People Paradox

A wise physician once gave me these words of wisdom: "I went into family medicine because I wanted to work with people. Trouble is, people aren't all they're cracked up to be."

A wise nurse I worked with had this refrain, "There is a very thin line between love and hate."

It's no secret that our human relationships provide us with both with our greatest joys and greatest sufferings.

It's the romantic in me that often wants to reach out and embrace everyone and everything, pouring out unconditional peace, love and joy on this suffering world from my tender bleeding heart. But that well runs dry quickly, and that sort of reach leaves one's guts exposed.

It's the introvert in me that often wants--needs--to retreat within, to my fortress of solitude, to find my peace and presence there, my drishti, in something that's not moving, something more stable than these fickle human beings everywhere. But that sort of withdrawal usually leads to isolation and stagnation.

There's an incredible communal power that comes from being in an arena packed with U2 super fans and singing in unison, "I want to run, I want to hide, I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside, I want to reach out and touch the flame, where the streets have no name . . ."

And there's the misanthropy that is the inevitable result of elbowing your way through Walmart at 4 am on Black Friday as you try to get that HDTV for $299 but come away instead with a blender you don't need for $12, which maybe wasn't actually such a good deal after all?

I feel frequent tension between these two poles. I think most people are the same. It's what makes us both anticipate and dread reunions. It means that there is a great table of brotherhood that we all sit down at together, and there is a lonesome valley that we all must walk alone. 

I don't think these oscillations make us selfish or needy or unstable. It's a continuum of our life experience. It all comes in one package. It means we need intimacy as well as elbowroom, society as well as solitude. It means we're human.

(But as we know, humans aren't all they're cracked up to be.)

When I Heard the Learned Astronomer

Walt Whitman, 1819 - 1892

When I heard the learn’d astronomer, 
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, 
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, 
   and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with
   much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, 
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

(Special thanks to Jeff, who has this posted on his studio wall.)

Sunday Morning Routine

Yoga and coffee. Throw in a little spiritual wisdom from Pastor Steve.

That's the way Elizabeth and I spend our Sunday mornings now. It's the best.

The kids sleep in. We go to Monique's yoga class. It's a mixed level class, always packed with thirty or more people. For Elizabeth, it's a welcome chance to be a yoga student again, after having been an instructor all week. For me, it's a chance to stretch my super-tight hamstrings, strengthen my flabby core, and still my monkey mind. Monique brings an energy and gentle wisdom to her class, which always hums with a communal vibe. When we get to the final relaxation, shavasana, I'm ready to be fully present in that moment, in that darkness that "has no concept of space or time." It's the melting of the walls of mind, spirit, and body. It is a profoundly spiritual moment for me, one that I look forward to all week. "The light in me honors the light in you which is the light in everything."

But the serenity is only just beginning. Elizabeth and I then go to Atlas Coffee, a little local coffee shop that opened just down the street about a year ago. We order from the friendly young owner and the talented baristas. I get a pastry and a banana and make a meal of it. Then Elizabeth and I sit and chat about the week that was, and the week to come. There's no time pressure. All around us are other folks relaxed and visiting on a lazy Sunday morning. Again, that humming communal vibe.

When we get back to the kids, they're usually just stirring, watching baseball highlights or eating cereal. (So nice to have kids that are increasingly independent at home.)

Then, on weeks when I'm able, I head off to Columbine United Church to hear my friend, Pastor Steve, preach. It may seem strange that I go to church when I'm more agnostic than religious now. But it's not your normal church, and Steve's not your normal pastor. His theology and heart is open wide to the wonders of the Cosmos. (Here's a link to his most excellent sermon today.) He and I meet monthly for coffee, too, and our topics range from our relationships with our fathers to the the destiny of the Universe. He's one of my good friends and mentors, and I always come away from his sermons and our chats enriched with some true spiritual wisdom. Not only that, but on Sundays I get to enjoy the musical genius of Mitch Samu, their jazz pianist virtuoso music director, and his assembly of talented musicians. (And once in a while, I get to play some of my music there, too.)

Then I come home to my wife and kids, and we play chess, go fishing, watch baseball, or do home projects.

This is what I do now on Sunday mornings. In the post-Mormon community, this is often referred to as "Second Saturday." I love it. I feel spiritually enriched and recharged. I feel community. I feel freedom to think and breathe. It's a great way to end the old week and begin the new.

"Sometimes A Man Stands Up" by Rainer Maria Rilke

Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.

And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead.

And another man, who remains inside his own house,
stays there, inside the dishes and in the glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward that same church, which he forgot.