Difficulties

“Every aspect of tragedy must be the bones 

supporting the rest of life, 

What I cling to…is the belief that difficulties are what makes it honorable and interesting to be alive.”

                                                                                  Florida Scott-Maxwell (84)

                                                                                       FromThe Measure Of My Days (published in1968)

“Hold to what is difficult”— Rainer Marie Rilke

It was the words of Rilke, “Hold to what is difficult,” that jumped off the page, and started an avalanche in my being. There was some kind of mysterious cascading sensation that made me buy that book, in that unknown bookstore, on that day. I didn’t know it at the time, but that moment presaged my luck.

At the time, I knew I was taken by Rilke’s words, I thought of them primarily as good advice from someone far smarter than I. Little did I know that those words were prophetic, referring to my coming life, and the most incredible form of grace that comes into all of our human lives.

I am rendered almost speechless by the elegant democracy of hardship. It enters even the most successful person’s life, there is no privilege that is capable of forestalling tragedy, suffering and difficulty. All of us are in that particular crucible. It is the difficult degree of challenge that brings out the incredible humanity that is available within us.

I’m not just tooting my own disabled horn here. Life seems to have devised a devilishly effective means for evoking our potential. It starts with what appears tragic, and calls for the response that turns pain and insecurity into Creation. There is a kind of alchemy here that goes way beyond human intention to something mysterious, dark, and grossly compelling. What hurts and overwhelms is what teaches and creates best. My soul didn’t see that coming, or perhaps it did, the avalanche started somewhere.

Now I consider myself “Lucky” not because I no longer am in the hands of difficulty, but because difficulty seems to have a permanent grip on me. Being disabled is horribly edifying. Weirdly, perhaps dementedly (I am 70 after all), I now consider the “good life” to be the one hardship has wrought. Wisdom doesn’t come with long life, I now think, it comes with a blessedly difficult one. 

Nothing seems to sensitize us as well as genuinely difficult initiatory ordeals. These are the painfully dubious experiences no shaman can evoke, and no workshop, or lifelong practice can prepare us for. It is the natural hardship of existence, the difficulty of being truly human, that draws out of each of us our true character. One cannot fake pleasure and equanimity in the face of the natural workings of hardship and difficulty. Grace is wickedly accurate.

You don’t have to go looking for difficulty. There is no practice for becoming. Life handles it. Spiritual aspirations don’t provide immunity. One cannot hope lightening will fall on your head.  Difficulty comes in its own way, uniquely suitable for each of us. 

Then we have only our response.  The world smiles when hardship makes us the strangely receptive beings we can be.

De-patterning

This is a complex topic, because it addresses a fundamental attribute of being human, something we are good at. In short, it is a strength, that when carried too far, is a profound difficulty, which must be overcome. You’ll see what I mean as I proceed. 

Over the years, as I have been doing a variety of things related to aging, I’ve noticed that all old people are not the same. The vast majority of older people are caught up in what I call ruts, that is, routines that have always been successful at bringing them comfort and safety. They are the ones I call ‘merely older.’ They, to my eyes, are rut-bound — captive of patterns of their own making. 

I have also noted, and given special attention too, the minority of old folks who are elders, or on the way toward elderhood. They have ruts too, but are actively trying to identify, and get out of them. For them, the patterns of a lifetime hinder their freedom and creativity. As you might guess, these few, are more in the moment, and more original. It is to them, I look, for examples of what’s uniquely possible in we humans.

Here, I’m not so concerned about the plight of old people, as I am about the human tendency to adopt patterns that become ruts — which trap and diminish us. You see, our very development seems to depend upon our ability to adopt good routines, but our aspiration to be free, depends upon our ability to break out of them. Fail to adopt optimal patterns, and one never becomes coherent and recognizable, but stay too long with any pattern and risk becoming rigid and inflexible. 

