The Blessing and the Curse of Uncertainty

Blog #28.            July 1st
The Blessing and Curse of Uncertainty

Which way do I go?

Oh, straw man, I am on the way to Oz and I don’t know how to find it.  Toto and I have been lost and my house fell on the wicked witch of the west and and…..As the straw man said, “some people say, go this way.  And some people, go that way; of course, the road goes both ways….” Oh straw man you are no help at all!….. We have had so much trouble; don’t you know anything?  “Sob, that’s just the trouble, Dorothy, I don’t have a brain, nothing but straw:-(”

On June 30th, I was packed and ready to head for the Istanbul Ataturk Airport.  With plenty of time, I decided to take the Metro as opposed to a taxi.  It was a long way, 28 miles, but a relatively simple tram, with one transfer at Goldenhusu, that led to an underground route.  My flight was at 2:15 PM, so I left at 10:30 figuring I could make it in two hours easily.  I squeezed in to the crowded tram at  the  SultanAhmet station, with my baggage that Saturday morning, more than ready to escape from the intense, heat, energy and pressure of Istanbul in the summer.  I had three fares left on my Metro card.  Slowly, the tram filled even tighter, heat, body odor, breathless humidity, and pushing and pulling more with each stop.  The riders were irritable and struggling to get on and off before the doors slid shut.

Gradually, after 10-12 stops, the tram began to clear, after 15 stops I was able to sit.  Then, I heard in rapid Turkish that I couldn’t fully understand the words Ataturk Airport transfer station.  It was too soon, not where I had been told and marked on my transport map, to transfer.  It was now about 11:45, taking much longer to cover the distance than I had thought.  I became anxious.  Should I get off at the next stop coming up within the ext minute.  desperately, I looked around and tried to communicate my question to other riders, in my broken Turkish.  Some looked baffled, two men said “gidiorsunuz, burda” “yes, you get off here”.  I tried to show one of the men the map which showed another station to be the transfer stop.  He shook his head and queried another man in accented heavily accented Turkish, pointing at me, as the tram was pulling to a stop.  Another very weathered man in threadbare clothes with a worn basket of old mechanical parts, who had not said a word, said “yok!” and remonstrated in a rapid, Turkish, completely incomprehensible sentence.  One word that I understood was the name, Guldenhusu and havilimani (airport).  The doors closed and the tram started gathering speed.  I was committed, perhaps there were two ways to get to the airport.  Another man gestured that he was getting off at Guldenhusu also and would point me towards the transfer tram.  

I relaxed and watched the map, the passing stations and the man carefully.  He did not look as sure as he acted.  Two stations before Guldenhusu, as the tram slowed to a stop, he said “git, git” (go, go!).  It was a totally unfamiliar stop, so I said “hayir, yok”, (no, there is not!) and remained on the tram. He shrugged and seemed to agree.  Two stops later, I got off the tram in good order and saw a sign to the Havilimani-Kuruse line. I started to climb the stairs to cross over to the other side, but the man said, “yok! And pointed emphatically to the ramp on the same side of the track where I currently was.  It was now nearing 12:15 and I was feeling a sense of urgency.  So, I walked up the ramp and managed to board the train just as it was pulling away.  

I breathed a sigh of relief and checked my ticket boarding time etc.  However, after two stops that were unfamiliar front the Metro map, I recognized that I was indeed traveling away from the airport. Just before the doors closed on the third stop, I stepped off, hauling my bags and surveyed the scene.  I examined the map once more, asked two young Turkish men for confirmation, and quickly crossed over the overpass.  I waited only two or three minutes before I was able to board the next tram headed for the airport.  It was now 12:30, and I practiced deep breathing and mindfulness, (inner mantra-“trust in the process, its all part of the experience….”) and relaxed while remaining highly vigilant :-).  The three mistaken stops rolled by as did the minutes, then we were heading underground with 7 stops to the airport.  Breathe, breathe.

At 12:50, I disembarked at the airport stop underground and began to follow the signs.  Towing my rolling bags and wearing my mid sized backpack, I began to walk a long, empty, tiled tunnel, echoing my steps.  Turning, another long (300 yards?) tunnel stretched before me, then twice more, for perhaps a bit less than a mile.  I came to an underground entrance to the airport, in which  a rapidly moving security line was checking all bags in the x-ray device before allowing people I to the airport.  Remove the belt, the wallet, the pen, the watch.  Take it the IPAD and this time also remove the Kindle, and I was through and moving into the crowded, echoing lower chamber, filled with kiosks of various airline and signs pointing in all different direction.  I had to get my boarding pass.  I went to the single Turkish Airlines opening and there was no one behind the desk.  I asked the next door airline who pointed me toward Lufthansa’ saying they were handling the Turkish airlines ticketing.  I waited about ten minutes in line and the lady said “no, she is there”, pointing at the Turkish Airlines kiosk.  

At 1:25 PM, I quickly got my ticket and checked baggage, but for the first time, she would not let me carry on my mid sized backpack, only my little Jansport daypack. Reluctantly, I conceded and headed for the gate, which turned out to be in another terminal.  I had to wait a few minutes with a crowd to board a shuttle to take me to the right terminal.  Now, 1:40, I began the trek to the gate which involved at least 4 turns and two escalators, one of them not working. On and on, I walked, while thinking anxiously that the bag that I had abruptly been forced to check on had my medication and all toiletries in it.  Again and again, I had to let the thought of lost bag go.  When, I arrived at the gate, a large crowd was lined up to board and pushing forward.  

Now, 1:55, I noted no one moving past the boarding agent.  As I edged into line, minutes went by, then a half hour, no information was given.  I decided to sit down. About 35 minutes later, 3:05, we began boarding, crowding into another shuttle that took us out to the airplane.  We sat on the tarmac for another 25 minutes and then we were off, at 3:30.  Still trying not to perseverance about possible loss of my unplanned checked bag, I was very glad to exit Istanbul.

The two and a half hour flight was smooth, with a window seat.  I watched the mountains, lakes, dry plateau unfold below me.  We sat for another 12 minutes or so until we could get to a parking spot.  After taking the crowded shuttle to the terminal, I faced a sign pointing forward saying International flights and Baggage and to the right, Domestic Arrivals.  I was arriving on a Domestic flight, but I wanted my baggage.  

I asked an airport official making notes on a clipboard at the junction, which way I should go to pick up my baggage.  He asked to see my ticket and passport, looked vaguely alarmed, and wrote in my name and passport number at the bottom of a list of twenty or so names.  He pointed me toward a door back onto the tarmac, as I protested, and led me into another shuttle telling me to wait and it would take me to my baggage.  I had a very bad feeling about this, but paused in the shuttle for a minute or two, only 3 other people on it.  As I stood up to seek additional guidance, the man returned to the shuttle and apologized and nodded with seeming embarrassment at a more senior airline official as he passed.  

The luggage had started to come out.  Fairly quickly, both pieces of my luggage emerged and I happily exited the airport looking for a guy with a sign with  my name on it who would take me to my stone cave hotel, 50 km away in the little town of Goreme, in the heart of the weird, volcanic land of Cappadocia.

I begin to realize that a key part of travel and pilgrimage is the constant exposure to uncertainty, especially when in a country with a foreign language.  Again and again, I am startled, tense, anxious, caught “off guard” by the daily uncertainties.  What will I eat?  How will my stomach accept it?  Will I get sick if I eat this?  Is the drinking water potable?  What will happen if I drink it?  Which country, which city, which hotel, B&B, or Inn, which way will I walk?  Which road will I take? Where do I want to go?  How will I get there?  Is this person trustworthy?  Whom shall I ask for directions?  Which way is this taxi driver going, is he taking me for “a ride”?Which bus do I take and where is it going, how will I know when to get off?  Is it going the right direction?  Could this hotel have bedbugs?  Is it safe to leave valuables in the room?  Where can I change currency, what rate will they give me?  Will my pocket be picked in this crowded bazar or tram?  What will unmarked things cost?  On and on, goes this spiritual exercise of releasing the need to know, the desire for predictability, expectations?  When traveling, it’s all clear that expectations are a feeble effort to retain control of what is beyond control.

There is the blessing and the curse of uncertainty when I travel.  The excitement and novelty of surprise, of the new and unfamiliar is part of the “juice” that travel brings.  The possibilities of renewal, growth, learning, wonder, awe, freshness, the epiphanies and theophanies are all blessings of travel and pilgrimage.  When I use the word pilgrimage here, I mean the intention to allow myself to be changed by the journey, as much or more than any destination, to discover God “on the way”, more than through a visit toI some holy relic or sacred place, though that is precious also.

Both enlivening and exhausting, I wrestle again and again with the desire to make the world after my own imag(ination).   The illusion of certainty and expectations to be met that I often hold at home, is stripped away again and again.  It’s a remarkably difficult pattern to shake off?  It seems to recur and cling with such desperate fear of the raw reality of life in the world out there totally beyond my control. This habit of mind and emotion creates such conflict and anxious despair.  Yet, I am always tempted to try and create the world as I imagine and expect it to be for my comfort and security.  What would it be like to live without expectations, to let God create the world, and life to happen as it will, to unfold as it is?

I think it would be at last the surrender, the yielding of my little will and idolatrous belief in the illusion of power, to the divine flow.  I would still make decisions all the time, moment to moment, But I would not cling with worry to the results.  It would be walking my talk of living in the moment and trusting the process.  In the moments when I am able to watch and relax from my inner observer, place of spirit, honest and naked, vulnerable in truth to the world and it’s surprises, I feel so alive and filled with joy and wonder.  As I reflect on my pattern of wanting and demanding things be as I desire, I am astonished by the grace and gentleness of the divine teacher.

I am reminded of Teillard de Chardin’s image that I love, in his book, “The Divine Milieu”, in which he suggests that God’s ongoing creation occurs through his/her right hand and left hand, molding me as clay.  My  unfolding life occurs through an inner place of choice and experience of the spirit remaking my inner being (when I yield) as the left hand of God.  My outer experience, what happens, serendipity, hardship, pain, loss, and friends, loved ones, circumstance, it’s all grace as the right hand of God molds and creates me. Can you sense the inner and outer molding, creative unfolding, unpredictable, uncontrollable emergence of the I AM, both within you and in the dailiness of your life? The left (inner) and the right(outer) hands of the creative divine masterpiece happen in me all of the time, when I tune into spiritual awareness, one with the divine flow of Life.  

Will I let them, will I trust those hands?  Will I stubbornly resist?  Is my painful stiff neck a metaphor for being “stiff necked people” as Yahweh describes the Old Testament Jews, in Exodus 32:7.  God states to Moses: “I have seen this people, and behold, it is a stiff-necked people”.  It is repeated again in Exodus 33:3 and 34:9.  In Deuteronomy 9:4-6, Moses describes his people again as stiff-necked.  This first appears when God has brought his people out of slavery in Egypt, and while Moses is up on Mount Sinai, receiving the ten commandments from Yahweh.  His brother Aaron, who is left in charge, is forced by the people to make a golden calf, a “god” they are more familiar with, can know, and control.  God left the Hebrew people to wander in the wilderness for 40 years, due to their stiff-necked idolatry, trying to control their god and escape the mystery of the One True Yahweh.
I sometimes also think of my stiff painful neck with the metaphor of Jesus as shepherd, he has his shepherds crook around my neck, trying to guide me, and I am struggling against the divine flow or life, trying to do it my way.

This area of uncertainty is one of many surprising ways that modern day quantum physics is supporting what religious mystics have long believed and practiced about the mysterious unknowable nature of reality and the universe.  This realization began in 1927 with a physicist named Heisenberg, who was studying the dual nature of light, both wave and particle. And he noted that the act of observing such light wave/particles changes them, so that there can be no certainty as to the absolute location or momentum of the observed light.  In fact, one cannot even know if light is composed of particle or wave because observing it may turn it from one aspect into another.  This was postulated as “The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle”.  Nowadays, this principle is showing up everywhere physicists look at reality whether subatomic or the expanding universe.  Evidence shows that opposites are linked and reflect each other wherever and whenever they occur.  As the mystics knew, reality is fundamentally paradoxical.

Carl Jung, the pioneer of depth psychology taught that psychologically, the Real Self can emerge when a person can hold the tension of opposites, two contradictory feelings, beliefs, or images.  He described heparin pile that he called enantiodromia, which observed how opposites tend to emerge in the psyche, when one side is held too long or strongly.  One polarity tends to create its opposite.  This occurs within a person’s  psyche and also within the collective psyche, the outer world.  Strongly asserting one position creates its opposite.

A famous spiritual writing from the middle ages is called “The Cloud of Unknowing”.  Meister Eckhardt’s classic of mystical writing in the 13th-14th century, “The Dark Night of the Soul” describes his experience of God as unsearchable, unknowable, an infinite void.  This way of describing the infinitebecame one of two primary ways that seekers could experience God, the Via Negativa (unknowable void) as opposed to images, metaphors,  prayers, and scriptures, and certain forms of meditation, the Via Positiva.

It is a powerful spiritual discipline to live authentically in mystery without false clinging to control.  I am discovering that my travel, pilgrimage is challenging spiritual exercise, often uncomfortable and stressful.

