Wondering

“If our religion is based on wonder

our chief emotion is gratitude.”

                                            Carl Gustav Jung

Wonder. The gift of looking at something with awe and expectancy.  Different than an Easter egg hunt, where you are looking for it out there somewhere. Rather, wonder is something you carry with you, it’s more like an attitude, like planning to be surprised. Wonder is an inside attribute. Interestingly, carrying it around, seems to contribute to it happening. It’s like the world notices and preens before it. Wondering is a form of enchantment. Wonder makes ordinary magic more palpable. Some strange reflective something that puts things in focus, while shifting them onto the spectrum of awe. A life sentence, but of luminescence!

I woke-up recently to this form of noticing. I literally was assaulted with gratitude in my bed. It’s hard to know when awakening actually took place. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t deserve it, call for it, intend it, pray or meditate. It just invaded my soul.

I’d like to live this way. Perhaps, I will. Stranger things have happened.  I feel myself making a home for wonder, but it seems too wild to settle in one place. How does one hold what cannot be held? I am dying to find out.

Recently, I remembered a visit to Chaco Canyon. It was during a vacation with my second wife. Our “Rocks and Ruins Tour.” We pulled off the highway near Durango, and drove 30 miles of dirt road, to a place where wondering was a religion. We, being so sophisticated, didn’t know it at the time. While visiting the ruins of an ancient culture I went down into a Kiva. Maybe there, I got infected with wonder, but what seemed like a hole in the ground, held some kind of essence that enchanted me. I was inducted into a world beyond any I knew. Apparently, some forms of wonder have a long shelf life. Like an ancient tick, it jumped on me.

Now, I’m infected. I regularly view the preposterous as a possibility. Ungrounded as I am, in a disabled body, I get strange messages from what I encounter. Medicine moments arrive unbidden. Reality contorts. The world is full of horror and miracles. Sometimes, they are alike, and I wonder even harder.

My intention, as I sat down to write this, was to extoll the virtue of wonder, to marvel at how aging seems to enhance the probability of experiencing it, to genuflect before a world that contains it. What I’m discovering is that as soon as I realized I knew enough, to know, I knew practically nothing, wonder started flooding in. It turns out, that what I don’t know, opened the flood gates. 

I am blessed to be the rare shut-in, who gets to know wonder, in my interactions with others on the computer. Cyber groups have become visits to Kiva’s. The sacred wonder of meeting on-line. Something happens, that no one expects, but everyone hopes for. One can feel a subtle avalanche occurring, Connection, seemingly made by cyber-gods, takes place. Where actually, it is the power of wonder bringing us all back into an awareness of what has always been true. Connection is, and wonder is one way of broadcasting that recognition.

Yes, gratitude rises with it. I am flushed with I can’t say enough, nor can I be silent enough, to really acknowledge what I am experiencing. I guess, I have little real choice, I have to live it out. Wonder has overcome me, and shown me both sides of this inexplicable world. I am thrilled and I am terrified. I guess that means I’m alive. Wonder of wonders!

Comfort

There is something about the desire for comfort that makes me uneasy. Comfort seems like it ought to be the simplest thing, but as I think about it, especially in the age of climate change, social distrust and all kinds of polarization, I’m finding it to be increasingly elusive. There used to be a time when I found lasting comfort in a warm bed, an affectionate hug, or a poignant silence. Now, even the comforts of life have some element of discomfort in them. I wonder how this can be? Come, wonder with me — maybe we’ll find comfort anew.

Recently I went to someone’s house, to have a climate change discussion with a group of strangers. The gathering was supposed to happen in the host’s back yard. It didn’t. The whole event moved indoors, I gather for comfort’s sake. Someone might have been cold or allergic. The meeting took place, was interesting, and aroused in me later, the realization, that we altered the original environment we  were scheduled to meet in, to improve the comfort of all involved. This was such a normal, and casual change, that no one thought anything about it. It was only later, when I was at home, reflecting upon some vague dissatisfaction with the meeting, that I realized, by seeking greater comfort we had altered our environment.

