Humility and Mirror Blindness: A Facebook Primer

 

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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.

All In

I guess that push has come to this, so I guess this must be shove. - Ani DiFranco

Part of me knew it had to happen eventually. During these ever-changing, ever-narrowing days, I’ve felt present. I’ve felt grounded. I’ve felt content and I’ve had many moments of joy and peace and pleasure. I’ve had feelings of detachment and bemusement. I’ve experienced tendrils of fear and pangs of anxiety and grief as well, but today was different. Today I really lost my shit. I had not realized how much grief and resistance I’d been storing in my body.

It started last night. In anticipation of the nearly full moon, I harnessed and leashed up the dogs around 7:00, and James and I headed to our favorite place on earth for a walk: Salisbury Beach Reservation. This is our happy place. We were married in a covered shelter at the end of one of its rustic boardwalks. We go to this beach to celebrate our anniversary, we take a walk at this beach every Christmas Eve and Easter, and we honor the changing seasons every equinox and solstice on its sands. When Uncle James died, we let this beach help hold our grief. When James got laid off and when ice dams threatened to destroy our home, we found solace at this beach. We love it best in the off-season, when there are few to no people and the dogs can run and frolic freely.  I love it during a blizzard and during high winds when nature shows us who’s boss. But the dogs didn’t frolic on its sands last night. Salisbury Beach Reservation is closed.

When I saw the signs as we approached the turn-off, my head understood the message, but my heart went into immediate denial. Maybe my heart started singing show tunes? Or doing calisthenics? Maybe it went into a dance routine replete with jazz hands? I’m not sure - I only know that it took a trip away from me and the distance felt easier than the pain of this new loss. After a somber trip up the coast in which every Closed sign in every parking lot fell with a dull thud on my chest, we headed home. There’d been no moonlit beach walk. It was dark and I was numb.

It wasn’t until this morning that my heart showed up at last so I could feel the sadness. It worked through me slowly as I began to acknowledge the many losses we have all been enduring. I’d been spending so much energy holding on to what felt positive about our changing world and contemplating the possibilities of staying present in the middle of continuous change, that I forgot to feel how much has been lost. I can’t speak for the losses of any one else, although I know they are great and certainly the loss of my favorite walking spot does not compare; weddings postponed, graduations cancelled, employment and financial health precarious or worse, not to mention the loss of health and life and the feeling of safety for so many. But for me, the loss of my beloved Salisbury Beach Reservation resonated with the loss of so many things I have learned to do to take care of myself, of the things that feed me and make me feel whole: my church, my social groups, connections with friends and family and even with strangers. I love strangers! And I miss it all so much.

I tried to stay focused on my work this morning - preparing the back yard for our upcoming vegetable garden - but I was impatient and short-tempered with James and with myself, and my terrible unexpressed grief was threatening to hurl both of us down an abyss. Finally, I broke down into a sobbing helpless heap and let the waves of grief work through me. It was hard and it was painful and it was necessary. I sobbed for nearly a half hour. When I tried to get back to the business of my day, my small projects and my even smaller adventures, I found I had to surrender to the exhaustion and sadness. A simple trip in the car brought on a panic attack, the thought of making dinner felt like an insurmountable task. I will have an early night and wake tomorrow to start a new day.

I’m shaking my head now, though, embarrassed about the detached and nearly blithe way I’ve been viewing others’ grief and fear. My protective wall has come down, and I am grateful. This new openness is a blessing; I know it will find me more compassionate and vulnerable and will hold me grounded to this world in a more authentic and open-hearted way.

Cirilo Sanchez, April 5, 1933 - February 2, 2002

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Dad’s been gone 18 years now. He died young and suddenly and he was very much beloved. He lived a life of presence and joy and humor; he taught me how to enjoy my moments! I never know when I will be inspired to joy or sorrow, mirth or heartache, by his legacy. This short piece bubbled up in me about a month ago. I’m sharing it today, on his birthday.

There were some things I thought had died with my father but I was wrong.

I thought he had taken all the joy with him, sucked it up to the heavens, leaving just that shell of a body on the table in the morgue. I stared, gape-mouthed at him there; I could make no sense of how this empty husk ever housed so much vibrant and ecstatic life.

