LIGHTEN UP...

Sure, things are falling apart. Right. Everyone is more than a wee bit angry; tired; disgusted; stuffed with blame/guilt/stress. For sure. Even as we give thanks for what we've got in the West, we are out there, scrounging for more. Okay. It's true. We can admit it. We can beat our drums, our chests, our heads but the answer might be a lot less pain-inducing.


Lighten up.
With yourself. (Myself.) In our quest for answers. In our meditation practice. In our prayers. Even in our  yearnings and our demands: be gentler. With ourselves. With everyone else. Seriously gentler.
In all regards and situations.


In our lives.


Amid the slogans I am exploring, the next suggestion is to, "Examine the nature of unborn awareness."Pema Chodron, Buddhist nun and sage, suggests this is to "pull the rug out" from under our immediate-fulfillment, entitled selves. (Well, maybe I've paraphrased a bit, but you can see where I'm going.) The moment we get self-satisfied, and all puffed-up with "Enlightenment Lite", or "figuring it out", (for some of us, that can come as early as reading one, thin, twenty-first century volume, on how to attain spiritual awakening...or attending one "life-changing put-it-on-the-credit-card self-help weekend")--it's precisely then that we have lost the point.


IT AIN'T ABOUT FIGURING ANYTHING OUT.


(O boy, this Buddhist stuff is tricky...)


It seems that the point is: the examination of everything, up close and personal.


Examine is the operative word. Including, the examination of the Examiner. (Whoa!)


Examination of the Examiner's smug assertions that, "I've figured it out", or, " Now I'm fixed!"


 See, according to the Enlightened Masters and all the sages and saints who struggled with these ideas from time immemorial, basically, there's nothing to figure out. There's nothing to fix. There's just ...nothing.


Everything around us is ephemeral. Unreal. A shadow of a dream and the dreamer is part of the illusion. (Whoa, again!!)


The more it is examined, via our meditation, the more intense it becomes. However, it is not intensity, at all. It is illusory. It is passing memory. It is a paradox, and, as such, it can't be held down.


(So, why even study these lessons of light and shadow?  Why even sit and meditate and breathe and ponder our entire existence, if everything comes to naught?)


Because, when we lose, not only the solid ground and the rug beneath our feet, but also THE NEED for that solidity, we are on our way to freedom. We are closer to the things that terrify us. Becoming closer and embracing "the  monsters", we are promised that, we will no longer be ruled by that terror.
(Whoohoo!)


So, again, the paradox: we must lighten up. But we must take every detail into account and examine everything. (Terror is not real and should not be pushed away. Yet, it has a capacity to make us miserable and afraid. But the way through it, is to confront it, and finally, to make friends with it.)


How?


By sitting. Being silent. Breathing. Allowing everything we have experienced, and are made of, to come up, and then, letting it go. Lightly. Softly. Gently. (Blessing even the darkest shadows for what they hold and what we don't, yet, understand.) Accepting all of it, with the realization that we will never, fully understand, and that's okay. (As long as we practice compassion and kindness in the midst of this epiphany of insecurity.) It's just what it is.


We can live with it.


  

PUT ALL BLAMES INTO ONE

In these times, as children all around us are murdered; as adults plead  and plot and plan to destroy "the others" that cause their pain; as we leach the planet's blood; burning our collective destiny in the process; as even the light from the stars is hidden by the commercial tinsel halogen false promises of the vendors who pile their plastic wares around our hearts; so many voices cry out, cry past, cry so deeply we  have to put in earbuds just to walk around...there is no room for silence.


Yet, that is exactly what is necessary.


For a moment. For a breath. For a heart's battered beat.


To understand that, when we put all our blames into one scream, it becomes the bomb that shatters the world. And so, just for a nanosecond (at first),perhaps we must put down the rabid dog of blame and feel the collective pain.


We have to, perhaps, own our own grief and own our own responsibility and own our own forgiveness.


 Our own healing. A moment of quiet; of breath.


Even as we admit our culpability in institutions rising around us that have never been for our good. In sins of the flesh; in omissions of truth; in false pride; in greed; in grasping; in letting the suffering of others rush past because it's just too hard; too pain-filled; too much to consider. (Especially because we are all so hungry; deep down. Even the so-called privileged: famished.)Grasping. Gasping for a life which touches the Wounded Child in us all. To actually acknowledge "the others" while we ache in ourselves becomes impossible. So, we turn and strike out and hate...but what if we just stopped, cold? Stopped the analysis and the politics and the emptiness and took that moment to look, inside.


We must not destroy another thing.(If everything is connected.) We must not kill another being. (If all life is sacred. Powerful. A reflection of the Creator.) No matter how heinous or irritating or down-right miserable that person walking next to us is, we have to see OURSELF, reflected. Then, we have to forgive and become better. Not just in touch with our anger. Not just furious with "the other". Not just political, but truly spiritual. Changing the whole self, inside, one breath at a time.