Naturally, it occurred to me, that seeking comfort in this way, is a big part of how we have created, and maintain, the climate crisis, and other forms of collective threat. Some people’s comfort results in other’s threats. This has been a disturbing realization. Now, I know there are economic and ideological reasons threats exist, but comfort-seeking is something each one of us contributes to the general malaise of our times.

Thinking like this upsets my apple cart, throws me in a tither, and puts a spell on me. Suddenly, I start thinking about comfort. I remembered, that I once spoke to members of the elder salon, about how becoming a community meant learning about being uncomfortable together. Then, I recognized the way seeking-comfort could be a way of abusing others, and caring more about individual comfort than the needs of something larger. Now, I recognize the same principle applies to my desire for comfort. That is an uncomfortable idea.

How strange, that the uncomfortable notion, that my basic practice of seeking comfort can create discomfort, noticing this upsets me, and provides a modicum of comfort. Oddly, my life benefits from my knowing how connected I am — when I become more aware of how much impact I have on others. 

I long to feel connected. Experiencing myself embedded in a matrix of connection, where my actions, small as they are, have impact on others, and on the world I live in, thrills me, calms me down, and gives me a feeling of comfort that seems to reach deep inside me. 

In some way, I feel comforted when I realize I’m part of something larger. So even though the realization that I create discomfort around me, when I seek my kind of comfort, actually becomes more palatable. How paradoxical! Comfort seeking often leads to more systemic discomfort, whereas being open to discomfort, seems to arouse the greatest feeling of being connected, and a greater sense of comfort.

It hasn’t been obvious. This association between comfort and discomfort, it is having an indelible effect upon me. I have been seeking lasting comfort, like the old country western song says, “in all the wrong places.” With some appreciation, of how failing can paradoxically can increase one’s chances of succeeding, I am taking some comfort from the clarity coming my way.

Growing Older

I’ve found something I do really well. In fact, it’s effortless. No matter what I do, or how poorly I may do it, I grow older. I didn’t always do it so gracefully, but the inexorable way it kind of marches into, and through my life, taught me a few things. I used to worry about it a lot, then I realized I have no control over it, and happily, I came to relish the growth part of growing older. 

Now, I consider it a privilege, a perk associated with this mad thrill ride. Each day passes, I have a host of feeling experiences, and some part of me notices. And strangely, another bigger part, somehow benefits, and I am gifted with more awareness, than I know what to do with. I find growing older to be a complex, mysterious, highlight, of my short time here. I get to experience some perspective, friendship and rare moments of totally mystifying gratification. Oh, it hurts some, and I get tired of the uncertainty, but I know something extraordinary is happening, as I am forgetting my latest promise.

I have watched myself go through fear, loss, heartache, regrets, awe and wonder, apprehension, and now deep reverence. Growing older has brought me nearer to the freedom to be me, and the service I feel called to do, than all of the workshops, designed by well-meaning people. I am a graying stem cell, silently going about my business, becoming something needed and unseen before. Growing older, for me, means becoming barnacled with my connections, accruing from Life, the audacity of originality. I like it, the seeming fact that Life has saved the best for last. Death, for me, is an orgasm, the rest is just foreplay.

Growing older wasn’t intuitively obvious. It looked bad, smelled worse, and had a bad rep. The aged have been the homeless street people, the neglected refuse that deserved to be hidden away, for too long. I fell for it too. The sad diminishment, decaying into helpless nothingness. I’m still battling the rapacious refusal to give human dignity to Life’s finale. 

Then something unplanned and unforeseen happened.  I got older, began to wrinkle, turned gray, learned how to limp, and discovered a huge reservoir within. I began becoming more while I was becoming less. On the outside I am a typical old broken-down disabled man. But on the inside, mostly unseen, a light is coming on, an awareness is dawning, the landscape is changing. I might have trouble remembering to keep my zipper up, but some seed is breaking open inside. Life is pouring through me, as it never did before. In no way, I, or anyone, could have predicted from the images of the old that prevail in this culture.