I wandered for months after he died, barely touching life. Dressing. Eating. Sleeping. I watched the snow pile up on the sidewalks and wondered listlessly if it would stay or go. When tiny hard buds appeared on the frigid branches, they seemed a curious artifact of a life I’d once heard tell of.

But by the time the buds unwrapped their green promise and the morning began with yellow warmth instead of gray chill, my body began to remember the rhythm, half buried still, that beat out, day and night, week and month, holy and sacred and merciful, a rhythm that refused to lay low.

Navigating New Worlds

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How are you navigating our new and ever-changing world? If you’re like me, you may be balancing moments of great clarity and ease with moments of great fear and anxiety. You might find that the waves of clenching tightness caused by fear are offset by waves of tremendous openness, spaciousness and possibility. You may realize, often and with a start, that you feel content.

I generally feel grounded, yet tendrils of fear and worry creep and gather nearby at times. I do my best to discern what is a valid concern vs. what I am manufacturing out of fear of the unknown. I do my best to stay away from the narrative and stay in the feeling of the moment; to walk on the razor's edge of now. It is a beautiful and worthy practice. And, during these particular days, it feels alternately dizzyingly freeing and dizziyngly terrifying - sometimes both at the same time. I think often of Eckhart Tolle's question: "What problem do you have right now?" 

For the first few days of The Hush, my husband James and I found ourselves gently circling each other and gathering often in our living room, finding things to do together, often sitting in companionable silence. As the days go on, we are expanding our worlds and creating our own special places. James is embracing his love of puzzles and movies and podcasts. I am creating places to nest and be deeply quiet, to write and to dream. I love these days for the possibility and energy and movement they offer, for the conception and completion of projects, and for the sunshine. I love the evenings best, though. I spend them watching the sun set and feeling the darkness slowly blanket our world. I’m enjoying deep quiet and am surprised to find I need less companionship than I thought I did. I am learning how little of anything I need, in general.

In this new world, I'm still my usual 'kindly narcissist' self. I continue to share my Presence with the individuals and groups I love, now via Zoom and walks outdoors. I miss my church family and I miss attending my UU church. Aside from this loss and the occasional burst of fear and anxiety, I love the new soft-blanket pace. I love being released from the constant call to get things done, that has had its way with me for decades - long after I thought I’d let it go. I love the feeling of what I had believed to be solid ground shifting beneath me, creating a new reality. I love watching myself scramble to adjust to that new reality and then laughing at my hubris, because once I've adjusted, it has shifted again! It would be very easy to Bring Busy Back by over-scheduling Zoom meetings and creating too many projects, but the air is sweet and time is moving at its own glorious pace, so we move with it. 

I am taking such good care of myself. I am eating well and getting plenty of rest and I remain disengaged from the trumpet call of the media. When I am met with clenching fear in myself or in the folks I meet, I offer a reminder of what is Real, what is happening right now and what of beauty might be found even in our limited line of vision. My daily meditation practice and chi gong practice sustain me and keep me grounded. I am following my own common sense and reason about safety and precaution. It is unsafe and unhealthy for me, emotionally and physically, to stay inside. The dogs and I are out for walks everyday where we can say hello and smile at passersby from a distance. I try to walk with a willing friend daily; although there is physical distance between us, being in the company of my beloveds feeds my soul. At the end of these days, following a more natural, comfortable pace, I feel deeply satisfied and deeply tired.

What are your moments like? How are you managing? What skills and strategies and practices are serving you today?

One Thought

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James, my beloved introvert, is so content in these days of quiet. He not only gets to stay home, he is encouraged to do so. It makes me think about the usual hectic pace of our lives and how that must feel for an introvert in particular. It’s easy to see how much of the adjustment to pace has been on his side.

My name is Linda and I am an Extrovert. I miss my people

Creative Visioning

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It’s a gross understatement to say that the last week has been difficult for all of us; whether you are suddenly having to manage restless school-aged children at home, struggling to access necessary goods or services, if you’re feeling isolated, or feeling terrified about the potential collapse of your small business, the economy, or society as a whole - or any of the other complicated and difficult issues we find ourselves in the middle of - none of this was scheduled. Our resilience and resourcefulness is truly unbounded, and that doesn’t mean that we don’t find ourselves at the breaking point more often than ever. Social isolation exacerbates all of this and involuntary social isolation adds an additional layer - helplessness.

