I was wondering when I was going to start writing again. I’ve not lacked for inspiration: it’s been coming hard and fast, and instead of writing about it, I have been integrating it directly into my life. It seems like in every moment, during these unusual days and nights, I am being pressed into the service of evolution. My inner self is working hard. I can actually feel the gears moving and shifting and churning. Since the beginning of The Hush, I have been remarkably free from attachment to The Outcome and this freedom has cleared a space for an unparalleled depth of inner movement in me. Have you felt something like this, too?
The tendrils of my thoughts, though powerful, have felt too delicate and unformed to share with others, and very often, they have felt too fraught with the possible quills of offense or insensitivity. I have been touching anger very deeply and it is expressing in new ways, internally and externally. More than ever, I’ve needed to double check my words before speaking, searching for hidden barbs and judgments, and more than ever, I have felt misunderstood and frustrated with my inability to make sense of it all. And I have had to make space for the ache of new knowledge: that Truth and Doubt exist at the exact same internal GPS point.
My tribes and their beliefs and behaviors feel distant from me – and often distasteful. I’ve felt impatient and angry and sad about the herd mentality and willingness to be run by fear that I see. My tenderness has gone on sabbatical, my compassion is AWOL. My humility? That same humility I’ve been praying for? Out to lunch. I’ve felt even more impatient and angry and sad about my behavior, my thoughts, words and judgments. And I’ve felt alone and full of doubt. I’ve been asking big questions and been answered with even bigger questions. When I have shared some of this with a very few beloveds, I can’t seem to find a way to turn this foggy beauty into words they can understand.
Today offered a new opportunity. I did something I very seldom do: I scrolled through my Facebook feed. It was impossible not to get hooked. Within 30 seconds I was in the middle of a world polarized in every possible way, along every possible line, and in the center of it, I saw George Floyd. And I read the different ways our bewildered and floundering society was grappling with his murder.
A couple of hours later, my husband James, who is a black man, told me he was heading out to buy groceries. Something opened in me, or maybe it closed. I’m not sure. But I got back on Facebook and I wrote this:
In the wake of the murder of George Floyd, I am once again reminded of the depth of unconsciousness that runs our society and our institutions. In my little world, this plays out by asking James not to go out of the house for fear he will be murdered on the street for something like exceeding the speed limit by 5mph. Today he has gone to Market Basket. He never speeds, but still he has promised, as he always does, to obey the speed limit. He won’t wear a cap or a hoodie and he will remember to keep his hands out of his pockets. And we breathe and hold onto trust in the goodness and mindfulness of our community.
I felt somewhat uneasy with sharing this post on Facebook. Worrying about James every time he leaves the house is a reality of my life, but not something that I dedicate too much energy to. As I thought about the post, I wondered if it had a histrionic tilt to it. Or perhaps it presented both of us in the role of potential victim, which felt yucky. I considered taking down the post, but I thought it might have value as a way to share a peek into the layers of consideration that, for James, go into simple activities like driving and grocery shopping, layers that many of us take for granted.
I kept the post up and the responses started to come in. There were lots of “crying guy emoji’s” and a couple of “thumbs up.” Folks wrote about how angry it made them, and they sent love to me and to James. Others offered us hugs and apologies. When I read a post from someone demonizing the cops that murdered George Floyd, I had had enough.
I remembered that Facebook, as one of history’s biggest social experiments, perfectly feeds into what I call our mirror-blindness: the tendency to see the world and everyone in it as a reflection of who we are and what we believe and nothing more. Mirror-blindness is a symptom of our deep state of unconsciousness. So, why was I trying to teach a message about consciousness on Facebook, the place many of us go to engage in the very depths of unconsciousness? Why was I trying to teach a lesson at all? So much for humility. And, though it was unintentional, my post fed right into the polarity and divisiveness that I had witnessed on Facebook earlier.
My solution, you may ask? Well, another Facebook post of course! I started typing with a righteous fervor. “You missed my point!” I wanted to whine. “Don’t you dare pity me!” I wanted to scream. “AAAAARRRGGHH!” I wanted to yell. This is what I came up with and was about to post just when James came home from the grocery store:
Some of you have heard me say this many times. We do not have a race problem or an economic inequity problem - we have an unconsciousness problem. And we, all of us, are the only ones who can fix it. This problem does not exist in another state, in another group of people or in our highest offices - it exists in all of us us. Blame and violence and protests and postcard writing and Facebook posts will not solve this problem, though they may bring us gratification. Only consciousness can fix unconsciousness. Please look to your own lives. Tend to your own lives.
I read it to James and asked for his opinion. He just looked at me and looked at me and looked at me. Finally I had to look away. He didn’t say a word, but I heard his question loud and clear: Was I going to double down on my own mirror blindness? Or was I going to tend to my own life.
I deleted both posts and began to write something that I feel good about. Something that gave me a chance to remember my humility. Thank you for reading.