Meditations on Desire, Ice Cream, and Freedom

Buddhist teaching asserts that desire is the cause of all suffering. This principle is so fundamental that Siddhartha Gautama made it part of the very first sermon he preached after his long vigil under the Bodhi tree where he is said to have attained enlightenment. He made it one of the Four Noble Truths that describe reality. The more time I spend with this idea, the truer it becomes to me.

What does it mean to desire? To me, it means to want what you haven't got. Food, drink, sex, excitement, power, wealth: sure, but those are the easy ones. We can be just as consumed by our desire for health, a happy family, long lives for loved ones, peace. Desire is natural and can be motivating. We may desire success in business or athletics. Maybe we want to write that novel or make that pilgrimage or lead a revolution. The question is, once the book has been published, the marathon run, or the government transformed, are we any better off? We may be smarter, richer, more confident, more respected, and those are all good things. But will accomplishing our goals make us more free? Or will we weep with frustration like Alexander the Great when he realized, "There are no worlds left to conquer?"

So what's the solution? Can we be free from suffering? Maybe, but there is a trap waiting. Our thirst for freedom from desire, is itself a kind desire. Far from freeing ourselves from slavery, we have simply found another master. Wanting to let go just isn't enough, because that very wanting causes us to suffer disappointment when we fail. I am reminded of Paul's brilliand ad maddening letter to the Church in Rome. 

Paul's dilemma was a brutal one: 

For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am of the flesh, sold into slavery under sin. I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. (Rom 7:14,15)

The problem tortured him;  

Wretched person that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? (Romans 7:24 NRSV)

Paul's answer was to exhort us to find salvation in the Spirit, turning our backs on the things of the flesh. I am new to all this Eastern stuff, and won't presume to say how the Buddha might have responded to the old preacher's cry for help, but Paul and I are old friends, and I can imagine mustering the nerve to follow the Apostle's answer with a question of my own. "Dear Paul, having loosed the bondage of fleshly desires, how will you free yourself from slavery to spiritual ones" Won't they bring you as much  frustration as you suffer now, my poor, wretched brother?"

My impression is that Paul did not suffer fools gladly, and might have been a little put out by a heretical time-traveler interrupting his train of thought in such a familiar manner, just as he was revving up to that grand climax at the end of Chapter 8. I'll have to be satisfied without his answer, but I can reflect a little on my own.

A dilemma is often a choice between two difficult things: a lesser of two evils kind of thing. It is  a charging bull whose horns offer no really satisfying solution. It seems to me that a toreador's best choice when faced with a charging bull is to elude the horns entirely. What if a pilgrim chose not to a) do battle with fleshly desire, or to b) surrender to some other, more spiritual one, but rather chose c): to accept desire as part of the ever flowing, ever changing stream of things as they are? Rather than trying to defeat the bull by letting it gore me with either horn, what if I stand aside and watch it run past?

Sooner or later, the damned thing is bound to get tired, or at least bored.

My question - and lord knows I've taken long enough to get around to it - is this: what if suffering doesn't come from my desire, but from the things I do to try to satisfy it? Am I fat because I want ice cream, or because I eat ice cream? The simple and obvious answer is that my actions lead to my suffering. It's the beautifully Newtonian principle of karma - cause leads to equal and opposite effect. I know that my uncomfortable craving will pass in time. I can sit with that temporary discomfort while it lasts, or I can ignore the laws of thermodynamics and karma and bury my craving under a few scoops full of mint chocolate chip. And tomorrow, I will be a little bit fatter and hungry again. 

Look, I'm fully aware that there is nothing profound here. I'm not trying to be profound. Frankly, I'm feeling old and tired and haven't the energy to be deep. But I am contemplating a kernel of truth I find simple and beautiful. I have is a fascinated curiosity about life as it is. It pleases me to be alive, and to draw the world in like breath. And I wonder at all the things I can do with that breath as I hold it and return it to the universe. 

Maybe that's all any of us can really do. Breathe in life, and breathe out... What?... Kindness?... Cruelty?... Mercy?... Vengeance?...Fear?... Love? Or, maybe just Compassion. Maybe just a breath that says, "I see you. I accept you. I think you are valuable and beautiful and am sorry when things go hard for you and I am so very happy when they are light and easy." Maybe that's the key that unlocks the chains of desire: to see, accept, and love the deeply flawed, perfect creature who shares our breath for a time.

