The Power of Silence

I have this picture hanging on the wall in my office. I can't tell you how many people comment on it. That may be because of the profound wisdom it expresses. Or it may be because of the irony of it hanging in MY office. Silence isn't really my strong suit. But I'm working on it.

I'm building a new habit. I've started spending the first hour of the morning in silence, gliding gently in my rocker, Sophie purring in my lap. The screens and devices stay dark until that hour is up. I won't share too much of what I'm doing. Meditation is a pretty new thing for me, and I want to resist the desire to act like an overnight expert.

I don't know if I'm "doing it right," or if there even is such a thing. I suppose a teacher or mentor or spiritual guide might help direct me, or at least reassure me, but for now I'm learning from the books and instruction I can get online or in the library. Maybe I'll seek out a guru once I can do that crazy crossed legs thing on the floor.

I have practicing this morning silence for about three weeks. I started around the time I decided to quit fretting about my health and get on with life instead. It has brought me a couple of surprises.

I've noticed that on the days I start with silence, my life is more disciplined. I don't miss as many workouts. I'm on time a little more, (not too much - I have to protect my brand, you know.)  I am not getting as tired in the afternoons, in spite of the fact that I'm skipping the snooze button, getting dressed, and starting the day an hour earlier. I don't know what the relationship is between all these benefits and my new, silent habit, but I like it.

Something else has begun happening, too. I haven't talked about this very much, or maybe I have, but God and I have not been getting along very well for some time. A couple of years, actually. Losing so many people during the pandemic, having the woman I once hoped would be my wife suffer and die alone with cancer and covid, and finally watching them lower my mother into the ground on a foggy mountain in Pennsylvania left me feeling betrayed and abandoned by a God who did not behave like the fellow I always thought he was. 

I did not stop believing he was there. I might as well deny the reality of air or sunlight. But my trust was gone. I stopped believing in a person, a father, abba,  who watched and cared and looked out for his children. Instead, I saw indifference to suffering that too often seemed like cruelty. My prayers stopped. My Bible gathered dust. What used to be long conversations with God became snorts of anger and distain for a Creator who let his creation go so wrong. 

But in the silence something is changing. I won't call it redemption, or even truce, but in my quiet observation of myself and the world around me, I'm realizing that I am not angry at God for who he is - I am angry at him for not being who I thought he was, who I wanted him to be.

Part of the practice of meditation, as I understand it, is detachment. Siddhartha Gautama, the man they call the Buddha believed that suffering comes from desire, our thirst for things we don't have: things that are not ours to possess. A couple hundred years later, Jesus seemed to agree with him. At least that's the impression I have so far. I've barely gotten a sniff of whatever the B-man is cooking. He taught that freeing ourselves from desire would free us from life's cycle of suffering. 

I wonder if he was right? I wonder if what seems like God's indifference is really detachment from the desire to fix something that doesn't belong to him. If God really gave us the right to choose, then the consequences of our choices belong to us, too. I think that's a glimmer of what they call Karma. They are not God's consequences to take away - they are ours to live with,  and to someday release. Like maybe being "born again?"

This gets real problematic and weird. That's probably because I've spent less than a month considering things that people spend their whole lives contemplating. I'm a little lost in the weeds of my own ignorance right now. But somewhere down the path, it seems to me that forgiveness is waiting. For myself. For God. For... I don't know... for all the people and things that didn't turn out to be what I thought or wished they were. 

Detachment from the sound of angry sadness rattling around in my heart. That's a silence I would like to hear.

And somewhere a little further down that path, there is action: the quiet work of loving a world that can't help but hurt itself.

At least that's what I think today. Time to stop typing. I'm still a long way from the wisdom that comes from "saying nothing."

 

Christmonday

O Come, O Come 

Sophie is usually sleeping on my legs, or impatiently meowling in my face for breakfast, but this morning, she was curled round herself on my chest, head over my heart, purring quietly. It's an unusual way for us to awaken, and I'm not sure I remember it ever happening like that before.