The environment isn’t the only thing that has been recently exploited, ignored, and looted. Old people are Nature being mistreated. Growing older has meant playing in a trashed playground, and being considered part of the trash. To me, it is amazing, I would even say, somewhat miraculous, that joy arises with aging. Growing older has brought me to my knees, in more ways than I could have guessed.

The journey in took a lot longer than I planned (somewhere there was an inkling).  Ignorance and hubris had to go. Life humiliated me just right. I was raised in a cultural world that didn’t actually believe in an inner life. The religious had their dogma, patented ways to honor the sacred, but little real openings for Mystery. It took really being broken, hopelessly beyond rescue, the wretchedly neglected, living at the margin, to get a break. And, it was inside, there all the time — but discounted — and made other. Growing older is saving me from death by convention. The real spark came out from underneath all that weight.

Growing older is turning me into something else. I don’t know what, but I trust it. That’s good, because I’m not in control. I’m just myself, along for the ride, a passenger now, carried along by a friendly Mystery.

I had worshipped Nature. My greatest grief about being disabled was that I was unable to walk the face of the Earth again. The outdoors was my cathedral. But Nature came through for me anyway. As I say, “I couldn’t go out into Nature, so it came into me.” In truth, Nature had been with me all along, but I guess I had to lose it in order to find it again. Anyway, it became clear to me that I am of Nature, the spark inside is green, growing older is unleashing it.

To conclude this gray rant, I’ll just add, look inside yourself. The cultural world is full of bad advice. Be careful, and know you are endowed. Growing older allowed me some surcease, as I sank into essence. Perhaps it won’t be the same for you — but know — that growing older will come, and a release is in the offing.

Another Special Difficulty

Last time I learned that I am not supposed to be an animal — but I am. Several people responded to that “special difficulty.” Some had trouble with it— too messy. They’ll be thankful for it, when the mess happens to them.

  

“…. a response to a challenge

 of special difficulty 

 rouses one

 to make an unprecedented effort.”

                                                                                                                   — Arnold Toynbee

I’m going to write the piece I intended, before ‘the mess’ became more pressing. It is another version of ‘the mess,’ but with much more dire consequences.

One of my major disappointments about this life is playing out in a hideous way. Its pitting young folks against old folks, even more than was common during the Vietnam era. I have sympathies for both. To me, the body of our species, the home we live in, is suffering the greatest mess of all — we have soiled our nest. The earth is reeling and everything is being effected. This is the worst form of a ‘special difficulty’ I can imagine.

The current death throes arouse in me a profound shock, a painful kind of horrible compassion. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I have no idea what this moment will call forth from us, but I know, like all ageing people, the end is nearing. Out of the ‘unprecedented effort’ that this moment will mobilize, I can see our kind rising and falling. And, oh the ache! The ache! The ache!

Strangely, I have this intuition. Recently, during a medicine journey I wrote, “As darkness crowds around, I get brighter.” I imagine that things get so dire, that it brings out some of the best of what it means to be human. The end of human time might be the best of human time. I don’t know if I could handle that any better than I could handle another form of horror. Which blaze do I want to go out in? I don’t expect I have a choice, or do I?

I find myself captive of this awkward intuition. I look around, even anticipate a little, that some hearts will break open, and get larger. I want to be near if that happens. I think it can, because it is happening to me. Mind this, I don’t think it is because of my efforts —I don’t deserve any credit — I think Life is playing out an unprecedented effort too. It is happening through me, through the heartbreak of this time.

We, humankind, have made a mess, so tangled, complete, and awful — so us—  that we cannot resolve it as we are.  Nothing could stop us — like ourselves. Somehow, this is justice. Now we will see, what unprecedented effort can render.

Hatching Out

I’m convinced there is a larger story playing out. One that is unfolding, in part, through our lives. Every now and then, we get a glimpse of what is going on at some other level. I’m about to share something of the way I got in touch with feeling implicated, and part of, what is coming to pass. More questions are raised by this awkward and fuzzy memory, but it has also given me goosebumps. It is like an invisible being is breathing down my neck. I can feel it, this strange warm aliveness, but I can’t really name it. I am cornered by not knowing, and knowing too much.