I’ve been swimming upstream all week. I have held – and still do! – that we must be in community. That, with proper precautions and good sense, maintaining face-to-face community is essential. And that distancing from the people and groups who sustain is, is the last thing we need right now. I’ve encouraged visits to my house as well as gatherings of four or five friends. I have even – gasp! – gone to restaurants.  As the days go on, and the aperture of social life continues to narrow, my behavior has felt increasingly subversive. I have had to realize, startling minute by startling minute, that the course of this shared viral experience has been set and must flow as it will. I know it is more complicated than this, but if feels like fear is having its way with us.

I am tired and it is tempting for me to cease my upstream swim and rest on the shore. I still have a few willing compatriots who will join me for a walk in nature or an in-person chat, but, like most of you, the majority of my individual in-person connections and all of my life-affirming small groups have been suspended. The blog post I wrote just last week extolling the virtues of hugging, reads like a time capsule from a far-away age of innocence. When I wrote it, I felt shock and anger and frustration at how quickly and tightly we had let fear grip us and how little questioning was being done about the outlines we were asked to follow. How quickly we let the media teach us a new language (‘social distancing’, ‘flatten the curve’, ‘out of an abundance of caution’) and how quickly we acquired its characteristics. I still feel angry and frustrated but I think I am finally coming out of shock. Thank goodness, because there is good work to be done.

Please take a few moments and vision with me. Break the flow of fear. (You can get right back to it if you choose, I promise!) Set a five minute timer and vision the world at its best, as beautiful and full as you can see it. In your vision, fill this world with whatever you know of love, of kindness, of compassion, of prosperity and possibility. See us at our best. Hold this vision in your mind’s eye and let it comfort you. Write down a few words that come to you or perhaps draw something on paper. Please consider sharing this vision with others in whatever way works for you. And consider sharing your vision in the comments below for others to enjoy.

This visioning is not an escapist tactic to avoid reality – this is an Act of Creation.

Let love have its way with you.

 

Let Love Have its Way With You

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It seems that very often when I pick up my pen or my keyboard to write, my message is about fear; how it guides us, teaches us, controls us, manipulates us. And I’m doing it again today because I can feel how many of us are clenched around fear. Two concerts I was looking forward to have been cancelled. An international trade show I plan to attend in Las Vegas with more than 300,000 attendees is teetering on being cancelled. And, over the last few days, in the wake of unfettered bombastic newscasting, several people whom I love have offered me an elbow bump in favor of our usual embrace. Another friend suggested I put off a visit to a lonely beloved living in an assisted living facility, citing risk and protocol.  Is this the new normal? My friends, it is not spiritually sound to stop hugging people you care about, especially during times of great fear. This is when we need to hold each other closest.

It occurred to me that an epidemic like the one that is currently being co-created with us by the media, might feel like the perfect antidote or, perhaps, placeholder, for what most ails us; that is, the undercurrent of unnamed fear and anxiety that many of us walk around with. Is it possible that we experience a certain relief in finding a clear wide swath of shared concern to connect around, rather than simmering in our own murky discomfort? I wonder if this mutual attachment to specific fears then becomes a substitute for the intimacy we all crave. Of course true intimacy can never blossom through fear, only through love. And that murky discomfort we all try to avoid? That’s where our salvation lies. I know I am treading on dangerous grounds here. We hold our fears and worries sacrosanct and those fears and worries that are sanctioned by the government, the media, by our schools and churches and concert halls must be all the more valid, right?

Where is our perspective in all this, I wonder? And our discernment? In this 21st century life, having instant access to worldwide incidents, large and small, has not been going well for us in general. We don’t use the information wisely and it keeps us forever spinning in a loop of data that was never meant for us, and has little or no useful meaning for our lives. I think it keeps us from finding and holding our center.  What many of us call “staying informed,” becomes an impossible task, and the constant hunt for what is true takes us away from the only place where what is true actually lives: inside of us - in our churning, beautiful, disturbing, anxious, joyful inner lives.