I lay in the dark, listening to the cold, Kentucky rain on a lonesome Christmas morning and sighed. "Who's my Best Girl? Merry Christmas, Soph."  I gave her shoulder a rub as she stretched and sprang toward the kitchen. Then, to myself, as I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to stop, "Just another fucking Monday."

I took my meds, and threw a cup of yesterday's coffee into the microwave. Gave Sophie and the birds their breakfast, and sat down in the glider-rocker with a hot mug at my side, a warm cat on my lap, and a chilly draft in my heart. My family were spread out all over the map, different states, different time-zones. Different lives. Geography, death, divorce and despair wedged us apart.

No prayers or meditations this morning. Just me and my coffee and my cat, wondering how many more of these silent Christmas mornings we would spend together. 

I know a black mood coming down the river when I see one, and I was determined not to let this one swamp Sophie's and my little Yule-tide boat. I grabbed up my tablet and logged on. Classic misstep. When you are feeling really bad about life, you can always find a reason to feel worse online. YouTube's wicked mathematics have no variable for counteracting Christmas Blues, so my feed was worthless full of exercise tips and political grievances and sports - basically whatever I've clicked on in the last 24 hours. With more than a little dread, I clicked over to Facebook, expecting to find lots of sad posts from sad people who could not contain their broken hearts on Christmas morning. 

Why did I turn there? Misery loves company? A chance to add my voice to the unhappy chorus? To snort at the naive believers and the cynical manipulators? I can't say what I expected... but I found a surprise. 

Christmas.

There were pictures of trees and packages. Photos of families and candle lit services. Remembrances of loved ones and stories of times long past. Plans for the hours that would soon follow. Meals. Games. Naps. 

Gently replacing the cold wind in my chest, like a wisp of smoke from smoldering frankincense, Christmas crept in. Here in my squalid little flat, amid the roaches and the drug dealers and the screaming kids and the frightened parents and the worried cops and the disturbed domestics and the grumpy old men with their birds and their cats - somehow or other - Christmas came just the same. 

In that strange moment, I felt the world all around me - still far from perfect or peaceful - but somehow just a little brighter than usual. I felt children waking up early and parents shuffling to turn on lights and coffee makers. I heard songs being played by Alexa and Siri and Mariah, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Big brothers smiled knowingly at parents as little sisters thanked Santa for getting just the gift they wanted. Somewhere, a night shift worker heard a snatch of melody and a night traveller caught a glimpse of starlight and an expectant father had a dream and new mother kept it all silently in her heart. 

And it was Christmas.

It wasn't all fixed. It wasn't all OK. 

But somehow, it was just a little better.

Less lonely.

More hopeful.

Christmas.

I am more grateful than I can say for the folks who shared their joy with me today. Our miseries will be fine without us for a few more hours. They will be waiting in the morning. But for now...

Let's give joy a chance.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

This Old House...

Monday is my day off. It’s the day I take care of personal stuff like oil changes and laundry. And doctors. Lots of doctors. I’ve been saying for a while that once you turn 60, it’s like driving an old car. There’s always something else that needs fixing. Recently, I’ve started comparing it to an old house. Sometimes I just look around at everything that creaks and leaks and all the lights that used to come on and the furnace that used to keep things so warm, and I swear to god I don’t know what to try to fix first. Today, I met with the electrician, the plumber, a GC who has worked on my house before, and finished up with my interior designer. 

Quite a few projects going this winter. 

The neurologist who checked my wiring this morning was recommended by the guy who says the pipes to my brain are clogged, but not so he wants to fix them at the moment. He’s thinking I may have some bad wiring in the attic. The neurologist asked about my history, had me watch her fingers wave around, and tested my strength. She did a thing where she takes your blood pressure lying down, then sitting, then standing. My pressure dropped dramatically. Which is the thing (orthostatic hypotension) that causes me to faint so much. What we are trying to discover is why that happens. She ordered an MRI. If they take many more pictures of my brain, it’s gonna need its own agent. She also wants me to do something called a “Tilt table test,” which sounds like a blast, if it doesn’t make me seasick. Finally, she told me she is leaving at the end of the year, so I learned to pronounce her fairly intricate Polish name for nothing. And I need a new electrical expert. 