“I took a test in Existentialism.  I left all the answers blank and I got 100%”. Woody Allen

“As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain ; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality”. Albert Einstein

“Everything you’ve learned in school as “obvious” becomes less and less obvious as you begin to study the universe.  For example, there are no solids in the universe.  There’s not even a suggestion of a solid.  There are no absolute continuums.  There are no surfaces.  There are no straight lines”. Richard Buckminster Fuller

“I can live with doubt and uncertainty and not knowing.  I think it is much more interesting to live not knowing than to have the answers that might be wrong.  If we only allow that, as we progress, we remain unsure, we will leave opportunities for alternatives.  We will not become enthusiastic for the fact, the knowledge, the absolute truth of the day, but remain always uncertain…. in order to make progress, one must leave the door to the unknown ajar.” Richard Feynman

“The mistake is thinking there can be an antidote to uncertainty.” David Levithan

“Embrace relational uncertainty.  It’s call romance.  Embrace spiritual uncertainty.  It’s called mystery.  Embrace occupational uncertainty.  It’s called destiny.  Embrace emotional uncertainty.  It’s called joy.  Embrace intellectual uncertainty.  It’s called revelation.”
Mark Batterson

“when in doubt, be ridiculous.”Sherwood Smith

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Dark threads are part of the tapestry

Blog# 27 June 30th

Dark threads are part of the tapestry

Pain as guide and teacher. (part 2/3)

An ongoing part of my sabbatical has been my relationship with pain in my spine, especially neck and shoulders. This has been part of my life since 2005 or earlier, but gradually worsened. In fact my pain is not an insignificant part of the reason for leaving my practice and embarking on this pilgrimage/sabbatical. I have undergone extensive evaluations by primary care docs, orthopedists, spine specialists, with two MRIs over the past 5 years. Initially, an anterior herniated disc at C5-6 was discovered, but was not compressing any nerve root. It was more like a large pebble in my shoe, causing me to shift position and angle of my neck above and below the herniation, in order to relieve this small “pebble” protruding in my neck. Gradually cervical ligaments and small and large muscles adjusted and tried to compensate for this injury. I developed hyper- mobility in the ligaments of my upper cervical vertebra to compensate for the decreased mobility, locked vertebra above and below the injury. This led to slippage and instability of my upper cervical vertebra in and out of alignment? The muscles of the vertebra in my lower cervical spine contracted to try to maintain my neck in a stable position. In addition, my default holding pattern, the way I unconsciously hold myself, head position and neck and shoulder patterning adapted to the injury and in a sense locked it in.

I have had extensive physical therapy, massage, acupuncture, topical salves, chiropracty, and osteopathy. I have had myofascial release, worked with craniosacral practices, and Heller workers. I do a varied set of exercises and walk every day. I have had ergonomic evaluation and purchased a sophisticated new chair, use a specifically shaped cervical pillow, and obtained special computer focal distance eye glasses, since craning my neck to look through the bottom of my bifocals clearly was making it worse. I have, and carry with me when I travel, a cervical traction device that I place over a door and stretch my neck in small increments 25 times, sometimes twice in a day. This is only a partial list of the many treatments I have tried with sometimes partial or temporary relief. I have not considered surgery, since the problem extends up and down my neck into shoulders and back and is quite variable. I am able to cope with the pain and misalignment with only Tylenol and Ibuprofen, as long as I stay active and do my exercises. My Chiropracter is able to provide substantial temporary relief and correct the misalignment. But my neck returns to its default position in my sleep or through returning to my default holding pattern.

I describe these various treatment attempts because whenever I mention my chronic pain problem, almost inevitably the person asks me if I have tried such and such treatment that cured their grandmother, uncle’s cousin’s best friend etc. The effect of such “helpful” diagnostic or treatment recommendations implies that I have not done what I should to help myself. The listener, without knowing any details of a complex and atypical problem, is quick to point out what I should have done or should now do. The response to mentioning pain is usually a “fixing” response and not a listening and compassionate one.

In our society, pain, especially chronic pain, is often viewed with suspicion. It is a weakness or vulnerability that is mild to moderately shameful. It implies there is something wrong with the person who has the pain (hence shame) rather than a physical problem. Are they faking it? Too sensitive? Trying to get out of something? In any case, every person is hard wired to pain avoidance. Hearing about and empathizing with someone’s pain requires them to draw near to and to some extent feel the pain with the person, which is what happens when we empathize and “suffer with” (the meaning of compassion) the person in pain.
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A “fixing” response absolves the listener of having to empathize or imagine the person in pain’s experience. There is a whole cultural and family of origin aspect to the experience of pain. Many of us, especially men, are taught to be tough, grin and bear it, stiff upper lip, don’t let other see you sweat, gut it out, no pain, no gain. Think of all the people who suffered terribly in concentration camps, compared to which my pain is negligible. Well, “I’ve had such and such pain and it never stopped me”. Or “I know someone who had it much worse and they had treatment x,y,z”.

Then there is the very real psychosomatic aspect of chronic pain. Most people understand psychosomatic as “it’s all in your head”, somehow imaginary, or the person’s own fault. If its in my head then I should be able to think differently and it will disappear. Everyone has experienced pain and for most people, at least in the first half of life, it always goes away as the problem heals. But chronic pain is poorly understood, even by most doctors. Psychosomatic pain most assuredly is in my head And my body. The black and white, either/or thinking about pain or other psychosomatic ailments is incorrect. All pain perception is in the brain. All kinds of involuntary reflex responses originate in the brain, some of which malfunction and reinforce the pain problem. Muscular guarding is a simple example. When we hurt ourselves, muscles and tissues around the injury contract in reflex effort to immobilize the injured area to assist in healing. The problem is sometimes, the signal to muscles to contract or alter position continues long after the injury is healed. Similarly sometimes the pain center in the brain continues to fire, it does not “turn off”, after the original trigger is long over. These are only some of the mechanisms of chronic pain, much is unknown.

Chronic pain is a common problem in our society that causes significant disability and unfortunately can result in opiate dependence which in some people leads to addiction. Opiate pain relievers, the strongest medications that doctors have available are excellent for treating acute pain from acute injury, after surgery, etc. It is almost always a mistake to prescribe opiates for long term, chronic pain, unless it is truly unbearable.

After all of the feasible medical, surgical, manual, and psychological therapies have been tried, the person (me, in this case)must learn to live with and adapt to the problem. They (I) have to accept that not all pain can be cured, nor does it necessarily signify that something else is wrong. In acute injury, pain is a warning sign, an alarm that forces the individual to get help and treatment. But if the alarm signal and it’s reflex muscular contractions fails to turn off, a whole different problem is occurring.

Adapting work position, work load, work/life balance, and decentering the pain from the center of my life by focusing on things that I love and am interested in can make the pain fall into the background and become much less troubling. In addition, chronic pain can lead to inactivity, occupational loss, and social isolation. I realize that inactivity can cause deconditioning and loss of function, leading to true disability. I have learned that being active mentally, socially, and physically can prevent a painful impairment from turning into disability.

I am convinced that the psycho part of the psychosomatic problem can be changed to some extent. Psychotherapy, meditation, visualization, hypnosis, CBT, and other psychological methods may provide significant relief or at least give the person some control over their pain, thus alleviating a depressogenic feeling of helplessness. Pain and depression have a common and complex relationship to each other. Many times, major depression is associated with chronic pain. When depression is effectively treated, the pain often becomes less severe, more manageable, or goes away. Of course, chronic pain itself contributes to someone becoming depressed. Thus their relationship is bidirectional, again causation is not black or white. If a person has chronic pain, becoming depressed will lower his/her pain threshold, making the experience of that same pain much worse.

For me, I have chosen to believe that my pain and misalignment is a metaphor for something “too tight, contracted, misaligned in my life. Perhaps it is not only a response to a physical problem, but an alarm signal telling me, in the language of the body that something is amiss. And the specific type and location of pain can often provide clues to the type of life problem.

I choose to view my pain as a guide and teacher, to develop my own awareness of what my body is trying to communicate to me. I am supposed to be doing my life less compulsively, hyperresponsibly, with less effort-fullness. I must retrain my self to listen to my emotions, my body, move more slowly, with intentional alignment with who I am, below the level of personae, roles, and surface identity. I must change from being a “people pleaser” to acting honestly from my true self. I must overcome my aversion to conflict and effort to satisfy internal and external expectations, stand up straight for myself, not twisting myself into knots. I must trust that I can expand, reach out into new places, even if I disappoint someone, as opposed to contracting, hunkering down to fulfill my roles and conventional expectations. This would be giving in to the “death instinct, letting the pain pull me further into contracting and holding on to the familiar, the “safe” path. Although it has been a battle, including a journey through depression, and the urge to give in, let myself go. I had thoughts of “I have fulfilled my duty”. I have had a good career, wonderful marriage, and great kids. I have had many interesting experiences, a full life without regrets. It is enough. Maybe keeping on keeping on is ok and death would not be such a bad thing. With constant pain all of the time, it might be welcome….. Such are the beguiling thoughts and attitudes that beset me.

Slowly, over several years time, and with confusion of not knowing if there was something else I was here for, something else I needed to learn, I began to risk thinking that perhaps I am not done. Maybe there is another gift that I have been given that I have not allowed myself to develop. The old saw, “don’t die with your song still in ya”, wrenched a sob and burning tears in me. What song is yet unsung? What can I offer the world, what can I become as I become an elder in our society? I still don’t know, but this sabbatical is a pilgrimage to find out, to make time and space away from all of the lifelong patterns and rewards for conventional behavior. Fruit basket turnover, break the rules, spoken and unspoken, where they harness or contract and block my real self. Take the risk that there is something new for me, something that I will be an inept beginner in, something that has been in me all along. If God has anything to do with new creations, continually emerging, then I want to learn to be more deeply mindful of my soul’s call and aware of the still small voice of the enlivening spirit within me. I want to get out of my own way and seek renewal, thus aligned with life and new creation, the invisible movement and flow of spirit. I don’t know how to do it, but I can no longer trust my own mind, what I think “I know”. I am at a new place where I must and I will choose to listen and heed subtle, non-rational signals, signs, synchronies, dreams, coincidence, images, inclinations. As a song by Cat Stephens that I have always loved, “I am on the road to find out”.

The Pleading John O’Donahue

All night long, and all through the
white day,
The beat of the wind’s bulk against
the house,
Pausing only for a breath, and then
again,
The rise and wail of its keening, as if
I
Could come out of it, and answer
Its unbearable grief with some sweet
name,
From which it could make an
antiphon
To calm down its demented legion
Of breezes, or failing that, could I
find
And release a granite rock, to open
A duct in the mountain, for it to
enter
And search the underworld for itself.

The Circle. Rumi

Is there anything better than selling
figs
to the fig seller?
That’s how this is
Making a profit is not why we’re
here,
nor pleasure, nor even joy.
When someone
is a goldsmith, wherever he goes, he
asks
for the goldsmith.
The clouds build with
what we share.
Wheat stays wheat right
through the threshing.
How just do you
feel when you load a lame donkey?
The world has some share in this
cup.
That’s how it turns green.
Let the lean
And the wounded be revived in your
garden.
How would the soul feel in the
beloved’s river?
Fish washed free and clean of fear.
You drive us away, but we return
like pet pigeons.
The nights becoming dawn flow
in us as a new kind of waking.
Shahabuddin
Osmond joins the circle! We will say
the poem again so he can play.
There is
no end of anything round.

Inner Circle. John O’Donahue

Stranger sometimes than the yellow
crochet
Of glimpses that civilize the dark or
the
Shelter of voices who stall the dead
Silence that longs to return to stone,
Stranger is the heart, a different
scripture,
Weighed down by thoughts of gods
Who will never emerge to
recommend
One way above another to anywhere,
Lest they distract from the festival
Of vivid presence, where journeys
are not
Stretched over distance, and time
Is beyond the fatality of before and
After, and elsewhere and otherwise
Do not intrude on day and night.

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Disorientation, Am I in Europe or Asia?

Blog #26 June 29th

Disorientation, am I in Europe or Asia?

Finding a healer on the road. (Part 1 of 3 Blogs on this topic)

On June 24th, I drove with only a minor wrong turn that took me a little longer, bumpier, scenic route to the Santorini airport. My flight at 4:15 PM was delayed an hour, so I arrived in Istanbul, Turkey about 8:30 PM. I cleared customs, changed money for some Turkish Lira, and found the transportation guy waiting outside with a sign with my name on it. It took a while to find him, as the sign had 3 other names as well and my name was listed as “James Gary”. As the van drove into Istanbul through thick traffic, the large buildings, dramatically lit signs, and Turkish language everywhere, I felt my heart pounding with excitement. Istanbul is a vast (17 million people on two continents) sprawling, colorful, muscular exotic city pulsing with power. The driver threaded his way through the old part of the city, called the SultanAhmet district (named for the famed blue mosque, the SultanAhmet Mosque, with its 5 minarets that is there). He went down a no entry one way street where the tram rails run, and then drove across a little paced park to park around the corner from my SultanAhmet Hotel. It was a small door front on the main street across from the SultanAhmet tram stop.

Arriving, close to 10:00 PM, the proprietor, seemed confused, spoke no English, and gave me a key to a tiny room on the second floor, overlooking the street. It was very old, but well cared for, the carpet extremely thin with stains from perhaps a century or more. The “bathroom” would be better called a W.C (water closet). There was a sink with mirror with about 3′ feet clearance to the toilet. In between, on the wall was a faucet with cord and nozzle for a shower, not a separate space. The entire W.C. Was about 6′ long and 3′ wide, no exaggeration. The plumbing looked ancient and I wondered about portable water source. I went back downstairs and was able to communicate with the proprietor my question about potable water from the tap, his eyes widened and he said “yok!” (means there is not!) He beckoned and led me further up the stairs to the top level where there was a small refrigerator. He gave me a 1 1/2 liter bottle of water. The bed was not bad and I slept well.

I awoke the next morning, determined to find a capable Chiropractor or Osteopath now that I had departed Greece and was in Turkey.

I digress to vignette of pain treatment seeking on my sabbatical. I had been having waxing and waning neck spine pain with headaches throughout my trip. In fact, my spinal pain was not an insignificant part of the reasons for leaving my practice and embarking upon this sabbatical. I experience periodic flareups of pain, misalignment, and lost motion that cause me to seek help from a chiropractor or osteopath. Ironically, I had had severe flareup in Crete. I had talked to Irene, the owner of the villas and searched the Internet for a possible caregiver in Ierepetra or anywhere on Crete. There were no chiropractors or osteopaths to be found. I later learned that neither of these providers are licensed in Greece. Greece does have a large assortment of physical therapists who perform what is called manual medicine. Irene told me of a physical therapist named Nickos who had helped her, her mother, and her husband at various times with painful musculoskeletal conditions.