I have a feeling this post is coming across as super preachy. It’s not my intention. I am in earnest about getting and staying conscious and I am so saddened by everything that we let get in the way. I know we can make better choices!

Please stop a moment. Take a breath. Remember your perspective, the big picture. Remember what you love. And remember to take great pleasure in what you love. Try to release the clench of fear. Let love have its way with you.

Super Tuesday

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Take up the heart you came to heal; put down your dagger and your shield. – Roseanne Cash

I feel heartsick today. My body wants to push it away, my mind wants to push it away, but my heart knows enough to cherish it since it is part of me, it’s real and it’s here. I feel sad that we are entering into another presidential election season, with an electoral system that is so deeply flawed and inhumane and contrary to the compassion, kindness and creativity that I treasure about our species. Our electoral system seems intent on setting us on an insane hamster wheel: spinning and spinning with nowhere to go. I hope it’s not treason to question to my very bones an electoral system that requires us to join teams pitted against one another. This election year’s hypocrisies feel even more potent because of the deep partisanship that has become woven into the fabric of our communication, our relationships and our communities through the last decade; as we retreat into the tinny safety, cowardice and banality of cyberspace and stop showing up as multi-dimensional beings, capable of understanding and compassion, creativity and evolution. There is no creativity in a one-dimensional space.  While trying to send heart-centered emails to my beloveds this morning, the sidebar on my Yahoo email page was continually spitting anti-him and anti-her hate slogans – soundbites calculated to contract its consumers with fear and suspicion – against people who may actually become our leaders! We are better than this, my friends. It’s time to take up our hearts and put down our swords.  

It may not be simple to tell the difference between our hearts and our swords. When we are deeply passionate, the discernment process can be complicated and tricky. I’ve been watching a group of friends who are strongly backing a candidate and it looks like they are digging their heels in, bracing themselves and preparing for battle. They insist they have not taken up their sword, that they have embraced their candidate of choice because of the good they see in this candidate not because they are against anyone else. Still…I see a narrowing in their eyes and a set to their jaw that looks like righteousness to me. And a stance prepared for fighting. I don’t know what space is left for our heart to show up when we are contracted and clenched with the need to win.

Perhaps what most disturbs me about this upcoming election season is the loss many of us will experience: loss of joy, loss of vitality, loss of now. It is in our grim pursuit to gain something, to arrive somewhere, to attain a goal, that many of us will lose our now moments. It’s already difficult enough for many of us to slow down and savor our lives. I fear that during this election season, when we need to be most present and most available, we will become separated, more so than usual, from what is, in our pursuit of what we hope will be. And because we have set ourselves into camps (blue and red) what likelihood is there that we will be more willing to find compassion, commonality and possibility in the views of another? Worse, if what I’ve seen in folks’ behavior over the last three and a half years is any indication and with the stakes feeling so high in this presidential election, I fear that, for many, the necessary and life-affirming action of taking time to simply pause and breathe, enjoy and relax, may feel like a sin against their cause. When will we learn that our very resistance continually creates and revitalizes that which we are resisting?

I don’t have any answers. I don’t have a solution. I don’t know of a better way to choose a leader. I do have a vision, wavering and unclear, for what might be. It’s a waking up from the dream of separation from our brothers and sisters – a great yawning stretch and then a remembering that we are all in this together. This can’t happen in the middle of the Great Taking Sides, this Win or Lose that defines our electoral system. No matter who wins in November, where there are teams and sides, then a large percentage of our nation will have lost. They will not feel validated, they may even feel abandoned. And desperate. There has got to be a better way to invite a leader to take charge of our nation. Just because it is the way we’ve been doing it for so long doesn’t make it the only way and certainly doesn’t make it the best way.  

I will stop here. I am a citizen of this flawed, beautiful society and I need to go cast my vote. Then I will return to my work, bringing as much joy and compassion to my moments as I can find.

What Else is Possible?

