This is a re-post of something I wrote about a year ago. It’s a topic that’s been coming up in conversation recently so . . .

We are given this one “wild and precious” life. (Regardless of whether you believe in past or future lives, I’d say that this one is wild and precious).  It surprises me, then, how easy it is to focus on other people’s lives and what they are doing or not doing, what they could or should be doing or how things could be if only they would have been doing, or seeing, or understanding, or listening, or . . . It is surprisingly easy and even entertaining to see other people’s issues and come up with the appropriate – and obvious – resolutions.

And all the while, our own lives and issues and choices remain unattended to.  It is impossible to ponder and contemplate other people’s lives while paying close enough attention to our own.  There is no one left manning our own camp which sits lonely, abandoned and neglected.

So I ask, whose camp are you in? Where do you spend most of your time, in your own camp or in someone else’s? And if you’re in someone else’s, has another person stepped in to manage yours?  If so, how is that working out?

“Camp” is defined as a “temporary structure used on an outing or vacation”, which could be a quite adequate description of life. Our light bodies are given a physical body for this temporary human existence.  Interesting that another definition of the word “camp” references battle and battlefields and a group of troops.  I suppose that we have the option – the daily option, or even the moment-to-moment option – of making life a pleasant vacation-like experience or a constant struggle, battling everything around us and, oftentimes, ourselves.

S C R E A M I N G. . . . .. LOUD. PRIMAL. RAW. ETERNAL. IT’S VASTNESS AND PAIN OVERWHELMS. It takes everything, every bit of available energy not to bolt, run, as fast and as furious as possible. And I do bolt. I hide in projects, in obsessions, in organizing, in food, in friendships. I run. The problem is that it doesn’t make the

S C R E A M I N G .   .  .  .

stop. It’s endless. Relentless. I finally stop and realize that I’m exhausted from the energy of avoidance. I decide to quit. I sit. I try to remember to breathe but my annoyance makes my breaths short and shallow. My own scream rises from the depths of me.

“WILL YOU PLEASE, PLEASE STOP!”

Which only makes that sound of raw, desperate pain louder.

“Geez, have you always been wailing so? I can’t imagine that you’ve always been this, uh, blaringly loud.”

She stops, shocked to hear any un-screamed words directed her way. She sits, alert, a skeptical look in her eyes.

She begins timidly, “Yeah, I mostly wail. I’m not sure why that would surprise you, though.”

I have a vague sense that I know her, that we’ve met before. I try to find the memory. She watches me in utter amazement.

“Wow,” her head shaking slowly. “You seriously don’t remember.”

I start to say that there’s something familiar or that my memory is just not great, or something but then find myself completely disoriented. I know that I’m still sitting on my couch, in my living room. I can still hear the wind rustling the blinds and can feel the cool fall breeze on my arms. But I’m here and not here. What had started to feel like panic has opened into something impossible to describe. It’s familiar, so familiar that I find I have tears running down my cheeks. It’s home. That’s what it feels like. Home. Oh my God, I’ve missed this. I take a few breaths, taking it in. I realize that my heart feels wide open and, as I notice how my heart feels, I feel it opening even wider, like a fully blossomed rose. I don’t know how long I rest in this before remembering that I had been communicating with the Screamer when time seemed to have stopped.

I look for her for a slight instance and then I feel my body smiling.

“You’re me!” And I laugh out loud and can sense her (me) laughing too.

“You’re my darkness, my fears. You’re all the things that I push away. You carry all the scary memories from my whole life. You’ve always felt so separate from me. I’m having trouble grasping what’s going on.”

And then my own voice but not my own voice said, or perhaps it was just a knowing that wafted in from nowhere or from everywhere, I am home and can never really leave. From this perspective, even the darkest and scariest thoughts and memories fill me with wonder and amazement. Humanity is wondrous. I remember my most painful experiences as though they were other flavors to taste in a wide spectrum of flavors. I know, too, that I have yet to experience some truly blissful “flavors”. I am wonderfully overwhelmed with gratitude.

