It wants me to stand forward, to be who I am without reservation, without fear, without self-judgment;
it wants me to trust it;
and more than anything,
it wants me to stop acting as if it's separate from who I am.

Reminds me of my mother, who is legally blind and getting deaf too, and who is so tired of people talking about her in her presence as if she wasn't there. She is so there!

Dear god, dear Ruth, what’s next? Mind barely gets the words out of its mouth before spirit breathes a rephrase of the question: What’s now? And swiftly on its heels: Love.

The sky, just missing the mark of bluer than blue, seems to hold that odd mixture of greater maturity and less certainty with which early September likes to herald changes in the air. The sun too is mellower than it has been, and oak leaves with just a hint of yellow are beginning to loosen their clasp on branches that carried them through the summer. I myself am carrying two bags of groceries, somehow balancing them at the ends of my arms even though one bag is probably three times as heavy as the other. I trade them off from time to time, aware of what feels like an uneven distribution of weight. And yet there is an underlying sense that all is in balance, all is as it should be.

I think about the uncertainty that prompted my earlier question, and about the simplest and most profound of answers: Love. Is love not the answer to everything? Life itself has no guarantees, and many unknowns. No guarantee that any particular unknown will become known. How then to stay afloat? How to carry on? How to keep from scrabbling for the abandoned shell, to pull it safe around me again?

With acceptance, with trust. Yes, with love.

In love, all is beautiful.


And again it knocks on my heart's door, Maxie's poem:

No Escape

Up close, you must admit,
and from any distance you might choose,
it is all beautiful - almost distractingly so.

that's how it fits for me,
even the blood and brains in the street,
or the tearful diagnosis

all fits, all beautiful,
all spiralling endlessly forward like the rose
from the roots through the stem to the bud and bloom,
straightforward to the sound of OM.

---Michael Sheppard

Resolution, to what I perceive as dissonance in my life.

Wait, no! I just caught myself saying those words: I'm perceiving dissonance to be there (in my life). But what if my perception isn't true? And what if I'm allowing my (possibly erroneous) perception to dictate my attitude, my behaviour, my approach to life? And because I see dissonance, I seek---and search and begin to despair of ever finding---resolution.

When I see my life as lacking harmony, I set myself on a path of seeing harmony. Um... seeking harmony, I meant to type. (Hmm, who's speaking through my fingers?)

Well, so when I say I lack harmony in my life, it's actually coming out of my seeing that there is harmony (somewhere in there), but some part of me likes to make comparisons between the reality of 'harmony is', and the perception of 'harmony is not, but is desirable'. (For clarification, when I use 'seeing' here I'm referring to an inner process, while 'perceiving' I think of as stemming from the outer. The outer lives in duality---it makes comparisons, judges as good/bad, emphasizes separation (between the desired state and what is). The inner does not make comparisons, it simply sees the isness of things.)

So, instead of seeking harmony, why not just accept what I think I'm seeing? Why not say (instead of "I am in disharmony"): "I perceive myself as being in disharmony, but I'm willing to look at the possibility that I may be wrong"? Being willing to see harmony where I thought I saw dissonance. As a way of being there, instead of being on the path to there. If I look, there's lots of places where I see/feel harmony. It's just that there's this one big thing that looks so not in keeping with who I feel I am. (I know, I know---who's judging?)

What is harmony anyway? Isn't it resonating to what is inside/outside/around me? In some sense, at least? Which I do, which I do. And isn't it just fear that sets up those alarm vibrations in my physical body? The same alarm (or a near relative) that shrieks: No! No! Don't do that! Don't go there! Remember what happened when you were 11 and you did... Blah, blah, blah.

And by the way, feeling not-harmony is not necessarily a bad thing. In change it is something of a given, especially If, for instance, one is changing in some way for the better, rising to another level of consciousness. Because in the early stages of the process one always feels a lack of resonance between the old (that we're leaving) and the new (to which we're moving).

So, back to the question, and can I change my answer, please?

Harmony. And specifically, harmony between the inner and outer. Not as a perception that can change from day to day, but as an underlying way of being.

Yeah, oneness.

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Isn't the new old? the old new? Isn't there always a sense of recognition for what's claimed to be new? A sense of newness about what's held to be ancient? Rumi wrote centuries ago and yet when I read him, I delight in the modernity of his words. Not new nor old at all, but rather, that which does not become new or get relegated to the old because it is at the core of what does not change, the "is and was and ever more shall be"-ness of things.

The more I see of what's supposed to be new the more I agree with the prophet:
"There is nothing new under the sun..."

So, if neither new nor old, then what is calling me? Oneness, the merging of the "all and everything" that emanates from a pot containing a zen mixture of "everything is new, everything is old" and "nothing is new, nothing is old."

