Not So Shaggy Dog Stories

I had an opportunity to tell at least two friends today that everything would be okay.  I am fairly certain that neither believed me.  Which is fine since on the level of mind it is a statement that simply can not be digested.  Not when we are caught in a bio-chemical onslaught of peptides polluting our veins.  In fact if some Zen-head new-age-miserable-seeker told me that everything would be okay at say … 10:00 a.m. this morning when I was crying in a tight ball of pain and ick, I would have bitch slapped the super-sentience right out of them.

It is really only when we step back and realize that somehow, someway we made it to the place where we stand today in one piece and we are still alive thus far … that we can sometimes see that we did not steer this boat to these coordinates that we find ourselves currently adrift in the ocean.  But yet we somehow made it here and by that same unseen force or collection of chaos we will continue to sail on the winds and the tides.  Some still have their hands tight on the captains wheel in dismay that the vessel does not move under their power — truth is there are no mechanics from the helm to the rudders that you ever controlled.  Those who are free from the illusion have set up a small cabana near the leeward side of the boat and are simply content to just watch the view from the starboard bow.

So what does it mean when we have glimpsed our true nature as the sentient sea bee but yet find our self still hopelessly drawn back into the hull of hell?  More importantly WHO WANTS TO KNOW?  Truth is — from where I sit, still motion sick off the port bow — EVERYTHING still arises even after we reach Atlantis.  Hate arises, Pain arises, Fear arises, Greed arises, Lust arises, and Depression arises just as it did before.  This is why Titan said that nothing changes after enlightenment (ok, maybe that was Buddha.)  The nature of the body/mind still sails the seas much like it did before.  However, as an Old Salt there is a much deeper truth, an unshakable knowing that we are not this vessel or the hands on deck.  From this place of stillness even in troubled waters we know everything is already okay.

Why is it we send pictures of rainbows, sunsets and blue skies to cheer up a friend?  This morning as the gray clouds covered the sun and the barometric pressure dropped as a cold front moved in, I looked out the window and felt a chill in my spine.  Somehow it does seem easier to lift our spirits or ease our pain when we feel the sun on our face or focus our attention on the brilliance of color that is abundant in nature.  But what about the dark days when the vibrant green hues of the trees seem to be listless under a cloak of obscurity?  The sky can seem foreboding and our mood sinks as we feel the weight of the clouds on our shoulder.

But look again.  Go deep into the darkest place on the horizon.  There is a stillness present that is clear of judgment or painful memories.  Go deeper still and feel the Peace that lies in the center of the coming storm.  This place nestled deep inside the shadow of the sky is filled with an emptiness that is ironically abundant with joy and love.  Even on a gray day the blossom feels the bliss.

My friend asked me to make a very special bread for our dinner last Saturday night.  She described a light and airy loaf that would sop up the sauce from a layered noodle dish that we were trying for the first time.  Most of my hardy homemade whole-grain breads are on the heavy side and often more of a crumb texture rather than a sponge type loaf that you might buy in the store.   I truly had no idea how to approach the challenge.  But on the morning of the dinner ….  I looked at the ingredients and tried a few slight changes to my standard recipe and kneading procedure.  I decided on three varieties a standard plain loaf, one onion and fresh herb and an Ethiopian honey bread that I created based on a pallet memory from 1988 when I tasted a bread by that name in a local bakery.  All three loaves turned out light and airy just like my friend described.

I realized Sunday morning as I was sitting zazen, that the loaves of bread were gifts from Grace.  My friend first spoke the Word and the Word spoken in the presence of two or more becomes a prayer and when two of more come together to pray the answer comes from God.

Long ago I read Larry Dossey’s anthology of the prayer research to date and was impressed by the quality and scope of data that has been collected.  I have participated on many occasions in the Global Prayer project inspired and offered live on the Internet and Teleconference by James and Salle Redfield.  There is something very powerful and uplifting when we pray as part of a critical mass.

