Tuesday, May 7, 2024
#608: our last breath
Sunday, April 28, 2024
#607: Loving Me, Loving You
"Would you ask someone else to obey that rule?" My Shrink asks me questions like that. "Would you treat one of your patients (he uses the language of his own discipline, here,) one of your "patients" to live up to that standard? Is that the advise you'd give someone who came to you looking for love and compassion?"
No. I'd listen. I'd accept. I'd sit with them, and walk beside them.
Like a warrior.
Like a neighbor.
Like the kind of friend I hope I'd be.
Like the kind of friend I need to be...
To myself?
I've been wondering if my life might be different, if my path might be wiser if I committed less energy to condemning myself and my neighbors for the imperfections we share. I wonder how much my own capacity to love others is limited by my contempt for so much in myself?
Its a strange business: self-love. It feels immodest. Un-Presbyterian. Un-Christian. We are supposed to hate the way we are, aren't we? We're supposed to abhor our sinful nature, and be grateful for a God who is willing to forgive and perfect us through Grace and the sacrifice of his Son. I know that's a distorted way of looking at the doctrine of salvation, but I have to admit that thread got woven into my faith tapestry somewhere along the line.
What if I've got it all wrong? What if what I really need is not condemnation but Grace? What if I could forgive myself? Accept myself? Allow myself to be seen as imperfect, and sub-standard, and, well... human? Might I find whole new reserves of love and compassion for the people I serve?
What if I loved myself the way I wish I could love other people? Would that help me to be more kind to the geezer whose stories never end or the granny who miseries and grievances well up from a bottomless pit? The ex who decided I just wasn't the one she was looking for? The never-ex who didn't requite a passionate offer? These people don't get my best. Sometimes they get my worst.
No. No, they don't get my worst. I save that for the one it hurts the most.
I save my worst for myself. And I can't help but think that unkindness is keeping me from giving others my best.
Something has to change, but what? What to do differently? What would I do for a neighbor, hell, for a stranger who needed me?
Listen, Accept. Sit with them. Walk with them. Like a warrior. Like a friend.
I have a feeling that my meditation practice can be helpful here. What is meditation if not listening? When I listen to my body and my mind, my imagination and my emotions, I find that I frequently don't like what I hear. Often when that happens, I give up on the practice. "Not a good day to meditate, I guess."
Maybe I need a different approach. What if I heard those thoughts and feelings? Those shameful memories and frustrations? What if instead of making myself busy, finding something else to do, I sit with myself like a friend, and share the unpleasantness? Maybe, instead of giving up on my friend Bob, I could wait with him while he goes through the hard times, and then get up and walk beside him as he gets on with the life through which he carries his burdens. Maybe I could fight the fight alongside him, because his fight is also mine.
Maybe then, I could fight beside you. Because sometimes your fight is also mine.
I know it sounds crazy to talk like an observer who stands outside himself, loving himself. But how is that any more crazy than standing out there passing judgement on myself?
Maybe it's time to embrace the crazy. Try finding ways to forgive, accept, and heal the well-intentioned yet deeply flawed, loving and deeply loved old man in the mirror. He may have a lot to teach me. Maybe we can learn from each other.
That's the advice I'd give to someone I loved.
Monday, April 8, 2024
#606: Slivers of Hope from the Sky
August 12, 2045. That's the next time a solar eclipse will be visible across the continental United States. That will make me 85. No out of the question, I guess, but I'm glad I caught a peek at this one, just in case. It was the third time I've witnessed an eclipse in my life. I'm grateful.
The first was in New York City, of all places. I was building a really strange set piece at the Classic Stage Company just south of Union Square. 13th street, maybe? The piece was a giant whimsical bust of Moliere that I think was the set for a production of The Misanthrope, but I could be wrong. When the eclipse started, we all grabbed dark blue gels from the lighting kit and I think I may have had my welding hood with me. I've told the damn story for so long and in so many ways, that I'm really not sure. Anyway, we went outside and the street was an eerie color - that strange greenish light that you see before tornados in the midwest. I remember looking up and seeing the corona through whatever shield I had improvised. Then I looked down. There on the sidewalk, beneath the ginkgos, millions of tiny eclipses were projected onto the concrete. Each gap between leaves became a tiny pinhole projector, and the ground was covered with sparkling sunbursts. I had never read or heard anything to prepare me for this. There were fairies dancing in the gutter and it was as miraculous an emotion as I've ever felt.
