the basic strategies of the Non-violent Peace Force is ‘accompaniment’ just to be there and walk with those in danger. Presence is a powerful force.
• Mel referenced and recommended Choose Democracy, an organization that is doing ongoing on-line training in non-violence for these times and is inviting people to join with them in their pledging

o We will vote.
o We will refuse to accept election results until all the votes are counted.
o We will take to the streets if a coup is attempted.
o If we need to, we will shut down this country to protect the integrity of the democratic process.

• Our country is exhibiting many of the conditions that have led other regions into conditions of ongoing violence: increase in polarization, increasing rumors and conflicting view of reality, increasing acts of violence associated with politics, lack of commitment to a peaceful transfer of power.
• There are more trained non-violent peace-keepers in the world than at any point in its history. (I must add parenthetically that I would associate this with the loss of the cultural norms that fulfilled this function. Though I may be looking back on an imagined past that was actually much more unstable and violent than I realize.)
• The outcome of our election on November 3rd will probably not be clear for days or weeks or even months. We must be patient and resist spreading the rumors and allegations that will inevitably arise.
• Security comes from relationships we build with people who are ‘not like us.’
• To support peace, make an unusual friend – someone who is different from you, someone with whom you may have large disagreements.
• To build a stable coalition for a peaceful and just society we must get out of our houses and onto the streets and make connections beyond our zone of comfort.

Thomas Jefferson once said that the cost of liberty is eternal vigilance. So let us stay engaged and vigilant. Let us not fall in to fear and panic. Let us avoid the comfortable trap of total distraction and avoidance. Stay engaged in the larger unfolding drama of this moment, but don’t put your life on hold until after the election. Love who you love, and treasure each day. Being alive is a precious, difficult and brief privilege.

Before the Frost

1. This will be the last morning for the morning glories. A hard frost is predicted for tonight. Well below freezing. A hard stop for the late coda of blooming we have enjoyed nearly through the end of October. The cool nights have killed off much of the morning glory foliage, but up top of the pergola, the blossoms nurtured through the bloomless summer have found their way to fruition.

Dozens and dozens of the light blue funnels have unfurled over the past few weeks. The relative cool of the days have allowed them to betray their names and live well-beyond their usual morning life-span. Perhaps, we should call these late bloomers full-day glories or fall glories. Whatever we call them, they are still true to their nature—blooming first in the morning and lasting only briefly as the fine fabric of their blossoms seems to dissolve even in the cool air. Only a few bees have remained around for the work and entertainment of pollination so seeds are few from these late bloomers. But still a thing of astonishment and beauty.

2. Though I have enjoyed our extended summer, I myself have slowly lost interest in the garden, abandoning my daily inspections and diggings for a more haphazard and sporadic approach. The varied rising thrills of spring and the lush colors of sequential blooms through the summer have worn me out. I’m ready for a break. I welcome shorter days, the cold and the snow. I am eager to fall back into the darkness of the earth for a season.

I’ve collected a few seeds and taken a few cuttings to winter over, but mostly, I’m content to let everything die back. A gardening friend told me a few years ago that the best strategy for supporting the bug, bird, insect and microbial life that is the foundation of any garden is to let everything stand as is. No need to clear away and make things tidy. Let the brown flower stalks stand through the snow until they fall over on their own. Let the whole tangle of spent life stand on its own and give itself to everything until spring. Having run out of inspiration and energy, this philosophy sounds quite wise to me.

3. A few weeks ago I planted a few spring bulbs given by a friend. I buried the little misshapen globes in bunches just before the leaves fell. Now they rest in the darkness. Their first job, before the miraculous blooming of the spring is the miraculous waiting of the winter. As they settle into their new home, they have give no thought to blooming. Not one is anxious about the impossible job that lies ahead. They rest in perfect faith that all that will be needed—the urges and the conditions—will be given to them at the appropriate time. For now, their full life is being contentedly buried. Unconcerned with the coming cold and steadfastly refusing to dream of future warmth, they life their dark lives of waiting with full assent.

4. It’s easy to fight the darkness. We’re taught to resist the falling back. Endless work and striving are the purported necessary path. It’s interesting that the tropics are associated with a more leisurely lifestyle. Perhaps without the rhythms of the enforced rest of the cold dark winter, there is a need for resting more in the midst of everlasting warm days. But not up here in the northern temperate zones. We puritans work hard in the summer and rest reverently in the winter—or so we properly should. But the urges of work and responsibility are hard to break. The lure of productivity beacons us toward the self-destructive goal of constant motion.

5. This morning, I’ll go out and appreciate the last green leaves and blossoms of the morning glories. I pick a few of the brilliantly orange nasturtium blossoms for a pre-Thanksgiving, thanksgiving salad. And I’ll cut the remaining zinnia and sunflower blossoms for vases to beautify the empty Temple where I live. The Temple too is wintering over. The ongoing viral conditions have brought us to an enforced absence of physical presence. Hopefully we can continue to learn to rest gently in these times of quiet disconnection, trusting that conditions and urges will, at some point, draw us together and enliven us once again.