My cat jumps up on the couch and rubs up against my arm. I am in my living room. My body feels profoundly relaxed. I look for the Screamer, smiling. I know that little time has passed yet something is fundamentally different.

“So flavors, huh?” She finds me.

“Yeah, that’s what it felt like, even the really scary stuff. In that place, it all seemed – I don’t know – valuable and important. Like I wouldn’t be me if all of it hadn’t happened.”

“That’s true. You know that eventually I might start screaming again, right?”

I nod, staying with her this time. “I’m sure I’ll forget but maybe we can help each other remember.”

We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

Anais Nin

I took my car in for service a few months ago – just the regularly scheduled maintenance. What’s nice about it is that they wash the car as part of the service, and I’m not one to wash my car very often. I enjoyed the time in the waiting room, reading a good book and sipping a cup of hot coffee. Before I knew it, my car was ready. Nice and clean. I was pleased – at least until later that day when I was driving towards the sun. With the light coming from a certain angle, I realized that the windshield was really dirty. I tried to clean it with the windshield wipers but that didn’t accomplish anything. I was really angry! What the heck did these people do to my car? I was home by this point and figured I’d clean it some other time.

For several weeks, at certain times of day when the sun was at a certain angle, I would again notice the dirt (or whatever it was) clouding my vision. Sometimes I’d get mad. Sometimes I’d try to figure out what I could do to clean it (since the regular wiper fluid wasn’t helping at all). Maybe windex or vinegar or .  .  . I mostly just let it annoy me. And I didn’t actually do anything about it.

Then one day there was a bug on the inside of the windshield and, as I brushed it off with my finger, I couldn’t help but realize that the yuck on my windshield was on the inside. I had to laugh. I picked up a napkin and simply and easily wiped it clean.

I learned so much from this inconsequential experience in my life. The way we choose to see what happens in our day-to-day experience is the most powerful choice that we make. Even the tiniest detail of our lives – especially something that stirs an emotional response – can reveal a profound truth. It is an awareness practice and we have the power to choose.

How often do we blame all the things on the outside – other people or circumstances – for our own lack, especially our lack of peace of mind? For some reason it seems easier to think that something “out there” can create peace “in here”.  How much energy do we waste in annoyance over things that are far beyond our control? Blame can feel good and somehow empowering and it’s true that, at times, we have to move through blame to a deeper truth. But living in constant blame will never create an atmosphere of inner peace.

We live in a society that generally supports our willingness to blame. We love drama. Stepping out of the role of victim takes discipline. Refusing to collude with another person’s grip on being the victim also requires discipline. Instead, we must consciously choose to see ourselves and others as whole human beings and open our hearts in compassion.

I was recently in a dear friend’s car and, a moment after she started the car, a kind voice announced, “You are now connected.”

What a wonderful reminder. I have spent much of my life feeling alone and believing that I was carrying worlds of responsibility. It’s not uncommon: we carry the weight of our children’s well-being, our bills and debts, our relationships – and on and on. There is much to worry about if we so choose.

The weight of our day-to-day responsibilities can be lightened when we are conscious of our connection.  We are, now and always, connected to the light, to the Divine. Coincidence that it’s the same word? (Being connected to the light light-ens our load).

I like to imagine that my feet our rooted deep into the core of the Earth, receiving nurture and stability from Mother Earth and that my arms are reaching up to the heavens, receiving light and love from the heavens, from Father Sun, Grandmother Moon and all the Stars. The experience is one of profound connection.

Lovely that a car can provide a wonderful reminder of the connection that we’re invited to live. In our curious human experiences, reminders can come from anywhere.

What are your favorite reminders?

“You know what I’ve always thought?” She asks in a tone of discovery, and not smiling at me but a point beyond. “I’ve always thought a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined that when He came it would be like looking at the Baptist window: pretty as colored glass with the sun pouring through, such a shine you don’t know it’s getting dark. And it’s been a comfort: to think of that shine taking away all the spooky feeling. But I’ll wager it never happens. I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself. That things as they are” – her hand circles in a gesture that gathers clouds and kites and grass and Queenie pawing the earth over her bone – “just what they’ve always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.”