Initially, I did not pursue it, since I have not In the past found relief from physical therapists. After a few more days, however, it became worse and I decided to seek an appointment. Irene was pleased and said that she would lead me over to his office, as it was hard to find, there were no street signs and one way streets made it a maze. I drove my gray hyundai rental car behind her car. She made a number of turns, and came to rest in a narrow side street that was mostly residential. She pointed and gestured vigorously at a glass fronted first floor of a building that was completely covered with drapes and had no sign. She had said that he was coming from another appointment and would not be there yet. I was just glad to be getting help and comfortable waiting. Also Greek time (similar to Turkish time) is very elastic and things are rarely on time (including their airlines:-).

I waited about 45 minutes then called his phone number. After two tries, he answered with thick Greek accent that was difficult to understand and the street noise made it impossible. He was in his office which was not where I was waiting. He tried to direct me through complex series of turns with multiple landmarks (grocery store, billboard, post office, etc etc.). For the next hour, I weaved my way in and out of narrow, converging, one way streets and did find the post office, but not his office. I called and he agreed to reschedule for the next day.

Later, Irene spoke with him by phone and was upset about her error, but led me to the correct office address this time. She came in with me and proceeded to have a loud, seemingly angry argument with him in Greek about his having moved his office without telling her. Eventually, she conceded that he had not moved his office and chatted with him for a while about family and friends in common. When she drove away, Nichos, a small, wiry bearded man with flyaway hair graying in places, looked over his spectacles and examined me minutely, nodding his head and muttering to himself in Greek. At length, he asked me why I had come. I began to describe the problem and history, and he cut me off quickly with a sweeping gesture, saying “I know precisely the problem, it is tight muscles.”. “Come here, I will show you what you must do”. He began to speak about our human evolution from the apes while holding a wooden wall mounted dowel rod and swinging back and forth, stretching his shoulder behind him. He demonstrated four more gymnastic style exercises and watched me carefully as I imitated his movements. He was surprised and muttering again, that I was able to make each of these stretches without much pain or problem. He commanded, “you must do them 4-5 times a day!”.

I was a bit worried as he seemed to be finished with me and walking away. I asked him a question and he frowned sternly at my questioning him. “Come here, he demanded. I went to a table behind a curtain where he palpated my back a bit, finding tight muscles and nodding sagely to himself. “just as I thought, you have a muscular problem.” I tried to suggest that my long experience with the problem had made it clear that it was a combined muscular and skeletal problem. He would hear none of it. He asked me to lie face down on the table; it was uncomfortable since there was no padded face support. He began to massage my upper back very skillfully, talking and telling stories, and singing at times. He drenched me with a medicinal oil he said had special properties known since the time of the ancient Greeks. He told me “I am an artist with my hands”! Then he began to pull and manipulate may arms. My muscles were feeling looser and less painful, but my primary problem with my neck seemed to be something he did not want to consider. He had a diagnosis and was sticking to it. After asking if I had any objections, he began to place multiple acupuncture needles in my back, my scalp to the crown of my head, my feet, and along side of my left knee. I had had a 20 session course of acupuncture previously, so I was ok with trying it again. It had given me temporary, less than 24 hours relief before, perhaps it could be helpful.

He left me face down with dozens of needles in place for perhaps 45 minutes while he walked about, sang, and treated an elderly Greek woman behind the next curtain. He continued a running line of chatter that was filled with proud and bold assertions. When he returned and began to remove the needles, he asked if he could tape my back and shoulders into a position that would allow them to settle in a new pattern. I had heard of this method and a physical therapist at home had tried it with some results. I was a bit hopeful. After this was complete, he went to his desk and began to speak about all sorts of things, history, politics, the euro and the broken Greek economy, and his hatred of the Eastern Orthodox Church who pay no taxes and have a stranglehold on the government and the simple people of the land. It was an interesting monologue, but after being there more than 2 1/2 hours, I was eager to get away. He assured me it might take a few days to completely heal and that I could swim with the tape on. He asked me to call in one week if needed.

I was able to keep the tape on despite swimming every day for 5 days. However, I had awakened the day after my appointment with him, with an entirely new pain, at the base of my spine, in my sacrum. It got worse each day, until I would gasp with a muscle spasm in my buttocks when I would lean forward slightly, or bear uneven weight on my feet. It was worst in the morning upon arising, got looser and less troubling as I tried to stay active during the day, and would sometimes become more severe in the late afternoon if I became fatigued.

I called him again for a follow-up appointment. This pain very low in my back now superseded my neck pain and I thought perhaps his massage and acupuncture had been a little help (hope springs eternal…. I am a sucker for and a believer in the placebo effect). I also wondered if his changing the angle of my neck and shoulders might have caused an unfortunate compensatory reaction in my low back. When I went back to his office, he was running about an hour behind. I had brought reading material, so I was comfortable waiting. Several times, people came in off the street to ask him questions and interrupted his work with two clients behind the curtains.

Again, he pronounced the problem nothing but muscle strain. He had me move in various ways to demonstrate that it was muscular strain. None of the movements elicited any pain. Nevertheless, he had me lie face down, and noted the muscles of my upper back were less tight than the previous week, which indeed they were. He did not check my neck witch was the original problem. He did massage and loosen my low back, then put suction cup devices over my paralumbar muscles. He taped my lower back in a new position and talked of history, politics, the economy, and culture of Greece. He spoke with conviction about various other cultures and asked me about countries I had traveled to. I asked him about his travels and he said that he had never been off the island of Crete. He told me that it didn’t matter because Crete was the center of the world and every nationality came there sometime. “I am a professional of history”, he proclaimed. He went on to command me that I must visit the island of Christi, (a Greek national preserve, island off the coast of Ierepetra)because of the special energy there. He dug through papers to show me pictures and clippings of the island and it’s geological and botanical characteristics.

Gradually, he began to speak of a community of like minded Cretan people who camped and squatted in the forest on the island, against the Greek law. I began to understand that he was a follower of a small group of post Marxist communal living people who sought to reject the materialism of the west. Indeed, he charged very little for his lengthy treatments, lived simply without a car, riding a bike. He also spoke with ardor about his love and expertise at sailing, part of his ancestral Cretan tradition. He also loved to dive and showed me some interesting artifacts he had found on the sea bottom around Crete. He spoke to me, always, with his head back, looking over the rims of his glasses, with great assurance, watching me carefully for my reactions and to be sure I was paying attention.

When I escaped from Nickos office, I noted no change in the new pain in my sacrum. I left the tape on for 4 days, just in case it might help. I searched the phone books and called several recommended physiotherapists, but their range of care only included muscular therapies. I resolved to put up with it and noted that walking and swimming both helped it be less noticeable, though it would be bad getting out of bed in the morning. After, several more weeks and 4 days in Santorini, I had arrived in Istanbul, Turkey, where there were listed some excellent chiropractors with broad training from England etc.

And so, I obtained an appointment with a reputable chiropractor for 3:00 that afternoon, my first day in Istanbul. I spoke with him by phone and he said he lived on the Asian side of Istanbul, at Kadikoy. I spoke with the daytime proprietor of my hotel, who spoke good English and was very knowledgable and helpful. She said that I could reach Kadikoy by the tram out in front of our hotel.

Starting about 2 1/2 hours early, I found how to purchase a reloadable pass for the tram, bus, and Metro. I boarded the crowded tram and watched entranced at the city life going by. I was glad when we reached the Galata Bridge and crossed over. I disembarked at the Kadikoy stop and began to walk, following the instructions the chiropractor had given me. I walked one direction and did not recognize any of the landmarks that I had been told to look for. After, awhile, checking my compass and noting which direction was the water we had crossed, I grew uneasy. I decided that I must be turned around, going the wrong direction. I began retracing my steps. I asked local Turks along the way and they seemed baffled and gave me conflicting directions. This continued for over 1 1/2 hours, goings back and forth, studying the map and my compass, showing it to the men along the way whom I asked for directions, including a policeman at his guard station holding a large bore automatic weapon of some sort. Finally, now less than a half hour before my appointment time, I found a taxi driver. At first, he too was nonplussed. After looking carefully at the address, directions, and map, his face lit up and he pulled away from the curb. We drove away from the water, further and further from Kadikoy. He spoke no English and my first day Turkish made no impression on him. He kept saying ” ayvet, Kadikoy, Kadikoy”. We drove into a modern part of the city, further and further, then suddenly we were on a huge span of bridge.

After a while, on the other side, I began to see Exit signs for Karikoy and he pointed, saying “bak, bak” (look, look). We followed the exit and drove a long circuitous route. It was now 5-10 minutes after my 3:00 appointment. My heart sank and I contemplated a huge taxi bill with missed appointment and the need to find my way back to my hotel in rush hour traffic. Breathing deeply, practicing awareness and trusting in the process, I waited as the driver drove onward. He began stopping frequently to ask people by the roadside for directions to the address, as he did not know this part of town. This went on until about 3:40 pm, when I spied the address and got out. He asked me for 50 Turkish Lira, about $28.00, not bad for the length of the drive. I walked up the steps and rang. After a while, the door clicked open and I went up the elevator to the 3rd floor. The chiropractor was there, very calm, and not upset. He was working with someone but told me that he could see me in 40 minutes or so. I relaxed and breathed and tried to release the extra amount of tension in my back and neck, exacerbated by the past 3-4 hours.

When he invited me in to his office, he explained the Kadikoy, Karikoy confusion. The “r” in Karikoy is rolled and sounds like a “d”, easy mistake. But what was a huge mistake was that I had crossed the Golden Horn, a small body of water across the Galata Bridge. I was still on the continent of Europe. I should have gone on the tram to the ferry dock and crossed the Bosphorus, the straits connecting the Black Sea to the Mediterranean Sea and separating the European side of Istanbul from the Asian side.
I had been looking for his office on the wrong continent! He was a good clinician, took a careful history, and explored the problem, making some manipulative adjustments of my spine. He worked at it for a while, but there were segments that were stuck out of alignment and my muscles were locked around them. I rescheduled for another treatment a few days later.

I followed his directions to the ferry and returned to the European side, crossing the great channel of the Bosphorus, to find my way back to the tram. It was rush hour and the streets were choked with honking cars, trucks, motorcycles weaving in and out and a huge volume of pedestrians hurrying every which way. I walked and walked and could not find the underground tram stop. Eventually, I found my way into a beautiful mosque, to rest and cool off and watch the people pray, come and go. It was called the New Mosque, because of its recent construction in the past 20 years. It was beautiful, with two minarets, right beside the shore of the mighty Bosphorus Straits. Inside was decorated with intricate mosaics of geometric designs and ornate Arabic calligraphy of names for Allah and his prophet, Mohammed. A steady stream of Muslims stopped outside at the row of faucets to perform their ritual washing of hands and feet. Then they removed their shoes or placed plastic shoe covers over their shoes (as I did) in order to walk on holy ground, upon the thick layer of colorful Turkish carpets. There was a separate area cordoned off for the women to pray, in the back and a cordoned off place for non Muslims, tourists like me to sit or stand. The families with women totally covered hijabs, all black, only a slit of an inch for their eyes were uncovered. Children ran around and played while lines of men solemnly stood, bowed, knelt, and prostrated themselves, saying quiet prayers, repeating the positions again and again. Some tourists crossed out of their assigned area to take pictures and were chased away first by an older bearded imam, then later by a policeman. There was an air of seriousness about it that did not encourage too much talking or informality. It was enough for me to sit and contemplate God as I know Him/Her and try to sense the spirit’s presence around me. As much as I am open to Islam and the One God, I could not help feeling something ominous, perhaps a little angry in the atmosphere of the worshippers. Too many disrespectful tourists?

After I had rested, I decided I would walk back to my hotel, seeing what I would see along the way. Before long, I found myself lost in narrow winding streets, a maze that led me further into the Egyptian spice bazar. There were lines of little shops with dozens of different heaps of colorful spices and herbs. One stand had a sign in English for a specific herb that was supposed to be an aphrodisiac, labelled Turkish Viagra in clumsy magic marker. There were shops selling ancient looking copper ware, brass samovars, elaborate old pitchers, engraved trays, hookahs, and a hundred and one strange and unfamiliar shapes and sizes of antiques from Ottoman times. It was fascinating wandering through these byways, but it was very crowded, pushing and checking for my wallet in the close quarters. The smells were captivating, pungent, and sometimes stale and foul. The array of sight, sound, smell, crowding, smelling bodies was dizzying and mesmerizing, and I was growing very tired, my stomach uneasy, my body overheated. I continued to seek a way out, turning one way, then climbing steep narrow streets, and looking for signs of a main thoroughfare. On and on, I climbed and wound around streets whose direction reversed or ended in a stairway or large closed and locked door. At length, I found the tram way, which I followed many blocks back to my hotel.

After lying down for a while, I was both hungry and had heartburn. I wandered outside my hotel past a plethora of shouting, touting restaurants that tried to pull me in to look at their display foods. Most did not appeal to me at that point, spicy and drowning in olive oil. I found a restaurant with some more benign looking vegetable dishes on display. When I only ordered bread and two vegetable dishes and water, the waiter was outraged. Surely, a tourist like me would order the most expensive meat heavy dinner. They hovered and kept bringing out dishes that I refused. At last, I escaped from them, still urging me to have one of their delicious looking very rich deserts. I slept well that night.

Thus began my time in Istanbul. From then on, I was careful to limit my exploring to one or two locales per day and return to my hotel to lie down in the mid day.
I began to get oriented, to find my way around and recognize and speak more Turkish words each day. I visited the vast underground Roman cistern, the Blue Mosque, AyaSophia museum, Istanbul University, the Grand Bazar, and other sites. Every night, outside my window, there was a performance of some kind in the wide park space surrounding the Blue Mosque, the center of SultanAhmet, each it’s own story. Of course, 5 times a day, beginning at 4:45 AM and finishing at 11:15PM, multiple mosques throughout the city began their wailing prayer call, Allahhhhaaahh, Akbar………….., that lasted perhaps 2-3 minutes though it seemed longer:-). There was a mosque directly across the street from my window as well as the nearby Sultanahmet Mosque, and others, a melancholy early morning and nightly chorus. An opportunity to contemplate the One occurs in each such moments of pause. It calls me to prayer also.