Ongoing Trouble

The election is next week and COVID-19 numbers are surging again. Our current President continues to broadcast lies and to do everything in his power to undermine the sense of legitimacy in the vote that it appears he will lose. (I am hopeful but not confident.) The third wave of the pandemic is upon us and still rising even as Trump blames it on the media and assures his followers that we have turned a corner. (Stephen Colbert has pointed out that ‘wave’ might not be the best term since the ‘trough’ between waves two and three was the same height as the peak of the first wave. Perhaps ‘episodic with ever increasing peaks’ would be a better, though less catchy, description.)

Many of us have no memory of living in times as uncertain and momentous as these. I hope our fear about the future of our republic turns out to be overblown. I hope the Republicans in the Senate and on the Supreme Court, will, if necessary, stand for our way of government over the interest of a political strong-man who wants to stay endlessly in power. But given their past actions, I am not hopeful. Even now I am considering how I might need to stand up over the coming weeks to protect our—to protect what? our way of life? our democratic institutions? my cozy life as a well-educated and reasonably well-off white man?

William James once said that our actions are our vote for the kind of world we want to live in.

I have sent a few letters to anonymous people in Pennsylvania. I was given names and a form letter that I personalized to encourage them to get out and vote. I sent them out on October 18th. The postmark will clearly be from Massachusetts, but the return address will be from Pennsylvania. Hand-addressed, I suspect they may be opened out of curiosity. Will a letter from a stranger have any impact? Even a small impact may make a difference.

I will try to vote this weekend in advance of the election when a local college gymnasium hosts early voting. If that doesn’t work out, I will vote on election day—as carefully as I can. Even a small impact may make a difference. I am hoping the vote is overwhelmingly for Biden and the Democrats.

Jill LaPore’s powerful book THESE TRUTHS makes it clear that the American history that we have carefully scrubbed and polished to support our current perspective covers over a degree of instability and uncertainty that is chilling to read about. Our current situation is not as unprecedented as we like to think. Politics has always been a wild struggle and the forces of greed, anger and ignorance are continually part of the equation. Sensible men (and it has been mostly men) have made morally terrible decisions while patting themselves on the back for their fairness and sagacity. The grand language of democracy has been used to obscure and justify blatantly self-serving actions of systemic cruelty and avarice.

Whatever happens next Tuesday and beyond, the struggle will continue. Trump really does represent the feelings and fears of a significant part of our country. Even if Biden wins and Trump eventually steps down, the work will only be beginning. The damage of the lies and disinformation has only compounded the real challenges of a changing pluralistic society where the traditional hegemony of whites in general and white men in particular is no longer tenable.

Many of us are motivated to join in the struggle – for black and brown lives, for a country where women are treated under the law and in real life as full citizens, to shift our country’s rampant and irresponsible destruction of the environment and to hold corporations to standards of decency and reciprocity that take our grandchildren and their grandchildren into account. For human rights and for the natural rights of this precious and sacred world in which we live.

We must play the long game. It has never been easy or clear or certain. Gains and losses are the peaks and valleys of real life. But there is the accumulation of small actions that can build to a wave of possibility. Please join in however you can to stand for what you believe in – to nudge or push or edge the world toward decency and a greater awareness of the interdependence of all.

Seven Factors of Awakening

Last night I gave a Zen talk on the Seven Factors of Awakening. Melissa and I are in the middle of leading a week-long home-practice retreat in Portugal (Zoom is a wonderful thing!) focusing on these teachings as the theme, so it made sense to continue the exploration. And, subconsciously, I wanted to give us all a respite from the fever pitch of hope, fear and endless speculation that is here this week before the Presidential election.

Since Buddhism was an oral tradition for several hundred years before any of the teachings were written down, many of the core teachings are numerical—the Three Refuges, the Four Boddhisattva Vows, the Six Paramitas, the Four Marks of Existence, etc. There is a whole sutra, the Numerical Discourses of the Buddha, that organizes the teachings by the ones, then the twos, then the threes, etc.

Like all things, it is endlessly complex. There are hundreds and thousands of sutras in the Buddhist tradition. Sutra is a Sanskrit word that means to stitch together and refers both to specific teachings and the various collections of these teachings. Unlike Christianity and Judaism, there is no agreed upon root text. Each teaching itself contains the whole tradition and is, at the same time, only a tiny part of a vast and dynamic web of insight. As teachers we attempt to present the core meanings and we elaborate the living meaning that appears in on our own experience.

The Zen tradition holds that all the sutras are superseded and contained in this moment. All the sutras, all the teachings are just pointing us to the mystery and wisdom that is already abundantly here—that is who we already are. The point of Buddhist teachings is not to memorize or study a list of theories or propositions, (which makes my head hurt just to think about it) but to wake us up to the infinite and ungraspable aliveness that is present right here.

The Buddha did not intend his teachings to be believed or not believed. He said that his followers should not hold a position for or against any proposition. He offered his teachings, not as doctrine but as pointers. Reporting from his deep experience of being human he points us to our own. In Zen, we approach the traditional teachings as ways to understand and explore the many states that we encounter in our meditation practice and on our journey of awakening.