I used to think oneness existed somewhere smack in the middle of the see-saw, the pivot point between opposing concepts (right-wrong, good-bad, war-peace). Now I'm more inclined to see it as a wholeness comprising left-right-midpoint and everything in between, each tiniest point along the gradient and every miniscule space between the points, until there is nothing that is not covered. Everything in balance even while it may not look like it's in balance.

What am I saying?
I used to think balance was what was needed, desired, sought, but it seems to me now that that's not enough. Balance still acknowledges the far edges of duality, and merely sits between, like a body of nations striving for a middle ground that might allow for peace to be waged instead of war; or perhaps more likely, a cessation of war, a resolution to war that lives not in real peace, but in a no-man's-land between war and peace, because so many of us think that's the best we can hope to achieve.
The sort of balance implied by that is far from oneness; it still looks at, evaluates the thisness and the thatness of things, and it still says: This is preferable over that, and sometimes: Let's strive for the middle ground. Yes, by definition, the word balance still lives in duality.

Oneness to me implies all good, not one thing excluded, the universe holding the all of everything in its love.

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By taking risks in the areas in which you feel least confidence.

What if this man's confidence came out of a fear of heights?!

source

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Maybe it's a September thing, but I got into a truckload of nostalgia yesterday, thinking about two who had died far too young, on top of being my most favourite (and closest) people in the world. Even went so far as to wander through YouTube looking for songs that had helped me "make it through the night" during those difficult, difficult times. And yes, Kris Kristofferson was a biggie then. Something about him, his lyrics speaking straight to my heart. Roberta Flack. James Taylor. Oh god, Donny Hathaway! It was a long time ago.

The nostalgia this time round carried none of the sadness, had none of the "why's" I'd asked for so long around those deaths. Just a sweet, sweet remembering with none of the bitterness that sometimes attaches itself to sad memories. People die physically, and yet they're not gone, not if they were important in your life, not if their passing, as well as their living, impacted your present and future way of being in the world. And they did. They did.

It was supposed to rain yesterday and I guess it did, though minimally, in the morning. In the afternoon I went for a long walk, carrying an umbrella against still threatening clouds but not needing it at all---patches of blue appeared here and there only to be gobbled up by more clouds. By the time I got home, sun had won out.

And I was still humming the song that had started shortly after I set out and refused to let go---it was a street name, Maddison Street, that invoked the song: something about "lalalalala... Madison Av'nue" and "just like Greta Garbo" and "...fell in love with you"---I knew the tune but couldn't quite place it in terms of who wrote it or made it popular.

Turning the corner from Charles onto Fairfield, with the blocks-long Ross Bay Cemetery lying across the street to my left, I came up behind a man lightly carrying a few grocery items over his left shoulder. He was a good ten man-strides in front of me but looked over his right shoulder back at me. So much for my thinking I hum so quietly no one could possibly hear me unless they're within a few feet of me.

"Just singin'," I smiled at him. "Just hummin'. Got this tune in my head a while back and it won't let go."

He laughed. "I know the feeling."

He turned off at the next corner and I continued on my way, turning left past the cemetery and down to Clover Point on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the strait with its multiple layering of almost indescribable colours so closely reflecting the strata of clouds above, Trial Island and its lighthouse clearly visible in the near distance, and the Olympic Mountains of Washington State all but shrouded, with just a hint of deep blue differentiating their lower slopes from the waters of the strait.

Beautiful scenery, beautiful encounters, beautiful memories.

And yes, with a little help from Google, I managed to locate the tune (and lyrics) that had been running through my mind: Ian Thomas's "Right Before Your Eyes."




Related blogs (mine):
Laying ghosts
Kiss from a rose
What has altered your life most dramatically?

Approaching each moment as if it is all I have. Placing my full attention on whatever I'm doing, whether it's writing, walking in nature, listening to birdsong, washing the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathroom... No-thing is too small or mundane to deserve my focused attention, and the rewards are myriad.

The little things? The little moments? They aren't little.---Jon Kabat-Zinn

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Forgiveness? It has turned my life around, literally stood my life on its ear. But I have to tell you this: it was me forgiving me that started the process.

As I forgive myself, I find myself increasingly unable to see what, if anything, requires forgiving in others. Instead, I'm left with a sort of (non-intellectual) clarity around what I used to consider negative, bad, life-shattering, experiences, yes, even events from my childhood that I had always thought were completely unforgivable.By God, by anybody.

Oh, the freedom...!


Some related blogs (mine):
What's the most difficult thing you've forgiven?
What have you learned about healing?
Where do your beliefs come from?

Forget about how to show them you love them. When you love someone from the heart, with no holds barred, no strings attached, the love will show itself---can't help it---and it will reveal itself in the one way that is most meaningful to the loved one, a better and more meaningful way than we would have thought of.

We can't make someone see or know that we love them. We can say the words till the cows come home, we can stand on our heads to try and show them, but in the end, all we can really do is love them. Like a butterfly held by the wind. Do we love that person enough to just love them?