From A Christmas Memory, by Truman Capote

I don’t know of anyone who would disagree that honesty is the best policy. If for no other reason than that it’s simply easier to be truthful. I recently heard a woman say that she always tells the truth – because she can’t keep track of what she’s said otherwise. We generally expect truthfulness from others. Trust is an important foundation in on-going relationships.

A complicating factor, though, is the inherent assumption that we’re being honest with ourselves. But are we? We are social animals and, as a result, our preferences are powerfully influenced by the people around us. Some people create personas that are easy-going and cooperative which are wonderful qualities. But is it possible that we lose something along the way?

At different stages in our lives, we make decisions. We decide where we want to live, what we want to study, what job we want to take, etc.  I wonder if we lose sight of some of our passions and dreams in the process. I am not advocating not making life decisions – they are obviously necessary and with each experience, no matter how pleasant or unpleasant, we learn and, ideally, grow.

Is there a way to keep our unlived passions alive? A way to re-visit those ideas that make our hearts sing and bring smiles to our faces?

In the Gospel of Thomas, one of the Gnostic texts, Jesus said, “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” I believe that we’re meant to live lives filled with joy and passion. It seems that many people get caught in the day-to-day without much consideration for anything else. It takes a certain amount of relaxed discipline or effortless effort to allow our truest selves to surface. If there is no still silence, we will never be able to sense our deepest longings.

What is your passion? What is your heart’s desire?

Be honest now.

 Shunryu Suzuki

I’ve heard of the concept of “beginner’s mind” in many different contexts. In the shamanic tradition, one of the archetypes we work with is the Serpent, who shows us how to shed the past the way she sheds her skin. When Serpent sheds her skin, it includes the eyes. She truly sees with new and innocent eyes. And we ask her to show us her way, to help us to see things as if never seen before.

From “beginner’s mind” it is easier to have a “beginner’s heart” as well. There is an openness that is revealed. Judgments and criticisms may arise in the mind but they are recognized and easier to release. I’ve noticed that my mind likes to categorize experiences and people. I guess that makes sense: the world seems much more manageable and more easily controlled (or so it seems) when everything can be conveniently filed away. The clear disadvantage of my practice of mental filing is that I miss so much!

When I listen from a beginner’s mind, I don’t assume that I know how the sentence is going to end and I stay present to the speaker’s expression and experience. There are many things I don’t know and haven’t experienced. Although that is an obvious statement, I realize how often I listen from a ‘knowing’ place.

The same concept applies to “seeing” the world. When exploring a place we’ve never seen before it is usually easy. We’re more likely to notice the beautiful subtleties of a new place. But in our day- to- day life?

Can we maintain this position of innocence when dealing with what is familiar and “known”?  Can we greet the people we see each and every day and see them with new eyes without making assumptions about who they are and how they’re going to react and behave? Can I look at myself in the same way? Am I willing to give up that comfortable illusion of control?

Yes. I am willing. I choose to open my eyes with curiosity. What will today hold?

RUMI

I just googled “most stressful life events and am disappointed to find that moving is not in the top ten. On one list, it’s number 28. While I was moving last month, a few people reminded me that moving is one of the most stressful things to go through. One of the top three, I was assured. And that gave me some encouragement.

I moved out of my home of almost 20 years, where I had raised my children. Part of the stress came from actually moving “stuff” and figuring out what to keep, what to store, what to give away or throw away. Time constraints brought another level of stress. Some guilt was part of the stress. Concern about Christmas morning. Concern about Muffy, my cat, who has spent his lifetime enjoying the wild outdoors of my old neighborhood. Maybe that sounds silly – nearly being willing to spend 364 extra days for a traditional Christmas morning and a happy cat. But those were the thoughts rumbling around in the still-dark early morning hours.

As the moving process began, it seemed that the walls were talking to me. That the very structure of the house had been storing our stories and history. My daughters’ bedrooms somehow showed me all the looks and moods they had witnessed – from diapers to Barbies to forts to Spice Girls to Facebook to . . . . The house reminded me of the dreams I had when I first moved in. The hopes that carried me – us – through the years. It also reminded me when those dreams didn’t come true.