When my father was in his late 80’s, he began writing a book about growing up an Iowa farm boy. In the time before electrification, during the Great Depression, he had an experience, that he only recalled as a result of the memories he was exploring as he wrote about that era of his life. I lucked out, as happens to be my nature, to be present when he told of his recollection of witnessing, and being touched by, a miracle.

 His mother used to raise a few chickens, so she had a little house cash. He recalled a day when he was with her, and she showed him a small egg incubator she had in the house. It was full of eggs that were just hatching out. He remembered getting to witness the baby chicks pecking their way out of the eggs. To his astonishment, that memory transported him back to that moment, and with a vividness he could not believe, he felt the awe he had experienced as a child. Baby birds, little vulnerabilities, were working hard to escape what had been their nurturing safe homes, to come into a larger unknown reality. He was transfixed by the drama of what he witnessed. Years later, this memory, became something he wanted to pass on to his loved ones.

That experience was notable to me, because my father was not an obviously sentimental man, and because I could feel his intensity, his awe at witnessing something he couldn’t give words to. In his old age it still touched him — maybe more —as he neared the end of his life. This is an element of my father’s unknown inner life that has stayed with me.

Recently, I was doing some reflection of my own (I’m in my 70’s now), putting pieces of my life into some unknown pattern. Suddenly, I had a memory from my high school experience. I was a senior, and I was having my first experience of writing a poem. Looking back, I could see myself as a young man with practically no wherewithal for expressing the complex feelings I was having. I was a jock boy, who was assailed by something inside, that had no way out. For some reason, in my desperation, I tried to write it out through a poem. It was a poem about myself as a baby chick, confronted with the realization that I had to breakout of my previously comfortable home. The world I knew had grown too small, and the world on the other unknown side of the shell, awaited with its promise, and its terror. I wrote out my teenage ambivalence.

Now, I am an ageing man. The process of loss is breaking me open. My body, my identity, the very story of who I have been, is all drifting away. I am something else. This thin veneer — of what I thought I have known — is giving way. I am a mystery to myself.

Somehow, I doubt it is coincidence, I am recalling my father’s memory, and my own from high school. Connecting these two experiences arouses awe in me, making my upcoming transition look like an old mystery, one that I am familiar with, one that is stirring within me, even if I do not know what’s on the other side. I do know the ambivalence, uncertainty, and vulnerability, inherent in this time. I also now know — thanks to the power of recall — that this is the way life proceeds. I am less afraid than I was, and more excited than I ever have been.

Hatching out renews some mysterious goings on, that I am ambivalently happy to be part of.

A Favor

“Death is a favor to us.”

                                                        Hafiz 

                                                                      from Deepening The Wonder

It’s been almost 10 years since I first ran into the poem of Hafiz’s that held that line about death being a favor. Initially, I noticed it.  It had some kind of compelling quality that made it grab my attention, but I wasn’t ready to reflect very deeply upon it then. I am ready now. I guess I needed to age, and hopefully mature some, before I could start integrating what it holds for me. Life is strange that way. I came across “Deepening The Wonder” years ago, noticed this line, and here I am, visiting it years later. How, and why, did it stay with me all this time?

I think I have died many times. Certainly, my stroke has taken me into another world, where I could barely recognize myself.  Everything changed. Death, in that instance, carried me into a mind-warping reality, that brought me to the rampant confusion that is now my life. This was an example of reincarnation that took place all on this plane of existence. I’ve been through a few of these kind of soul migrations.  They take my breath away, and then land me in a new life. So, that has colored my thinking about how favorable death is. 

I have already been carried away, unexpectedly, a few times. As Rumi says, “When, by dying, have I ever been made smaller?” Somehow, I too, have been made larger, more aware, sensitized, and with a greater passion for what Life holds. Death seems to have taken me into realms of being, that made me more me, and then, given me some time, to more fully become this new being, before death moved me on. Each time, my life became something else.

I feel like I’m being refined. Each incarnation seems to extract some kind of new essence of me, some little noticed essential ingredient. I try to hold onto myself, but I inevitably slip away into something else. I like it — have found a confidence, a kind of equanimity, that makes shifting alright. Aging has helped with that. But, I still feel a kind of disequilibrium, a rush of adrenalin-like dizziness, that unseats me, and sends me spinning into a fresh encounter with emptiness. All in all, its bracing.