This is vexing challenge — one that befits an organism as complex as we humans. But, in my estimation, it accounts for the limited number of true elders in our midst. People don’t realize how dangerous their own capabilities are. The successful routine that guaranteed love, attention, safety, or self-worth, ultimately becomes the habitual and binding rut that enslaves imagination and hardens attitudes into prejudices. Supremacy of all sorts lives in the cherished ruts of yesteryear.

Breaking these old patterns, and climbing out of old ruts, is an essential component of being human. This is an endeavor that is always difficult, and essential. It is comparable to molting. A significant part of the difficulty involved, is that going beyond these old patterns, always includes periods of vulnerability. Exposure to the unknown is part of the deal. Enculturated humans in particular are allergic to this kind of exposure — making the ruts (routines) all that more alluring.

Rutting, of all sorts is very human — as is escaping the ruts. That is why children like to get dizzy, and why many people like altered states. Each provides a way to experience the world anew, from a brief, rut-free zone. None of these avenues, as powerful (like mind-altering substances) as they are, provides the innate confidence that comes with discovery. This is an on-board natural skill. It is part of our human resilience — a part, which needs to be exercised, to be believed.

De-patterning, escaping our self-made ruts, is as natural and essential as all forms of birth. We have no choice but to practice de-patterning, but whether we get good enough at it, depends upon willingness (courage) and insight (understanding the necessity of exposure) to practice it throughout a lifetime. Because this is so, it is easy to see that elders grow, like the rest of us, through the breaking of old, formerly binding patterns. De-patterning is another form of emancipation. De-patterning is wisdom — unleashed.

Opening

Passing from one world into a larger more spacious, complex, and liberating one is a human capacity. It isn’t well-known, but if you think about it, you and everybody you know, has passed from baby to adult. Along the way, there were many stages, many trips beyond oneself to a larger world. All it took was Nature’s pushing, growing us into the occupant of a larger way of being. The capacity to open up, and become something more, is built into our DNA, it is the way of Nature.

Like the crab we learn to abandon our shells to grow, to become, to occupy the world. Unlike the crab our carapace is located more within us, rather than outside, and because humans are a complex organism, molting (becoming larger) is a more complicated maneuver. At certain stages, the shifts that engender awareness, require humans to suffer growth pains, in the form of confusion, anxiety, depression, and vulnerability. These feelings arise around the impending urgency of growth, that wells up from within —no matter what — they occur from growing, or not growing.

It is for this reason — the growth pressure within — that there is a lot of normal suffering. It is also for this reason that we humans need to know about opening. A big part of this knowing is hard to stomach, disillusioning even — although a sure sign of maturation. Growing is painful, and involves periods of vulnerability. Leaning into anxiety and fear, feelings that impending change invariably produce, is counterintuitive, even as it validates what a complex animal we are. Opening is hard, but essential, for any kind of resilient being to stride deeper into the world.

It is easy to get mesmerized, hypnotized by the political and environmental conditions that threaten the worst kind of changes. These kinds of circumstances, charge the experience of change, with all kinds of feelings and ideological baggage. Change appears to be so hopeful to some, and so threatening to others. As a result cultural change has grown constipated. It needs a period of openness.

This is where Nature comes in. It open us. Despite ourselves, we humans give birth— to ourselves, to each other, to greater capacity, even to a world complex enough to include our diverse aspirations. The thing is, for this birth to happen, for the quickening that presages it to stir, a period of openness must occur. This means more vulnerability, uncertainty and unknowing than most of us are used to. Inviting a new sensibility, a world capable of holding so much diversity, means surrendering our knowing, putting aside our best laid plans, and our hoped for visions. Openness is exacting.

Nature has delivered to us the experience of opening. It is more awkward and vulnerable than most of us like. It can be as brutal as birth. It can also be a blessed entryway — a portal — a new way of seeing ourselves, each other, and the world we share. Strangely, Nature has anticipated times this stuck. It has provided us with the capabilities we need. Opening is not as hard as not opening. 

