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.

Happiness Is A Choice

I’m a somewhat lugubrious guy. The state of the world has tended to leave me feeling on edge and uncertain. Even though I am daily impressed by the miraculousness of life, I have a certain doubt about my being happy in the face of so much suffering. I feel some heart-breaking complicity. None of these feelings are rational, but they never-the-less invade my equilibrium, and affect my pleasure about being here. So, you probably can imagine how uncertain I was, when I opened John Leland’s book entitled, Happiness Is A Choice You Make. I was prepared for another New Age bromide.

John had gripped my attention with his sub-title. He promised that he was    reporting the results of spending a year with the “oldest old.” Their voices mattered to me. His writing floored and chastened me. Now I can’t recommend this book enough. You see, I found wisdom in the natural creativity of elders, who were living with the usual difficulties of getting old. There is nothing panaceac about the lives of the six old (85 to 92 years of age) people he chronicled. Physical ailments, isolation, alienation, immobility, and the insult of cultural irrelevance haunted each of them. They were typical old people, who each had achieved happinessnot despite the difficulties of aging, but because of them.

As I read the variety of challenges they each faced, I came up against the hard lives of the old folks I know. Broken bodies, with wandering minds, hapless, unbalanced and falling — they created within themselves a way to enjoy what remained after the losses that came with life. That impressed and heartened me. They found in the present (so they didn’t have to remember anything) a way to enjoy whatever came their way. In the end, their love of life, and amazement before it, overcame the many challenges that living thrust upon each of them.

The book is well written, it presents a sober look into the lives of the oldest of us. But most importantly, it reveals the incredible happiness that comes from being human in the face of so much uncertainty and vulnerability. Happiness is a choice, a uniquely made attitude, derived from living intensely within the cauldron of life. Amazingly, what cripples and reduces us, also provides the little blessings, which make life surprisingly delicious.

There is no formula, no well-worn path, no way of predicting this non-rational joy, but it exists anyway. Having the good fortune to get old seems to help, but it is what one does with that piece of luck that seems to ensure the joyful outcome. Interestingly, the book reports that research on aged brains (through fMRI) shows that they are like the brains of life-long meditators. They have the benefit of a kind of natural mindfulness. Still, joy is not guaranteed. Happiness is idiosyncratic, it is something that is personal, existing in the relationship between any particular human heart and the deep mystery behind existence.

Knowing happiness is possible —and that it comes through Life and not despite it — is so freeing. It is not a condition of the world. Happiness is more durable than that. It lives in a place beyond the world, beyond the sadness of the way we treat each other, beyond even the way we treat the miracle of life itself. It is nestled within us, as a potential, unleashed by our own availability. Choosing it — is choosing it all — life and death, hardship and joy, evolution and the grace built into each moment.

Rapturous Difficulties

I have a friend, an older wiser man than I, who starts out things he says by making the following disclaimer,  “I don’t know jack shit about what I’m talking about.” Neither, do I. Brain-damage, however, lets me go into areas I know to little about, and where angels fear to tread.  This is one of them.

A few days ago a friend sent me a list of all the things he is grateful for. It was a beautiful list including things like; a long-term marriage, two incredible kids, a magnificent home. He had so much to be grateful for, that he actually worried that at age 50, he might have already lived a full life, and might not have more. It was amazing how rich with gratitude his life was, and how much he knew he benefited.

That evening, as I was going to sleep, I found myself thinking about him, and his list of gratitudes. I was surprised. To my astonishment, I found myself uneasy with his list. Something was missing. After a great deal of reflection, and some hours of wakefulness, I discovered what it was. There was nothing on his list that expressed gratitude for hardships.

The darkness created me. Suffering did more to teach me than anything. What I had no control of, and played no intentional part in, did more to shape me than most everything else. It was my life’s twists, the turns I didn’t expect, that tested me, and taught me my worth. These things too, I am grateful for, perhaps all the more, because they were the work of providence. I grew in ways I did not intend, but never-the-less benefited from.

It is this, the dark work of the invisible hands, the ones that trimmed my sails, and cast me into unknown oceans I would have never have knowingly sailed, that fiercely graced me — pulling me into a form unexpected — that I am humbled by, and most grateful for. I was thrust beyond myself, forced to deal with things that existed way beyond my control. 

These hardships, my stroke, the failed marriages, the potential I didn’t actualize, these did more to educate and sensitize me than any of my successes. It was a dark God, the cursed one— who interrupted my plans, asking what seemed impossible of me — that lead me home. My life, I have come to know, is not my life, it is Life’s life, and this is what I am most grateful for now: the difficulties that have shaped me.

I am more thoroughly human, because Life wrung the hubris out of me, making me more humble than I would have ever been if left to my own devices. I now walk (roll) with the weight of vulnerability and grace always haunting me, reminding me how quickly things can turn, and forcing me to recognize this small, but somehow exalted place I get to inhabit for a while.

The difficulty, as undesirable as it is, seems to make it all more real.  The hardships have graced me with a certain awareness of how “Lucky” I truly am. I wouldn’t have chosen what has brought out the best in me. But, I can be grateful, for that churlish wise one, loved me enough, to add hurt and disappointment to my depths.