The Uplifting Exit

“It furthers one to have someplace to go.”   I Ching

When I was in my late 20’s and early 30’s I used to consult the I Ching. I would sometimes get this message during a reading, but I could never really figure out what it meant, in the context of my questions at that time. Now, the memory of it seems to haunt me. I am a lot older. I no longer consult the I Ching. But, somehow, I remember this line. I don’t know why. Perhaps this writing meditation will make it clear, perhaps it will veer another direction, revealing some other aspect of my being that needs attention. Anyway, here goes.

Why now? I wonder what is it about this stage of my existence, which warrants this kind of reminder? I am waiting for the train of death to pull up to the station. My life isn’t over, by any means. But, I can feel the proximity of the end of this story.  The one place I have to go is inexorable — it is my final resting place. I am not exactly waiting, yet, I am. Somehow, the knowledge of my impending death, the conclusion, that is in store for me, changes my remaining time, charging it with expectancy and preciousness. I am more vividly lost than ever, more wisely confused, more uncertainly alive. The clouds inside, now have a tint of mystery to them.

I know I am going away. That there will not be much that will remain for long. My friends face their own lives, their attention will go where it belongs. I will disappear into the frenetic rhythms of life. My own absence, makes my heart grow fonder. I want to touch what I cannot, to grasp what eluded me, to resonate for a moment with someone’s heart, to quietly hold to awareness my own essence. Being is too much, and not enough. Going away, surprisingly, means arriving like never before.

I am thrown by what I think I know. I can’t get over my own weak-kneed insistency. It seems, I can be found, wandering near the abyss. Yet, I go on, hearing the whistle of the train approaching, and feeling some strange combination of amnesia and hallucinogenic awakening. This era of my life holds some recombination of things I thought I knew, with things that have always had a life of their own. I am uplifted by my own mystification. Not-knowing, has become a way back into the garden.

Maybe I have put too much emphasis on the going, disappearing, and not enough on the fading. Some shimmering presence is tucked into this moment. It seems that I have more chance of perceiving it, when I am nearing skinlessness.  As the emptying of my hull takes place, the moment blazes as never before, and the mystery that has befuddled me so, becomes incandescent. I am somehow implicated, the light shines right through me, and the landscape of living, no matter how brief, is fraught with miracles.

 It furthers one to have someplace to go. I am being transported, some magic conveyor belt is taking me, toward an edge, that is stirring up some kind of storm of delight. Aging, wrinkling into nothingness, becoming broken, no longer existing as I have been, is seizing me, and delivering me into another world, one that exists with this one. I am unable to remember so much, but you know what, compared to what is emerging, it doesn’t matter. Graying has introduced me to colors beyond my imagination.

 

 

 

 

Compassion and Unknowing

There are many lessons for me in this life. Sometimes I’m up to it, sometimes I’m not. Ultimately, I’ve noticed, mostly I’m the one who suffers. In this case, I’m learning something new about compassion. 

First, it has taken me a long time to get that compassion is multi-valenced. It works in multiple directions. When I am able to feel it for myself, I’m more able to feel it for another. I’ve been starved of compassion, because I have not been compassionate enough. Some strange paradox, inner and outer, rules this process. Anyway, life is growing me by sensitizing me to a new awareness. I have some compassion for myself as I am learning more about compassion.

 

It was a big surprise for me, when I began to realize that not-knowing was a key to becoming more compassionate. I have spent most of my life trying to accumulate knowledge. It was, in some ways, a passport to a kind of prestige, a certain way of being somebody. Giving that presumed benefit up, has not been high on my priority list; it was tantamount to a form of self-immolation. I haven’t been game for letting that much mystery into my life.

 

On the other hand, I have worn a lot of other people’s projections.  Over the years, I have experienced the acidic wear and tear of the ways I have been thought about, and reacted to. Too much of the pain in the world has come into my life through the misdirected ways others have held me. I have felt incensed, aggrieved, and dismayed by the injustice of this part of being human.  I developed the capacity to not take it personally, and to see that projections often told me, a lot about the projectors. Still accepting that component of life hasn’t been much fun.

 

What I have come to see is that I project too. Not just because I am unconscious, but because I am alive. I am always imagining the world I’m in, what I’m about to do, and alas, the people I am involved with. These projections, they can be for better or worse, run my relationships, and often determine my false sense of the world. I am constantly painting reality, and particularly my relationships, with the brush of my limited knowing. What I rarely notice is how much damage I do. Because, while I am busy projecting all over others, I’m focused upon, how much others are misperceiving me.

