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.