I see you. I love you. I am grateful for you. And we are free.

And if once in a while we share a whiff of mint chocolate chip - I don't see much harm in that, either.

Father and Son

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky.
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a  man;
So be it when I grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

William Wordsworth, "My Heart Leaps Up," 1802.

I don't expect to hear from you this Father's Day. That's not your fault. Old men can travel through time as easily as boys ride their bikes to the swimming pool. You haven't learned that magic yet. (But you will!)

Besides, you never really got to know me, even though I know and love you with all my heart. As I grow old, I am coming to love you more each day. This morning, as I meditated with Sophie, (whom you would have adored,) we thought of you and so many of the things you lived through. 

I wish I could have been there when you were small and so alone. I would have held you in my arms and told you, "It's OK. It's OK to be different and it's OK to want to find your own way. But it's OK to ask for help, too. You don't have to be the hero in every story." It took me a long time to learn that lesson. I wonder if hearing it from me would have made it easier for you.

I would have walked with you on the brick streets where we both grew up, and listened to your dreams and told you some of mine. I would have tried to explain how sadness, your kind of sadness, was a treasure. It made things hard for you, but it gave you a heart that could feel things that some other people missed. Your sadness, which felt like the end of the world sometimes, would always come and go, like waves on the beach, but it would teach you to care about people in a way that would make you very special, if you let it.

I could have told you that I understood what it was like to feel ashamed sometimes. To have secrets that you hope nobody will ever learn. I would have tried to show you that you were not alone, not even in your guilty darkness, and I would have told you how very proud I am of the way you always kept getting back up, even when life seemed determined to keep you down.

We would have talked about girls. I remember your first kiss and how amazed and confused you were under that streetlight in the snow. The softness of her mouth and the sparkle of snowflakes on her eyelashes. I wonder if I would start to get misty as you told me about all the thoughts and feelings you had on the long walk home that December night. Would you have laughed when I told you that almost 50 years later, girls are still as amazing and confusing to me as they were to you?

I have learned so much about so many things. Could I have helped you to be less afraid of life? To be more curious? To find your confidence and courage a little bit sooner? I don't know. I wish I could have tried. 

A strange thought just came to me. Could I have been a better father to you than our Dad was? It feels like I'm betraying him, even to ask. Dad loved you, and I believe he would love us both, if he were still alive. But Dad had his own life, his own father. He prepared me the best way he knew how. When he died, he left us to take care of each other. Maybe that's what being a Father really means. Preparing your children to become the best parents they can be. 

He was my teacher, my first, best teacher. I will always love him, but never be him. I will love you in my own way, but my love is built on the love he gave me. I'm glad I've lived long enough to realize what a rare gift that is. 

When I look at your picture, I don't really see myself. I see "Bobby." There aren't many people left who call me that these days. Strangers call me "Robert." Friends call me "Bob." A handful, random ones who love me dearly call me "Bobbo." I have no idea where that comes from, but it always tickles me. Believe it or not, there are people calling me "Mr. Bob" now. You can't imagine how much I love that. Or maybe of all the people in the world, you understand.

Mr. Wordsworth says that you are my father. And so you are. In many ways, I am what you made me. But I am your dad, too. Even if you can't know me, I am here to know you. To understand you. To accept and forgive and remember. I am here to love you. And I always will. Just as our Dad always loved us. Always. We are "bound each to each" in ways no one can see and nothing can undo. I hope that makes you feel a little less alone. Because I am grateful for you and so very proud of you.

I have an advantage that you don't, you see. I know your future. I know that you are going to do some horrible things, worse than you can imagine. You're going to hurt and fail people in ways that will make you wish you had never been born. You will be sicker and sadder and sorrier than anybody has a right to live through. But you will live. And in living, you will bring light and love and hope to lonely places and comfort to badly broken hearts. You won't be a star, but you be a helper. And on the days when despair seems like the only rational path, I hope that helps you, my beloved child.

Happy Father's Day, Bobby. I'm glad you found the strength to stick it out. We have so many adventures ahead of us. 

You done good, Kiddo.

#609: Bon appétit

Sitting quietly, my morning ritual. Moving gently on the glider rocker that Mom would have loved. Plate on my lap

And on that plate

Is the world.

The little circle of flaky bread claims to be a croissant, though I doubt any patissier would honor it with the name. Still, it is my breakfast, and deserves attention.