The Seven Factors of Awakening are wonderful teachings that point us to the many qualities that arise naturally as we look deeply into the nature of being human. Here is the list with the original Pali word second and some explanatory words following:

1. Mindfulness – sati – remembering what is most important, paying attention
2. Investigating the moment – dhammavicaya – curiosity, perceiving what is actually here
3.  Energy – virya – effort, diligence, determination
4.  Joy – piti – happiness, rapture
5.  Ease – passaddhi – tranquility, spaciousness
6.  Absorption – Samadhi – calm abiding, concentration
7.  Equanimity – upekkha – awake to reactivity, graciously accepting what is here

In the Nikaya Sutra, one of the sutras where the Seven Factors appears, it comes in a dialogue between the Buddha and one of his beloved disciples, Kassapa, who is ill. A bit of the conversation goes like this:

“Well, Kassapa, how is it with you? Are you bearing up: are you enduring? Do your pains lessen or increase? Are there signs of your pains lessening and not increasing?”

“No, Lord, I am not bearing up, I am not enduring. The pain is very great. There is a sign not of pains lessening but of their increasing.”

After this interchange, the Buddha offers him the teachings of the Seven Factors of Awakening and, according to the story, Kassapa makes an immediate and full recovery.

So now I pass these teachings on to you and to all of us in this fearful time of political and social discord. Take some time to consider how these teachings might be part of the medicine you need as you move through this coming week and into the many weeks that will be coming after.

Making Friends With Wildness

The other night I watched My Octopus Teacher, a new Netflix movie starring Craig Foster as a slightly romanticized version of himself. The film records a year he spent with a wild common octopus in the chilly waters off the tip of South Africa. Foster narrates the film as a love story that bridges, however tentatively, the divide between a human being and this small, strange and marvelous creature. Like all works of art, it’s not just what it purports to be, but its intention is admirable, the underwater photography is stunning and it does invite the viewer into a new relationship with ‘the wild’.

The wild is a central theme in the story we Americans tell about ourselves. The wild was the wilderness which the first European settlers fought against to carve out a place for God’s new kingdom on earth. The Pilgrims who landed on beaches not too distant from where I now write these words, left the land of their persecution with the intention of creating a new world order and awaiting the imminent return of Jesus. For them, the native civilizations already here were, at best, an inconvenient barrier and at worst, an incarnation of darkness and evil.

Likewise, the wildness and the fecundity of the land they encountered was something to be subdued. The forces of darkness were to be tamed and violence was necessary and even valorized in the subjugation of what seemed irredeemably other. The wisdom of native cultures’ deep appreciation of the reciprocal relationship with the land, plants and animals was mostly invisible—as was their humanity and right of residence. The physical landscape, the world the Pilgrims sailed to was merely the stage set for them to enact their holy and solipsistic drama.

The film records the year Foster spent free-diving every day in the kelp forests of the shore of South Africa. Over the time, coming back to the same small area again and again, he made ‘friends’ with one particular octopus and came to appreciate the vast wisdom and interconnected life of ‘the wild’. Foster, in his narration, makes a persuasive case for the time it takes to find our way into a world that does not play by human rules. Only over time, by showing up and looking and looking does he begin to make a new relationship with the wild and strange underwater world he encounters.

Watching the film will hopefully encourage many to work for the protection of wild places and promote the slow shifting of our delusional sense of human primacy over the natural world. We are not separate and in control. Since we are part of and totally dependent on the world around us, there is no possibility of subjugation or dominance. The catastrophic consequences of our limited and human-centric views are becoming impossible to ignore as fires rage and vast storms come at levels unknown in our brief human history.

In the ending parts of the film, Foster emphasizes that it was only by going back to the same small place over and over was he slowly, over time able to see what was really there. The richness and beauty that resides in every detail only revealed themselves to him over time.

While it is important to pay attention to the wondrous and wild world outside of us, I would suggest that an equally important and challenging wildness is to be found inside each one of us. Usually we are too busy to notice the functioning of our own perception and awareness. Most of us operate little awareness or appreciation of the mind’s central role in co-creating the world that appears so objectively separate from us.

How do you meet and get to know the strange and wondrous octopus that we call you ‘self’? While I may say that I am just ‘me’, this ‘me’ is actually a strange and elusive creature. If you try to find the one who is reading these words, you may be surprised how difficult it is. Our language ‘I am reading the words on my computer screen.’ hides a world of vast subtlety and interdependence. To begin to get a glimpse of this functioning that really is our life, take the same commitment and dedication that Foster demonstrated in the film.

Only by showing up to some daily practice of meditation, contemplation or prayer can we begin to get a glimmer of the wild and miraculous world that is who we are. We are not separate from the beauty and interdependence of all things, we have merely forgotten. Remembering requires diving daily in the cold and dangerous waters of the self. It’s hard work, but as Foster says, you come to crave the cold water and you can learn to love what you cannot fully understand.

On Writing a Book

On Friday, I spent most of the morning reading through my blog entries for July. I have this notion that I should write another book. I am quite suspect of my multiple motives for wanting to publish another book, but pushing ahead anyway. I wonder how much of the book dream is about self-promotion and how much is the genuine desire to offer what I have learned (and am learning) in service of others?