Where do answers come from? Same place as the questions, in'it? In fact, they seem to burble up pretty well hand in hand.

Perhaps a more important question would be: Why do I tend to want to question the validity of answers that bubble up from inside me? As if there has to be a better one waiting somewhere. As if I haven't worked hard enough for it. As if the best response must have hard labour or gut-wrenching pain associated with it. How could there be a better answer than the one that's intimately mated with the question?

E.g., this scenario in the bath this morning:

Q: How can I make an extra $100 a day over the next ten days?
R: By getting out of the way of it.
Q: How do I get out of the way?
R: Become invisible.
Q: How to become invisible?
R: ____

I understood that it didn't mean becoming invisible per se, but rather, (having asked the question) to concern myself with what needs to be done, what's on my plate right now. The money, the wherewithal or the way to get it, is there already, just let it come in---get out of the way of that.

Well, whichever way presents itself at the time of asking. Hopefully what comes out is an authentic response (i.e., from my authentic self). Sometimes, though, I catch myself saying no and when I think more about it (the request) I realize 'maybe', or maybe even 'yes', might have been a better answer. I'm not above reversing my original response---it may indeed have come from my heart, but then again, it may have been past-conditioned.

I was in the middle of making dinner the other day---in fact, I had just turned off the gas---when a knock came at the door. I took the pan holding my for once perfect omelette off the burner and went to open the door. My ex straightened up---he had been in the process of placing a CD on the mat. Oh, he said, I didn't think you'd be home. I opened the door wider, inviting him in for a moment, but explained that I was about to sit down to my dinner. Eggs don't wait long, I told him.

He found one reason and another to dawdle and eventually I had to ask him to leave. And again. (Even though he kept telling me he was on his way to somewhere else.) I looked at my perfect dinner---my omelette, scalloped potatoes, and zen veggies---and decided firmness was in order. So I took him by the arm and gently shepherded him to the still-open door. He took the hint, although he called me rude in the process.

Rude maybe, but it turns out I can say no when I have to. Even to him. :)

24/7.

Oh, you want me to state a particular 15-minute period in the day during which I prefer to meditate???

Well, okay, how about: the first 15 minutes, then the next 15 minutes, and so on until we get to the end of the day---which coincidentally starts off the next, and the cycle begins again. Well, the cycle doesn't end, does it?

If I have to pick one 15 minute period, you might as well just write me off. Same goes if you try to make me stretch or constrain it to 15 minutes.

Meditation for me isn't sitting, it's breathing, being. Being doesn't spoil, it's not meat or vegetable that it comes with a best before date. Nor is it vitamin or medication, that it has to be taken at a particular time of day. it's not a pension or insurance policy or...

Heart to heart, nonverbal communication.

Small talk has its uses, but too often it masks the thing that really wants to be said. And sometimes people will say anything at all just to cover the silences in conversation. I love the silences---they have so much to say, if we just listen.

I am - my home - is me. Ignoring the artifacts of written language---dashes, spaces---where's the separation? I seldom feel it anymore. Here, now, on this earth, I carry my physical home with me wherever I go, just like the tortoise carries hers. Does she distinguish between what one might call the body per se, and the dwelling within which she lives? I'm having difficulty saying what I mean here---there's a level on which I can make verbal distinctions between the body, which I can't help but carry, and what I might call the roof over my head, which I carry around with me in a less obvious way. But strictly from a feeling level, I can't explain the difference. And the feeling level is where I live.

Interestingly, given the Q&R topic today, the Osho Zen Tarot card that turned up for me this morning was Slowing Down (Knight of Rainbows), with the partial commentary: The Knight of Rainbows is a reminder that, just like this tortoise, we carry our home with us wherever we go...

Meditation is a kind of medicine - its use is only for the time being. Once you have learned the quality, then you need not do any particular meditation; then the meditation has to spread all over your life. Walking is Zen, sitting is Zen.

Osho The Sun Rises in the Evening Chapter 7

 

Funny you should ask. Last night late a message was left on my voice mail. A male voice, husky, plaintive, sandwiched between slices of silence: I miss you Ruth. I knew who it was, of course. Between long and short silences he comes back to haunt me, dropping off a CD, a voice message...

Do I miss him? I miss the music we shared---our tastes were so similar---jazz, Indian classical, fusion. I miss the dancing, though he was not my favourite dance partner. I miss the fun, the spontaneity. After a while it grew heavy, controlled, I felt stifled, a victim to his moods, and eventually I left. The problem is, I keep having to close the door. Maybe if I slammed it for once, he would get the message. Probably not. What message is there to get? He wants things to be the way they were, and I can't go there and be true to myself. I have told him and told him. I guess you could say I miss what we had during a small window of our seven-year relationship.

I 'xpect that would be me...

Or is that you? :)