Mountain Christening. John O’Donahue

After a hard climb
Through a dry river bed,
Its scoured stones glistening
Like a white chain to the horizon,
Descending between its links
The long concerto of a stream
Where the listening mountains
incline,
Rising against the steep fall of soft
bog,
Searching for our grip
In the shimmer of scree.
At last on the summit
Of the Beanna Beola,

Overlooking three valleys,
Delighted to be so high
Above the lives where we dwell,
Together for a while
From other sides of the world,
Sensing each other,
Strangely close,
Suddenly, your voice
Calling out my name.
I call yours.
The echoes take us
To the heart of the mountains.
When the silence closes,
You say: now that they
Have called our names back
The mountains can
Never forget us.

Fluent. John O’Donahue

I would love to live
Like a river flows
Carried along by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.

Posted in sabbatical 2012 | Tagged | 1 Comment

What is the Source of Beauty and Joy?

June 24th, Blog #25

What is the source of beauty and joy?

After I recovered my rental car, I was invited to join an Austrian family for dinner at an old Greek mama’s home restaurant. Reagan, Heidi, and his mother, Christine have been coming to Ecoxenia for more than 15 years, sometimes twice in a year and staying 2-3 weeks. They keep in touch by email during the year and each year’s return they share family meals and return to some favored places where they are hugged and welcomed back again. They have been friends since before the now 5 year old daughter was born and remember many milestones of life there.

At dinner, I tried a Pistaccia, somewhat like lasagna and the woman’s famous stuffed tomatoes. Too much oil for me but tasty nonetheless. As so many Europeans do these days, they spoke of the feeling of brokenness of Europe and the euro. This relatively young couple, in their mid-thirties said they would not bring a child into the world, expecting nothing but grim deterioration and a return of dangerous nationalism. They were angry about immigration within the euro zone of Muslims, especially Turks and Africans requesting asylum. They loved the Greeks dearly and mourned for the hardships facing the Greeks for the foreseeable future. The intensity of their secular bias against religiosity, of any kind was chilling and daunting to me.

Santorini is shaped like and elongated “C”, 35 km long, the concave portion is the inner crater rim, and the convex part faces the open sea. The next morning, I rose early and got on the less travelled road south, on the side of the island away from the crater rim to visit Akratiri, the remarkably preserved Minoan city that was buried under 4-5 meters of ash from the huge Santorini eruption. Very much like Pompei and Mt. Vesuvius, many details of daily life were preserved in the town and it’s houses, some large and relatively wealthy, as they were covered with ash relatively suddenly. The site is carefully controlled, indoors. A vast shelter with skylights roofs the town for nearly a square kilometer. Pathways above and amidst the ruins have been paved, amphorae and grinding stones left in place. Most artifacts, however, now reside in museums. I had begun early, so as to visit the site for an hour or two before the tour buses arrived, which worked well.

After departing Akratiri, I bought some delicious figs and apricots from a local fruit stand and walked south to the edge of the southern coast of Santorini, a volcanic place called Red Beach for its deep iron oxide tinted ash beach. Nicely sheltered by a bay, it was a strangely beautiful sand and pumice beach, great for a brief swim in the sweltering noon day sun. Cooled off a bit, I drove back north, this time along the crater rim, stopping every mile or two for magnificent vistas and photographs. I stopped at a bakery and bought a delicious cheese pastry and spinach pastry.

As I drove north, I followed a sign to Boutari vineyards for a wine tasting. I had enjoyed some Boutari wines on Crete and soon learned that they have a number of vineyards and types of grapes in 5 places in Greece. Tasting their varietals was a delight and made the drive a bit more lively as I put on some IPod music and stopped at various roadside attractions :~>;;) Later that afternoon, I found another congenial beach near to my villa apt, to swim and snorkel. After some rest in my room, I drove up to the town of Oia, picked up a few groceries and walked slowly around the pedestrian cliff edge tourist shops. I found another good, less expensive restaurant to watch the sunset dive below the crater rim.

On my 4th day on Santorini, I relaxed and watched the clouds move from my little balcony. The changing angle of the sun interacting with the wind caused subtle continuously shifting patterns of brilliant scintillations on the waves. Something about it was hypnotic, entrancing. I centered myself, practiced mindfulness with chakra awareness for nearly 2 hours. At one point, I felt myself shrink into a tiny point amidst the vastness of the glittering ocean and azure luminous sky. It was as if I and my life was one of those tiny momentary flickering reflections, scintillations on a a wavelet, that shifted, changed, and disappeared, and was replaced by a thousand others. My one instant to reflect the light of the sun, the spiritual nature and physical nature were one and synchronous reflections of one another. It was one of those great moments when the inner and outer world were in harmony and understanding. I lingered in this aliveness until the shade was gone and the intensity of the sun drove me inside. I meditated, journaled, and focused on my breath.

As the sun began to lower after 4:00, I drove to a nearby winery, Sigalos Vineyards, and sampled a series of local white, red, and desert wines, with some delicious bread and olive oil. It was wonderful and a continuation of an intoxicating day. I only wished Pat was there to share it. About 5:30, I drove to another nearby beach and swam, snorkeled, and drifted with the waves, current, and wind, watching the fish along the rocks in the shallow water. I lay on an empty beach lounge chair under a sun shade made of thatch, and watched the children play, dig sand holes as the surf flooded them, and let the waves tumble them again and again, screaming with delight.

That night, after a shower, I drove and parked along the road to Oia. I wandered through the winding paths again, finding a another recommended restaurant for some lamb shank with pilaf, aubergine with tomato sauce as a meze (starter). It was delicious . The sun set over the crater as the slightly less than full moon rose. It was a day filled with gratitude and presence. I packed for my flight to Istanbul that night, thinking of little except right here and now, mindful, a day and evening for savoring of unduplicable beauty.

My meditation practice is guided by a Celtic Christian tradition of the Ceile De, (spouse of God). The prayer, as the meditation comes to a close is in Gaelic, but the translation is “with the ebb and with the flow, as it was, as it is, as it will be, forever, oh thou triune of grace, with the ebb, with the flow.”. This time on Santorini felt full of ebb and flow in both my inner world and the outer world. The fluid ebb and flow, (immense volcanic destruction and breathtaking beauty, and the tides, always the tides) throughout its ancient history until now felt timeless and grace filled.

What do You do with such moments? hours? days? Such beauty? Such feelings of intimate belonging? As a favorite line of mine in the Desiderata says, ” no less than the trees and the grass, you too deserve to be here.”

I have been blessed with many times when I could say, “it doesn’t get any better than this”, only to experience another and another, overflowing amazement and gratitude. I have also experienced ebb tide moments and months of groans and sighs, pain and confusion. The timeless nature of ebb and flow, like the ocean, seemingly forever is the time frame, the “now”. And what is “here” is the Material, personal and world ensouled, and enlivened by invisible Spirit, continually giving birth to a divine emergent creation, always and everywhere. To me, this is the Triune of Grace, the birth from the marriage of heaven and earth, invisible and visible, God father and Earth mother, God and Goddess, Yahweh and Mary. In a dryer way, the philosophers spoke of thesis and antithesis, producing synthesis. In modern days, folks who work toward “reconciliation” struggle with intractable polarization, unbridgeable opposition; they struggle to find “the third way”. (For me, this is much like looking up at the stars and trying to grasp the reality and extent of an expanding universe, or comprehend the details of quantum theory.)

Wonder at the metaphorical child of such opposites arising from divine conjugation! I want to let it happen continuously in my heart and life. I believe such is God’s ongoing creative nature with His/Her two faces, the Unmanifest, invisible presence and the visible, Manifest totality of the One, combining, seed and soil, emergent as the mysterious result of divine union (triune of grace). This paradox of 3 in 1, giving dynamic form to Union, can only be wondered at, not understood with our cognitive brain?

The Music We Are

Did you hear the winter’s over?
The basil and carnations
cannot control their laughter
the nightingale, back from his
wandering

has been made singing master over
all the birds. The trees reach out

their congratulations. The soul
goes dancing through the king’s
doorway.

Anemones blush because they have
seen
the rose naked. Spring, the only fair

judge, walks in the courtroom, and
several December thieves steal away.

Last year’s miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in

from nonexistence, galaxies
scattered
around their feet. Have you met
them?
Do you hear the bud of Jesus
crooning
in the cradle? A single narcissus

flower has been appointed Inspector
of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen.

The wind is pouring wine! Love
used to hide inside images. No more!

The orchard hangs out its lanterns.
The dead come stumbling by in
shrouds.

Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned.
You say, “End this poem here and

wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music
we are.

Love After Love

Derek Walcott

The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror,
And each will smile at the other’s welcome.

And say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine, Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you

All your life, whom you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
Are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

Posted in sabbatical 2012 | Tagged | Leave a comment

I only see what I am looking for.

June 23, 2012 Blog #24

I only see what I am looking for.

Lost in familiar places.

I awoke on my second day in Santorini, and stepped out on the small balcony that overlooked more than 180 degrees of coastline, blue Ionian Sea, on the side of the island away from the caldera steep cliffs. I had picked up some breakfast supplies from a small grocery store the previous night and put them in my backpack before I got lost in the dark. I sat at the table on the balcony and slowly enjoyed my Nescafé, cereal with banana and yogurt, and ripe apricots. I caught up with email. I had finished Kazantazakis’ Zorba the Greek and was now reading his book, “Alexander the Great”, along with a little Rumi, and Greek history. I relaxed in the morning and waited for my rent a car to be delivered to the hotel. It arrived about an hour late, but was a small blue Chevy Movi?? that would work well for the narrow island roads. I completed the paper work, gathered up my gear, and headed down the winding path to Amoudi beach, on a small boat harborage just inside the edge of the caldera, sheltered by a small island from the strong wind and whitecaps. I snorkeled around the little bay for an hour or so and then got out to dry in the late afternoon sun. I was sitting on a very small concrete pier with steps. Soon, a series of medium sized ships started coming in directly to where I was sitting. They were tour boats, each carrying perhaps 50-60 passengers who had been our for the day, touring the islands in the caldera and swimming or snorkeling. I watched them come in and unload, one by one, tired and wind blown, but happy tourists stepping or jumping across from boat to pier, for an hour.

Relaxed and smiling to myself after my swim and snorkel, I walked back up the small winding road on which I had parked when I came to swim. I scanned the side of the road up the hill and did ‘t see my car. I walked up the road and continued 100-200 meters further, thinking maybe I had parked up further than I remembered. I carefully walked down again, looking carefully for the car. I scrutinized the landing area where I had been swimming. I wondered if for some reason I had gotten towed away. I searched up the winding road twice more, further each time. I was baffled. I have not heard of theft much at all in these Greek Islands. Besides, why would anyone take a tiny used rental car among the thousands everywhere on the island? Had I forgotten to lock it and perhaps some teenage joyriders taken it? I realized that I was stranded down at Amoudi Bay and my IPhone had been in my daypack in the car, along with my wallet, camera, and other essential content. I realized I would have to walk or hitchhike back to my apartment, 3-4 km away and up a steep climb? I rehearsed in my mind, what I would say when I called the police to make a report, in order to trigger the car insurance. As I trudged uphill, I went through the mental checklist of the Visa and MasterCard and debit cards that I would have to cancel, realizing that I now had no phone. I considered the need to replace my drivers license. Health insurance card, AARP, Alaska mileage card, etc. would not present difficulties. I considered my onward travel options. Without a drivers license, I could not rent a car. Although I had some dollars in cash that could take me forward for a week or two. How or where could the replacement credit and debit cards be mailed? I already had an airline reservation to fly to Istanbul, that was paid for and a hotel reservation. Should I continue on my sabbatical into Turkey without these essential items? I had copies of my lost cards in another location in my bags, so I could reserve an airline flight home on line. Was it time to head for home? What was the meaning or learning that I was supposed to take from this experience?

Yet, some part of me thought that it was some mistake. As I trudged up the hot asphalt road in the 6:30ish solstice sun, I was increasingly thirsty, sweating heavily, as I climbed up and up. At length a car came laboring up the hill, an older mustachioed Greek man in an old, faded, beat up, dented car filled with cigarette smoke. I waved and he stopped and gave me a ride the rest of the way up the hill and for about another kilometer before he turned off. I walked the rest of the way to the turnoff, then down the hill for 1 km. about 7:15 in the evening. Embarrassed, I talked with Christos, the proprietor and he was concerned, but low key about it. He phoned the rent a car guy who had brought the car out to me that afternoon, who said that all of their rental cars had special wheel locks that made theft impossible, without the key. This reassured Christos and I began to question myself more, still having no idea of what had happened. The rental car guy lived close by and said he would come over and pick me up to drive down to search for the car. He came about 20 minutes later, and we drove back down toward the bay. As we approached, I showed him where I had been parked. He said, well there it is, right there! I looked and didn’t see what he was pointing toward. He stopped and said, “that’s the car”. I looked into it and saw my daypack with all of my valued possessions intact.

Why could I not see it? It was a blue car and I was searching for a gray car. I had had a gray rental car in Ireland. The car that I rode in Dighty with Ceile de monastery friends was gray. And the rental car that I drove for 3 weeks in Crete was gray. Having just received the car a few hours before I lost it, I had not mentally registered it as a blue car….. I was only looking for a gray car; I walked past that little blue Chevy Mobi at least 4 times without looking at it. There were 3-4 other gray cars parked in the same line beside the road that I had examined carefully. I was deeply embarrassed, humiliated really. But, it was what it was. Was I developing Alzheimer’s ? Just stressed out from traveling and constant new things to which to adapt? Not for the first or last time, I asked myself, “what is wrong with me?” :~>) The rental car guy and Christos were both gracious. It was all good news, none of my fears had come to pass. Everything was ok, why was I feeling so awful, yet grateful at the same time?