I remember being confronted by this same dilemma when Melissa and I were beginning to gather a larger community of Zen students around us and to do more teaching in different contexts. I told my teacher that I was concerned that this larger public visibility was, in some part, driven by ego. He laughed and said, Of course it is. He pointed out that the demands of ego are present whether we step forward or step back. If I had decided that I was not willing to be more visible and not willing to take on the myriad projections of being a public teacher (my own as well as those of the people around me), that decision would be made in the context of ego desires as well.

I must admit to longing to be pure and blameless. I should hold back and not engage. I should live somewhere in the secluded forest and be free from the desire to be known. But this fantasy is equally riddled with subtle self-promotion—wanting to be (and be seen) as beyond the vicissitudes and complexities of being human. The poet and semi-recluse David Budbill has a wonderful poem he entitled ‘Dilemma’ that sets out the problem:

I want to be
famous
so I can be
humble
about being
famous.
What good is my
humility
when I am
stuck
in this
obscurity?

Me too. I have the ego dream of being humbly famous. Or is it famously humble? It was a great disappointment to me in my early twenties when I realized that if I was really humble (which always seemed like an important virtue to me) that I couldn’t really know that I was humble. The dream of being appreciated for not needing to be appreciated.

I take great comfort in my teacher’s words that there is no escape. Since ego fantasies and desires are always going to be involved, follow what calls to your deepest heart. Proceed with care and don’t imagine you will ever be free from the desires and blindness of your little self. Don’t worry too much the ego, it is always there—a necessary, if occasionally devious, companion.

Being free (mostly) from the fantasy of purity, I can live my life and create things of beauty and purpose as best I can. I can follow what intrigues and delights me. The key word here is following. But as I follow this impulse to write another book, I am often confused and occasionally quite discouraged. I have a sense that these short essays I have been writing since the pandemic began in mid-March are the book. Or the book is hidden somewhere in here, but I haven’t yet found it.

I feel like a film-maker who has shot hours and hours of footage and now has to find the movie that is buried inside it all. What is the central thread of my book? How do I select which entries to include? And what is the organizing principle of their sequence? My first book was ordered through the seasons and the year of moving into the Temple. What could it be now? Should I just pick the ‘best’ ones and put them together like a book of poetry? Maybe there is no underlying narrative, just a collection of little glimpses of life?

I have committed to myself to go back and read over everything and see what I can discern. The challenge is to hold the spirit of improvisation and trust as I do this next level of work. On Friday morning, I read over the 28 or so essays from July. I liked them a lot. Each one was a self-contained piece with a beginning, middle and end. All seemed equally about the larger life of the self in the context of the particular. But I found no grounds of inclusion or exclusion—no narrative story.

I only worked for two or three hours, but I concentrated so hard that my head hurt and I got a stomach ache in the afternoon. Being the mindful person that I am, I am beginning to suspect that my physical distress may be an indicator that I need to approach this task from a new perspective. Maybe bearing down and trying really hard is not the best approach to this part of the writing process.

This week, I’ll read over August and see if I can find a softer (and more fun) way of following. I suppose that is the commitment that is the most important—to work in a way that honors the spirit of what I am trying to practice. A published book may or may not be the outcome of my efforts, but at least I can live in the spirit of uncovering and following, which is, as I remember now, what brings me alive and what the book must be about.

Morning Ramble

We walked through the local woods yesterday, my friend and I, on the most gorgeous morning of the fall. Here in New England, after the weather has dipped near freezing and the leaves have begun to fall in earnest we have these days of reprieve. I was delighted to have escaped the many things I should have been doing to be wandering through the woods in good company. Ten minutes into our walk I tied my long-sleeved shirt around my waist and felt like a school-boy walking home in the warm afternoon with the whole rest of the day free for bike riding and play.

Several times over the past few weeks, I have turned to my wife and said ‘This is peak.’ I say it half jokingly and half seriously. The joke is two-fold, first that the certainty of pronouncements often comes in inverse relationship to their accuracy and reliability. Saying something with great conviction is not the same thing as speaking the truth. But it’s a thing up here in New England – this notion that there is a ‘peak’ time for the fall colors. I suppose it’s accurate to say there is a stretch of several weeks when colors are brightest—when the gorgeous yellows and bright oranges and deep reds transform the usual green canopy into a tapestry of wonder. (My toddler grandson, in his innocence and clear perception, treats the colorful leaves as flowers – he dutifully goes over, bends down and sniffs. I join him in his homage. Though I catch no fragrance, the gesture seem appropriate.)

There must be some way to scientifically calculate the precise moment of peak color—taking into consideration all the trees at all the altitudes and latitudes of the area and averaging them exactly. Perhaps we could establish a area-wide scientific investigation. We’d ask every person of every age to go out every day to observe and count the leaves on evry tree. It would be a wonderful enterprise of grand scale and great seriousness. Of course we would all wear masks and keep our distance. We’d be safe in the outdoors and we’d all be grateful for the diversion. We’d all look and look while we counted and exactly measured the color of each leaf. After reporting our numbers, a beautiful map would appear, a colorful map indicating the precise rise and fall from peak color. Beauty seekers would travel from around the world and wander the area with the day’s exactly accurate map in hand. But maybe this is just a pipe-dream and we’ll have to settle for wandering on our own and our daily Covid hot-spot maps of more somber hues of yellow, orange and red.