Existential threats are known to create communal opening, as do some forms of hallucinogens, ageing can do it too, but the opening needed now is more pervasive than all of that — it is the opening of the human heart. The moment contains existential threat enough — psychedelic wonder sufficient to the task. What remains is for each of us to open ourselves. I know this is easier said than done, but let me remind us all — this is how Life proceeds.

 Luckily, Life has aged me into paradoxical awareness — so I can sense the opening in what’s closing around us.

Deciding

Are you in a prison 

or

 are you in a playhouse

or

both?

The process of shaping one’s life never seems to stop. Change goes on, with or without us. We get to have some input into this inexorable dance, but it isn’t large and definitive. Mostly, it’s after the fact, lame, and fairly poorly thought out. Still, no factor plays as large a role in how we shape ourselves as the choices we make. Deciding exercises the autonomy that is us — it shapes how we live, and who we are. It is so important, and so rarely examined. I wonder why? Perhaps, this writing meditation will shed some light on this soul-bending phenomenon.

I think my life is mostly a lucky accident. I’ve been given a lot of credit for what I became during an unbelievable ordeal. The truth of it is, not much courage was required. I could read the writing on the wall, dead or alive — I belonged to Life — about that I had no choice. I still don’t. Life chose for me, I survived briefly. I’m in that interlude now. I get to decide how I play this second chance, and that means that I am once again thrust up against my own attitudes about this existence.

I dwell in crazy possibility. I am, afterall, a radical unlikelyhood. So, for me, this phase of this life, is a free pass. Brain damage and luck have forged a strange passport that gives me free reign, a kind of diplomatic immunity, to be weird, eccentric, and slightly off, without the usual consequences. You see, it’s hard to take what’s left very seriously.

But, I remember the time before my stroke of luck. I was such an upright human, so desperate to learn, to live right, to be one of the reliable ones. My decisions, about myself, and my way of being with others, dripped with  eagerness. I was a mensch wannabee. My decisions followed accordingly. I lived well, in my well-appointed jail cell, locked into my desire for other’s to like and approve of me, and what I’d become.

This is a meditation on choice, and I am struck by the paradox, that I call myself “Lucky” because I had no choice. Life took away all my options, and gave me something I could never have cooked-up. The passport Life gave me at the border is something I never deserved, something I never even imagined. Still, it is carrying me through the provinces I thought I knew, and it is introducing me to the possibilities that I couldn’t see. Being human has become a kind of high bafflement, that defies what I was taught, and asks me to go further.

The truth is I can’t decide. Is being here a gift from some source beyond, or a curse? — a lively mystery tour, or an unfolding nightmare designed to unnerve. It seems schizo-enough to be all of the above. So, here I am, unable to decide, and without a choice about having to decide. So, I’m looking for Life to keep carrying me along despite my decisions. And, I’m getting Life carrying me along, in the way it is, because of my decisions. How’s that for justice? I decide despite myself, and I get to live with the consequences.

I know I’m no clearer about deciding, than I was when I began this inquiry. Deciding seems to have some kind of ephemeral veil — what looks easy and necessary, turns out mysterious and undecipherable. Life seems to hang on my attitudes and beliefs, and then some hitchhiking wonder takes over the wheel.

There’s nothing illuminating in what I’ve written, and maybe that is the greatest asset that this treatise holds.

Emancipated Innocence

Take another look at the title for this piece. Emancipated innocence•. Try to remember these words. Why? Because they represent a lighthouse concept, a key that unlocks a portion of the future, and a clarifying breeze that gently blows away the cultural fog that obscures what is good about growing older. Freedom lies ahead for those who remember. So does the re-enchantment of the world. These words represent a powerful aspect of Nature, which is way too undervalued today.

Emancipated innocence. What does that mean? How is it relevant to us? These are good questions, worth exploring. The word ‘emancipated’ means freed from something, in this case, the myopic views owned by the culture, not just on old people, but almost everything. It often takes a life-time to realize how much bad advice and misdirection is provided by cultural convention. 