It connects me to eternity.

As I eat, my mind turns to the young cashier in the grocery store who sold it to me,

and the woman with the rack of frozen food who stocked them in the freezer where I found them. 

Someone loaded them off of a truck that another drove from a warehouse to the store. 

Creative people designed a box, developed graphics, invented machines to pack and preserve this little sandwich.

Engineers and chemists turned to forests and laboratories to create the ink the printer used to decorate the package. 

Somewhere, eggs and flour and salt and sugar were assembled in a recipe devised by artists whose medium is the food we eat. 

The flour was milled from wheat harvested by giant machines driven by people whose paths are guided by ancient skills, and by technologies that did not exist 5 years ago. 

The roots of that wheat stretch like loving arms into the soil to drink of her water and feast on her minerals. 

Matter that was created before Earth was formed lies just beneath her surface, ready to play its ever-changing role in the ever-changing universe.

Today, I will eat this little piece of eternity, and it will help me to live and move and be in the world. 

Some of it, I will use. Some, I will store. Tomorrow, I will return some of it to the earth where it will become a new part of creation. 

One day, I will do the same. My muscles and organs and breath and bones will return to the earth and sky and sea. Maybe I will help to feed a small part of a field of wheat. 

And in that shaft of grass or squirt of ink or drop of machine oil or somewhere else I cannot imagine, I will be born again.

Bon appétit.

#608: our last breath

dying beloved

wordless beauty

exhausted and numb

breast rattle and chuff

 

so much 

time

lost

imagine her squeezing my fingers

murmur useless prayers into

deaf ears

but you

my old friend

you found her parched lips and she gasped you in

like one drowning 

from too much 

life

if i could

i would have exchanged my breath

for hers

but, no

you stayed with me and she left us alone

together

#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.

 

#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.

#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 quinceañera 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.  

#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.

#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

He's been with us for a couple of years now, going through one 12-week session of LIVESTRONG at the YMCA after another, giving and receiving inspiration with the groups of which he has been a part. His attendance has been pretty spotty lately. They told him in February that he didn't have more than a couple of months left. He kept coming back. He felt safe with us. He felt strong. He felt loved and alive. He was right. 

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

#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.

 

St John of the Cross, a Spanish monk who lived and wrote in the sixteenth century called that painful season of life The Dark Night of the Soul. He described the days (years?) when the soul questions everything, doubts everything, and experiences existence in the shadowland between dark emptiness and the light of God. I think that's where I was. I hadn't stopped believing in God. What I felt seemed worse. I stopped trusting him. I lost my faith in a God who cared.

I'm not sure I can pinpoint a moment or an event that let me see light cracking the distance. All I know is that somehow, morning is breaking for me. It has appeared both literally and spiritually in these early morning hours of silence as Sophie and I sit together, she on her cushion and I on my rocker, and listen to the morning, to our breath, to our heartbeats. I know that's what I'm doing, anyway. Sophie is a cat and possesses a far more enlightened, serene spirit than I will ever know.

 

My prayer time is no longer filed with words, but rather with listening. I observe my body, my thoughts, my emotions, and the images that drift into view. Pick them up. Embrace them. Kiss them, bless them, and set then down to drift away with the current as the river of life flows on. And so, I am coming to love this five-line prayer...

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.

 

I can't cite any authoritative source for it. I found it on one of those (sometimes fake) Buddhist YouTube channels. I must admit it has the fragrance of new-agey manifestation/affirmation gobbledygook. So I can't say if it comes from any specific source or spiritual tradition. All I know is that something about it rings inside me like a bell, and I find great truth in it. Here are some of the things that drift by as I contemplate this prayer in the mornings.

 

Gratitude

 

Sometimes I wonder if gratitude might not be the most powerful force in the universe. It has certainly proven to be my most valuable anti-depressant. Resting in gratitude for the new day as the sun is coming up gives me such hope and energy. Gratitude helps me to see opportunity instead of peril. I've started so many days with dread, knowing that something difficult was waiting for me, convinced that yesterday's sadness or anger or failure was sure to repeat itself again today. Gratitude reminds me that I live a life full of treasures - people who care about me, sun and rain that keep me alive, a mind that can help me to learn and change and grow, the river of life of which I am a part. Gratitude reminds me that I have not come to this day on my own, and that I have a chance to help someone else to get through today. We have a chance, a hundred chances to help one another. If hope is the cure for despair, then gratitude is the gateway to hope.