My mentor, Richard Rohr always says that everyone of us needs our daily humiliations, in order to get out of ourselves, remember not to trust our ego, “small self”, but be reminded to trust in our “big Self”, in God, who we really are separated from by our busy mind and performance, mistakes, achievements, or foolishness. It was also such a startling, raw demonstration of how we only see what we are looking for. Our foregone conclusions, our premature judgements, our opinions all are clouded by the inner belief, template, expectation, prism that we look out from. Police men know this when they are asking different witnesses abut the same incident. Our own preexisting neural networks determine much of what we see and how we interpret it, far more than we realize. As one wise man has said, we don’t see the world as it is, we see it as we are”. We all see a different world, depending upon our own individual lens. No wonder there is so much conflict and alienation in our world. No wonder there is so much fighting and treating the “other” as the enemy, “not like us”. This experience was a reminder to me that we all, every person on the planet, has a different, unique point of view, a different reality. Reality is actually totally subjective. We can only know it through our own individual sensory and neural apparatus. It is very humbling to realize that we all are blind men who see a different part of the elephant, and can never truly know what is “objective reality”, what a real elephant looks like, if such a thing exists. Yet, we can be totally sure our opinion and perspective is the right one and fight to the death over our differing beliefs and realities. Beware of people who think they really know.

Consider the ramifications of this issue. None of us can really know anything for sure, only our own experience of it. If we all realized what we don’t know and can never truly know, we might be free from the delusion of “I know the answer and you don’t.” The archetypal sin, (called original sin) of Adam and Eve was eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Since the beginning, we have all wanted to have a “God’s eye view”, and know the “truth”. We all want and mostly think we have God-like knowledge and wisdom (idolatry). It is very humbling, perhaps humiliating to be mere creatures, with very limited capacities for awareness and knowledge, to only see our own tiny purview.

How much more peaceful and real would our world be if we all accepted the truth of limitations of our tiny brains and mental apparatus, if we had compassion for one a other, with our shared limitations and delusions? What if there is Truth in the universe which we can never know? What if there is love beyond what we can comprehend? What if there is “good” beyond what we can even approach? Maybe, our appreciation of beauty is a small “bread crumb” indicating the way to this awareness beyond our human apprehension. Richard Rohr says and quotes the Scholastic philosophers as saying that “harmony of the ultimate truth, love, and goodness results in beauty”, no matter how painful the truth, devastating the loss of love, or elusive the goodness.

The Music. Rumi

For 60 years I have been forgetful,
every moment, but not for a second
has thi flowing toward me slowed
or stopped.

I deserve nothing. Today I recognize
that I am the guest the mystics talk
about.
I play this living music for my host.
Everything today is for my host.

And another by Rumi

This Market

Can you find another market like
this?
Where, with your one rose
you can buy hundreds of rose
gardens?
Where, for one seed you get
a whole wilderness? For one weak
breath, the divine wind?

Posted in sabbatical 2012 | Tagged | 1 Comment

Leave taking, transition, and arrival

June l8,19, 20, 2012. Blog # 23

Leave taking, transition, and arrival, Creta to Santorini

On the night before I departed Irene’s Villas in Iereptra, southern Crete where I had spent the last month, I swam, with increased attention to my senses. I enjoyed the cool fluid water between my fingers, on my torso, between my legs, and gradually my feet and legs found the rhythm to flutter, kick, and propel me without thinking about it. I connected my flutter kick to my abdominal core and it began to feel effortless. I love that, effortlessness in the water. I felt the current and the tide ebbing, pulling me out to sea, as also the North wind pushed me away from shore. In the slightly cloudy heaving buoyant salty sea, I startled a school of mullet, a few solo parrot fish, and dense schools of small bait fish, turning and schooling in unison. I felt a slight sting on my shoulder, but minimal compared to a sting on my right upper back that I experienced my first week swimming. Occasional tiny jelly fish will wash in with the tide or nematocysts, the stinging cells of the jellyfish genus. Blissfully swimming along, I had noted a sharp prickly sting over my left shoulder and shoulder blade. Later, as I looked in the mirror, I noted a red swollen blotchy rash as large as my open hand. It was only a day or two that it continued to sting, but the visible rash lasted 8-9 days. This time, it was hardly noticeable, though I was wary of the sensation.

That evening conscious of leaving, I was especially tuned into my senses, wanting to remember each detail of the swim, the garden, the goats eating the weeds, horses whinny and neighing, dogs barking, cats meows briefly. I heard the cooing of the pigeons and the gentle call of the doves. A strident angry child’s cry, motor cycle, and truck engines revving punctured the natural symphony of night sounds. Always in the background, I could hear and feel the sea/surf and the wind.

The smells rise with their own symphony of fragrance, honeysuckle (evocative of my childhood in Oklahoma) and rose duet are accompanied by the marine scented chords and hot Cretan earth odor rising softly in the night. Wafts of sage and wild herbs of the hillside haunt the edge of my olfactory awareness. The sweet fugue of horse manure and wood smoke drift in and out of the pulsing scent of the sea.

The images that I remember under the moonless (new moon) starry sky, were of plants, weeds, trees, and flowers, moving in the wind as slow color changes of sunset darken into the mountain shadows. The wind, warmth cooling the temperature on my skin, as I stood on the balcony, slight feeling of radiant heat from my own flesh, residual from the sun exposure of the final day. I remembered the full moon, now fully in the earth’s shadow, so much darker and the sky more empty. I smiled and felt the pull of the images of the hours that I had spent lounging, reading, gazing, woolgathering in the antigravity chair on the side balcony before the ascendant noon day sun drove me into the apartment.

What is it like for you to remember sweet moments of repose and rare times of inner and outer peace, nothing to do, no place to go? A slight burning of tears started from my eyes as I realize how precious has been this place where my wish was granted; I was visited by the muse. So many brief wonderings, will a blessed time such as this ever return, joyous, grateful, yearning, and aching? Always the answer is, “no”. Yet, how many uncounted and uncountable moments have there been and will there be of grateful reluctance to release what cannot be held, the passing of time and ever new present moments of being.

In my felt senses, I noted attachment, slight clinging regret about leaving this haven. Will such a time ever be again? I felt a subtle slowing and savoring presence even as I prepared my baggage for departure. I made a large salad with all of the remaining vegetables in the frig and a half a can of tuna fish. I dressed it with a yogurt based tzatziki and olive oil and sipped on the last bit of local wine from the nearby mountains.

The next morning, June 19th, I ate a small breakfast of cereal, banana, yogurt, and milk, packed up the rental car and drove away, waving goodbye to Irene, the proprietor. I drove slowly, stopping frequently at small roadside fruit stands, and archaeological sites. Along my route, I visited Gournys, an ancient Minoan town with Greek and subsequent Roman layers exposed by the archaeologists. There were dozens of college students from upstate New York and Canada helping under the direction of a leading American Minoan scholar. Squatted down with spoon like shovels and brushes, they carefully searched each centimeter of dirt on a grid, periodically hauling away the combed earth to a nearby cache for later reckoning. One young man stood behind a surveyor’s scope on the hillside, mapping each student’s cubic meter of earth. Without a hat, he stood, face flaming red in the midday sun, when I asked him, saying his hat made him too hot to wear it. I have made similar mistakes with the sun, in my younger days. The sun could barely have been more fierce. It was the day before the solstice, the longest day of the year, the sun would get no higher or more directly overhead than that noonday.

On, that long day, under the brilliant sun, I drove north across the island to another Minoan site, Malia, where a vast palace complex, is sheltered by a huge open sided round roof constructed over several football fields worth of ruins. I had not seen this way of preserving mud and rock ruins from sun and rain. Some of the area, primarily the palace itself was of huge stone blocks and durable to the weather, not covered as yet, easy to wander and climb about, reading the signs that described the ancient buildings and their use. A short drive away, I came to the beach of Malia, clothing optional, and many beach umbrellas stretching away down the shore. The wind was high and so was the surf with red flag warning against swimming, but no restraint of the many relaxing sun worshippers.

As I reached the outskirts of Heraklion, the traffic became unnerving. I had decided to drive into the city to drop off my bags at the hotel, before returning to the airport to drop off my rental car. The winding narrow, one way streets, with cars parked along both sides and not infrequent double parked vehicles totally blocking the way, made this a harrowing search. After getting lost once and contacting the hotel, they were able to guide me unerringly to a most narrow alleyway, from which I unloaded my baggage. I decided that I could use the car a bit longer and drove through the old city’s labyrinthine streets to the famous site of Knossos, the ancient Capitol of Minos, where a vast palace, temples, houses, storage places, wine making and olive oil crushing stone compartments were to be found. Also, there were some magnificent frescoes remarkably preserved of Minoan life and worship. The Minoans (2500-1456 BC) were rare in that there is little or no evidence of war or weapons which are normally found at such sites from other civilizations. Also, there is evidence that they were matrilineal, passing property rights and their name to their children. There are frescoes of the priests who were women performing ceremonies with snakes. One of their well known icons was the dolphin, with some beautiful frescoes painted on walls of the palace of leaping dolphins head to tail with each other and slightly smiling.

After leaving Knossos, I found my way back to the airport and searched for over 1 1/2 hours for the rental car drop off location. It was an off brand car rental that Irene knew personally who had rented me the aging Hjundai with 112,000 miles on it. Named Protos, no one at the airport or any of the other rental agencies had ever heard of them. After asking perhaps 7-8 different people and agencies, I was able to call the owner of the rental car back in Ierepetra and get the phone number of the the parking site, for them then to guide me to this small lot containing many older cars, down the road, completely apart from the airport. Relieved, I took a taxi back to city centre to my hotel.
By that time, I needed to pee quit badly. In the hotel room, I sighed, lifted the toilet seat and it fell off onto the floor.

I had chosen the hotel for its location, cost, reviews, and for it having a “business center” computer access. I needed to print out vouchers for my ferry trip in order to pick up tickets as well as confirmations of reservation for the next hotel in Santorini. The hotel had no printer, neither did the internet cafe the hotel directed my to down the road. The hotel receptionist was very nice, but finally said, “you must go into the city centre and there you will surely find one”. Tired from the eventful day, I was on a mission. I walked into the centre where pedestrian only streets ran In several directions. It was a vibrant, alive, fun place to wander. After a couple of stops to ask cafe waiters for ideas, I was directed to a funky internet cafe filled with hardened tattooed, pierced, young Greek teenage gamers intensely focused and unaware of anything else on their digital screens. There, printing was no problem. The streets were filling, and varied Greek music waled out of many clubs and caves, tourist shops beckoned their wares and Greek families with children promenaded through the streets. I joined the river of people walking and ended up far down on the one kilometer long pier beside the old Venetian castle sea wall, waves crashing salty onto the walkers along the windy jetty, the inner bay filled with all kinds and sizes of ships.

The next morning, the 20th, the real solstice, up early, I caught a taxi to the port to pick up my boarding pass and get onto the sea jet ferry bound for Santorini. With a half hour before boarding, time to spare :), the taxi drive drove up and down the large port, looking for and asking for the port office where my tickets could be obtained. A minor thrill that required a bit of a deep breath and trusting the process eventually led to the tiny kiosk, where I waited for the Greek official to finish a violent argument with his comrade, before he would turn to assist me with my boarding pass. No problem, the ferry was comfortable and speedy, requiring less than 3 hours to sail into Santorini’s small harbor for off loading.

There, after wandering a bit more, hauling my bags, I was able to join with a couple who had found a taxi and we began to climb the dramatic switchbacks up to the rim of the huge caldera. A bit harrowing, the woman became upset with the taxi driver passing trucks on hairpin turns, within seeming inches of the edge of the precipitous cliffs. He proceeded to yell back and forth, half turning to her, as he hurtled upward. However, when he dropped them off at their hotel, as they were unloading, the young man discovered that he had accidentally left his fanny pack with all money, passports, and tickets on the ferry. The taxi driver immediately began calling his brother, his nephew, his friend who knew someone at the port to track down the missing documents bag. The couple had gotten out of the cab, the woman unwilling to return in the cab, so he urgently searched for a way to recover their lost bag as he drove the rest of the cliff edges to my little villa apartment at the far end of the island, Oia. With his network, it looked promising for the young couple’s chances of regaining their losses. I was impressed with the concern and effective mobilization of the taxi driver after his violent argument with the lady about his driving.

After settling in, I rested a while, and then, when he showed up, I talked with the proprietor, Christos, who offered me local white wine, delicious, and again, and again. He filled me in with extensive details abut the island, beaches, snorkeling, roads, restaurants etc. Oia, is considered by many to be the most beautiful village on the island, located at the far end, with endless views across the vast water filled caldera. The island is made up of the remnant of the rim of the huge volcano, 35 km long, rising steeply 1300-1500 feet from the deep turquoise blue water below. The sunsets from a high viewing point in the village of Oia, are famous.

After the wine and a nap, I arose and Christos was kind enough to drop me off up the steep kilometer from my hotel to the town. As the late solstice sun lowered, I gravitated with a growing river of tourists along the narrow winding pedestrian way, lined with art galleries, cages, and tourist shops of all kinds. I found my way to the view point and was able to get the last table at the restaurant on the favored site. Sitting, I sipped a local Santorini red wine, Asyrtikos grape, along with hundreds of mostly young spectators, watched, waited, snapped innumerable photos of the sun in its descent, Pat called on my cell phone. I was able to share the ever changing colors of the magnificent sunset with her as well as the crowd perched on every concrete edge and high point. It is heartening to me to see the many people cheering for the sun’s beauty in the magic of its descent and passage into the night. I was a part of a spontaneous community ritual of reverence and joy in the sun’s life giving passage, celebrating its maximum. None of us thought of the reality that each day thereafter, the days shortened and the cycle moved inevitably toward winter and peak darkness. That day (and many) was glorious.

