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.

Writer's Block

I haven't posted in nearly a month, and I doubt anyone has been on the edge of their seat waiting for this one. My primary excuse: between work and family, life has been hectic. But that's nothing new. Not many extra hours to devote to writing. I've sat down multiple times to try to hammer something out, but nothing flows.

In my former life as an English major and wannabe best-selling-platinum-rock-star-novelist, I have become well-acquainted with writer's block. But I think there is something else going on. Namely, I've found myself a bit tired and bored with this whole "40th year quest" thing, to the point that I'm rethinking it all.

But it has occurred to me that whatever mental/spiritual fatigue I'm struggling with at the moment is probably relevant to the whole journey, and so while it may not be very interesting, you, dear reader, now get to read a post about my spiritual writer's block.

A little perspective: When I set the terms for this twelve month journey, starting with my 40th birthday, it was as "a spiritual quest for meaning after leaving Mormonism"--intent being to express my own experiences and insights, and hopefully to reach fellow seekers who may be struggling in their journey, to provide hope and perspective. I've wanted it to be primarily forward-looking, as in, "Okay, so where do we go from here?"

Initially, I felt a lot of energy for this, which surged again after my meditation retreat, and then again after a couple of rear-view-mirror posts in the dead of winter that were more widely read. I feel good about my intentions, the changes I've made in my life, what I've written about, and the overall direction I'm headed. But nine months in, and I'm starting to question some of my underlying assumptions:

Chaos Theory

• Books. I've done a lot of reading, and yet the stack on my nightstand grows larger by the week. So much to read, so little time. But does it make a difference? Does it make one iota of difference for me to read another book? Another ancient text or some book by a New Age-y guru who thinks he's got it figured out? I get it, we're all connected. Live in the moment. Create your own meaning, blah blah blah . . .
• Or meditation and yoga. I had some phenomenal experiences with it, felt like I had really turned a corner, but guess what? I come out of it, the kids are still fighting, I forgot to pay the electric bill, and there's a basketball game on. Back to the same old, same old.
• Exercise. This has been pretty consistent. I enjoy it and feel like I'm in good shape. I've lost some of the belly fat, set a personal record for 10K in the Colfax Marathon Relay last week . . . but I'm still scrawny up top, still can't touch my toes in yoga, still aware that this machine is getting older by the day, that the clock is ticking down now, and doubtful that my health and fitness will ever be substantially better than what it is at the moment. 
• What about the big ticket items?  Finish a marathon and pass board exams--check (barely) and check (grrrr). But then what? I've found myself, per usual, greatly anticipating upcoming vacations and events, to the detriment of whatever else is going on right now.

Right now. Hmmm. Part of my ennui seems to be emanating, paradoxically, from my recent reading of a phenomenal book, The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. I'll be reviewing that soon. (Something to look forward to, eh?)

The irony is that this book has indeed filled me with perspective and excitement about living fully in the present, practical ways to disassociate from my monkey mind, and how to simply bask in Being. I love it. It feels as simple, clear and true as anything I've yet read. And yet . . . these Nows just keep coming, don't they? Bills due. Patients to see. Deadlines to meet. So is there really any practical transcendence in being wholly in the Now, while life progresses relentlessly before and after that? We live in world where we survive by the sweat of our brow, that demands preparation for tomorrow, for the summer harvest or the winter famine, for another downturn in the economy, for our children's college educations, for the zombie apocalypse. Not going to let my children starve or my patients die just because I'm living blissfully in the Now. And so, reading a book that appears to approximate The Answer has become paradoxically frustrating, because it seems impractical and unattainable. (Unless of course we win the $1,000,000 sweepstakes from Albertsons this month, in which case I'll devote all of my time and energy to the pursuit of Pure Enlightenment.)

This is not surrender. This is my description of a difficult phase that is probably part and parcel with whatever journey I'm on, coming out at a time when I can't think of anything else useful to write. Breaking through this barrier will take some hardheadedness and tenacity. I'm kinda good at those. But this spiritual block also might be forcing a recalibration.

Here it is: I ain't gonna figure nothing out in the next three months, or the next three years, or the next thirty. There is no grand epiphany coming, no ascendance to a higher plain. There is the daily slog, and there are the intermittent joys, thrills, sorrows and absurdities. There is the journey. And I think that's all.

Maybe the simplest description of the Ultimate Grand Meaning of All Life and the Cosmos is this:

Now, just through writing here, I'm feeling a bit of the writer's block crumbling. Maybe priming the pump, and I guess this is called "powering through." I'm going to keep at this. I've got a few good things planned. I'm going to be reviewing soon the Tao Te Ching, the Baghavad Gita, and The Power of Now. I was hopeful to review War and Peace (seriously) and Moby Dick, but those aren't happening any time soon.

I have some funny moments in parenting and doctoring that I want to share. I want to share my awakening to the world of coffee and wine. I want to get out in nature and do some writing about the night sky. I have planned some more of my occasional diversions into the cosmic meaning of it all.

I also want to share some exciting developments in regards to the post-Mormon community here in Colorado. We're trying to help re-create community and support structures among those of us who've had our spiritual and social worlds collapse upon leaving the church.

My most exciting project is something I've been bantering about with my friend Jacob Hess, who has a PhD in community psychology. He's a believing Mormon and a good friend. We've engaged in a long "conversation about the conversation": why is it so hard for Mormons and post-Mormons to have intelligent, compassionate dialogue? We've discussed the need to create a "Third Space" where we can leave behind preconceptions, prejudices, pretensions to authority, and inflammatory rhetoric, and focus on listening, understanding, and loving each other. Is it possible? I honestly don't know. But I'm willing to give it a try.

So the big journey inexorably continues, as well as this little journey within it. We live to fight another day. at least up to some point, hopefully at least another 45 years or so in the future.

To be continued . . .

Living Fully Now

Plato's Cave

An oldie but a goodie . . .