Part of what makes it so hard to free oneself, is that we each have loved ones, friends and family, that are so afraid of coloring outside the lines. They have carved ruts for themselves, that they want give to us. They are lovingly offering the same kind of protection, which they suffer from. Sometimes, most often, it takes a lifetime to work up the courage to transcend them, go through the anxiety they won’t face, and find freedom for oneself.

There is a big difference between the innocence of childhood, and the innocence that comes to some in later life. I call this rebirth, elder innocence. An infant’s innocence is mesmerizing. It is a fresh encounter with Life that is so engaging, to a child, and to anyone witnessing the awe of discovery. It is a totally fascinating and naïve encounter with the world, that takes place before a child is hobbled by the practices of civilization.

Elder innocence is similar, but something else. For instance it isn’t exactly naïve. It is a re-discovery of the magic and natural beauty of the world, a fresh not-knowing, that is a product of liberation from the gravitational pull of mass knowing, the cultural hubris of the times.

Elder innocence is as compelling as childhood innocence, maybe more so, because it is infused with delight and pleasure. There is nothing so joyful, so happy-making, as emerging from the gauntlet of a life defined by other’s — and/or cultural decrees.

Emancipated innocence is an achievement. Not like the product of trying to recover naiveté, but the outcome of being brave enough to become oneself, despite the straightjacket that is offered to fend off fear and anxiety. It is the hard-won innocence, which reflects the failure to kow-tow to the well-meaning, but bad advice of others. It is life lived to the beat of a different drum. It is ultimately, a bonus for trusting what stirs within.

Emancipated innocence is different than childhood innocence in another important way; it requires something of us. The re-enchantment of the world occurs not solely because of nature, or of human effort, but because the two are combined. Wonder interrupts the planned life. Uncertainty intrudes. And, the future and the past become one extended moment. Life does its mystical thing to us. And, if we have the will — we are freshly humbled by these things — and susceptible.

Innocence is unknowing. It thrives because of uncertainty. It’s not good for business (commercial activity), but it insures a better relationship with the mystery of this existence. Innocence always takes two; the observer and the observed. It is within us, just waiting under the encrustations of expectation, for attention. It is a resonating invitation to look again.

Crumbling

All it takes is a little look around, and I see what I don’t want to see. My world is crumbling. It is going the way of the dinosaur, becoming the scene I once was thrilled being within, the family that once bore me, the life I once lived. It is all moving on, passing so quickly, going into the inscrutable silence. I am overwhelmed, sensitized and dumbfounded. Living now is an affair of loss. Everything is crumbling.

There was a time when I merely complained about this. It seemed some anomaly, a lose edge designed to awaken me, and return me to a former life refreshed by a bigger perspective. But now, I cannot deny the impermanent nature of all things. This, as a friend says, is a bittersweet realization. It frees me as it reduces me. The crumbling is me.

I can rhapsodize about death. The great poets and holy men have made of it a kind of healing justice, but none have taken away the heartache. Hot tears may wash me clean for awhile, but the steady corrosion of loss, eats away all the cleanliness. I am the wicked witch of the west shrinking into nothingnesss. I am the mystery that is here and gone. I am an illusion I had for a while. Crumbling is.

There is relief in knowing nothing is permanent. I relish the demise of what I cannot abide. But then, I don’t let myself know what inevitably follows. Into whatever, the mysterious disappearance, the many after-life assumptions, the mad refrains of freedom and peace, do not appease the uncertain ache of the crumbling. I am amazed, delirious, sobered and incredulous. The crumbling goes on unabated.

Is it delirium; a form of intimacy, a desperate admission, a death bed confession, a wise resignation, an admission of vulnerability, to say that the crumbling is a brilliant and highly anxiety-producing aspect of my experience? Do I love more, or shrink more, because of it? I don’t know. The crumbling goes on anyway.