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Have you ever seen the 2004 movie, What the Bleep Do We Know!? I’ve watched it a few times. It’s a hypnotic and startling probe into the nature of reality. It demonstrates, through real life examples, the limits we have learned to live with and the possibilities that may lie outside of those limits. One scene has stayed with me in particular and I think of it often. In this scene, the narrator uses the arrival of Christopher Columbus’ ships to the New World, to illustrate the nature of our limitations. The narrator suggests that it would have been impossible for the average native person of that time to actually see the ships as they arrived, that the sight of something they had never witnessed nor heard tell of, would have been too far outside of their reality – of what IS – to be seen. The narrator suggests it would have likely been the shaman or seer who would have first noticed the ships and through his or her guidance would have helped the other members of the community to see the ships arriving. Of course, we can never know what that experience was like. Still this idea - we see only what we expect to see - resonates for me. To take this idea further - that which is outside of our understanding just doesn’t exist for us - may feel limiting and disappointing. If turned on its head, though, it can be incredibly liberating.  What if expanding our capacity to see, to be open to what is, is indeed unlimited? What if it’s simply a matter of opening our eyes and our minds and our hearts a little wider?

This scene from What the Bleep Do We Know!? came to be again yesterday as I was making guacamole and looking for my avocado smasher.I knew it would be in one of two drawers. I looked in the first drawer and didn’t see it. Then I went to the second drawer and it wasn’t there either. Hmmmm….? When I returned to the first drawer, of course, there it was, right in plain sight. How did I miss it the first time? After giving it a little thought, I became aware that although I started my search in the first drawer, I was convinced my husband would have put it in the second drawer. (I will spare you the gory details of our convoluted kitchen organization.)  The point is that my expectation of it being in the second drawer actually BLINDED me and prevented me from seeing it in the first drawer initially. I had to rewrite my expectations in order to find my avocado smasher.

The implications here are just as wide and far-reaching in this example as they are in the example of Columbus’ ships. It may leave me with more questions than it does answers, but the questions are spectacular!

  • If we see what we think we will see, what happens when we open up to what else is out there?

  • How do we even do this?

  • Do we all have the capacity to be shamans or seers?

  • Can we rewrite our expectations?

  • What if there are no limits on our capacity to see?

PS In case you’re wondering, the guacamole turned out great!

Visits from the Queen

Do you ever find yourself in the middle of Righteous High Drama? When your words are lofty and justified and you feel so sure that you are speaking the Very Truths of the Universe and everyone around you had better listen up? And take notes?  I do. It’s rare; it happens just enough to make me wonder if I should audition for community theater.  This part of me most often comes out to play when I feel misunderstood or frustrated with limits. Sometimes I feel a little embarrassed afterward, but for the most part, I enjoy the sense of swinging into a larger version of myself and visiting there for a short while. I wouldn’t want to live there but I enjoy the view during my short visits.

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Even back in 1986 I was channeling my inner royalty.

I had a visit from my inner Righteous High Drama Queen just the other day. She came out after an acquaintance called me out for being too happy. That’s right – too happy. (I can feel my Righteous High Drama Queen kicking in a little just thinking about it.) This acquaintance had been recounting the story of a personal struggle and stopped herself to say, “Oh, Linda, can you even understand? Everything is always so easy for you. You’re always happy.” I was stunned. I felt dismissed and misunderstood. I felt two-dimensional.  It felt like my willingness to experience and lead with ease had led her to believe I never experienced suffering and that my road has always been smooth. Worse, I felt that this woman was disappointed that I wasn’t coming along for the ride in the misery car of humanity. (I know, more drama.)

I know she is having a really tough year and I was mindful about letting her know that I understood how hard she was having it. And I also let her know that while I try to lead from a place of ease, I was able to understand her sorrow. I don’t think she was able to hear me; you know how contracted and deaf we can get when we are in pain. I left this conversation feeling compassion for my friend but also feeling misunderstood.

My Righteous High Drama Queen made her appearance afterward, when I called my old friend Laura and recounted my  experience – minus names and details, of course; I focused on the feeling behind the exchange. Laura and I have known each other since our wild, heady 20’s and she knows so much of what makes me me. It felt important to talk to someone who knew more about my dimensionality, about the joys and sorrows that had helped formed me, the true and terrifying paths I’d dared to carve when the pre-scripted paths held no meaning for me or didn’t have space for the likes of me. Once I had Laura’s attention, my Righteous High Drama Queen came out in full force. I found myself saying something like this: “I’ve been creating my own path, bushwhacking for decades, to create a path of my own, a path of integrity where I could reach for and experience freedom and happiness.” My voice now rose to thunderous levels, replete with a quiver, as I said: “If anyone thinks carving out my own path has been easy, they should feel the heft of my machete in their hands!”