 

 Change

 

Impermanence is a core truth about the universe. The only thing that never changes is that everything changes. The play closes. The loved one dies. The knee gives out. The friends drift apart. The river of life flows and bring happiness and grief, then it takes them away again. "The best laid plans," and all that. Everything changes. Always. Resisting that change makes us miserable, and our misery doesn't only hurt us - it spreads like ripples on an oil slick, doing harm to everything around us.

 

On the other hand, embracing impermanence and accepting the changes helps us forgive. Forgive the people who disappoint or hurt us. Forgive ourselves for falling short. Forgive God for not being who we wish he were. One of the finest directors I worked with when I was an actor used to say, "Include it in," whenever anything unexpected happened on stage. What he meant was that an actor has to embrace the truth of what's happening and make it part of the life of the play, no matter what the original plan might have been. Well, life isn't a play. We don't get to rehearse it, and we don't get to read the last scene before we have to play it, but we do get surprises, both good and bad. When they come, we can resent them, resist them, or embrace them. We can "include them in," learn what they have to teach us, then set them down and continue on our way. We can allow change to change us. This can be a source of sorrow, or a reminder that even at its most painful, life is rich and beautifully impermanent.

Compassion

 

It's kind of a shame that "Love" is so much more popular than "Compassion." I wonder if it's the same in other languages or traditions. We write love letters, we sing love songs, we watch love stories, we say "God is love," but at its heart, it seems to me that the story of Jesus is a compassion story. Jesus didn't just care about the people he encountered, he valued them. He didn't just feel for them, he felt with them. If you pay attention to the stories about Christ, or to the stories of the Buddha for that matter, you notice something important: they always listen before they speak. When Nicodemus comes to Jesus in the night, his questions are as important as the answers he gets. When a young pilgrim climbs the mountain to learn from a sage in a Zen Koan, the old master always begins silently, allowing the seeker to speak and listening not only to the words, but also the the silent longing concealed behind those words. Compassion is so much more work than love. And so much more powerful.

I have lived long enough to love so many people. I'm a little ashamed to admit that there are many more than I can remember. If I'm honest, I have to admit that usually, what I love is the way I feel when I'm with the one I love. I love the way they make me feel about myself. I love knowing that I'm lovable. And when the love changes, or even ends, what hurts most is the loneliness of losing those feelings. My experience of love has been that it is a thing that happens to me. Don't get me wrong. It's a beautiful thing, an amazing thing, a transformational, earth-shattering, gloriously holy thing. But it always feels beyond my control, somehow. It seems to come from outside, and it tends to leave at the worst possible times.

 

Compassion is different, somehow. It feels more like a choice. Compassion doesn't take me by surprise. I have to stop what I'm doing, put down the phone, turn my chair, put the TV on mute, open up my ears. Compassion doesn't start with a feeling, it starts with a choice. It says, "I honor you. I value you. I am grateful for you. You are worth my time." Love changes me. Compassion requires that I make a change. When I think of the great love affairs of my life, whether they have ended dramatically or faded slowly away, they have rarely failed for lack of love. More often than not, they have starved to death for a want of compassion. An untended garden will die for lack of water and weeding and pruning and cultivation of the soil. An untended friendship will die for the same reasons: because someone doesn't value it enough to do the work of keeping it alive. Cultivating compassion is the work of keeping love alive. 

 

Wisdom

 

When God appeared to Solomon in a dream, the young king didn't ask for riches or power or long life. He asked for wisdom.

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)

Over the centuries there have been many personifications of Wisdom, most of them are feminine. Athena, Minerva; Tara, Inanna, and of course, Sophie's namesake, Sophia - Wisdom has been revered by many traditions, including both the Hebrew and the Christian scriptures. Humans have always understood that knowledge is important, but that without wisdom, knowledge is a blunt instrument. I have always valued knowing stuff. I've spent a lifetime learning things. I wonder how different my life might have been if I'd spent a tenth of that time learning how to use the things I'd learned wisely.  

The path of wisdom isn't just a trip among the library shelves or a browse  through the internet, though it can start there. I have learned a lot from YouTube videos or rocking under my reading light with a book in my lap, but wisdom's path makes more demands of the traveller. It demands practice. It risks missteps and dares to make mistakes, and that demands courage. My old friend Noah, a jazz pianist and composer used to say, "When in doubt, dig failure." He was a wise young man.