I’ve known about this hole in my ability to perceive accurately for some time. But, it has only been recently that I made the connection between my own emotional reactions and my failure to be compassionately available. When I allow myself to get too stirred up by the unfairness I perceive, then I focus even more intently on the other with my own brand of thoughts. That is, projections mostly.

 

Now, I’ve come to think I know too much. Or, perhaps more accurately, I think I know, too much. It is obvious I project all the time. So, I misperceive people, reality, and myself regularly, naturally. There is no compassion to that. My desire now is to experience reality and others, as they are. To let my emotional reactions inform me, about myself, and to let that form of thinking I know, go.

 

I am a more compassionate being, that is one of the benefits of getting older. Another, is that I can see more clearly. My desire for sex has waned, and over the years, my desire for connection has grown. Learning how unknowing frees me, to practice a more compassionate form of connection, is a major by-product of learning. I know enough, to know I don’t know much of anything. And not-knowing allows me to have more of an experience of the moment, and to be more compassionate while I’m at it.

 

 

 

 

Mystery Unfolding

“Aging is a mystery and we are all detectives,

but there are no solutions just waiting out there to be discovered.

 The future is within us, within our ever evolving selves.

We have already outlived the centuries old social order

 that can no longer define who we are. 

We must now engage in sometimes chaotic creation

 of a whole new stage of life.

 We are truly up to us.”

                                                                             — Rabon Saip

 

“We are truly up to us.” We always have been, but now it is more obvious, and necessary. Uncertainty blankets the world. No one knows what’s going to happen. Fear, anxiety and hope run rampant in the minds of the people. It is both, what the Chinese curse calls for; an interesting time, and a medicine moment. The wheel is turning. Balance is a condition of the past, if ever.

 

This is a great moment for the old. Those of us who have been around the block a few times, recognize the twisting, turning path, and know to lean into the forces of push and pull. We have outlived expectations, prescriptions, conventions, and all manner of fantasies. There is nothing left of us, but our inner core. Essentially, we are leftovers, picked clean, new in a preposterous way. Innocent by means of reduction. Stripped of everything, but our potential.

 

There is a change spasm happening. Reality is questionable. Words like conspiritual are showing us the liquidity of everything. It is a time like no other, even the description ‘unprecedented’ is too tame. There is a touch of wild madness in the air. What is old is no more. Leaving only what has the wit to survive. 

 

Lies are another word for myth, manipulation for influence, and reality for perception. Who can be trusted? The social sphere is more fragmented than usual. Out of all of this chaos comes opportunity. The old, by years and experience, have no corner on the adaptive market, we have no super power, we are not sacred cows, but we have a lot of practice with letting go. And oh is this a time of letting go! The sands are sliding through our fingers. Obsolescence is a mean and exacting teacher.

To be old now is a virginal experience. People, shocked by what we have been forced to experience, have been brought to the living edge of creation, where we are getting to witness the messy process of coming into existence. In the chaos we are reconstituted.

 

Everyone gets to be ourselves — if we can stand the uncertainty. Many of the theories, conspiratorial or otherwise, rose out of a desire to reduce uncertainty, by trying to explain what cannot be explained. Especially, the best conspiritual beliefs! We, old folks, and young people alike, are now up to us, like never before. What is, is becoming!’

 

Everyone needs a dose of vitamen A — Awe, at this moment!

 

 

 

  

Farther Along

When you are getting older, there isn’t much you can rely on. Aging, despite the body changes, is such a mysterious process. It is hard to believe that some inexorable process, other than the breakdown of what was, is happening. I call it ripening. This piece is about the Mystery that goes on, mostly unnoticed, while we are bemoaning the new difficulties we are experiencing. There is something else happening, something so unknown, and beyond us, that it deserves some attention, some recognition. As I have just learned, it is good that we cannot make it happen.

 

Old age is a kind of special indignity. Besides wrinkles, loss of memory and balance, advancing ear hair and invisibility, there comes, the losses that propel one into a broader orbit. An overview looms. New perspective comes into sight. And suddenly, if you are not too mesmerized by what you’ve lost, escape velocity is near at-hand. For the first time, you can feel the possibility, of being yourself, of no longer being defined by the conventions of the consensus conspiracy theory. Ripening means you get to fall from the tree.