But on this occasion as we broke bread on this special supper, it would be my first awakening to the power of the spoken word as it is transcends into prayer.  At once I became aware of the great power that my own words carried.  Sarcastic remarks, double entendres, chastising words … not only was I speaking my mind or spouting off in the presense of another sentient being, but my words were all of the time being channeled out into the Universe.

I remember Sunday night my young teen telling me she “didn’t want to wake up Monday morning for school.”  I hushed and told her not to say such things out loud because the power of our word takes its toll.  No surprise at 6:30 a.m. there was a frantic knock at my bedroom door that she had over slept through her alarm clock and needed an urgent ride to the bus stop.  Not once had this punctual perfectionist been late for the bus in all the years I could remember.  Power of the word.

The power of prayer became an important lesson for me this past week, as friend after friend reacted to my relapse back into a difficult POTS-hole.  Funny how I had just been thinking that I could “do more” lately.  Like hanging laundry on the line without immediately fatiguing or walk up and down the stairs in my house without needing to lay down immediately.  It was one of those dare I say hopeful times when the life limiting part of the illness was giving more wiggle room to have some semblance of a life.

Then unbidden the hyperadrenergic flares started coming and gripping long and hard.  Just a day or two here and there, not everyday at the start.  My mind immediately goes into CSI mode to look for forensic evidence as to the cause of the aggravated assault.  A week went by and the internal tremors joined the POTS-party.  The hyperadrenergic flares are coming with waves of heat, pain and high agitation and now rolling in several times a day.

Decidedly beyond my Zen head, the frequency and intensity of the POTS fallout pushes me up against my perceived limitations.  “Enough!”  I scream inside.  “I can’t handle any more.”  Yet more comes and each day my eyes open once again for another drag through the undertow.  I remind myself to be mindful how I talk about the relapse so as not to put a prayer out into the Universe that I did not want to be answered.

My father has often shared with me his favorite prayers.  In times of need I find them very comforting, not because they are Catholic but because they come from my father.  In fact he called this moring while on his treadmill to let me know that he had said three special prayers for me and my healing.  I was so touched, what a powerful prayer to share with me.

This week I am keenly aware, that which we say out loud to another sentient being is a prayer.   We must be mindful and choose our words carefully.  As I have said before …. Life is not what you make out of it, it is what you make UP about it.  Choose your words carefully and Enjoy the illusion.

They say to just face your fear and you will pass through it.  Remarkable stories about people who challenged their own demons then were forever free are all over the internet and best-sellers in bookstores.  I wonder if the medieval stories of dragons and damsels were not metaphors for this same philosophy.

So for those of us trapped inside of an illness that also pushes our panic button … We are left feeling cowardly and defeated each time the wave over takes us and we find our self with less than graceful coping maneuvers.

If it was as simple as Facing Your Fear … my sense is not a one of us would continue to suffer.  Transpose FEAR for DEPRESSION or ANGER or whatever ADDICTION of the day you choose.  If all it took was bravery, I should think each of us would be wearing a medal of honor.  To live day after day within the paradigm of a pain-filled life takes a tremendous amount of strength, patience, perseverance and dare I say courage.

The easy moments often lull us into a place of conditioned confidence where we hold on to the belief we may actually have slain our dragon once and for all.  At the very least we have come to recognize when the dragon sleeps.  We cling to these moments … careful to tiptoe through our day as not to wake the beast.

Bring it on!
Welcome your pain!
Invite your suffering to tea!
Accept
Allow
And let time pass.

Immortal words by some of the world masters … but WHO is the master?  Where did this bravado come from?  Who is pulling the strings?  Surely if ‘i’ was at the helm of my vessel I would have grabbed the captain’s wheel and fearlessly veered into the storm.  If THAT was what it took to free myself from suffering.