 

I think it is meaningful that Wisdom is so often seen to be feminine,. She is a nurturer. She teaches us to serve, to manage, to persevere, to sacrifice. Wisdom overcomes by yielding. She knows the power of patience. She embodies all the qualities we ascribe to the best mothers. She teaches, disciplines, comforts, and encourages. She receives the seed of knowledge and transforms it into the gift of life. When we walk the path of Wisdom, we walk  with the one who gave us life: the one whose life we inherit and pass on when our own walk is over. 

Peace

 

The last of the five prayers is the most elusive for me. "I am at peace with myself." Holy shit. Have I ever been? Can I even imagine what that might feel like? Maybe once.

 

I was on tour playing Prospero in The Tempest. We were set up on a platform in a field in Letchworth State Park in Upstate New York, Behind the audience, the stars were so numerous and bright that I could see them, even past the stage lights that normally blinded me. To the audience's right, just beyond a row of trees the Genesee river carved a deep gorge through the western Adirondacks that the locals called The Grand Canyon of the East, It was a fantastic setting for a company of actors from Hell's Kitchen who spent most of their days on a bus and all their nights in strange motel rooms.

 

At the opening of Act V, after Prospero dismissed Ariel, I turned to face an ocean of faces, raised my eyes to the stars, and began Shakespeare's magnificent, climactic soliloquy,

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 rejoice

To 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. 

Many scholars believe that The Tempest is Shakespeare's last play, and if they are right, then this is the moment when the old poet summons his muses one last time, lays down his pen, and says goodbye. At least that's how I always saw it when I played the wizard who gives up his magic, so his daughter can have life. I was lucky enough to play the old fellow many times as a student and a professional actor, when I was much too young to understand him, but on that one night, with the eyes of 3000 people on me and the light of a bilion stars overhead, I heard Shakespeare's words echo back from that ancient canyon and I was transported. It was as if all of us were connected by those perfect verses and lifted up from the lawn to a place where we could see everything: our world, our selves, the futility of our petty rivalries and the glorious  creation all visible before us like a revelation. It was not a moment in a play or a speech from an actor, but a breathless transcendence that only comes once in a lifetime. I imagine a lot of actors never get to experience something like that. How blessed I was to have such a moment. It didn't matter how good I was or how rich or famous or anything at all. I didn't matter. Being alive together: that's what mattered. That night, on that stage, in that field, I was at peace with the world. I was whole. I was at peace with myself. I hope some of those folks felt like that, too. I hope everybody gets to feel it at least once. I hope we made Will Shakespeare proud that night. May he rest in Peace.

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.

 

That's how I imagine the fulfillment of that prayer for peace - the feeling of being whole. Connected. Accepting what life is and who we are and embracing her without needing to hang on. To be grateful. To accept what is. To value our neighbor. To live wisely and well. Peace. Ahhh... what a holy aspiration. What a perfect prayer. 

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.

Dear hearts, may you have peaceful rest, and wake with gratitude for the morning.

 

Peace, y'all.

Pennsy

#601 The Two Monks and The Beautiful Woman

Image from 
Wellness and Wisdom Quest

One morning, two monks, a master and a novice, were traveling through a forest, walking in peaceful meditation when they came to a rushing river. Near the shore was a beautiful young woman who had started to cross, but the power of the current and slippery footing had paralyzed her. She could not take another step for fear of falling into the cataract and being swept away. The novice looked on wide-eyed as his master waded in, lifted her, and carried her to the opposite shore. There he set her down gently, blessed her with a respectful bow of his head, and with a kind, silent smile continued on his way while the novice hurried breathlessly to catch up.

The two traveled together without a word throughout the morning and into the afternoon. When the sun was overhead and the heat almost overwhelming, they stopped to rest in the cool shade of a grove of willow trees. The master saw that the young monk was uneasy and deep in thought. "What is troubling you, my son?"

"Master, you know that as monks we take a vow never to touch a woman. You broke your vow. How could you have carried that beautiful girl across the river?" His voice broke as confusion and disappointment in his master threatened to overwhelm him.

The elder monk smiled tenderly at his young companion. How well he knew the weight of the feelings and questions that burdened the earnest novice.

"Little brother, I left her on the shore of that river. But you have carried her all the way to this willow grove."