Moving brought with it a shake-up of one level of security that I had come to take for granted. I was surprised to find out how much my “stuff” was giving me a sense of safety. It sounds a little absurd in the telling, but as I started sorting, giving away, throwing away the “stuff”, I found myself becoming spacey, absent-minded, ungrounded.

I felt very connected to my home and the land around it. I had a fire pit in my back yard that held meaning for me. It was in that physical place that I had stepped into my shamanic path and I had learned and grown there, at the fire, both alone and shared with a community of friends. Clearly it wasn’t the physical location that held the power or meaning but walking away from it stirred something.

Security. Stability. Foundation. The sense of feeling grounded and connected. All of these are fundamentally important. Important, too, to bring these to conscious awareness and be sure to build a strong, deep root structure for ourselves. To live in awareness of the truth that wherever we find ourselves standing is sacred ground.

L. Robert Keck, Sacred Eyes

The underlying message of so much that I read is that I need to love, affirm and empower myself. At first glance, it sounds selfish – selfishness being one of the worst possible offenses, in the culture in which many of us were raised. But if I think about flying and oxygen, it starts to make sense: the flight attendant advises, if oxygen masks should become necessary, put your own mask on first in order to help the people around you. Without helping yourself first, you are no help to those around you.

And life can sometimes seem like a flight in peril. I spent many years doing what I thought was right and good: I took care of everything around me first, including children, family, home, profession, etc. I remember many years ago, when my children were young and my job extremely demanding, I traveled to Atlanta for business and had an unexpected free day. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’m not sure that I can find the words to express what I felt. I had no idea what I wanted or liked to do. It was a feeling that scared me; I hadn’t realized that I was lost, or how long I’d been lost.

I remember finding a book and I read it in a hot bath. I enjoyed a long, quiet walk and met old friends – people who knew me when I was full of enthusiasm for life – for dinner. I felt very lucky and blessed for having had the experience of reconnecting with myself.

Now I understand that I need to love, affirm and empower myself. “Love others, as you love yourself.” I guess I need to remember that relationships require time, effort and energy – and that includes my relationship with myself.

“Flow” defined:  to move along in a stream; to circulate; to well forth; to issue from a source; to proceed continuously and smoothly . . .

“Clench” defined:  to close tightly; grip; to grasp firmly; to knot up.

Examples of flow:  breath is long, slow, nurturing, conscious.  It’s felt deeply in the belly.

Examples of clench:  breath is short, quick, without thought.  It’s trying to survive.

Flow . . . softening.  Striving for nothing.  Rejecting nothing.

Clench . . . trying or expending effort.  Attempting to stay ahead of one’s self.  Defending against what might be coming next.  Trying to figure things out before they happen.  Hoping to stay “safe” by staying ahead.

Even the judgment that flow is better than clench is a form of clenching.  We learn through the experience of contrast.  It is impossible to know or understand light without experiencing darkness, happiness without sadness, flowing without clenching.

Is it possible to simply notice?  Notice the shortness of breath and then choose to deepen the next inhale without making up a story about it, notice the tension in the body and choose relaxation.

Sometimes the noticing is followed by a judgment:  “Oh my God, I’m barely even breathing and my shoulders are so knotted up and I’ve been lost in my thoughts and criticisms all day.”  Which in turn is followed by a judgment of the judgment:  “That’s not being very accepting or living in the moment.  I don’t even know what that means.  I don’t even know how to breathe right or to trust.  And God knows what ‘surrender’ is.  Maybe other people don’t have as many responsibilities as I do.  I’ll never get this right.”

On and on.  We create layers upon layers of harshness where flow and presence are hard to imagine, much less experience.

 Remember every moment is new.  It’s a chance to begin again.  It’s an opportunity for softening – striving for nothing, resisting nothing, proceeding forth from a source, moving along in a stream.  Deep, slow, conscious breaths come and nurture one.  They allow the mind-body to relax and find peace.