When I was in college beginning to study sociology, I was fascinated with the concept of appropriate measurement scale. My professor illustrated this theory by saying ‘You don’t need a micrometer to cook a hotdog. You just put it on the grill and try to eat it after it’s hot and before it burns.’ The second hand on my wristwatch (am I giving myself away as hopelessly old-fashioned?) is not necessary for planning to get together with a friend.

I have to admit that I’m a ballpark kind of guy. I don’t really care whether it is 62 or 63 degrees. ‘Low sixties’ is close enough for me. Poking my head out the door and waving my arm around is usually enough to give me a sense of what clothing is appropriate for my next outdoor activity. Though I must confess to checking my phone each morning when I get up to see the weather forecast for the day. I don’t need the hour by hour, the predicted high and low and the precipitation forecast is enough.

The second part of the joke, and I suppose it’s not such a good joke if I have to take so long to explain it, is that I’ve said ‘This is peak.’ before, several times. In theory, there can be only one peak moment for the season. But I suppose, now that I think about it more clearly, there could be one peak moment for each location and even for each tree. The sugar maple near the entrance to the garden has clearly passed peak. The flaming reds and oranges have given way to an increasingly visible lattice of dark branches set off against the blue sky.

The serious part of my repeated pronouncements of peak is two-fold as well. First is the acknowledgment that you can never know the apex of any event, the maximum altitude of the thing, until after the fact. The peak can be certainly identified only after the descent begins. The fullness is appreciated in the midst of diminishment.

My second serious intent is a subtle stand taken for the immeasurable. I suppose this is where I have been headed with the whole joke—why I find it funny again and again.

Life is immeasurable. Life is not a thing that can be plotted on a graph. Of course there are many different amplitudes of our lives. Sometimes we succeed at what we set out to do, sometimes we miss the mark. Sometimes others praise us for our determination and courage, other times we are criticized for our stubbornness and lack of willingness to alter our course.

There are, however, peak moments when we are fully present and appreciative of exactly where we are. They seem to come and with a grace of their own. Yesterday morning was such a moment – walking a trail through the local forest. Yellow leaves fell from the blue sky as we walked into the pleasant morning. An old stonewall followed beside us for a while, its mossy green stones reminding us of the many others who have walked and worked these hills long before our morning ramble.

Toward Election Day – November 3rd

I notice that I have not been writing about the coming election or COVID-19 or racial injustice recently or the environmental crisis. This is only partly intentional. I remain convinced that this coming election is hugely important for the future of our country. In order to move toward meaningful action on the pandemic, institutional racism and environmental destruction, we must elect a new President and flip the Senate on November 4^th.

The plurality of Americans seem to feel this way as Biden is ahead in almost all of the polls. This is not cause to relax whatever efforts we have been making to support Biden and Democratic candidates in general. Many of us still vividly remember our shock and pain when Clinton, who most polls predicted would win the election, was defeated by Trump four years ago. We must do what we can to lend our voice, our time and our money to support Biden and Democratic Senatorial candidates.

Please make a plan to vote. My wife has already voted by mail. I have decided to vote (carefully) in person to be part of the votes that are registered right away. Trump has been utterly transparent in acknowledging that he will do everything in his power to stay in office, regardless of the outcome of the election. I have seen no evidence that he actually has the capacity to admit defeat about anything, let alone being voted out of the White House.

Trump will do his best (worst) to confuse, obfuscate and throw things into chaos after the election. A landslide victory for Biden that is evident the night of the election is the best defense against Trump’s coming machinations. But due to the record number of mail in ballots, much will be unknown even on November 5^th. The nightmare scenarios of Trump trying to steal the election are terrifying and utterly unprecedented in my memory of our Democracy. His incessant cries to ‘lock up’ his political opponents and calling for ‘something to happen’ to Adam Schiff for his role in the impeachment proceedings are right from the strong man dictator/mafia boss playbook.

While American politics at the national level have always involved people (mostly men) with huge egos and an outrageous need for power, there have always been limits—checks and balances to hold the institutions of democracy together through the predations of the worst impulses of human green, anger and ignorance. This is where I fault the Republican Senators (and House members) who have ignored Trump’s lying and law-breaking and have refused to speak up and take principled stands against this President’s predations.

Though as I write this I think again about my black and brown brothers and sisters. To say that our democracy has been working well is to ignore the treatment of people of color and the indigenous peoples of this country. Our precious democracy did not grant them the personhood and the respect to be included in the bubble of representation, respect and support that I want to associate with democratic principles.

But there have been strides forward and as much as Trump has activated and inflamed the festering grievances of some white people who feel their assumed supremacy threatened, he has also activated women and men of all colors toward a level of activism and change that are also unparalleled in my lifetime.

As much as I want Trump out of the White House, these terrible years of his Presidency have been the context for the arising of the ‘Me Too’ movement and Black Lives Matter. Women have entered politics and been elected to office in unprecedented numbers at the local, state and national level. And a generation of young people have led the country in demanding recognition of and an end to police violence against blacks and to institutional racism.

Things are not all bad. The seeds of change have been planted. Our job is to make our voices heard and be part of the larger move to create a civil society that supports and protects the rights and opportunities of all, not just a select few.