(Bushwhacking for decades? The heft of my machete? You gotta love the Righteous High Drama Queen.)

Laura and I chuckled a bit about my dramatic choice of words and dug down a little into the message they contained: creating a path of one’s own can sometimes feel lonely and isolating.  Part of creating your own path means moving forward at your own pace; and knowing that not everyone can come along for the ride.

I choose not to lead with pain, but that doesn’t mean that pain has not helped to shape me and teach me. Or that I don’t understand the pain of others. When my struggling new friend has found some space and peace in her life again, I will try to reopen this dialogue with her. It may not be important for her to know the struggles I’ve faced, but I do want her to understand, if possible, the beauty of reaching for happiness.

 

Coming Unglued: Parenthood (from a non-parent)

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I don’t know how anyone survives parenthood intact. I don’t have human children though I love my dogs with a passion and ferocity that startles me sometimes. Living with these furbabies has changed me dramatically. That’s where the staying intact versus coming unglued question comes in. In what ways do we deconstruct ourselves and reassemble when we allow these beloved creatures (human or otherwise) into our lives?

I have two dogs and this morning I planned to walk just one of my dogs on his own. It was sunny for the first time in a few days and I wanted to be outdoors for a while in the brisk daylight. Linus loves taking a nice long walk on his leash and will go anywhere with me at any time. His sister, Seven, is less amenable. She prefers off-leash romps at the beach, often takes offense at being leashed, and only likes to go a certain distance before she digs her heels into the sidewalk and refuses to budge. Still, she expects to come along every time. This morning was no different. She waited expectantly while I put Linus into his harness with her head bowed slightly in order for me to slip her harness on as well. She eyed me suspiciously when I didn’t reach for her harness, and then she rounded her eyes in disbelief as I headed for the door without her. Her tail beat out an enthusiastic stanza or two. I picked her up and gently placed her in her favorite blanket on her favorite couch and explained, “Linus and Mommy are going for a nice long walk. Now, I know you don’t enjoy leashed walks. When we get back we’ll throw the ball in the yard.” She looked at me in a way I was sure meant, “Cool. Have a great walk. I’ll be here napping.” That’s not what it meant. As soon as I headed toward the door, she was out of her blanket and off of her couch and wagging her tail excitedly at the door. I tried again. I placed her in her spot, kissed her on the head and explained the situation. Again, she seemed to nod in agreement but then bounded toward the door with Linus and me.

Now here’s where the coming unglued part lies for me. I could have ignored her big round pleading eyes, full of betrayal and disbelief. I could have stayed focused on the memory that leashed walks don’t go well with Seven and that the likelihood of a long or even pleasant leashed walk with her was pretty slim. In short, I could have been strong and held my ground. I didn’t. I came unglued. Even though I hold a memory of our past experiences, I let her look of betrayal sway me. I harnessed her and leashed her and the three of us set out for a walk around the neighborhood.

As we started walking, my spirits were as buoyed as Seven’s curly tail. I had made a very good decision! Of course this will go well! Seven will find a way to love this leashed walk! I was right, she did love the walk. But after about five minutes, Seven’s tail started to sag and with it my spirits. She slowed down, as did my buoyant thoughts. By the time she had dug her heels into the sidewalk, I was shaking my head ruefully and turning toward home.

I missed taking a long walk on this sunny day, yet I kind of love that Seven found a way to get her needs met: a nice short walk ‘n sniff in the neighborhood. And though there may be a lot to be said about setting limits and sticking to goals, I kind of love the way I let a softened heart dismantle my goals and reassemble them into something that worked for the three of us.  My furbaby reminded me of the art of compromise inherent to parenting of any kind. She reminded me of the value of leaning into something other than my own goals. Staying intact, through parenting or any other challenge or gift we have, can’t be our goal, can it? Coming unglued and reassembling differently is where the potential for our personal evolution lies.