I lingered over my dinner and sky gazing until full dark, after 9:45 or so. Unfortunately, as I began my return, I realized that I had little idea of the way through the rabbit warren, maze of stairs and walkways on this edge and side of the cliff town. Again and again running into blind alleyways or local people’s front door, dogs barked in agitation at me. Again, after many correct and some bum stears, I found the main walkway, but I didn’t know how far to walk before cutting through an alley to the main road. After walking what seemed too far, getting out of the tourist area, into darkened residential areas, I surreptitiously climbed a rock wall, picked my way over broken glass and unnamed debris through a vacant lot and found the road. But it was unrecognizable in the dark, new moon sky. I walked a few minutes one way, seeing nothing familiar, then began retracing my steps, occasional cars speeding by on the road, with no shoulder. At length, I found a man sitting in front of his already closed shop who directed me to the crossroad back down the kilometer hill toward my apartment. I trudged down the dark winding road into blackness, passing darkened houses, and balconies with children playing, dogs barking, occasional motorcycle or car speeding by, smells of garbage, and of the sea. I reached my apartment after 11:00 PM, and slept well and deeply. I had arrived in Santorini, after departing my Cretan refuge on the longest day.

As I drifter toward sleep, I contemplated departures, confusing, lost, wonderful, fearful, and majestic moments of transition, and the joy and enigma of arrival. These are happening every moment if I can pay attention.

The Opening of Eyes. David Whyte

That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out.
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.

It is the opening of the eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the secret after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.

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Earth song to our beautiful, beloved, blessed Mother Earth

Blog #22. June 16, 2012

Earth song to our beautiful, beloved, blessed Mother Earth

As I reflect upon my continuing encounters with the earth during my sabbatical, I notice that much of what I would say is inarticulate, a feeling in my belly of fullness, love, and groundedness. To speak of earth is to speak of the mystery of what I am. This flesh, cellular body is my earthen vehicle, made out of the same stuff as the dirt beneath my feet and also much the same materials as stardust. The word for the rich fertile, moldering earth on the forest path beneath my feet that we call humus comes from the same root as human. We, our flesh and every living thing, trees and plants (cellulose)on our planet is carbon based.

One issue that troubles me is the devaluation of the body (and similarly the soma of the earth), and physical matter in our western spiritual tradition. It seems to me that the physical body of the earth is macrocosm and our bodies as little earths, are microcosms of the same stuff. For thousands of years both eastern and western traditions have devalued, in fact demonized the body, sexuality, and earthly, somatic things in comparison to the non material spirit aspects of our being. In many of the eastern traditions, the body is considered inferior, subject to meaningless cravings and distracting desires. Gross matter is labelled Maya, illusion, compared to the reality of the higher realms of spirit. In Buddhism, the body is a source of suffering, transitory, fading away as is everything in our physical world, subject to decay, death, and disintegration, therefore lesser.

In the western Judeo-Christian tradition, things of the earth, the body, the feminine, and sexuality have been seen as evil or devilish, something to be punished whipped and subdued.
The body and it’s needs and desires were thought to be sinful and interfere with spiritual growth. Both East and West often flagellated, deprived, starved, and sought asceticism and somatic crucifixion as an avenue to spiritual growth and realization, enlightenment. Sexuality and the body were a source of shame and rejection. But, I have come to believe that this is not the truth of creation. After each day of creation, God declared that earth and it’s animals and humans “were good”. He created our bodies as sacred vehicles and as temples of the Holy Spirit.

His perfect model of humanity was Jesus Christ, a fully embodied man of flesh and bone, who was tempted in every way that we are, yet without sin or separation from God. Yes, his body suffered and was crucified because He refused to retract that He was both God and human, one with the Father. He gave His body and blood as blessed sacraments to us, and to symbolize the mystery of bread and wine, proceeds from the body of the earth, as his Body and Blood. He did not reject, in fact He hung out with the fishermen, carpenters, sick and maimed and lepers and women, blessing them as beloved of the Father. With his body and blood He reconciled the condemnations of the past and made creation sacred again. The magnificent miracle is that as God, He was incarnated, enfleshed on and of the earth. Jesus’ reconciling work again breaks down our egoic “either/or categories and presents a way for us to be “both/and”, body and spirit in fullness, celebrating the handiwork of God in our miraculous body. Certainly, we can create material idols and become focused on earthly things instead of things of the spirit. A tremendous amount of human cruelty and murder and other transgressions have been promulgated in the name of the spirit also. Either bodily needs and desires or spiritual judgements and condemnations can create harm when out of balance Orem outside of love. It seems to me that we now have the opportunity to truly follow Christ and live as complete, incarnate embodied human beings filled with soul and spirit, calling nothing that God has made lesser or evil. Let us discard the wrongful condemnations of the earth and her forms in human shape, and accept the redemption of matter as God’s sacred creation. “and it was good”.

My sabbatical began in Ireland where the Celtic tradition is that their land is alive, peopled by goddesses and the sidhe. And Ireland is clearly feminine. I drove through the countryside seeking and finding ancient earthen works, standing stones, stone circles and court tombs, sacred hilltops and valleys, sacred rivers. I visited Uisneach, considered to be the umbilicus, the navel of the Celtic world where the goddess, Eiru, is said to have entered the otherworld, in the earth. In every indigenous culture and many modern countries today, the earth is a beloved mother to its people. The motherland, mother earth, mother nature.

Now, as I have lived in Crete this past month, I experience the passionate Greeks’ love and connection to their land and its produce. In Greek myth, the goddess Ceres was the goddess of the fields, who yielded her abundance in due season. The goddess Diana was the goddess of the forest, patroness of midwives, and cared for the animals. Hera was the goddess of the hearth and home, as well as wife to Zeus, the king of the gods of Greece. We all arrive through our own mother, and we are nurtured at the breast and protected by the mother in our home and the “great mother” earth, herself. Even the name mother derived from Latin “mater”, also gives us the word, “matter”, the stuff from which all life arises and is born.

Crete is a large island surrounded by the sea lapping upon the sandy and stony beaches. Inland, it is mostly mountainous, with deep gorges and twisting hairpin switchback narrow roads that wind on and on. Here and there, along the way, are a multitude of ancient ruins. Paleolithic, Neolithic, Minoan, and Doric towns and cities dot the landscape on the high ground. Roman cities, Byzantine monasteries, Venetian fortresses, and Turkish walls and mosques exist along most major roads and towns. Around her shores, under water, are countless remnants of sunken ships, stone anchors, earthen amphorae, and icons of each succeeding civilization that arose here. The Cretans were always a seafaring people, with early inventions of ship building and navigational instruments. They were a crossroads between Africa, Asia, the Middle East, and Europe for the last 4-5,000 years. Crete figured prominently in many Greek myths, legends, and epic poetry. It is a rocky, rugged, sun drenched land, whose people are reknown for their longevity. The world famous Cretan honey, yoghurt, olives, and wines are unique to this small island. No poisonous snakes or insects dwell here. Even in modern times, Crete is largely self sufficient, exporting large amounts of vegetables, olive oil, and honey. It’s roads are in good repair and the island government has preserved many ancient ruins and archaeological sites, and items in its major museum in Heraklion. It’s mountains still contain uncut or regrown conifer trees. All over the island, the roads are lined for miles with large red and orange flowering bushes.

The Cretan people are known for their honesty, surprising travelers who have left wallets, purses, passports, etc behind, with their gracious return. Only in a few heavily touristed areas, with non native peoples is there risk of theft. The Cretans are hospitable, generous, and steadfast. As in other Mediterranean cultures, they can be often seen shouting at each other vehemently, on and on, back and forth, as they serve one another in restaurants and care for each other’s children. Families with infants and young children are welcomed and helped everywhere. They plant flowers extensively wherever they live, city, town, or countryside.

I recently took another car trip to the northeast side of the island, visiting Sitia, a beautiful harbor town, with a bustling moderate tourist population. The mountains overlooking the blinding reflective sea rise up and up, and up. I visited Mt Toplou monastery, where a multitude of ancient and merely old icons and etchings, painted in the Byzantine manner are displayed. Further up the mountains, a ruined Doric town, Praisos, crowned the the mountain fastness. At the northeast corner, peninsula, Itanos, a Minoan town overlooks the beautiful bay with beaches below. I stopped at the renown beach at Vai for a swim/snorkel where mature palm trees thrive and simulate a Carribean beach. Driving back along the northeast coast, again I found my car laboring up steep twisting inclines, to 4-5000 feet overlooks down to the blinding mirror like sea.

Back at my cottage in Ierepetra, in recent days, the winds have been constantly whistling and howling, night and day, making it difficult to sleep. It stirs up the crystalline waters and makes them both colder and cloudier beneath the surface while rough white caps and breakers create a restless, wild, moving blue horizon.

As I think of my first embodied memory of the earth in childhood, it is a vague image of standing in the back yard of a small rental home, near to a wide field. The grass in the yard was weed filled and straw like but mowed short. It came to the boundary of unmown weeds of the field, standing as high as my chest at the time. I remember my mixed curiosity and fear as I heard a loud rustling movement in the weeds beside where I stood. I so wanted to wade in and find out, but remained in the yard due to clear instructions and pictures of common poisonous snakes resident in the Oklahoma fields and forest lands. Shortly afterward, I saw a neighbor with a large hoe, striking something on the ground. As I peeked over, I saw a huge black snake, with it’s head partially severed, strewn across the ground. It was a King snake, very large but not poisonous. It was the feared poisonous copperhead and several varieties of rattle snake that hid in fields and rocky areas like the one next to my yard.

As a grew into a boy, I loved to run through the fields and wade in the ponds, climb a favorite sycamore tree, sitting on a smooth high branch swaying in the wind. Then, seeing a snake in the pond, swimming with its head above the algae covered water, I learned that water moccasins too are common there.

I loved the lizards and “horny toads, the polywogs and frogs, the box turtles, but not the aggressive snapping turtles that lived in the wet places. These could easily snap your finger off and did snap off the wooden end of a broom that I extended toward a snapper. I kept box turtles as pets many summer sand sometimes a garter snake or ant colony. My older brothers were fishermen and brought home delicious fresh caught bass and crappie and occasional big enough frog for frog legs. The cattle lowed in the pastures all night and slowly moved away when we entered their fields. Bobcats, coyotes, and rabbits were common. Not far from our town a remnant herd of buffalo was protected by the Frank Phillips Woolaroc Ranch.

I also read and learned about the native Americans. Oklahoma means Land of the Red Man. I learned of the exploits and culture of the plain tribes and the infamous Trail of Tears, in which whole populations of eastern USA tribes were decimated and made to walk for hundreds of miles away from their homeland to reservations in Oklahoma. The “five civilized tribes”, including the Cherokee, Creek, Chickasaw, Choctaw, and Seminole were expelled from their ancestral lands, and mostly exterminated by the white expanding frontier.

The low hills, lakes, and oak forests were wonderful for hikes and camping as a boy scout, though mosquitos and especially “chiggers” in the spring could cover me with itching bites after a camping trip. On summer nights the cicadas clung to the trees and filled the night with a sawing, buzzing background of sound. There were some summers when they were everywhere, a plague like the biblical locusts of Egypt when the pharaoh refused Moses demand to “let my people go.” Annually, a plague of crunchy June bugs, hard shelled, brown beetles filled the streets and created a mess on the car windshields, pelting me as I rode my bicycle on my paper route. Grasshoppers were always common too, but occasional summers were over run with them. I played with grasshoppers and watched them in my hand as they moved their mouth parts side to side and expectorated a brown icky substance that made me want to let them go.

I loved to swim in the lakes and rivers, and wade in the creeks, catching crawdads and minnows for bait. Each year, I shoveled topsoil on the lawn and garden plantings. The smell of the rich earth and its ability to make things grow charmed me, so that I did not mind the task. Weeding in the garden, startled by large (harmless) spiders, however was my least favorite chore. In high school track, spring training always brought “road work”. As soon as the snow had melted and ice turned to puddles, I would be out alone or with a friend, running for miles the section roads and oil roads, out in the wide fields and low hills. It was frequent, in those days, to see the metallic beast, like a giant grasshopper, oil pumps, bending and straightening interminably far from civilization. The ground around them would be hardened and oil stained, with a pipeline leading away into the distance.

As a boy, I collected rocks and was interested in fossils and dinosaurs, archaeology and the visible remains of ancient cultures. The layers of the earth, carbon dating, and petrified wood fascinated me. My father had studied geology in college and his work as a petroleum engineer made him deeply familiar with the earth’s crust and it’s geologic history. He knew all the rocks and minerals and could identify fossils and layers of earth from millions of years ago.

But it was not until I was 17 years old that I travelled with my explorer troop to Colorado, that I knew what the earth could be. Vast mountain ranges, breathless peaks and dense overgrown valleys provided me an awesome encounter with the mother earth Rocky Mountains. That same year, I had been given the opportunity to go to a Junior Classical League (Latin Club) convention in Tucson, Arizona. The vast sun baked desert, with its oddly adapted flora and sparse fauna, climbed up to rugged dry mountains in the far distance to the south. Another such trip to Bowling Green, Kentucky introduced me to eastern forests and aged Appalachian green eroded mountains and deep, hard to reach valleys.

I loved geography and earth science, visualizing the fiery core of the earth, it’s molten iron magma, volcanos, and the thin layer of crust upon which all life has developed. Caves, books and images about early human evolution, Neanderthal man, Cro Magnon man, cave dwellers, and sci fi, such as “Journey to the Center of the Earth” enthralled me.

In college, I studied life sciences, zoology, entomology, botany, learning about the classification and phyla, genus, and species of the animal and plant kingdoms. Learning about oceanography and the amazing life beneath the sea, especially the deep ocean trenches, bizarre abyssal creatures led to my love of snorkeling and later scuba diving.

So many images fill my mind as I remember the wonderful continuing relationship that I have enjoyed with the earth. The Anatolian plateau, the mediterranean coast, the deserts of the middle east and the Nile River, in the midst of the north African desert of Egypt roll across my inner screen. I treasure images of trips to the rain forests of Olympic National Park, Moab, Utah, Monument Valley, Arches, the jungles of Thailand, filled with ruins of past civilizations and Buddhist temples. The Andes Mountains of Peru with Machu Pichu and their Incan remnants, even today, high snow capped mountains over 18,000 feet are named for women, goddesses.