Political commentator Robert Hubbell recommends a long view of our current situation.   I conclude my thoughts today with an extended quote from his October 16 newsletter:

Whatever happens—win or lose—the earth will continue to spin, and the sun will rise on November 4, 2020. While we may not gain clarity on the day after the election, life will go on. I suggest that everyone make plans now for the day after, for the week after, and for the year after the election. Keep those plans. We must expand our field of vision and extend our time horizon beyond November 3^rd, both because that is necessary to defeat Trumpism and because the struggle against Trumpism must not consume our lives. We are engaged in a generational fight, but we must also attend to the important work of raising future generations to carry on after us. November 3^rd will be a momentous day in a decades-long fight. But it will be only one momentous day among many. Plan your life for the long-term. Live your life in hope and expectation, not fear and despair.

Advice to Self: Don’t Give Advice (even to yourself)

Whenever I can, I try not to give advice. Rarely is my opinion about someone else’s life necessary, accurate or helpful. Even when people directly ask for advice, they don’t really want it. They may want to be listened to. They may want help in thinking about options. But nobody really wants or needs me to tell them what to do—and that includes me.

I am often filled with well-meaning advice for myself. I am sure I should be more of this and less of that. I should be more organized. I should walk every day at 11:00. I should set blocks of time in my calendar to make sure I’m progressing on my new book. These are all good ideas, but I have learned that my advice is always opinionated and partial. Life is much more interesting than simply trying to get myself to do what I think I should be doing.

I am continually amazed at the mysterious suffering and wisdom that pervade our lives. There is simply no solution to life and yet freedom and possibility abound. Good ideas and clever interventions are just good ideas and clever interventions—they don’t touch the deeper currents that catch us up so completely in the ebb and flow of actual experience. Things are not what they seem to be—or rather things are not just what they seem to be.

The other day a friend said she was appreciating that life is much more impressionistic than she had realized. I thought this was a lovely way to describe this quality of life I am pointing toward. When you look closely at an impressionistic painting, the water lilies that are clearly evident from a distance turn out to be just splotches of paint as you get closer. These delightful daubs of green are thick and viscous. They delightfully dance on the white weave of the canvas that holds them in place. Back away and the lilies reappear—floating serenely on Monet’s imaginary pond—that was definitely not imaginary for him.

Life is like this. Fear, anger, sadness and confusion are not what they present themselves to be. They are not monolithic, true and never-ending. Nor are insight, clarity and connection the final resting place. They are all true and important. But nothing is as solid as it seems. Everything is vivid and provisional. We should cry when we are sad and laugh when we are happy. But it can be comforting to remember that the seeming solidity of the moment is a trick of the eyes.

This is all preamble to my confession that I gave advice to a friend yesterday. I couldn’t help it and I tried, even as I was advising, to be as provisional as possible. I advised him to leave the protected confines of his house and spend more time outdoors. I told him to wander in the woods and look up and the sky—to allow himself to receive the vast light of the universe into his heart. I was so inspired by this advice that I told him that I suspected it was just as much advice for myself as for him.

I had some time yesterday afternoon and I could have gone into the woods as I had so wisely recommended, but I didn’t. I just took a book of Wendell Berry poems out onto the side deck for a better view of the flaming maple tree across the street. I sat there flipping to the familiar poems on the dog-eared pages. I looked up again and again trying to receive the message of the brightly colored tree.

No revelation or burst of insight or sudden clarity appeared. But it was lovely to sit for a little in the warm overcast of the afternoon in the midst of this beautiful falling world.

Released Once Again

I’m happy to report that I have been released from the dark realms that held me so tightly yesterday. Isn’t that the way it goes? No guarantee on how long or how short the hard times (or the good times) last, but for sure everything changes and everything ends. I easily fall into thinking that if I work hard enough and am skillful and compassionate enough, I can make the good things last and the bad things go away when I want them to go away. For some stretches of time, this may appear to be so, but when I step back just a little I see the great rhythms of life are fundamental. Everything comes and goes. Everything that rises falls. Life leads to and includes death.

Yesterday I used the image of the darkness and difficulty we encounter being like a cocoon that holds us. Cocooned without reason / I am slowly digested / by the darkness / that embraces us all. Indeed we are all in the dark about what that comes after this life or what comes after this death. Theories and beliefs abound, but what comes next—even what comes in the next moment—is unknown. Sometimes this is more obvious than others.

In writing the poem No Choice, I pondered for some time whether the darkness embraces us or presses in on us. These two phrases came to mind and I felt I had to choose one, but I was quite ambivalent. To be embraced by the darkness is much more hopeful than being pressed in on by the darkness. It was more comforting to go with the embrace rather than the more ominous pressure, but I think the darkness I was speaking of includes both aspects.

This morning, on the internet, I found this resonant description of what is going on in the cocoon:

Inside the cocoon, the caterpillar is transforming into a new creature. … The fluid breaks down the old caterpillar body into cells called imaginal cells. Imaginal cells are undifferentiated cells, which means they can become any type of cell. Many of these imaginal cells are used to form the new body.

I don’t suppose the caterpillar likes the whole breaking down thing one bit. But the idea of imaginal cells—cells of possibility that come only after being broken down–feels deeply right to me.

