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.