Seeing  I

Old stories

Of threat and woe

Distort my vision,

And off I go

Projecting pain

Reacting fast

My swirling head

Prisoned in past.

Breathe slow, my boy.

Open your eyes.

See what's real.

Don't buy the lies.

Stay here, my man.

Shed the disguise.

Your space is vast.

Remember true size.

Love Human and Divine

       In preparation for a recent Richard Moss retreat focusing on The Lover's Journey and at the recommendation of a friend and colleague (thanks, Susan), I re-read parts of the book, We: Understanding the Psychology of Romantic Love, by Jungian analyst, Robert Johnson.  Although it was written almost 30 years ago, I'm amazed by how pertinent it still feels to me.  Here are some passages from the book that I hope you enjoy.  

       By the way, I believe that what he says applies to both men and women.

       "Romantic love is an unholy muddle of two holy loves.  One is "divine" love:  It is our natural urge toward the inner world, the soul's love of God.  The other is "human" love, which is our love for people – flesh-and-blood human beings.  Both of these loves are valid; both are necessary.  But by some trick of psychological evolution our culture has muddled the two loves in the potion of romantic love and nearly lost them both."  (p. 131)

       "The great flaw in romantic love is that it seeks one love but forgets the other."  (p. 138)

       "A voice within each man insists fervently that it is a wonderful thing to search forever for the perfect idealized feminine, rather than settle for the flesh-and-blood woman that real life has put into his arms…. When a flesh-and-blood, mortal human appears in a man's life who offers him love and relatedness, he ends in rejecting her because she can't measure up to the idealized perfection who can only live in his inner mind." (P. 129)

       "One of the great paradoxes in romantic love is that it never produces human relationship as long as it stays romantic.  It produces drama, daring adventures, wondrous, intense love scenes, jealousies, and betrayals; but people never seem to settle into relationship with each other as flesh-and-blood human beings until they are out of the romantic love stage, until they love each other instead of being in love."  (p. 133)

Sensational Friendship

Make room, James.

Make room for what you feel

For what you want

For who you are.

Make room, James.

Make room for what she feels

For what she wants

For what she stirs in you.

Make room for life, James.

Inside you, there's ample space

For heartache and joy.

No danger, don't run.

Breathe into your belly.

Breathe into your heart.

Let breath hold you in its

Compassionate expanse.

Hold tenderly this body.

All that it feels

Is simply sensation.

Be a sensational friend.

Mastery

      Apparently, it takes about 10,000 hours of practice to achieve mastery in any endeavor.  In appreciation of this finding, Richard Moss concludes that we are all Masters of Ego.  Well before age 10, we earn our ME degrees, working day and night, developing and refining stories about "me" – me in the past, me in the future, me in relationship to others and to life itself. 

       We tend to repeat the same old stories, hanging onto an internal consistency, keeping our worlds familiar, living the old punch line:  "It's my story and I'm sticking to it."

       No wonder, then, it takes more than one profound experience of awakening to achieve Mastery of Presence, the art of living fully in the now.  While an awakening points us in the direction of presence, it takes 10,000 hours of practicing mindful awareness, to get us there on a regular basis – 10,000 hours of hard work, noticing when we're in story and bringing ourselves back to the present, over and over again.  Practice, practice, practice – building what Richard calls "spiritual muscle". 

       With practice, we find freshness and aliveness in each moment.  Presence becomes more natural and habitual.  We inhabit our bodies, comfortable in our own skin.  We routinely show up, pay attention, tell the truth and let go of outcome.  The now becomes home.

       At the rate of an hour a day, it takes about 28 years to achieve mastery.  I have an ME degree.  I'm still working on my MP. 

Relational Dancing

       I often tell the folks I see that whoever invented relationships must have a sense of humor. 

       For example, it seems that whatever we do to protect ourselves in a primary love relationship is precisely what pushes our partners' buttons – and vice versa.  Let's say one partner criticizes, as a protection strategy, and the other withdraws.  It's likely that the withdrawal is just as difficult for the one who criticizes as the criticism is for the one who withdraws.

       In similar fashion, we seem astutely able at times to withhold from our partners exactly what they need.  Psychologist and relationship counselor, David Schnarch, refers to this phenomenon as "marital sadism", a natural expression of the anger and resentment present in most marriages. 

       While I see evidence for his point of view, I'm more likely to view the withholding as a way of signaling our partners – with varying levels of awareness – that we're unhappy about something that's occurring or not occurring in the relationship.  Of course, as both parties engage in these signaling strategies, each waiting for the other to budge, a painful standoff ensues.

       In a more recent view that I'm coming to appreciate and adopt, spiritually-oriented writers describe this withholding as a well-disguised gift – an invitation from life, through our partners, for us to face and heal old wounds, realize wholeness and stop searching "out there" for something already "in here."  As Richard Moss wisely puts it, "We are, already, that which we seek."

       Regardless of one's perspective on this aspect of relationship, the intimate dance is definitely mysterious and maddening at times, goofy and complex.  Our patterns are well practiced, and yet we keep dancing – discovering, over time, unexpected delights, opportunities for growth and new ways to boogie.