It’s an Inside Job

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What a privilege this morning, to sit with a friend over coffee and talk about our world. Yes, our world. Our troubled, imperfect, often-unconscious world. I always look forward to time with this particular friend; she stays informed about the goings-on in our nation, yet manages to stays grounded in a bigger picture. She may feel anxiety about what she sees in the news and some of the ideas that her children bring home from school, but if she does, she certainly doesn’t lead with that anxiety and she doesn’t let it run her life. I think she believes in the inherent goodness of people; she sees our species’ potential even when our actual behavior is contracted by fear, blinded by greed or just downright embarrassing. I haven’t even gotten to the best part: she finds a way to use everything that comes to her as a way to serve others.

This morning she told me of an incident in which she’d been verbally accosted by a driver as she peacefully walked down the street. His comments were based on the way he saw her: Foreign. Other. Potentially Dangerous. As she told me this story, I saw the hurt and shock on her face as a mirror of what I felt in my heart. This drivers’ unconscious behavior could have embittered my friend, she could have spent the rest of our time together talking about her grief and anger. Instead, she talked about a start-up program she was developing for school age children that would honor diversity. The beauty of my friend’s resilience was heart-opening for me. I am more impressed with the noble nature of my friend than I am with any ideas for programs.

It was hard for me to tell her this, but I am not sure programs work. They may look good on paper and they may help us to feel like we are doing something to help others, heck! they may even do some good, yet this work – bringing the light of consciousness to unconscious behavior - is an inside job. It’s done from within and is driven from within. I don’t mean to say that the outside world can’t influence change and that programs like the kind my friend is starting can’t help raise awareness of the need for change. It’s just that the real change – the change that helps us evolve from a species cowering in fear to a species bathed in light - involves the kind of individualized work that programs may not have the capacity to address.

This view may be unpopular (To speak truth, it’s pretty unpopular with me as well. I’ve got my fair share of programs under my belt and am currently planning another) and this view may not even be true. It’s appealing to think we can fix a problem from the outside. We build out-of-context structures within which people can have access to more diversity, to education and new experiences, and we encourage behavior that is more conscious and more compassionate. I’m not sure this translates to real life. Real change involves minuscule shifts within each person, microscopic movements of our internal gear system, to which no one else has access. We have no idea what others’ alternatives look like. I doubt the driver who shouted at my friend is a ‘bad’ person; my guess is he driven by fear of an ever-changing world and a feeling of loss of control.

Can we ever hope to convince others of our views? Can we demonstrate to people that diversity offers a richness to our lives? Can we teach people to be more accepting of others? To be less fearful? To be open to what is new and different? Should we even be trying to do this? There are no answers here. Just questions. My friend is not sure if programs work either, but she holds what she calls “a hope too big to lose.”

I think it is only through touching the inner landscape of one another – real-life experience, vulnerability and openness to intimacy – that we may be able to help guide each other. A perfect example is my friend who, this morning, inspired me, enlivened me and showered me with her inner light.

Very Specific Expectations

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I came home the other night fired up with righteous indignation. A friend had let me down; she had disappointed me by not following through with a promise she’d made. I told my husband the story – impassioned and outraged. And I waited for his response. And waited. And breathed. And waited. And began to feel a little bit of space for what else I might be able to harvest from my friend’s behavior and my reaction to it. This opening offered by James’ listening heart and his willingness to follow his own pace is one of the greatest blessings of my life.

James listens to me with patience and attention and takes his time to respond. When he does respond, he gives me a perspective I wouldn’t have accessed without his help. I didn’t always appreciate this about him. For years the pace of his response time set my teeth on edge. I wondered if he was listening or if he had even heard me. I often felt ignored and wondered if what I was saying wasn’t important to him. I often wanted to shout: Say. Something. Now, into the silence. (I’m pretty sure I did shout this more than once!) These days, I often revel in the quiet between my words and his. I generally think carefully before I speak, but the pause he offers gives me time to reflect on what I’ve said, to feel its weight and sift through for anything superfluous or untrue or exaggerated.

The other night, hot with righteous rage at my friend’s behavior, it was difficult for me to slow down. My buttons had been pushed; she had touched on a ghost of pain from my past.