Then, a few years later, in Kentucky, I saw them again.
Thursday, August 21, 2017; 2:35 PM Lexington KY |
It's hard to picture 2017. So much has happened since then. These were the years BC - before COVID - and nothing back then seems real to me. The country had put a gun to its head the November before, and we were not yet used to the finger resting on the trigger. It had been 4 years since Mrs P decided she was done waiting for me to finally grow/show up. Thursday afternoon... I bet I had just driven home from teaching that wonderful water class at the Beaumont Y. This shot was underneath the big maple that grew outside the window of my divorced incel's cell. Not a lot of happy times in that place, but this was one. The August sun blazed far too brightly for any but the dimmest of bulbs to try looking at it. I didn't have my welding hood anymore, but I did remember the fairies. I looked down, and there they were. Dancing on the sidewalk. Beautiful crescents of hope that covered the concrete and the mulch and the clover. Hopeful slivers were hard to come by back in those days. I was so grateful.
August 21, 2017, Lexington |
Today was different. The overcast was so heavy when I went to the stoop with my book and my chair that I doubted I would see anything at all.
April 8, 2024; 1:58 PM |
It looked like another April downpour blowing in. I think we were all preparing ourselves for disappointment. Then, across Broadway, a door burst open. I never see these people. No, that's not true. I see them at the Y. They workout and swim and the Mom took my CPR class once. The kids were all home from school, and Mom was home from work and they had their dark glasses on and were craning their necks toward the clouds. They looked up. They looked at each other. They looked at Mom. She shrugged and sat down on the porch steps with her littlest, while the rest of the kids went back inside to watch Rugrats on their gigantic living room TV.
It made me melancholy. How many chances would these kids get to see a total eclipse? In their lives? What might it mean to them to see the corona and to dance with the fairies under the maple trees? Would they ever have another chance? Or would they spend the rest of their lives rolling their eyes at old people who told stories about falling stars and tides that glowed and a thousand suns turning Greenwich Village into Narnia?
It made me feel gloomy, so I started reading Thich Nhat Hanh to distract myself. He was talking about suffering. These frigging Buddhists are always rattling on about suffering. I read this...
Love cannot exist without suffering. In fact suffering is the ground on which love is born. If you have not suffered, if you don't see the suffering of people or other living beings, you would not have love in you, nor would you understand what it is to love... Do you want to live in a place where there is no suffering? If you live in such a place, you will not be able to know what is love. Love is born from suffering....
Because I suffer, I need love Because you suffer you need love. Because we suffer, we know that we have to offer each other love, and love becomes a practice.
I looked across the street again. There they all were. So sad. I raised my eyes to the place where the miracle ought to be.
There! See it? |
Monday, April 8, 2024; 3:10 PM, Lexington KY |
At first, I thought I hadn't been able to snatch it with my phone's camera. Then I looked up until the cloud had covered it again. I did the little two-finger zoom thing, and there it was... a single crescent, a lonely fairie, dancing in the clouds, peeping in and out like Puck and Ariel and all the wonderful imps Shakespeare taught me to love so long ago. Old Sol had come through. I looked across, and the kids were hypnotized. They were gorgeous. I didn't even look at the ground. I saw the light on every one of them. What seeds did I see planted during that moment? What will this memory become? What will they do with a holy afternoon whose visions will stay with them for the rest of their lives?
So, there it is. My third total solar eclipse. If this old house I'm walking around in holds together for another 21 years and a summer, I may get to see my fourth. They won't be easy years. That's a lot to ask. There will be hard nights and heart breaks and break downs and funerals. I'd like to say I wish there wasn't ugliness in the world. But I think I know what the Thich Nhat Hahn would tell me. I know what the fairies would tell me.
They would remind me that all those things are real, but they are not alone. Leg cramps are real. So are finish lines. Shadows are real. So is moonlight. Loneliness is real. So are arms that pull you close. Grief is real. Love is real. We suffer. We love. Both are true. Truth is both.