Like each of the other elements, the element of earth has entered our vocabulary as a metaphor. We praise someone as “down to earth”, “has his feet on the ground”, “earthy”, “grounded”. We recognize a particular value and personal quality when we think of farmers, gardeners, potters, carpenters, metal workers, masons, spelunkers, mountain climbers, hikers, backpackers, forest rangers, naturalists. We idealize the “barefoot boy” in poetry and many of us realize that going barefoot provides a special open connection to the earth. There has been coined a modern risk factor for kids, called “nature deficit disorder”. We are all vulnerable to the artificial and technological replacements for direct contact with the dirt, the trees, and sky. A critical mental and physical health practice requires regular exposure and preferably exercise out doors in nature. Nature is a healing balm, it’s rhythms and cycles reparative of our modern buffered, urban, technological lives. Fresh air and plants, and the sky and the ground are all primary remedial aspects for our mental, spiritual, as well as physical health. Key prescription: walk, in nature.

Study of the life sciences, zoology, botany, earth sciences, medicine, cell biology, meteorology, oceanography, forestry, ecology may lead to awakening to the earth mother. Have you walked in a sequoia redwood forest and felt like you are in a cathedral? Have you smelled bread baking and felt awe and gratitude for the provision of earth, the bread of life? Have you wondered at the vast diversity of animal and plant life, or the mystery of the human body, the intricacy of a spiders web, the wildness of the Bengals tiger, the alienness of the cobra, or the warmth and love of your dog? Do you look, really look, at the birds in flight, the bees and their complex communication, the ant colony, the caterpillar and the butterfly? Do you sniff and feel into the honeysuckle, hibiscus, rose, grass, and the trees? Try placing your hands a few inches from the bark of a large cedar tree and tune in to the subtle energy that you notice in your hands. Experiment with looking and smelling a rose from your belly and your feet grounded in connection to the earth. Practice smelling and viewing the honeysuckle from your heart as opposed to your classifying, labeling mind. See if you can sense the spirit of the tree and your connection, oneness with it. Feel your feet as if they were roots planted deeply and anchoring you to the ground, just like the tree and it’s roots.

Our spiritual tradition in the west, Judeo-Christian and Muslim scriptures begin with Genesis 1:28, after God created Adam and Eve, “God blessed them and said, “be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”

For millennia, this passage, taken out of context, has been a justification for western exploitation, domination, and ravagement of the earth. Only in recent decades have some of the denominations, translators, and scholars begun to look at the tragic mis- understanding of this brief passage in the mythic story of creation. This part of Genesis does not presume to be factual or scientifically true despite the Fundamentalist literalism of a clearly mythic creation story, much like those of many earlier religions. Also, this was presumably written by Moses who, while inspired by God, did not strive for accuracy of scientific fact, but rather truth in the poetic, metaphoric, and spiritual sense.

The context also considered the earth essentially empty of humans, so that multiplication of humans would be required to have dominion over the earth. This passage also comes immediately after the statement that God created Adam and Eve after His own image to subdue the earth and reign over all it’s creatures. God’s sovereignty over creation demonstrated stewardship and a creative life-giving process, not one of total control, exploitation, and destruction. In recent decades, some of the Christian scholars and authors have begun to look again at the old, original translation and bring forth the notion of stewardship and creative enlivenment that God commanded as He issued instructions to the first humans, who were to represent God’s own image of dominion. Also, at the moment of human creation, the idea of limits and overpopulation was not a consideration. Do we really believe that God meant humans to continue multiplication and technological exploitation of the planet until mass extinctions of species, famine, drought, and wars over basic means of life and destruction of the sacred earth, (that He declared “it was good,”) without limits?

In Psalm 19, the Old Testament, King David writes:

The heavens declare the glory of God
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Day after day, they pour forth speech;
night after night they reveal knowledge.
They have no speech, they use no words;
no sound is heard from them.
Yet their voice goes out into all the world.
In the heavens God has pitched a tent
for the sun.
It is like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,
like a champion rejoicing to run his course.
It rises at one end of the heavens
and makes its circuit to the other;
nothing is deprived of its warmth.”

Psalm 65 – The Earth’s Joy

It is good to give thanks,
for the boundless mercy
which renews us and makes us whole.
Happy are those who know this
and open themselves to the Light.
and sing—-

You make the sunrise and the sunset shout for joy,
You are the earth’s fertility.
Your law governs her cycles of snow, run-off, flood, and rain.
You crown the year with abundance
The wild lands, waters with dew.
The wild hills deck themselves with green.
The meadows adorn themselves with flocks,
The valleys gown themselves with grain.
They dance together.
They join the song.”

In 2012, more and more people are becoming aware of the non sustainable pace of human exploitation and domination of the earth and her inhabitants. The population of humans on earth is now estimated to be 6,840,507,003 and rapidly approaching 7 billion. The supply of fresh water,and of arable land for agriculture continues to shrink and experience pollution. The outpouring of waste into ocean, chemicals, plastics, medication, sewage, and industrial discharge accelerates. The search for new waste management sites in which to bury the exploding tonnage of human garbage, the increasing burning of forests, ancient peat, and hydrocarbons for energy, and industrial pollutants of the precious fresh air of the atmosphere, is a juggernaut of destruction, reeling out of control.

There is gradually an awakening among some educated people of the world to the irreversible damage occurring and accelerating daily around the planet, underground, on the earth, it’s soil, it’s rivers, streams, lakes, and oceans, and it’s atmosphere. Some people are returning to a spirituality of nature, of the Earth as sacred. Study of indigenous people’s culture, customs, and spiritual tradition that regarded the earth as a part of the web of life that sustains us all. Native Americans, Celtic peoples, and African tribes provide a model of reverence and stewardship of the earth that is desperately needed now.

A return to a mythic understanding of Earth as Gaia, the goddess, earth mother, the rivers as her arteries and veins, the mountains and rocks her bones, the trees, her hair, the land as her flesh, and atmosphere as her lungs begins to remind us of the amazing interdependence and complex ecological relationships that serve, preserve, and sustain the organism of her Earth body as a life form, of which we all are a part. My and your body is made of earth and water that requires continuous replenishment in the form of food, water, and air.

Below is an edited version of the remarkable speech attributed to Chief Seattle in 1854, chief of the Suquamish tribe:

“How can you buy or sell the sky? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?
Every part of the earth is sacred to my people . Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man.

The white man’s dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth, for it is the mother of the red man. We are part of the earth and it is a part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and the man— all belong to the same family.

So, when the great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The great chief sends word that he will reserve us a place that we can live comfortably to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children.

So, we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you the land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred.

You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach your children that we have taught our children that the earth is their mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of earth. If men spit upon the earth, they spit upon themselves.

This we know; the earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. This we know, all things are connected like the blood which unites one family. All things are connected. Man did not weave the web of life – he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself”.

A key concept I now recognize and cling to is my belonging to the earth, a recognition and remembrance that I am made of earth and utterly depend upon it for life and growth of my body and spirit. What is more, as I attend to my body and to the wondrous beauty and majesty of nature, my spirit soars and I am enlivened and inspired, drawing closer to God through His creation.

As we seek to dominate and overwhelm the earth’s carrying capacity, will we be able to follow Christ who told us to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and treat God’s created beings as if they were Christ himself?

I know for me, that I need to pay attention to what is before me in God’s creation with reverence and gratitude. I need to practice in each present moment, as a prayer, my physical sense of grounding to the earth, my belonging as one of its creatures and part of the web of life or “the great chain of being” that St Francis loved and instilled in his Franciscan tradition. As I breathe in, I realize that the oxygen, O2, is the out breath of the plants as they inspire our breath waste product of CO2. And the breath that I breathe may be the same recycled molecules of air as that of the first humans, or of Christ. I breathe, ground my feet to the earth, and contemplate the water of life as I drink of it and return it to the water cycle. May my and your heart open and expand to love and embrace our mother, the created earth. Let us be of the “Tikkun Olum” that I wrote about in the previous blog, let us repair the world.

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What has been your Baptism of Fire?

June 13, 2012 Blog #21 What has been your baptism of Fire?

When I think of fire, I have many images in mind. During this sabbatical, however, two primary types of fire have attracted my attention. After 5-6 weeks in Ireland and Scotland, with unseasonably sunny weather, yet cold temperatures and a strong north wind, I fled south to Crete for the heat of the sun. This area is in the north African climate zone, more than 300 sunny days a year.

The sun is easy to take for granted; it so continuously shines and warms our earth; through photosynthesis, it causes all plants to grow. Nothing on earth could exist without the solar fire. Now, here in Crete, every day is defined by the angle of the sun. I time my outings, walks, swims in order to avoid the maximum intensity of the sun each day. Morning and late afternoon are beautiful, and the civilized idea of siesta in the hot afternoon is welcome. Everything, all the shops, bank, post office, etc. close between 2-5 PM, here. The streets and town is empty as the heat of the day grows.

The other type of fire that interests me is the fire of inspiration, passion, energy, ideas, hope, love, spirit. More to say about these aspects of fire later.

A key concept about fire is that rather than being an object like water, air, or earth, it is a transformative process. When matter is heated, its atoms become excited and vibrate at higher frequency and speed, taking up more space, expanding. Every solid material has its melting point and liquids their boiling or vaporizing temperature. Fire may cause certain gases to explode with heat, light, and rapid expansion. Fire transforms the state of matter and converts it to energy of heat and light. For example, when wood is burned, the fuel is consumed, and heat and light are emitted and the matter is changed into smoke and ash. Water is vaporized into a gas. Hydrocarbons burn and produce heat and energy, with CO2 and some particulate matter as its product. Fire requires two other elements, fuel (of the earth) and oxygen(air) to burn, and it can be quenched by the element of water or by cutting off the supply of either fuel or oxygen. But what is a flame made of? Sometimes, it almost seems like there are flame spirits leaping and snapping into the warming air above the fire.

Our beloved Old Sol is pictured back to the time of cave paintings. It was one of the most salient elements of life to the hunter and the farmer, and wise men and astronomers who guided early human survival pursuits. We measure our seasons by the length of the day/night, solstice and equinox, each a cause of ancient observance and celebration. Particularly in the Celtic world, the seasons were celebrated very intentionally with a powerful spiritual correspondence to the objective reality of the day’s length, sunup to sundown. (also important to the Celts was the moon and its cycle, reflecting the sun).

For me, the sun has always relaxed me and slowed me down. I walk slower; I expect less productivity out of myself during the hottest months. I often also have more energy and joy, more spontaneity, and refreshment, stay up later and need less sleep. Many people have seasonal affective disorder or a lesser version of it. They come to life, get things done, and have more fun in summer. A surprising number of people begin to sleep and eat more, gain weight, and have lower mood, less energy and motivation as the days shorten into winter. In the northwest, we laugh at how people strip off shirts, and shoes, and begin sunbathing in March at the first sunny day over 65 degrees. Now, we also recognize that vitamin D is converted in our skin to its active form, which strengthens our bones and has a variety of other positive cardiac, vascular, neurological, and psychiatric effects.

Growing up in Oklahoma and Texas, I have had some very painful sunburns. As a kid, I had to burn at least once or twice every May/June, to get tan enough to tolerate and enjoy being outside in the summer. I loved being out in the sun, soaking up the rays. I have type 2 celtic skin, notmas vulnerable as a redhead, but the next skin type up from there. I didn’t know about sunscreens then. I just put Coppertone tanning oil and baked myself without care, in those days. I remember when our kids were small, we took a vacation in Hawaii. There was always a lot of focus on “buttering” the kids to prevent sunburn and ensure maximum enjoyment without the pain. One day, Pat and I buttered the kids thoroughly with sunscreen, and applied sunscreen to ourselves. I applied it to Pat’s back. But in the hubbub and hurry to get outside, my back was forgotten. We had a fabulous long day outside at the beach, but in the evening I realized my oversight. It was very painful and over the next few days and week, it blistered and eventually peeled. My skin was like leather for weeks. I think that’s the last serious sunburn I have had, 20 years ago. I suspect we may all have similar stories. I now have to visit the dermatologist semiannually and periodically treat actinic sun damage before it turns into cancer.

Our beloved sun is by no means benign. Its infrared heat warms us or overheats us. Some people die every year of sunstroke or heatstroke, when the body temperature regulation breaks down. We can only live and our cellular function continue in a narrow homeostatic range, between approximately 95 degrees and 105 degrees. Outside that range, we are in danger of death, by hypothermia or hyperthermia respectively. We shiver or we sweat. When our body temperature begins to drop, our arteries and veins contract and try to conserve heat in our core, becoming pale with cold extremities, vasoconstricted. We shiver to generate heat by burning calories with physical motor activity. Or when overheated, we vasodilate, opening up all of our blood vessels to try to dissipate heat. We also sweat to attempt evaporative cooling. on a daily basis, every activity, even sleeping, we area burning calories. Our cell metabolism uses oxygen and glucose for fuel, to transform glucose carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen ring molecules into CO2 and H2O and produce heat and cellular function energy. Our weight maintenance, homeostasis results from the balance of fuel, measured in calories, intake with physical activity and metabolism to burn calories. If we have a net excess of calories in versus calories burned, we will store the extra fuel as fat. Fat has 3 times as much calories per molecule as glucose does. So, fat can provide a lot of caloric potential per gram, if we are in cold climate or involved in heavy physical exercise or work.

The sun also can burn us, with ultraviolet radiation of several wave lengths, that can also lead to skin damage and cancer over time. Gamma particles and other rays from the sun disrupt communication and technological equipment, particularly during solar storms. During my early adult years, the catastrophe de jour was the hole in the ozone layer. It was and is a real phenomena, that left those exposed to solar radiation where the hole in the ozone layer was, more exposed to solar radiation and cancer. A key concern for this generation is “climate change”, also known as “global warming”. The prevailing scientific theory is that the accumulation of CO2 in the atmosphere from the burning of fossil fuel and forests, etc produces a “greenhouse effect” on our planet. In other words, a significant portion of the sun’s heat and radiation that hits the earth is reflected back into space. Increased CO2 decreases the capacity of our atmosphere to shed excess heat, trapping it in the earth’s envelope, resulting in subtle, progressive, net increase in planetary temperature. Some people doubt this theory, yet whatever the cause, there does seem to be clear evidence of climate change, melting of glaciers and polar icecap, and increased intensity of heat waves, hurricanes, and floods. The future projections for this change are ominous and seem to be accelerating.