Inner Nutrition

       Tobacco, alcohol, caffeine, and sugar:  when I ingest even small quantities of these substances, my body registers the insult and lets me know about it – except sometimes it gives me a little slack when it comes to sugar. 

       Nutrition is not news. For years, we've been hearing about what foods are good for us and what foods are not so good.  I get it, especially as I age:  it's important to eat what truly nourishes and avoid the other stuff.

       Lately, I've been paying more attention to the effects of, not just what I eat, but what I ingest into psyche and spirit.  TV shows, murder mystery novels, football games, news casts and action movies.  While I'm drawn to the excitement of the drama, afterwards I'm often left with a hollow feeling, a gray-darkness inside.  I know I haven't been nourished.

       Then there are the interior dramas – the ones totally taking place between my ears – stories of woe and unworthiness, danger, betrayal, rejection and ruptured relationship, imaginary conversations as I rehearse for the worst, and the ubiquitous negative commentary of the inner judge.  I once thought these were relatively harmless pastimes, almost like a form of entertainment.  But they're not.

       More and more, as I sit with myself and others, I see how these fictions do real damage to us physically, emotionally and spiritually.  Their repetition creates toxic inner pathways that capture us with ever greater ease.  As the stories become more automatic and familiar for us, they start feeling real and affecting us as if they were real. 

       Not good food for the soul, these stories.  Definitely not nutritious.

       Mindfulness invites us to notice what nourishes us, to take seriously what harms us, and to consciously choose what thoughts we entertain and what thoughts we send packing.

       Like nutrition for the body, inner nutrition requires repetition – thousands of conscious choices in the moment to nurture the being entrusted to our care. 

       Bon appetit.

Deer Teaching

      Just back from our travels, Joanie and I resumed our tradition of a morning jog in the woods near our home.  Typically, along the trail, we'll stir up some deer – often a mom with a couple fawns – who scatter at our approach.

       Yesterday, we came upon a couple of larger bucks, whose 8 or 10 point antlers were still fuzzy with newness.  Instead of scampering, they backed off the trail 20 yards or so, turned toward us and watched.  There was a calm alertness to them, perhaps even a curiosity.  They didn't seem anxious.

       What a wonderful teaching about mindfulness.  Disengage from the swirl of activity, step back and observe.  No stories, no judgment, a readiness to respond as needed. 

       A great way, I thought, to approach the helter-skelter of what goes on around me and within me, especially now as I re-enter the busy-ness of everyday life.

       Thanks, deer. 

       Niels Bohr, one of many leading-edge quantum physicists who also speak metaphysically, has concluded that there are two kinds of truth – small truth and great truth.  He said, “You can recognize a small truth because its opposite is a falsehood.  The opposite of a great truth is another truth.”  I’ve come to agree that great truth is paradoxical in nature.  It exists in the realm of mystery and is so big that, while it may be apprehended in the heart, it cannot be captured conceptually.  Words fail us here.  At best, they convey only part of the story.

       As someone who writes in areas spiritual, I roam not so much in the realm of facts, where truth can be separated from falsehood, but more often in the murky waters of mystery, where truths intertwine.  Awhile back, I shared a story I'd written ten years ago about the cosmos.  Here’s another cosmological tale, written around that same time and tweaked for this posting – a partial truth perhaps – addressing that perennial big question:  Who are we?

Softening to Mystery:

A Story of Us

        Softening to mystery means saying “yes” to apparently contradictory things, accepting paradox, living with ambiguity.  Softening to mystery means opening to darkness and light, the infinite and the infinitesimal.  We humans are part of the mystery.  We cannot be easily sized or sized up.  

       In this story, we exist in three levels:  Personality, Individual Soul and God Soul.

        The level of personality includes the material body with all its physical attributes and bio-chemical quirks, the mind with its habits and patterns, and the ego identity with all its stories and attachments.  Even at the level of personality, where we are the most obvious and observable, we are quite the mystery.  Biological and social scientists spend their lives trying to make sense of us at this all-too-human level, where we are a mass of contradictions.  With all our weirdness and goofiness here, our capacity for the heroic and horrific, there is one constant:  we are finite beings.  Ego is going to die with the body – and it knows it.

        While the personality is unique and temporary, the individual soul is timeless.  It's the unique consciousness in us that transcends time.  For those who believe in reincarnation, this is the part of us that survives, evolving and deepening over lifetimes.  God speaks creation in the eternal now.  Each of us can be viewed as a word in God’s vocabulary – all interconnected, part of one lexicon, each distinct.  At the level of individual soul, we are unique, eternal, and many.

        There is only one God Soul, and we all share it.  At this core level of being, we are one with God.  Mystics in every spiritual tradition speak of this oneness – the mystery of all mysteries. Here, we are infinite, divine, and one.

       In this story, each level of being is true of us.  Each has its unique reality.  And all three are woven together in seamless wholeness.  There is oneness in this three-ness.