Each of my precious eclipse experiences has left me with rich memories. I remember the ginkgo fairies from 13th Street. I remember hope scattered on the ground in front of my sad single bedroom apartment. And today? Today, I think I'm going to remember something really odd. I'm going to remember the couple, walking their obese, oblivious, hopelessly spoiled pit bull. She was carrying the phone. He was carrying the leash. He had an enormous umbrella. And both of them... the humans, I mean... both of them had a pair of eclipse glasses dangling carelessly from one hand. It was as if they were saying, "yes, it's a miserable looking day, and yes, we have shit to take care of... but you never know when something amazing might happen."
And so it did.
I will always love them for that.
And I am so very grateful.
Sunday, March 31, 2024
#605: Along Came Jesus
Emmanuel Garibay, "Emmaus" 2010-2011 |
The Tao [Way] that can be told of is not the eternal Tao;
The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
(Lao Tzu, Tao-te Ching)
I woke up this Easter morning with Emmaus on my mind.
Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’(Luke 24: 13-17, NRSV)
I went looking for a nice image to use, and found one that was so shocking and new to me that I knew it was perfect. Plenty of the Old Masters have taken this story as their subject, but when I saw this essay on the painting by Emmanuel Garibay, it immediately became my favorite. Why didn't the two disciples recognize the risen Christ? Did God distort their vision? Was Jesus wearing a disguise? Or were they simply blinded by their own expectations? Were they so sure - so attached to their ideas of who Christ was and what he would do and say that they overlooked the truth that was right before their eyes? The men in this painting are so blinded by their assumptions that they haven't even noticed the holes in Jesus' hands.
To be honest, I missed them, too.
I miss them a lot.
I spent most of my life knowing who God was and what we could expect from one another. I would be his obedient servant. He would be my everlasting ABBA the daddy who would always be there, always hear, always care, always help. I would hallow his name and he would give me my daily bread and lead me not into temptation. My heart told me these things. My teachers did. My friends. Stories and hymns and Sunday School songs taught me what to believe. Jesus loved me. The Bible told me so.
I was so certain for so long that when my ship of faith began to spring leaks, I was lost. I watched numbly as the waves broke over the decks and pounded my Rock into sand.
All my answers failed me. Like Cleopas and his anonymous traveling companion, I high-tailed it out of town with a suitcase full of questions and one eye over my shoulder to watch out for the posse that would almost certainly find me out for the doubt-filled fraud I had become - maybe that's what I'd always been.
And then, along came Jesus.
He shaved his head and wore orange robes on YouTube, talking about karma and attachment and begging bowls. He grew his hair long, stopped bathing, and came to the lobby five times a day asking if anybody turned in the cell phone he left plugged in outside the Y. She passed out in the parking lot, barely breathing, a vape pen clenched in her hand. When I checked to see if she was dead, she blinked red eyes at me and mumbled, "It's OK. I'm going in a minute." I stood at the front door and watched as she carefully tiptoed along the sidewalk - going anywhere she liked, as long as it was away from here. He saw me at his son's funeral, gave me his trembling, 90-year-old hand and said, "You know, I'm a gym rat, too." He showed me the FIFA team he had assembled on his phone. She interrupted my lecturing with words so true that they took my breath away. He asked if his friends could play soccer on our fancy, new pickleball courts. I told him no, so they spent the whole day playing in the grass outside the fence, welcoming every new kid who came along. She scolded at me the minute I walked in the door because her supper was late, then she curled up on my lap and purred herself to sleep as I meditated my silent Easter Vigil. Right now, she is in the upstairs apartment, on Sunday afternoon, high as giraffe tonsils, playing her music too loud, screeching out of tune, stomping through the ceiling, and celebrating her solitary quinceaƱera while mama is at work mopping hallways and bathrooms so hospital patients have a clean place to piss and her daughter has a chance to do something besides scrub other people's toilets.
Christ was there all the time.I never once recognized him. Yet, there he was. Is. Ever shall be.
Good morning, Jesus. I'm glad you could make it. I'm sorry I didn't notice you. But I appreciate the second chance. Chances.
Thanks for showing up anyway.
And thanks for the chocolate. That was you, right?
Happy Easter, my friend.
Monday, March 25, 2024
#604: The Weight
Grieving
is a journey. Living after the death of a friend or relationship can be
brutal. It's confusing. It's painful. It seems like it's going to last
for ever, and some of it will get easier. But god, it can be so heavy.
I pulled into Nazareth, was feelin' about half past dead;
I just need some place where I can lay my head.
"Hey, mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?"
He just grinned and shook my hand, and "No!", was all he said.
Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free;
Take a load off Fanny, And you can put the load right on me.
Robbie Robertson, The Weight
The Weight is very much with me today. I know the losses won't always weigh this much. Like my wise sister Beth always reminds me, "This too shall pass." But today, The Weight of grief is right there in the middle of my chest, the bottom of my gut, and binding my distracted mind with oily ropes. I've tried to meditate a couple of times, but that means looking things in the eye, and accepting the ones I can't change. I'm just not up to that yet. I hope I can soon. My eyes are so bleary; how I wish I could remember how to cry. Like Robbie's weary pilgrim, I could really use a place to lay my head.
I picked up my bag, I went lookin' for a place to hide;
When I saw Carmen and the Devil walkin' side by side.
I said, "Hey, Carmen, come on, let's go downtown."
She said, "I gotta go, but m'friend can stick around."
"A place to hide." Yeah. That's the problem, isn't it? There are too many places to hide. Screens to scroll through. Wine to gaze into. Books to read, chores to avoid, crossword puzzles to fill the time. A dim apartment, away from the sun and the air and the people whose company I know would help, if only I could find the will to reach out. Oh, Carmen. couldn't you have stuck around instead of leaving me with your friend? I used to love to lay my head in your lap and sob till my body shook. Your cool hand would stroke my face and pat my hair and whisper, "Poor baby. My poor, poor baby." He just stands in the door telling me lies about myself. He's lousy company, and it seems like he should be a busy guy, but he always finds the time to chew on me.
Go down, Miss Moses, there's nothin' you can say
It's just ol' Luke, and Luke's waitin' on the Judgement Day.
"Well, Luke, my friend, what about young Anna Lee?"
He said, "Do me a favor, son, woncha stay an' keep Anna Lee company?"
Sometimes it seems like everyone you love is either going away or staying behind. "Look at all the lonely people." Dad. Mom. Aunts and Uncles. Loved ones lost to death or distance; stolen by accident or illness. The ones who gave up because they just couldn't bear The Weight anymore. And we are left to carry the load... Yes, I know. We can do it. We will do it. But sometimes, you just have to put your pack down and sit in the grass and ask the hard questions.
How much longer is this road?
Is it worth the walk?
Do I really need all the stuff in this bag?
How much more am I going to have to carry?
What happens on the day I can't lift it any more?
Yeah, Anna Lee's company looks mighty appealing, but there's something over that next hill calling to me. She doesn't want to go that way, and I can't stay here. Put the load on me.
Crazy Chester followed me, and he caught me in the fog.
He said, "I will fix your rack, if you'll take Jack, my dog."
I said, "Wait a minute, Chester, you know I'm a peaceful man."
He said, "That's okay, boy, won't you feed him when you can."
Oh, Chester. I know you well, my friend. You've rolled into my life with your lunatic stories and dreams. You usually need something, and I usually say yes, because that's just the kind of schmuck I am. I hate to say no, so I give it away until i can barely recognize what's left. Then I get pissed and run you off, and you get pissed and leave Anna Lee or your damn dog (whose company I prefer, to be honest,) and here I am with one more ghost and one more load on the rack. I'd blame you, but you can't help yourself. I'd blame me, but blaming doesn't really make the load any lighter. Sometimes i regret giving myself away so easily. Then I regret not giving more. Then the damn dog puts his chin in my lap for an ear scratch and a nap and I have to admit I'd miss having him around if you'd taken him with you.
Catch a cannon ball now, t'take me down the line
My bag is sinkin' low and I do believe it's time.
To get back to Miss Fanny, you know she's the only one.
Who sent me here with her regards for everyone.
It's time. Or nearly time, anyway. I can't hang around hurting forever. Sometimes you just have to let it hurt and get back up on the road, I guess. Sooner or later, the hurt will ease. It doesn't go away, you just learn to accept it. Carry it. Forgive it. "Let it be." Interesting. That's the second time the Beatles have sneaked into this meditation. Maybe it's time to cue up the Fabs for a listen. Or maybe that's just another place to hide.
Miss Sophie needs dinner. And Miss Fanny is down the road somewhere. I guess she'll have more Weight for me to carry. That's OK. My back is still strong, and there's a little room in my pack. Time to get moving. Maybe I'll find some answers along the way.
Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free;
Take a load off Fanny, And you can put the load right on me.