All over this planet, there are people dying. Being killed for all the wrong reasons. Hating and bombing and shattering and hurting and starving and so it has always been. But, maybe, if we learn to stop. (Just for a nanosecond.) See our own tender spots. Breathe. Own our own sins; not shirk from that terrible recognition; and be silent. (Touch down.) Reach for the next person's hands...not in terror. Not in disgust. Not in payback or blame...but in asking for help. (Please.) What if we took a single moment to ask...ourselves and each other?


What would the answers be, then?

IT'S BEEN A WHILE...

I'm not talking about sex, here. I'm not crowing about sobriety. I'm not even ranting about what the Bishop is doing to Gardner, Massachusetts by single-handedly closing down Sacred Heart Church and St. Joseph's...and screwing over the last generation of people who supported, carried on, believed in and stood loyal to these institutions--even when people from other parishes didn't do the same. No, I am not going to lose myself in things that I have given over to a Higher Power. I'm going to write about writing.


Two weeks ago, I thought I wouldn't be writing, again, for anyone. A scary brush with mortality, accompanied by massive bleeding and not a wee bit of pain, had me almost convinced that whatever I've already put down--published and not--would be what the world remembered about my life--if the world cared to remember. Surprisingly, there was a calm about this that came over me like an umbrella. I wasn't afraid. O, I was in pain and I was uncomfortable and I was embarrassed at the mess and the fuss and that even as I tried to deal with the ER situation on my own, in the end, my friends and family arrived (thank you!), however, I was never fearful.


I guess, partly this is because so many people I've known, up close and personal, have passed. I grew up with extended family--many of them as Great Uncles and Aunties--most of them very old. I also became close to many "elders" as I went through college. Becoming friends with people in their later years is like buying a dog...you know, however intense the connection, it will be short-lived. Those relationships prepared me, somewhat, for the AIDS massacre, which I witnessed, first hand and up close, in L.A., working with street prostitutes and teen runaways, from 1978 on. None of us emerged unscarred from those times. All of us emerged humbled...and just a little bit "removed" from taking anything too seriously.


As I watch my parents' supply of friends and older family dwindle, each day brings another phone call or newspaper obit. Death dances outside on the lawn; in the falling leaves; in the rattling bushes. I make long agreements with the "invisibles" around me: don't appear to me, please. I believe in you. I speak of you with respect. Someday, I will join you. For now, though, stay back. Trust you were loved and stay back, please.


In the ER, I was ready for the cancer statement. I was also ready to finish bleeding out. It occurred to me: I have no children who need me. I have no partner who is clinging to my bed. It seems my family can get along fine, without me, most of the time. The new dog has found a forever home with both of my sisters. I have published three novels; I have been anthologized; I have short stories in collections and poetry on at least three continents. My paintings are in private collections all over the world. Now, because of alien (smile) technology, my blog is streaming through the Universe, for better or worse. I have loved and been loved and feel loved, still. Nothing I have ever done has amounted to treasure; no riches; really, no savings, either. My only legacy are the words I've accumulated; the stories I've told. (Okay, maybe the stories I've lived...hah!) So, whatever comes, I'm ready. As ready as anyone I've met.


Of course, when we avoid a bullet, the shock of that experience makes us re-think everything. My sister Ann was furious when she found out I had signed a "do not resuscitate" form. I had to re-think that, perhaps, just maybe, it would be inconvenient if I croaked, after all...hmmm...Then, I had to think about writing: what was left to say? What arguments to illuminate? What great battles and romances still to explore? Was the final tally of three published novels enough? Have I been too easy on myself? The very thing I throw at my students, in High School...was I not living up to the challenges I've been given? It isn't about publishing. It IS about writing. So, was I throwing in the towel because part of me forgets this axiom? Have I given in to the demons of jealousy and envy: the publishing monsters who are not really interested in the kinds of warped visions and skewed analysis I bring to the table?


I didn't die, two weeks ago. Didn't even have cancer. Did have an emergency that necessitated surgery and the surgery was successful. Went back to Gardner High School, last week, walking like a drunk cowboy, but walking and managing to last each day, to the end. This week will be even better. As I finished up with the week, one of my students approached me, after school. She waited till all the other kids had left the classroom. She had a request:  "Ms. Minns, my Dad is dying of liver cancer...he wants me to write his...what do you call it?  Memorial...or whatever it's called. I can't do it, alone. Will you please help me?"


There are reasons we come back. They have nothing to do with glory nor monetary rewards nor lasting fame...Our gifts are to be of service...to each other.


Namaste.