There isn’t a lot to write about, when everything passes. No words could ever capture the completeness of extinction. Although I’m capable as a human of knowing of this fate, I’m not really capable of fully appreciating it. Stillness does not reverberate with meaning. Silence is not a home. Even if I am better, or worse, because I recognize the crumbling, I cannot hold those ways of being long. It all comes to pass.

Crumbling seems to be my birthright. It is a more faithful companion than any I might have thought I knew. There is only a brief moment of astonishment and grief, then it all crumbles.

I am bereft, feeling the loss, in my friends losing loved ones, in my own losses, in the steady drumbeat of grief around me, in the passing of formative events. Crumbling seems to highlight to me what is briefly important, before it too passes beyond my reach. I don’t know if it is a curse or a blessing, perhaps its both, but I know for sure, it brings my wonder up to a resonating, one could say quivering, uncertainty. Crumbling gets me.

A Perfect Blunder

Every once in a while, I have a discussion with someone, which veers off into territory, which surprises and delights me. This one, contained a story. I’ll repeat that story here, as best I can, because it illustrates to me, the actions of an ineffable and largely unknown power, that works to use each of us, in ways we seldom recognize and enjoy. 

It all revolved around blundering, or as my friend said early on in our interaction, “making terrible mistakes.” We had a little laugh when I suggested that she should be congratulated for failing so well. To illustrate her bad feelings, and to perhaps offset my irreverent attitude, she told me what had happened. I’m glad she did. Now, I’ll tell it to you.

She is about to be 80. Like many of us old people, some of her long-time friends are dying. In this case, it is a man she has known for 50 years or more. His wife — also a friend — wanted to keep his illness a secret. She, the wife, wasn’t yet ready to face the end of his life. Mistakenly, or so she thought at the time, my friend let the cat out of the bag, by revealing to another acquaintance, that it looked like this man was dying. 

This acquaintance, just happened to be part of the tight-knit community of artists that this man was an esteemed member of. It wasn’t long before the word of his impending death got around in his community. About that time, while visiting, my friend heard the wife get a call, that revealed to this  overwhelmed spouse, that everyone in the community knew her husband was dying. The wife didn’t appreciate the community’s awareness.  She flew into a hateful rage. At the woman she thought had disclosed the precious truth of her husband’s impending demise.

The irony for my friend was that she knew that, she herself, had been the one who had inadvertently disclosed the truth. She reported to me the shame she felt as she listened to her friend — the bereaved spouse’s tirade of hate and anger, directed at an innocent acquaintance. My friend couldn’t reveal this new truth, and had to sit and hear all the vituperative language aimed at her innocent acquaintance. This was a moment of deep chagrin for my friend — and the irony of it, required her to look at herself.

This turned out to be part of the perfection of this particular blunder. She realized that this was a moment when she had to befriend and forgive herself. It was only during recounting the story to me, that she realized, that she had managed to hold herself with compassion.

Even more perfectly, I realized later, she had assisted in informing the man’s community of their impending loss, so that they could honor him, and take care of their hearts. The wife, I’m sure well intended, couldn’t inform his community, because she was too overwhelmed by his illness, and didn’t want his death to find purchase in anyone’s mind. She couldn’t deal with her husband’s upcoming death, and would never have knowingly let anyone else.

Through my friends blunder, she had become more knowingly self-compassionate, and provided a community of others a chance to love a beloved member of their circle. It was an exquisite error. And it reveals a deeper, even more ephemeral truth that is poorly recognized in this world of personal responsibility. Spirit acts through us, sometimes deviating from our well-worn manners, and embarrassingly taking over, to do things that we wouldn’t dream of.

Upon hearing this story, I invited my friend to join the Blunder Brothers. She retorted, could a woman be a brother? Of course, I responded, calling ourselves ‘brothers’ just reveals how badly, and usually, we blunder. The truth is, Spirit, The Great Mystery, determines who gets in, and by what egregious and miraculous route.

With this story in mind, I want to invite you to consider that some of your best mistakes, the one’s you won’t forgive yourself for, might just be your passport into The Blunder Buddies.