Sunday, March 24, 2024
#603: I could be wrong.
"I could be wrong." My shrink has suggested I make more liberal use of this phrase. I have to be honest... I can't really remember why. It was in the middle of a difficult session. We were rolling around in the mud of my depression together, and the phrase stuck to my boot. Since I can't seem to shake it off, there must be some part of me that needs to sit with it for a while, and you, my unfortunate reader have slipped into the muck with me.
I could be wrong, but there is a lot more to this serenity bullshit than meets the eye. There are mornings when I can't wait to get to my chair with Sophie and begin my meditation. Often it's when I anticipate a long, challenging day ahead, and want to start from a place of physical, mental, and spiritual peace and preparedness. It always helps me to face the day with energy, compassion, and focus. It's like I'm always telling people about physical activity, "I've had lots of days when I hated getting a workout started, but I've never finished one that I regretted." But then, I've always tended to only remember the good times. So, I could be wrong.
On the other hand, there are mornings when I'd rather have oral surgery than sit quietly with my thoughts and emotions. Mornings like today when I opened my eyes to memories of one of my people who I won't be seeing again. He is one of the cancer survivors who come to the Y where I serve to ask me to help them find their strength. From the day I met Terry, we both knew that cancer would take his life. He was determined live every second he had left. His prognosis grew more dire as the months passed, and the time the doctors gave him grew shorter and shorter. Through it all, he stayed courageous and strong. I know I'm not wrong about that.
Terry, Coach Deb, and Pennsy |
I was hoping to see him on Thursday afternoon when the winter group graduated. I missed him, and figured he was having one of his bad days. I was wrong.
Terry died Thursday morning.
I'd like to say I received the news with gentle grace. I guess I'm not that far along the noble path yet. My heart clenched like a fist when I read the words, and those fingers have been wrapped tight ever since. It wasn't a surprise. Wasn't unexpected. Wasn't unplanned, and we weren't unprepared. There hasn't been a day in the past few years that I didn't know that news would be coming. But I wasn't ready. I could be wrong, but nothing could have made me ready.
I always feel this pain. I used to cry, especially for the ones I knew well, the ones I had come to admire and love. Their courage feeds mine, and their deaths diminish my tribe. I don't have many tears left. But it hurts like hell. It hurts like hell.
Losing a brother or sister scares the members of my tribe in a secret place, deep inside. We all know we could die the same way. Maybe that's why celebrities who get cancer strike us in such a personal way. There's nobody on earth I have less in common with than the members of England's royal family, but hearing about Princess Kate and King Charles and their diagnoses strike much closer than makes sense. We are as far apart as anyone could be, but we're family now. I think that's a universal thing for survivors. But I could be wrong.
Woke up with all that crushing my heart and clouding my mind, and my body decided the best thing was to feed the cat, fluff the pillow, and go back to sleep. 3:00 in the afternoon and I still haven't practiced my meditation today. I wish I could explain why. I just don't want to look at what's inside me right now. Maybe I'm afraid it will take me down so deep that I won't find my way back.
I could be wrong. But I'm definitely afraid of something. That fear may be reason enough to stop typing, light some incense, and turn off the screens for a while.
There are lots of reasons not to. My imagination generates more reasons by the second. But it's like a 6 mile run or a session on the heavy bag: I may be sore when I'm finished, but I won't regret doing it.
Or... well... you know.
I'll let you know.
Namaste, y'all.
Pennsy
Sunday, March 17, 2024
#602: A Prayer for the Morning
Letchworth State Park. Photo by Michael Philbin |
The time I spend in silence in the morning is becoming so precious to me. I have always been a seeker; of meaning, of purpose, of contentment, of truth. For much of my life, I found those things in religion: scripture, tradition, church membership, Christian fellowship. I always saw the flaws and contradictions, but overcame them by reason, rationalization, faith, or denial. A few years ago, those strategies started to fail me.
I am grateful for this new day,I embrace impermanence,I cultivate compassion,I walk the path of wisdom,I am at peace with myself.
Gratitude
Change
Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil; for who can govern this your great people?’ I Kings 3:9 (NRSV)
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrumps, that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war...William Shakespeare, The Tempest V.i.
And, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
I am grateful for this new day,I embrace impermanence,I cultivate compassion,I walk the path of wisdom,I am at peace with myself.