Still, I waited. And when James responded, he said simply this: You have very specific expectations. I nearly gasped with the audacious truth of his statement. It resonated instantly and deeply with me. Now it was my turn to pause and reflect. James’ comment fed an inner calling I’ve been feeling toward mercy. I was flooded with a feeling somewhere between relief and chagrin. How often had I let my Very Specific Expectations nurture minor emotional scratches until they festered into open wounds? How often had my Very Specific Expectations led me to rigidly contract around pain instead of opening around grace? How often had I grimly set a course for myself without allowing for detours and speed bumps?  How often had my need for things to play out in a certain way disallowed the richness and diversity of possibility?

James’ inherent suggestion that I soften my expectations was surprisingly easy for me to take in. I was ready to hear this. A balm of mercy for my friend combined with giving myself space to feel the wide and difficult swath of emotions that her behavior brought up for me, moved this episode along with grace.  

Acknowledging my tendency toward Very Specific Expectations is helping me be a better co-creator of the world around me and to be more open to the world’s diversity of experience. When I feel the bitterness of disappointment in myself or others I check in to see if I can soften my expectations and make space for what is. When I feel the push of perfectionism ramming me forward in my work or holding me back from creativity, I check in to see if I can soften my expectations and allow a gentler flow.

I know there is much more I could say about this – AND I am going to end this blog post right here. It’s my way of giving my Very Specific Expectations a rest.

Do Beliefs Have Expiration Dates?

 

I remember the delight I felt many years ago in hearing my now departed beloved friend, Joanne Westlund, say, “I don’t believe a word I think.” I could feel the buzz of Truth in there, though I didn’t know to fully access it.

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Some beliefs – those flimsy cardboard substitutes for Truth - remain hard to let go of no matter how often they are disproved. One of my most sticky beliefs is more money = more happiness. Though this belief has been proven to be false countless times, I still see how the ghost of its resonance works in my life. I wonder if these sticky beliefs have been instilled in us as children, come to us as we travel through the birth canal, are woven into our DNA or are passed down into our consciousness from our ancestors. Or perhaps it is some combination or none of these at all?  It might be that it doesn’t matter how they are formed; what does matter is whether or not they continue to serve. It is my practice to look closely at my beliefs and to let the ones that no longer serve dissolve. It is becoming my practice to release my attachment to all of my beliefs. This may sound radical; believe me, in practice it is much more radical than it sounds.

I can identify a distinct evolution of my relationship with beliefs. For much of my life, I thought my beliefs were as integral to me and as solid as my heart and lungs; that they were unmovable and True. When I discovered that my beliefs were manufactured and nurtured by my thoughts and behaviors and by the people I spent time with, I also noticed that many of them were negative and even hurtful. I began a journey then to get to the root of these beliefs in order to dispel them. In this process I learned that it is possible to get so involved with finding the root of a belief that you can lose your way and actually immerse yourself further in that belief. A great letting go and a great Trust served me as I moved through this with discernment.

In the next stage of evolution I began to replace negative beliefs with ones I liked better. I remember the waterfall of beliefs that showed up when I started to pay attention. They washed over me, threatening to drown me. I began creating “better” beliefs to counter the old beliefs and I began to use them as lifeboats to keep me afloat in what felt like a sea of chaos. Rewriting beliefs helped me create a sense of control as I released much of what had been guiding me for so long. I thought that if I could change my beliefs to better, more positive, beliefs, I could change the quality of my life. I was right. This was a noble and important practice. It taught me about the flexibility and openness inherent in our thoughts, and in our universe and the powerful role we hold in creation.  

As I worked with shifting my beliefs, I began to notice how often they had been formed from a place of fear and a desperate need to be in consensus with others. I saw that the beliefs I held had been put in place to create safety and uniformity and a certain automation that simplified the world for me but left little room for the infinite diversity of life around me.

This evolution brings me to today: my current practice is to gently release beliefs as they come to my awareness in order to make space for what is Real. I am vigilant and often catch myself acting and thinking from places informed by beliefs that are based in fear. I give these beliefs space to exist – I try not to banish them – I look at them with affection and compassion. I smile at them whenever possible. Once they are looked at, they tend to diminish and fade away, leaving me to be more Present and connected with what is Real.

I don’t know how this process will evolve but I know it will evolve. It feels exiting and scary, which makes me think I might be on the right track.