The greatest favor I have identified so far, is how clarifying death is. I start missing people, things, situations, and dreams before I pass, or before they do. My heart seems to break, in all the right places. I even find the wherewithal sometimes, to honor them, to really appreciate the miraculous nature of what I am exposed to, as passing takes place. Oddly, that has made living more vivid. Goodbye has become more poignant too.

There is a strange sweetness that attends death. Impermanence seems to have an embellishing effect. I am so touched by what I cannot hold. There is something striking about everything going, it’s as if some greater emptiness is calling to be filled, and attachment gives way, and the spirit, that lives by moving from one inside to another, goes in motion. Joy purifies joy.

Passing seems so fraught in our culture. Death is anything but joy unleashed. Why is that? I don’t know. But aging has given me perspective, allowing me to entertain newly discerned patterns, and changed my mind. Death is a favor to us. It is a passport, to any of the foreign realms where new forms lurk, and purification continues.

Ambient Uncertainty

It’s rising. Can you feel it? I can. There is an anxiety in the air, a pressurized hurry, that seems to be most everywhere. Even the water tastes of it. I feel myself eroding.  I usually feel freed by ‘not knowing,’ but something else is happening this time. It seems to be centered everywhere, like it doesn’t have a home, or its homelessness extends to this moment, this place. Life, the vitality that underlies this being, this energized actualization, is weighted with some tense freight. I can feel the atmosphere darkening, trees losing their luster, the hours becoming precious.

Something is waiting. Growing and waiting. I don’t know what it is, but I can tell others can feel it too. It is breathing down my neck. I would be squirming, if I could. Instead, I have this feeling of growing dread, like I’m somehow in the horror movie I’m watching. Perhaps, I am. One of the hapless, soon to be victims, of a strange monster, that wants to feed on me. It lurks, and I innocently go about my business. 

I’ve been feeling oppressed lately. There is a storm rising on the horizon. I can see it and feel it. I know it is coming. Not everybody sees it, or feels it, but I know some do. It is like growing older, and recognizing that death is closer. But, nobody is talking about it. I am strangling slowly from the lack of shared concern. My world is going down into some abyss, and I’m alone with the dawning recognition of what that means. Uncertainty is mounting.  I am screamingly lost, without other humans, isolated by this horrible awareness, unable to drink deeply of the miracle of the moment, because I am alone with this poignancy and disappearing beauty.

I am still here, a witness, gutted by what’s going on. I am facing what I would not, thought I could not, face. I don’t really have another choice. I’m seeing what we have done. I know I am complicit. I took the easy way too. Aching numbness overwhelms me. I want to be in the arms of my loved ones, and I wonder where they are. I realize, to my chagrin, that they too, participated in our mass suicide. 

I am not dead yet. I’m some sort of walking (actually wheeling) zombie. I am more dead than alive, defiantly angry and despairing. The rubble, the  world of appearances, looks so good, the smiles reassuring, and the inevitability so complete. It is an intoxicating set of circumstances. I keep wondering. “Why am I alive for this?” My only answer is “Why not.” 

The world, my precious mother, keeps providing, acting like nothing is wrong. Maybe for her, nothing is. But, for me, the storm clouds are gathering, the pressure is mounting, and I feel an increasing sense of dread. I’m ashamed to realize, I’ve never been so vulnerable. My soul is outstretched, do you feel it too, will you come into my arms, can I admire you for these last moments. You, like me, are such a beautiful and sensitive abomination.

The suspense is killing me. Maybe that’s the plan. Metamorphosis by loss, and shame, and of being a creative mistake. I hope I have another chance, and that my memory won’t fail. You too.

Teetering is a strange business. Utterly human, and desperately lively. My heart, is like some wild animal, penned into being a beast of burden. It shatters, then enlarges, and shatters again. My body is in the process of becoming dust anyway. So, why does it matter. I don’t really know. But, I feel the tide turning.