I have enough wits about me, ample street smarts and sufficient formal training that I should clearly be proficient to plot a course and cybernetically steer my way through the quagmire of cognitive pain.  So I have to ask myself again … Does my failure to make any progress make me somehow flawed, inept or simply insincere in my efforts?  Or does my experience … my personal subjective experience … Somehow differ from the dragon slayers tall tale?  What if my reality and my circumstances cannot be lined up and compared to the heroes and heroines that trump their sentient nature and are forever free of the egoic will?

Perhaps it is neither one nor the other.  Could be that BOTH play an equal though seemingly polaric part when in fact they are one in the same.  Brave or Craven?  Lucky or Damned?  Strong or Weak of Heart?  Seems only the outcome determines the label.  If suffering ends then you are Lancelot, otherwise you are Willy Loman.  Triumph or tragedy it seems is at least in part out of our hands.

We close our eye and stab our sword into the breast of the beast.  If the dragon falls we sell millions of self-help books on how to slay your inner demon.  If the dragon lives … well then we write another blog.

Those of us who are ill, long for days that are unencumbered by our symptoms.  We wish for things to be easier and less symptomatic.  Sometimes we find our self in a holding pattern as we try and wait for our remembered self to return.

I hear my colleagues in this life school of breakdown and recovery 101, lament that they so want to have a life again.  They want to go out for a walk, look at the moon rise over a still lake or enjoy a moment in the sun without pain and intense symptoms of their circumstances.  I want this too.  I know their pain, I feel their suffering.  I want this not only for myself but I want this for them as well.

My circumstances and internet ties bring me close to so many people who are in healing crisis.  I have come to care about each of them deeply and hold them in my thoughts of healing as I do for my own family of origin.

For some there is a clear cut healing path and they can see the light at the end of the tunnel when they will emerge a new person with vitality, health and possibility.  These are the people who find themselves disabled for only a chapter (or ten) in their lives but they know that it is not a permanent life sentence and they hold on to the hope of the future life that lies ahead.

For others, they have lived a life of suffering and pain that has waxed and waned through their growing years and they find themselves now in a place of unworkability at every level of the game.  Their bodies scream in pain when they first open their eyes from another sleepless night, their mind is tortured with the highest of agitation and the lowest depths of despair.  With no end in sight and so many years in breakdown the desperation in their voice is heart breaking.

Then there are those who through unexpected life circumstances find themselves plunged without warning into a fight for their life against illnesses that we only whisper about because their reality is so hard to face.

However these healing pioneers find themselves on the road alongside me … each of us share the common goal to end our suffering.  And I pray for all of us that the end will come before the end of time that we share together.

When I look upon people who walk the path unencumbered by disabled parking placards or IV ports or the torture of an otherwise beautiful mind … those people who wake up, drink a cup of coffee and drive to work each day … I realize that they are ostensibly no different though their outer circumstances look very much so.  The physical pain may be less acute and the mental noise often muffled, these normal able bodied sentient beings also seek to diminish suffering in their own work-a-day lives.  They plot and prep and pray much the same for the downtime to enjoy a walk in nature, look at the moon and the stars or enjoy a moment in the sun free from encumbrances.  For some it may come in small doses on the weekend but yet never seems to match the yearning for peace and balance in their heart’s vision.  They recognize the disorder in their lives and feel the pain in much the same way that each of us experience our unique slice of suffering.

It’s funny, when we find ourselves slipping into a place of self pity we may have a thought that “there are other people worse off than I” and somehow this lifts our spirit ever so slightly.  For me, I often reflect that there are people who only have the appearance of much easier life, yet their suffering is the same as mine and they deserve my prayer too that their load may be lightened.

On this day,

I pray for you,

my numberless friends

who seek to ease their pain.

In some cases

I know you well and call you by name,

in other instances

you and I have never met before

but yet at once you are so familiar.

May we all feel the ease of the burden that we carry

and may we each seek to ease the burden of our numberless friends.