This is my own version of a traditional zen koan or parable. Like all great parables, it is complicated and sometimes troubling (Isn't the kid right? And why does she have to be a beautiful, young woman?)  We'll put those controversies in a basket for another day. For now, I have to acknowledge that this story has popped up like an echo in my life in several different  contexts over the past week, and today it seems particularly appropriate for me to spend some time with it.

I see myself in all three of the characters in this story. Once, when I was working in the theatre, I was on a scaffold with another rigger, high above the stage floor, helping to install new equipment in the ceiling. My partner needed me to cross a narrow plank that spanned the frame of the tower to help him operate a drill. I took two steps out, and froze. I could not move my feet, could not et go of the beam above me, certainly could not move my eyes to look down. If my partner had not stepped nimbly out onto the plank and taken my hands in his to walk me back to safety, I would still be up there. So, I understand the fear the young woman must have felt as the water rushed all around her.

In my current work as a personal trainer and coach, I am often part of conversations that remind me of my own experiences. The middle-aged man whose weight has gone up and down again and again for years - maybe his whole life. The woman whose struggling marriage has finally failed who can't stop accusing, regretting, and despairing. The cancer patient, newly diagnosed, who wants to know what's coming, and is terrified that he won't have the strength to face it. Or the caregiver who feels guilty for not doing enough, or for doing the wrong things. I have been blessed to have lived a long time, survived many trials, and made many mistakes. Those experiences have taught me compassion, like the patient old master whose young charge lashes out at him in confusion and disappointment

But mostly, I guess I recognize myself in the novice. I mean, hell, there are a couple of pretty, young girls I've been carrying for years. Failures remembered. Words I regret. Insults I've taken to heart. Old wounds. Old mistakes. It's a wonder I can walk at all, with all these things in my backpack.

I wish I'd had a wise old monk to remind me to set these things down gently by the river, bless them, and then continue on my way. But then, I wonder if my younger self would have listened or even understood his kind counsel. Its a little disappointing to me that, at a time in my life when I ought to be playing the role of the wise old master, I'm still weighed down with foolish, childish burdens, re-playing and re-writing movie scenes that were shot and in the can long ago.

My meditations have been difficult lately. Thoughts and images, emotions and memories have kept me drifting far away from Sophie the cat and my quiet chair. Some mornings, I don't even try because I just don't want to face the chattering inside that troubles me so. I'll turn on a video so I don't have to think, and try to go back to sleep. At night, I distract myself with idle eating, aimless scrolling, and one (or two) too many glasses of cheap chianti. It's been a difficult couple of weeks, and all it has done is to put a little more weight into my pack.

Anniversary dates are hard. February starts with the anniversary of my Father's death. It ends with the birthday of the finest woman I've ever known; one whom I loved - badly, but with all my heart - and failed so disastrously that I doubt I will ever really recover from the guilt and shame of letting her down. It's a hard time for me to be present. I'm not a very nice place to be this time of year.

Depression, that old booger-man doesn't make it any easier. A lifetime of faulty neurochemistry and destructive thinking keeps one eye fixed in the rear-view mirror, no matter how many miles I put between myself and yesterday. And sooner or later, I always seem to find myself passing through a town I've visited before, and the thorny past snatches out at me like briars. 

What's a gray-bearded novice to do? The burdens I've chosen to carry make it painful to walk, and setting them down seems impossible. I'd like to tell you I have an answer or even a plan, but to be honest, it's a little overwhelming. Here I am, in the cool breeze and lovely shade under these graceful willow trees, with my empty pack beside me, and its contents spread out at my feet. I know what I ought to do. I ought to bless it all, turn quietly with a bow and a smile, and leave them there on the dark mossy earth as I continue on my way. It's the only thing that makes sense. But I've been carrying them for so long, I'm not sure I know how to walk without them. I'm not even sure I know who I'd be without them.

I'm like a slave who is afraid to lay down his chains. 

I have no love for Depression, but it has taught me one important lesson. No matter how bad  things get, they do not stay bad forever. Change will come and I'll see sunshine again. But the dark times are hard, especially when they are self-inflicted.

When I read it again, I can't help but notice that the story of the two monks and the woman has no real ending. The novice doesn't learn a lesson. He doesn't let go of his fixation on the girl. He doesn't even condemn the old man as a hypocrite and abandon his service. We don't find out what he does. And maybe that's how it should be. It doesn't really matter if the young monk left his burden there, under the weeping willows.