 

Some people are totally terrified at the prospect of that moment. Whereas, some old people are not. What’s going on? Ripening is taking everyone beyond control, beyond imagination, beyond themselves. It’s a free service that the Universe provides.

 

Anyway, getting there is a kind of foreplay, full of surprises, misdirection, and passionate anticipation. No one knows where the fruit goes, or what service it renders, but falling is much like flying, so exhilaration takes hold. The really interesting part occurs when one recognizes that one has always been falling, one  is just farther along.  Then joy settles in.

 

Some people already realize the Universe is diddling with them. They have anticipatory joy, pre-orgasmic elation. Getting older, for them, is non-rational, and highly suspect to the culture. 

 

Farther along is a Mystery, that turns us all in new directions, without our consent, and approval. This is equal parts terror and awe. It is the finest e-ticket ride the Universe has to offer.  Thrills, spills, and beguiling hills to climb. The body’s breakdown heralds the end of this ride, and the perspective that makes sense of the whole strange trip. It is the end and the beginning all at once. Imagine that!

 

Farther along, there waits a being of light. It is what you are becoming. A mystifying sensuous light, that is a product of a lifetime of befuddled learning. One can sense this unfolding presence, this lightness of being, in the way things keep evolving, becoming more complex as they become simpler. Farther along lies breakdown, the breakthrough, that we cannot make, which gratefully insures that we get there.

 

Yes, paradox rules.

 

 

 

 

Bows Or Bows

I was listening to music, in this case Carlos Nikai. He had done something interesting to me, by playing with some traditional Japanese musicians. The collection of music was called, “The Island of Bows.” I read it like bows and arrows. The title seemed off to me. It was only later that I realized my mistake. Then came a fascination. I had inadvertently come across two different words that were spelled alike. That cast me into a creative reverie. This is a facet of that moment.

 

I delighted by finding these two words with such different meanings. One is a gesture, an act of deference, a way of honoring the ineffable in another. The other, an instrument for projecting control, designed to assert one’s will, and change what is. It seemed to me, they couldn’t be more different, yet they shared something in common.

 

For some reason, I began playing with them. Whether a bow or a bow, is to me, the difference between inside, or outside. A bow to the mysterious is also an act of reverence to Mystery wherever it appears, including, and especially, within.  Whereas, a focus outside oneself is what is required to be good at archery. The essential foci of each is dramatically different.

 

I was also captivated by the way each of them reflected a totally different way of being. Inside/outside. I thought of all the times I’ve tried to alter the world by projecting my will. I’ve suffered a lot because of my stubborn determination to make the world different than it is. I’ve also accomplished more than I know. I keep doing it. Paying the price of suffering just for the moments when I get to make some difference. Moments, I know exist, even though I cannot always recognize them. Moments, I do recognize, that hurt me and others.

 

Conversely, the more reverence I have, the more I bow down to Life, the more I am able to live in harmony. Bowing, for me, as a human male, has taken a lifetime to learn. I know I’m still learning. It took a long time for me to get that I had to look around inside, at what I could see, and revere there, then I could perceive and bow to in others. Bowing, to me, has a very internal dimension.  Not to mention, how much arrogance and hubris I have to overcome, just to remember that bowing is an option.

I’m equally fascinated by their commonality. Each form of bow is utterly human. Each activity conveys something about our orientation. It might be said that both are essential to a human life; the willful imposition, and recognition of the Mystery and reverence. The inner and the outer.

 

We are at a time when more balance is essential, maybe Covid is doing the job, but it seems like that balance requires us, to live more into both. Let’s intend to apply our will towards becoming more reverent.

 

Its funny, that such a little mind hiccup can lead to something so big. Inside or outside, and sometimes, both.

 

 

 

  

Made It

I was just completing the always challenging process of transferring from her car seat to my wheelchair when I said “I made it.” She heard me. Teasingly, she said that would be a good epitaph on my tombstone. That seemed right to me, so right, that it stuck in my head, and now is begging me to use this Slow Lane piece to reflect upon it. I can imagine those simple words being the last I speak. “I made it!”