        While we have some choice about what parts of ourselves we notice and nurture, we don’t have choice about what parts of us exist.  For example, at the level of personality, we are wired to react quickly to fight and flee.  That reactivity is built into our nervous systems.  Likely, long ago, it had survival value.  Nowadays, our fearful and cantankerous tendencies usually do more harm than good.  We can work constructively and respectfully with this wiring, but we can't force it to be different, pretend it's not there or wish it away.

        We can’t eliminate the divine part of us either.  We can forget about it or choose not to see it in ourselves and others, but we can’t make it disappear.  In this story, God is unavoidable – eternally and inextricably woven into the fabric of who we are. 

         There’s an often-told Zen story about a monastery that was floundering.  Membership was dwindling in a climate of bitterness and back-biting.  Somehow, a rumor began spreading that one of the monks was Buddha reincarnated.  There was much speculation about who that person might be.  Soon, the monks started treating each other with new gentleness and care.  After all, no one wanted mistreat the Buddha.   The monastery grew to be a center of joy.  It flourished, attracting new members from miles away.

        I remember being taught in grammar school that we are children of God.  Many religious traditions and spiritual practices invite us to cultivate an awareness of our divine origin and connection.  As we open to this aspect of the mystery, a reverence for ourselves and others grows quite naturally.  We may even remember that, at the level of soul, we are deeply in love with each other – always have been and always will be.

        In this story, no matter how hatefully we behave, we still have a divine spark.  No matter how holy and evolved we become, we’re still goofy.  In us, both the sublime and the ridiculous find a home.  Softening to the mystery of the human condition invites inner spaciousness – compassion and appreciation, humility, humor and awe.

        As I soften to mystery, I savor this story – along with many others – even though I don't know for sure how true it is or how it ends.

       I'm leaving soon for an extended vacation, mostly in wilderness.  It's likely a few weeks will pass before I post again.  Till then, may summer sunshine warm you inside and out.

Awkward/Graceful Dance

Sometimes I walk with grace

Sure-footed, serene.

Path seems effortless.

Wise actions flow naturally.

Difficulties melt.

Complexities simplify.

Sometimes I struggle to steer

Clumsy, vacillating, unsure

Two left feet

Tripping and stumbling

Hands all-thumbs

Groping and fumbling.

Sometimes, when life is hard,

I bow to its syncopation.

No judgment.

Sometimes I make hard harder.

Stories turn life's heartbeat

Into heartbreak.

Sometimes I mire in muck.

Sometimes I float above.

And sometimes I'm just present

Observing inside and out -

A tender witness to

The awkward/graceful dance.

       Ten years ago, in a former lifetime, I wrote this short essay.  As I re-read it, I'm struck by how old challenges recycle and how familiar themes repeat in my experience of self, nation and globe. The piece feels as relevant to me now as it did then.

Joining the Giants

        Spring break, second week of March, I’ve just returned from a short family vacation to Giant’s Ridge, where downhill and cross country skiing gracefully share a small mountain in northern Minnesota. 

        I’ve been challenged lately.  World events weigh heavy.  Old personal (and perhaps transpersonal) stories of fear and not-good-enoughness are grabbing my inner headlines, blaring at times.  The impulse to scream bloody murder competes with the wish to burrow down in some safe hideaway, where I can retreat from it all.  Both impulses, I recognize, originate in younger parts of me.

        On our second day out, I found a couple hours for a solitary cross country ski.  Conditions were perfect:  bright blue sky and cold, crisp air.  As sunset neared, I arrived at a spot where the energy was palpable.  It felt like a sacred place.  The area was densely populated by young poplars, ten-to-twelve-footers.  To my immediate left was a tall granite ridge, around which grew a stand of stately Norway pines.  These trees were grown ups.  They’d been around a while.  As a community, they were quietly making their presence felt.  I basked in the positive energy of the place and softened to being nurtured by this gathering of elders. 

        Further ahead, and still on the left, a huge, ancient white pine towered over the landscape – alone.  This was clearly a grandparent, perhaps a sole survivor, in robust health.  I felt a beckoning.  As I drew closer, the beckoning became a message: Join the giants.  There was a shift in my belly.  My whole body felt the “rightness” of this request.

        This was not an appeal to ego.  I was not asked to stand above others.  I was invited to fellowship with the earth and its creatures, to soul connection, to deep rootedness, to quiet presence.  I was invited to stop apologizing for myself, retreating, hiding and playing small.  I was invited to let go of drama, outrage and judgment – to stop warring with myself and my nation, with others and other nations.

        Perhaps, all of us are called at this time to show up in a big way – strongly, safely, serenely in partnership with the universe.  Joining the giants has little to do with physical prowess, brilliant intellect, charismatic personality or positions of power and prestige.  It is a connecting to source, a tapping of ancient inner wisdom, a softening to love. 

        I believe we’re at a crossroads.  Our planet needs us – right now – to attend to what’s important, to access our larger selves, to join the giants who have been around for a long time.