What matters is, will we? Will I?

Do I dare?

"Little brother, I left her on the shore of that river. But you have carried her all the way to this willow grove."

#600 A New Path?

What does it mean to live? To embrace life? To fight for your life? I keep returning to the same ideas lately. If you've been following along, I'm sure you've noticed. That may be a symptom of an increasingly disordered mind, or it may be a result of the more contemplative personal habits I've been practicing. Whichever better describes my state of mind these days, I want to talk about fighting some more.

I have another friend who is dying. There's no easy way to say that. The doctors have lowered his prognosis from "a couple years," to "a few months." He isn't in physical pain right now. He can still get up, go out, drive himself places. He still exercises. He doesn't need you to feel sorry for him. He isn't giving up on life.

He's a hero to me. I wonder how I would respond in his place? I hope I would have some of the courage and strength that he has.

He and I are part of a community. We meet a couple times a week. Our bond is wonderful and horrible. Each of us has experienced hearing the words, "You have cancer," and lived the aftermath of that moment. We all reacted differently, some with hope, some with anger, some with grief, most of us with a combination of all those things. What we didn't do - what we never allowed ourselves to do - was to give up. We never gave up on life. When our community - our cancer family - when we learned of the change in our friend's medical status, we reacted differently, too. Some laid hands on him and prayed. Some held back tears. Some related stories of miraculous cures and sudden scientific discoveries. We made jokes that would scandalize outsiders. We listened silently, feeling our friend's suffering in our own darkest fears. Each in our own way, we tried to project some of our own strength into our brother. He will need it. And we will not give up on him. I don't see him giving up on himself, either.

But "don't give up," isn't really a strategy, is it? What is it that I'm not giving up? What is the positive action implied by that refusal to quit? What does it mean to live until you die? 

Years ago, I chose the path of a warrior. I chose to fight. I battled with my weight, my athleticism, my depression, my habits... mostly, I went to war against cancer. I tried to help where I could. Raised money for organizations. Offered to listen or to help survivors to stay fit and active. Built a career around creating communities of survivors who helped themselves and one another. Went to funerals. Saved their pictures. Honored their lives by fighting beside them. Honored their memories by helping others to fight.

I've always equated "don't give up" with "don't stop fighting," but lately I have started to question that plan. Maybe fighting isn't the only option. And maybe there is a place in life's garden where the path splits. Choose the warrior's way and keep fighting, or take this other way, a path of peace.

It sounds so foreign to me, this notion of making peace with cancer. With mine. With yours. With the cancer that makes people I love suffer. With the cancer that changed my life and haunts my secret fears for the future. Cancer has always been my enemy. I've imagined its sneering face and cruel heart. I've held the hand of a beautiful, dying young man, prayed for his rattling breath to stop, and hated the murderer growing inside his frail body. How do I make peace with that? How do i accept it?

Ahhhh...

How can I not accept it? Next to death itself, cancer is just about the realest thing there is. If I say I'm fighting cancer, what am I fighting? Am I fighting reality? Am I fighting the truth? 

I can't fight the truth of what might happen, because I can't know what might happen. Can't fight the truth of what has happened; that ink has long-since dried. All I can fight is what is happening now. Fight back the feelings. Fight down the nausea. Fight to stand. Fight to sleep. Jesus, no wonder I'm so tired all the time. I am living my life at war with reality.

I've been at war with the truth.

Nowadays, I'm looking for an alternative. That's why I've been meditating. I've spent a lifetime talking to God. Now, I'm listening. I'm learning to see and hear what is really there. Truth doesn't need my approval or even my acceptance. Maybe, Truth doesn't need anything from me at all. Maybe I don't have to fight for my life, because when I stop and sit and breathe for  a moment, I can't help but notice that I'm alive right now.  I have my life. For how long? I can't answer that. No prognosis or actuary or oracle can tell me. No tea leaves or entrails or star chart can peek into tomorrow, or even tell me what I'll have for lunch this afternoon. All I have is now. All I have is life.

Maybe my task isn't to wrestle my life from cancer. Maybe my task is to live life with cancer. I know that sounds like I'm just playing with words, But I think they describe two radically different paths. 

And it feels like a part of the garden that's worth exploring. I think I'll be back again.

Peace, y'all.