Despite my best efforts, I find myself in dark places again and again. Years of meditation and coaching don’t seem to protect me from the natural rhythms of life. I suppose this is a blessing, but it is one of those hard blessings that I have to take a deep breath before I’m willing to say I’m grateful for. But I have increasingly learned to trust the landscape and the process of darkness. There is a death that is required—and not just the death when the heart stops beating.

Moving through our lives, we lose so much. We have to let go of our children as they grow up and move on with their lives. We have to let go of who we used to be, what we used to be able to do, of friends and colleagues gone from our lives. Some endings are so slow we hardly notice them and some happen with such speed and power that we feel ripped apart.

In Zen we talk about the possibility of participating in loss – about joining in with the very process that is breaking us down. It still is sometimes wildly painful, but when we say ‘yes’ to what is going on, there can be some ease in the middle of the dying itself.

The Christians talk about resurrection. I don’t know what happens when our hearts stop beating, but I do believe that we all die and are reborn again and again in this lifetime. When we allow ourselves to die to who we were, to die to our opinion or whatever we were clinging to, then we are reborn as a new version of ourselves. In the dying and the breaking down we are humbled—brought to the earth. Our conceited illusions of power and control are dissolved and we are able to proceed on with some slight bit more of wisdom and compassion for ourselves and for our fellow human beings.

No Choice

Coherence dissipates
and resolve flees headlong
in front of the forces
of night. Overmatched
once again I resign
myself to the underworld to
impatiently await the end
of my infinite sentence.
Held prisoner and perfectly
cocooned without reason,
I am slowly digested
by the darkness
that embraces us all.

On Not Working Hard

This morning I wake up with a headache. Allergies?   Lingering cold symptoms? It’s hard to say. I’m not feeling inspired. I start writing about the fall colors which are now peaking and then switched to the story of my first COVID test (negative) but both feel contrived and boring. So I figure I’ll take the risk of hanging out here in the doldrums and see if there is anything to notice right where I am.

It’s a challenge to avoid working hard. My new definition of working hard is doing what you do because that’s what you do. Working hard is losing touch with the purpose but going on with the activity. ‘I write every morning so I must write every morning because that is what I do.’ If I follow this logic, I end up becoming a well-intentioned copy of myself. I go through the motions and follow the pattern but the joy is lost. When I lose my connection to intention, it’s all hard work. I can still put words on a page, but it’s not fun or alive in the writing nor, I imagine, in the reading.

One of the things I learned in the improvisational dance company I was with so many years ago is that you can tell the difference, both from the inside and the outside, when performers are genuinely in the moment. In our time rehearsing, teaching and performing, we explored the possibilities and the challenges of presenting the creative process itself as the performance. From the inside of a dance, the work was to be aware of what was arising within yourself, within the other dancers and within the space as a whole. We practiced not planning in advance—which is much harder to do than it sounds. When the mind comes in to ‘help out’ in a self-conscious way, the dance becomes artificial, predictable and boring. The best dances were surprising to both the dancers and to the audience.

This improvisational presence is the discipline I am most interested in—in writing and gardening as well as in meditation and in life. I want to practice and live in intimate responsiveness to what is arising in the moment. True beauty is a kind of courageous authenticity—a willingness to follow some inner necessity—not a carefully curated arrangement of appropriate materials. This is what most interests me in my daily writing. Of course I want to offer whatever wisdom and experience I have, but I want to do it in such a way that I get to learn too. I don’t want to blab on about what I knew yesterday, I want to find and share what is arising new in this moment.

As I write, I’m conscious of meaning and shape and the craft of it all even as I hold fast to not knowing where the thing itself is leading me. I go back over what I have written several times, both in the process of writing and after I finish to adjust and refine. I am trying to use my self-consciousness without being ruled by my self-consciousness. A high-wire balancing act. I am curating my presentation self in service of presenting some authentic self. I’m always choosing and editing—revealing some parts of myself while hiding others. But my intention is to use all these kinds of awareness to more clearly present some moment of aliveness that is beyond my conscious control.

When I know where I’m going, or even when I think I have to go somewhere, it’s not much fun. It’s hard work. And I am increasingly determined to avoid hard work. Life is too short and too precious to just go through the motions. I don’t mind working hard when there is some inner necessity. When the thing itself is alive, it’s all adventure. I’ll happily dig holes, pile rocks, or sit in the chair with my laptop morning after morning—as long as I have the sense of following and offering something more than myself.

Like a dog sniffing and sniffing, I wait for and follow the arousal of that invisible scent. Sometimes I dash off into the dark woods and get totally lost. Other times this impossibly sweet and subtle fragrance leads me leisurely forward. Other times, there’s barely a trace. Still I wait and trust as best I can.

Learning to Jump

My grandson is trying to learn how to jump. I don’t know where he got the idea. Maybe this is part of the curriculum at his nursery school. Walking, running, then jumping. He’s a good little runner and easily runs ahead when we walk together. It makes me a little nervous as falls are common, but he shrieks with pleasure in the running and who could deny him that?

Yesterday, after his two hour after-school nap where he recovers from how much he’s learned at nursery school, he go very excited when I asked him if he wanted to go out for a walk in the rain to go to the corner and watch the cars. Getting him into his blue unicorn rain suit is not an easy task. So I distracted him by being silly and dancing with my bright orange raincoat while his mother and grandmother double-teamed him into the rain suit.