My regular plumber was on another job today, and the new kid kind of lost track of my work order. I grabbed an hour of meditation and napping in the waiting room. When i finally got to see her, she installed this monitor gadget that will track my heartbeat for the next two weeks. She assured me I can do anything except submerge it in water, so the treadmill and I are going to put it through its paces. Can’t wait to see the upload after a few rounds on the heavy bag. I think they are kind of hoping I’ll pass out, so they can see what happens. All I know is they shaved my chest before sticking it on me, and I’ll be really glad when it stops itching. 

Late in the afternoon, I re-hired my favorite general contractor to coordinate the project. Dr Hall has been my primary care doctor since way-back-when, and I know and trust her absolutely. She left the practice where we met, and I’ve been struggling to remember new doctor’s names ever since. I finally got Google to tell me where she moved to, and we had a reunion. Once she was up to speed, she was able to come up with a plan. We’ll get a second opinion on the blocked arteries, and decide together who should do what. We finished our meeting with a big Christmas hug. Good medicine. 

I finished the day with an early evening sit-down with my therapist. We have been working on my interior for some time: what needs to stay, what needs refurbishing, and where is the clutter I don’t really need to hang on to anymore? It’s a real challenge in an old house, but he has a good eye, and a thoughtful manner that is really helping me to make the old place a home. It was a good place at to wrap up the day. A reminder of why I’m working so hard to keep the joint up and running. 

As you can guess, I slept like a baby last night. This morning, as I was meditating, I became aware of how full of contractions our life is. Trivia absorbs us as meaningful action languishes on our “To-do” list. We spend time and energy grieving for all the tasks we don't have time or energy to accomplish. We know what we ought to do, but struggle to say what we really want. And far too often, our response to our own contradictions is to condemn the people who have inconsistencies of their own. 

Inconsistencies do not make us hypocrites; they make us human. And they If we are lucky, they might make us humble.

My own contradictions frustrate and disappoint me. Intelligence and passion have always been my strengths. Now, my brain and my heart seem to be in a race to see who is going to give out first. 

Frustrating? Yes. But also humbling. I am full of conflicting motives and actions. How can I condemn anyone else for their own contradictions? 

And in my roundabout meandering, I wonder if I haven’t stumbled onto something terrible and true about Christmas. What could be more inconsistent than a god who becomes a human? A creator who destroys? A merciful father who abandons his son? Is our inconsistency a reflection of god’s own  nature? 

I wonder. Is god a worried old man, traveling from one doctor to the next, looking for answers to questions he can’t quite put into words? Does god need me as much as I need him?

I think maybe I need to make one more stop this week. There is a manger in an old inn that I need to visit. Seems like a good week to travel from one old house to another. I want to  catch up with an old Friend. 

A new project

I've finally started working on a project I've been thinking about for years. I have recorded the first 40 minutes of my blogs from 2010, the year I became a cancer survivor. (Don't panic. The file below is just a short sample.)

I've tried to create lots of things with all those words. Write a memoir. Turn them into a play. Use them as the foundation of a side hustle as a motivational speaker. Start a cult.

Nothing ever came of all these ideas. They were either too ambitious, too far beyond my talents, or, too damn much work. This time, I'm just putting my nose to the microphone and pressing on. 

Not really sure what I'll do with all this once it is finished. It will take better ears and eyes than mine to turn it into something resembling a professional production. Maybe it will become the audio companion to the compilation I finally cut and paste and self-publish someday. Maybe I'll use it as background for a slide show of all the photos clogging up my hard-drives. Or maybe it will just turn into another piece of evidence at my commitment hearing when the State finally takes custody of my golden years.

Whatever it becomes, it feels like a more useful pastime than fretting about doctors who don't call and scans that don't show enough and wondering where my skull will be the next time a fainting spell sends me thumping to the floor. If nothing else, it is re-introducing me to a man who knew so much more than I do about just about everything. Maybe he can teach me something...

Bob Johnson · Something Might Be Wrong - 12:10:23, 3.40 PM