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.