But he drew the line with boots. For some reason he has decided that rain boots are an abomination and to be avoided at all costs. He cooperates in holding his feet up for sneakers, but mounts a vigorous and boisterous campaign whenever someone tries to fit his feet into the boots. Whether this is a principled statement of fashion, a misguided fear of rubber objects or a comfort issue, we don’t yet know. He won the battle so we both headed out in the light rain in sneakers and rain gear.

We both love rain and puddles, me and my grandson. I remember playing outside in the summer rain with my brother, creating dams in the gutters to make giant pools as the rain cascaded down and we got soaked. I remember walking in the fall rain on the residential streets on the outskirts of Nagasaki, Japan. I was sixteen years old and feeling very far from home as the night fell. I walked and walked and was somehow comforted by the familiar rain that fell on me and on my family so far away. I remember starting a fire in the rain after a wet day hiking in the woods with my sister. We gathered a cache of the tenderest small sticks that were still somewhat dry and carefully nursed our small flame until it was a warm and cheerful hearth in the middle of the wet forest. And this, is my newest rain memory—holding a small already wet hand, walking down the large steps by the back door—in palpable anticipation of puddles.

The first one we encountered by the corner of the house was only an inch deep. My grandson immediately dropped my hand, darted to the puddle and began stomping his feet with great delight. Little flurries of stomping would yield to small shrieks of laughter and looking up for my approval of his wondrous functioning. What is it about stomping in puddles? Is it a walking on water thing? Or the power of making the water jump and dance?

Later in the day I heard short item on the radio of some 12,000 year-old footprints that have been unearthed in White Sands National park. The big discovery is the mile-long trail of footprints of a mother or young man carrying a toddler at a quick pace. (Apparently there was danger and anxiety even before our current President.) The same news cast also mentioned large footprints of prehistoric animals that also contain hundreds of little human footprints. The current theory is that the large footprints made a puddle and the little footprints were our toddling and dancing ancestors splashing like my grandson.

But back to our rain and our puddle. As he was stomping his sneakered feet (which were already wet two minutes out of the house), my grandson began crouching down with both feet on the ground and the straightening up quickly. At first I wasn’t sure what he was doing, then I realized he was trying to jump—trying to go airborne—to get both feet off the ground at the same time. Though his coordination and his likelihood of success seemed quite low, his determination and joy was boundless. So I joined in.

I don’t do a lot of jumping up and down these days. Not that I’m against it in principle, it’s just an activity with very little practical value. Occasionally walking quite fast, or even running gets me somewhere (across the street?) as necessity dictates, but getting both feet off the ground is almost never necessary. But yesterday was different.

People driving by, in the rain, on the outskirts of Boston, saw two jumping figures – a large one in a bright orange raincoat and a small one in a blue unicorn rain suit. And if someone had been patient enough they would have even seen the unicorn clad one leave the ground for just an instant – both tiny wet feet happy to self-power themselves off the surface of the earth for the first time.

And which was more miraculous—a small chubby toddler rising briefly toward the heavens or an old man jumping up and down in the rain, laughing and laughing?

Everything Is

Everything is
the full expression
of its own explanation—
complete in its
flashing particularity.

Just this
specific
revelation.

Don’t dream
of some other heaven
heaven or otherwise
let yourself be
distracted from the
holiness at hand.

Only when the mind
surrenders its endless
search does This
reveal itself.

All avenues of pursuit
close and hope
for something else
dies. Then the embryo
of the true self is
born at last into
what it has always been.

Discrete incarnation.

The Possibilities Unfixable Problems

A friend of mine once told me there are three kinds of problems in long-term relationships. First there are the ones that you solve together effortlessly and hardly notice you’ve solved anything. Second, there are the problems that require joint effort, but after some time yield solutions—we can feel justifiable pride in our working together to bring these issues to conclusion. Finally, there are the problems that you never solve—they come back again and again and you can never quite seem to resolve them. These are the perpetual issues of the relationship. My friend said that not only are these insoluble, these ongoing issues present in every relationship are the bridges to intimacy.

I distinctly remember hearing this framework with relief and puzzlement. I was aware of these categories in all my relationships – with my wife, with other family members, with colleagues and with myself. There are always areas of easeful functioning, some places of working hard together to work out differences and then there are the ongoing points of tension that don’t ever get really solved or figured out. I was relieved to hear that these ongoing difficulties are not simply a failure on my part, but are inherent in the nature of relationships.

I was surprised, however, to hear that these insoluble issues are (or can be) bridges to intimacy. I’ve never quite understood what that meant but the very least it encourages me to hold ongoing problems in a new light. What if the problem is not a problem? What if the ongoing tension, at whatever level, is not something to be fixed, but something to be explored and wondered about—a path to deeper understanding and connection? What if there is something going on that is mysterious and interesting rather than annoying and problematic?

Ongoing issues in relationships rise and fall in their intensity and in their purported meaning. Sometimes the fact that I like to leave five minutes early and you like to leave on time is only a minor irritant that I can easily adjust to. Sometimes it is the incontrovertible evidence that you never really respected me and we should never have gotten together in the first place.