 

Each life is a creation. It is the sum of all the responses had to its many challenges. When it is all over, I will relish the end point I have reached. In the last seconds, I imagine I will have a chance to look at the whole of it, and see what I have wrought. I hope I can say to myself that I have completed this course with a certain amount of aplomb. Just as transferring never held certainty, this process of living has been an uncertain, and sometimes treacherous, undertaking.

 

‘Made it’ has two meanings for me. Both of them telling. I went through everything that was allotted to me. I found my way to the presumed finish line. I am spent. And, I’ve created a wake, the vapor trail of a life, a momentary house of cards. It is the sum of having been.  It is whatever artistry I was able to muster. I made it. My death-moment assessment, of my time here, will in some way be tied to this fading presence.

 

I’m not particularly worried about how that moment will play out. I think mainly, like when my unbalanced and disabled movements come to a resting place, I’ll be relieved. The finish line gives meaning, by bringing an end to the effort involved.

‘Made it,’ is also a celebration of accomplishment, the acknowledgement of a period of initiation, the final step.  For me, my recent life of imbalance is over. And, what it has drawn out of me, is briefly evident.

 

‘Made it’ reassures me. I’m not sure why. I guess I long for the barn. There is something about a prolonged effort that is both productive and confining. I want the freedom of an ending, the mortality of being mortal. I guess I would rather be a brief thread of color on the loom of creation, than be the loom itself. I could never keep my weft and my warp clear anyhow.

 

I don’t know if anything comes next. It seems to me, that this life has prepared me for something, but I’m ready to be surprised by what it is. What I know is, that I want a sense of accomplishment out of this one. ‘Made it’ carries with it a sense of achievement that I like. It isn’t a merit badge I seek, but it is the sense that I’ve made it through the birth canal of this experience.

 

With that comment, I’ve made it through this reflection. By now, I think you can see, that the Slow Lane is a deeply human endeavor with all of its flaws, ego aggrandizement, and wonder — evident like errant underwear. I hope it isn’t too shamelessly revealing for you.

 

 

 

 

The Waiting Room

Recently, I woke up from a dream. At least, I think I did. It was a strange age-related shimmery kind of experience. Very powerful. But, weird. To this moment, I’m not sure whether I had the dream, or it has me. All I know is that this residue remains.

I am in a waiting room with a bunch of pregnant old people. We are all pregnant with ourselves. There are a lot of people in various stages of shock — of being in swollen discomfort. A few are smiling and happy, but the majority are confused and anxious. There don’t seem to be any doctors or nurses around. There is only this pervasive atmosphere of expectancy. Over it all, hangs a feeling of great distance, as if something vast is in attendance. Then there is a pop, and someone disappears.

I call this dream ‘the waiting room.’ I am assailed by the sense that I am living something like it out. There is a deja-vu quality haunting me. No matter how productive my life seems, no matter how engaged I am, since grayness has come over me, I am somehow on hold. Something inside is waiting. I am swelling up, while all this nothing is happening, and I am becoming more and more a mystery that is about to pop. Any moment now I am going to break, disappear, and give birth to the real me. It could be a happy moment, or one poignant with grief.  I sense the immanence of my coming and going.

I want to stress that what I am describing now is not the dream, but some aspect of my current-time reality. Aging has brought with it some faint sense of expectancy. It isn’t death-dread, nor is it cultural doom, rather it is some graying mirage — a kind of prospect, of an unexpected and unanticipated tomorrow. I don’t know if I am living evolution out, or if evolution is living me out. I just have the sense that the story is getting longer, more nuanced, and totally necessary.

There is a part of me that chafes at the idea that before I am done being me, a new me might come onto the scene. I am getting tired, fatigue is setting in, the old is already too heavy. The new seems, whatever weight it will be, overwhelming. I wait with more than anticipation. Life is full of dreamlike twilight-zone suspense. I bulge in all the places I used to play.

For some reason the dream seems to correspond to some mysterious part of my life. I think it actually is an aspect of getting old in this uncertain time.  I’m not sure I want to body-forth new human trait, in a time when humanity hasn’t made up its mind about surviving.  I am not in favor of still-born potential.  There is a cloud of uncertainty hanging over me.

I am generally optimistic. I tend to think Life knows what it is doing. But, for some reason, an aura of caution has come over me. I’m guessing it’s my human part in the equation that troubles me. The verdict is yet to come in. Meanwhile, I, like everybody else, gets to wait.