I woke up this morning embroiled in a mind story on the virtue of equanimity (Upekkha). A sentient sage recently told me about his awakening while on a road trip — the 21st century equivalent of walking the path I suspect. As I listened to his heart open into an amazing space of acceptance and gratitude I could hear the whispers of my early vipassna practice and the equanimity that we try to cultivate that can shelter us against the eight worldly winds — gain and loss, praise and blame, pleasure and pain, fame and disrepute.

There is such freedom in the moment when we see that our circumstances do not dictate our happiness and that lightening of the burden of our human nature was apparent in his telling of the satori. “It won’t matter on your wedding day” he said, or something to that affect.  I have since learned it is a fairly common expression that has some relevance to time heals all wounds, however my mind at the moment was thinking about the dozen episodes of Poor Bride, Rich Bride my college girl watched this past weekend and the mayhem and commercialism that now passes for normal. As I come from a very long line of JOP services in my family of origin (some shotgun some voluntary) the modern day wedding performance is a mystery to me.   Hmmmm …. gain and loss, praise and blame, pleasure and pain, fame and disrepute — yep that pretty much sums up my sense of “the big day”.

While the virtue of equanimity is clear in my mind, the aperture of my heart is only open on rare occasion to glimpse the majesty of its presence.  And this morning as I woke already in pain and high agitation there would be no Upekkha (equanimity) for my situation and suffering.

“Pain IS worse than Pain-free!” I attested in my mental story. “And Peace IS better than Non-Peace!!”

It was that kind of energy. I opened the door to my closet and walked in to get a shawl for my shoulders. I had spent some significant time the day before on the floor cleaning and organizing my closet and as I stood there looking at the wide open uncluttered space I continued my silent rant “A CLEAN CLOSET IS BETTER THAN A MESSY CLOSET!”

I was cold. There was a chill in the house from recent rain and unusual damp weather. I pulled a small space heater and sat on the floor of a downstairs bedroom with a ballpeen hammer and screwdriver and began banging the hell out of some cheap vinyl tile that was not giving up without a fight.  (We are making a conservative effort to remove high VOC materials are replace them with zero volatile compounds and eco-friendly options.) Sometimes only a sliver of the tile would come up and at other times a large chunk would peel away from the cement sub floor. The commentary continued “Large easy strips ARE better than tiny bits of scraps! Easy is better than hard!!”

No sign of equanimity on the horizon.

I put a load of clothes in the wash so that I could put them up on the line before the rains would come again.  When they finished their cycle I sorted the wet garments into piles inside the house to minimize my time in the cold air outdoors.  I made stacks of pants, shirts and pajamas, his, hers and other (kids qualify as other don’t they?) and I carried each one at a time outside into the overcast low pressure system.  With my arms bundled around a heavy group of pajamas I thought to myself “Lighter loads are BETTER than heavier loads to carry!” and I hoisted the stack up on to a high rope that was strung between a palm tree and an old wooden structure that had once been a swing/play set for children (back in the day when children played out of doors instead of in front of Pet Society on Facebook.)

As I began to drag the wet clothes across the line a gentle breeze caught my attention and at once I was present to the birds that were chirping in a nearby yet dormant crepe myrtle.

Something had shifted.

As I walked back inside and picked up the next load of wet shirts and pressed them close to my body to carry them to the line it occurred to me that it really didn’t matter to the birds if I was hauling a heavy or light load. Moreover the presence of the birds did not change for me depending on the weight of the laundry.  Yes, heavy clothes felt harder to bear than lighter clothes … but there was a world around me that was full of awe and movement that was the same regardless of my particular point of reference.

I could enjoy the light loads, I could feel good about an uncluttered closet, I would certainly feel the moments of no-pain as infinitely more pleasurable … but all the same none of it mattered to the bird song in the backyard.  That song was available to me too regardless of what mental story might try to challenge it.

I stood back to watch the winds blow my laundry on the line … gain and loss, praise and blame, pleasure and pain, fame and disrepute … and the birds in the tree singing a song of equanimity.