Well how hot is the sun? According to the consensus of astronomers, the sun is 15,000,000 degrees Celsius at its core and 5500 Celsius on the surface. What produces all this heat? Nuclear fusion is produced by the incredible pressure, 700 million tons per square inch, in the sun’s core. Instead of nuclear fission which splits the atom and releases vast amounts of energy, as in nuclear bombs and power plants, fusion actually forces atoms together, exposing their nuclei, stripping the atom of its electrons, producing unbelievable amounts of heat, light, and radiation. Finding a way to produce and contain nuclear fusion for power generation on earth is a holy grail of research.

Similarly, the core of the earth is known to be molten magma, estimated to be 7,000 degrees Celsius, under extremely high pressure. Volcanos are an awesome demonstration of the elemental power of fire that erupt from the depths of the earth. The rivers of erupting and burning stone lava can be terribly destructive, but also create new land on the surface of earth (think Hawaiian Islands).

Pele, the fire goddess, is the very powerful Hawaiian indigenous goddess of the volcano fire. A key goal of Eastern spiritual life is “enlightenment”. Fire gods are widespread in Zoroasterianism, Hinduism, and in every indigenous religious tradition.

The God Zeus was terribly angry with the Titan, Prometheus, who stole fire from Mt Olympus and gave it to men. Since Prometheus was immortal, Zeus condemned him to be chained to a giant boulder, which was visited daily by a flock of Harpies, flying, vulture like women spirits, with beaks of iron, who would tear out his liver and eat it. As a child of the gods, he would grow his liver back everyday, only to be ripped open and fed upon by the Harpies again. He was doomed to this punishment forever for having stolen fire and given it to humans.

(Later, in another important myth, Charon, the half man, half horse, Centaur, the famed archetypal “wounded healer” gave up his immortality in return for the release of Prometheus.) Of course, the lightning bolt of fire belonged to Zeus, the king of the gods, and later Thor and a host of other gods for cultures throughout history and around the world.

The well known myth of Icarus is a cautionary tale for each one of us. Daedalus, the father of Icarus was a mythic Minoan (famous ancient civilization on Crete) architect who designed and built the original labyrinth to imprison the Minotaur (Half man half bull, man eater) for king Minos. Because of King Minos’ anger at Theseus and Ariadne, his daughter, running away together after Theseus killed the Minotaur and found his way back out of the labyrinth with Ariadne’s thread, he imprisoned Daedalus and Icarus.

Daedalus crafted wings out of bird feathers and bees wax and attached them to his son’s arms so that he could fly out and escape. Daedalus only cautioned his son Icarus, “Do not fly too near the sun”. But Icarus began enjoying the feeling of flying, the freedom of soaring so much that he forgot his father’s warning and flew too close to the sun. Of course, his wax wings melted and he fell to his death into the sea.

Fire, like every element is a double sided gift. It has been one of the most beneficent discoveries of humans, allowing a quantum leap in potential for technology and control of the earth. Fire provided warmth, light, and safety for early cave dwellers and hunter-gatherers. The fire was the symbol and actual hearth and home, a centerpiece of family, clan, and tribe throughout the world. Food could be cooked, water boiled to rid it of toxic microorganisms and safe for drinking. It produced steam to drive engines and later internal combustion engines that now provide energy for our cars. Fire is used in a myriad of manufacturing, electrical and technology processes with it’s power to melt metals, create alloys, solder and join components, and develop new materials much more durable than their original metallic or earthen ores.

Candles and fires lengthened the usable hours of day and night for humans to study, learn, write, teach, create, and craft all manner of new tools and technology. Torches and oil lamps etc made exploration of dark places possible. It literally and figuratively pushed back the darkness, expanding the range of light for humanity to inhabit. It drove off wild beasts. It provided a bond of brother/sisterhood when it’s heat and light were shared. Now, the light bulb allows for work to go on 24 hours per day, often. Many shift working modern tech workers are practically unaware in their daily lives of the sun and its light, warmth, and life giving proprieties.

I remember as a child, I had a fascination with fire and played with matches. Once, I accidentally lit a fire in my bedroom and tried to throw it in the trash, but the papers in the trash flamed up, out of control. I had to call for help from mom and receive the civilizing lesson every child must learn about “playing with fire”. Later, in boy scouts, I learned wood craft and skills in fire building, safety, and cooking. I loved collecting wood in the forest, and building a a cone-shaped structure or square Lincoln log like shape, to assure rapid and clean burning, smoke free fire. I felt like my heroes, Davy Crocket or Daniel Boone. I learned to cook in boy scouts over open fire or on the embers and coals, before I ever cooked anything indoors on a stove. And I have deeply precious memories of singing songs and telling stories around a larger campfire. A campfire is a place to dance, sing, perform skits and share light and warmth, and fellowship like no other. The sound of crackling wood, the smoky smell of pine, cedar, and sage brush kindling is powerfully evocative of happiness, belonging, and safety for me. As an adult, a great joy for me was to teach my kids to build a good and safe fire when we went camping. Roasting marshmallows, making schmorz? The warmth on my face made me sleepy and ready to crawl into my sleeping bag. My Celtic ancestors burned turf dried from the bogs for warmth and cooking, some still do. The smell of a turf fire still remains evocative of hearth and home to many an Irish person from their upbringing.

But the paradox of the elements is their potential for good or ill. Fire was weaponized, early with flaming arrows or fire torching the enemies home or fortress. We speak now of our soldiers being in a “firefight”. We want to make sure they have adequate fire power. The fire bombing of Dresden, Germany was one of the most devastating uses of fire in war, until we dropped two atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, producing a fire storm of unprecedented magnitude. In Viet Nam, our use of napalm, liquid fire, to defoliate and destroy the Viet Cong and their villages is immortalized in some terrifying images.

Fire was used to torture and execute people for centuries. It was used horrifically in the Salem witch trials in our early Massachusetts history. The unspeakable tradition of burning “witches” included many women of wisdom, who might have a gift of healing, know about the natural world, herbs and plants and midwifery, and lasted for a thousand years. For millennia, in he Hindu world, it was common custom called “suttee” for the widow to climb up and be burned upon her husband’s funeral pyre.

In modern day, we often think of getting burned as the worst kind of pain. Doctors have developed incredibly sophisticated burn units to treat and try to save the lives of people who have suffered severe burn trauma. Forest fires, house fires, grass fires (some begun by lightning strikes). Arson is considered among the most heinous crimes and there are a few sick psychopathic individuals who are serial arsonists. In modern psychiatry, one of the criteria for the diagnosis of Conduct disorder in adolescents and children was arson, and often led to adult Antisocial Personality diagnoses (sociopathic or psychopathic) in adulthood. There is also Pyromania, obsession with and compulsive fire setting. But, we also may burn with passion, with ardor of love, or feel our heart warmed by a kind word or good deed. Some religious traditions speak of being “on fire” for the Lord. In any case, we often think of “wild fire”.

Fire has entered our modern language in a myriad of ways. Politicians have to have “fire in the belly” in order to successfully run for president. People have fiery tempers, burn with envy or jealousy, or are hot headed. Some serious pain comes from hearing “you’re fired!” in our modern world. Yet, I love to get fired up with enthusiasm about a new project or plan. I love to have my imagination kindled, on fire with new ideas. We say “fire away” when we invites someone to tell us their spiel. The words, “ready, aim, fire!” have been adapted from war commands and firing squads to mean let’s focus and get started on a new program in business. Businesses also may be described as using “scorched earth” policies (first described in the civil war General Sherman’s terrible “march to the sea”) in their corporate raiding. In times of racial tension, the expression, “burn, baby, burn!” or James Baldwin’s book, “The Fire Next Time” spoke vividly of culture and race wars. After the Tsunami, in March, 2011, and explosion of the Japanese Fukushima nuclear reactors, scientists continue to struggle to define the areas of radioactivity, the lethal “hot zones”. Similarly, in high security microbiology research areas, the handling of the most lethal and contagious organisms could only occur in the level 4 lab’s “hot zone”. People talk about “packing heat”, or call the police, “the heat”. They were in “hot pursuit”, in a “heated conversation”, acted in “the heat of the moment”, passed the “hot potato”. When there is a lot of pressure to perform, we may say “the heat is on”, or “we are feeling the heat”. Pottery must be glazed and fired after shaping in order to harden and preserve the beauty of the clay made object. Old time sailors feared St Anselm’s (electrical) fire in a thunderstorm at sea. The lightning bolt still is a potent symbol in our modern culture. So, also is Smoky the Bear. “Only you can prevent forest fires.”:-)

Fire’s heat can be used to sterilize contaminated objects, or purify water, gold, and other materials. It can heat our homes, fill our wood stoves and fireplaces. It is used for cremation of the dead in cultures around the world. Fire is now used an art form for gourmet cooking? Sometimes farmers burn up their harvested fields to produce ash which is a nutritious fertilizer for many plantsmfor next year. The Sequoia redwood produces a seed cone that only opens and spreads its seeds when heated by a forest fire. Fires started by lightning, are natures way of clearing the underbrush and making way for new growth, opening the plants to the sun.

Fire has been a crucial symbol of spiritual issues and has been used for spiritual purposes for many millennia. Burnt offerings to gods, lighting incense, burning candles, eternal flames have all been means of sanctifying and creating sacred space and time or mediating and trying to propitiate or influence the behavior of the gods.

The Jewish Kabbalistic tradition describes a beautiful inner and outer spiritual reality of the Tikkun Olam, a Hebrew phrase meaning “repair the world” through kind deeds, social justice, community action, and service.

For the Tikkun Olam: “The inner spiritual purpose of Life”.

“Isaac Luria, the renowned sixteenth century Kabbalist, used the phrase ‘Tikkun Olam’ , usually translated as ‘repairing the world’, to encapsulate the true role of humanity in the ongoing evolution and spiritualization of the cosmos. Luria taught that God created the world by forming vessels of light to hold the Divine Light. But as God poured the Light into vessels, they catastrophically shattered, tumbling down toward the realm of matter. Thus, our world consists of countless shards of the original vessels entrapping sparks of the Divine Light. Humanity’s great task involves helping God by freeing and reuniting the scattered Light, raising the sparks back to Divinity and restoring the broken world.”

“Tikkun olam places our spiritual practice at the heart of the unfolding history of the universe: the evolution and spiritualization of the the creation. With each small act of kindness, with each moment of presence and practice, with each effort to see, cleanse, and integrate our inner life, with each heartfelt prayer, opening to higher energies and the higher will, we build the new world and serve the Divine Architect of meaning.”

“If we can raise ourselves to the station where the Divine can see and act through us, then we complete the momentous work of restoring at least one part to the Whole.” The inner process includes personal soul work to open ourselves up to the Divine Light and to seek to kindle it in others we meet along the way.

(this article from Jewish journal, “Inner Frontier, Rabbi Chaim Vital).

In God’s first visual appearance to man, in Exodus, Moses occurred in the Burning Bush, (exodus 3:1-15) that burned but was not consumed. Later, in Exodus, as Moses and the Israelites wandered in the desert, they were accompanied guided and protected by pillars of fire (Exodus 13:21-22). Many, many references to fire in the Old and New Testament were proclaimed by the psalms, prophets and later by Jesus. A reign of fire has long been one of the focuses of apocalyptic prophecy, derived from Jeremiah, Isaiah, Malachi and Revelation (18 and 20) and Daniel (3:24-25) and other prophets.

As the apostles walked the road to Emmaeus, Luke 24:13, after Christ was crucified, said “did not our hearts burn within us when he opened the scriptures to us”.
In Acts 2, 1-7 “When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound like a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them. Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven. when they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewilderment, because each one heard their own language being spoken.” The Spirit, represented by tongues of fire descended on the heads (7th chakra) of the apostles on Pentecost, empowering, guiding, and giving them tremendous courage, strength, fortitude, and words to speak to the multitude (each in their own language) they encountered on their missionary journeys. It’s interesting that in the bible, the Holy Spirit is represented as coming through the waters of Baptism, later as spirit wind, and now also as tongues of fire.

The New Testament epistles speak of being pruned or purified (1Corinthians 3:13) as if by fire when describing the challenging spiritual path of following and being conformed to Christ. Separating the wheat from the chaff, and throwing away and burning the chaff is another major metaphor in scripture. Mathew 3:12. “His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into barns and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire.”

What about Hell? Fire and brimstone, eternal fire as punishment? In Christian doctrine and scripture to this day, as well as Greek and Roman mythology, the stories of fire burning eternally in the underworld were prevalent. The devil has so often been pictured as red, with pitchfork, comfortable in hell fire. The original rebellion of Lucifer (means light bearer), who was a leading archangel against God, led to him and his allies being hurled into a lake of fire under the earth. The whole of western religious history has been replete with teaching, quotations from both New and Old Testament, and literature about Hades or Hell. Despite many of our/my modern day discomfort with this belief, it is a powerful strand in the western tradition. Think Aeneid, Dante’s Inferno, and so many more. As in so many other aspects of scripture, we are challenged to understand this potent metaphor, taking it literally or seeking to understand the hidden parable, metaphor that it describes. It is not a legitimate option to discard it.

We sometimes talk about a “baptism of fire”, meaning some difficult initiatory experience that we have been through. It suggests a certain level of maturity, endurance, experience of hardship, and resilience, among other traits. Someone who has suffered a lot might be described as having “been through the fire”. On this sabbatical, I seek renewal and rekindling of my own fire of passion for creative work and energy and enlightenment as to next steps.

I invite you to contemplate your own experience of the elemental fire in your life and in your emotions, mind, and spirit.

Fire and Ice, Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that destruction by ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

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Who knows where the wind blows or whence it comes

June 8, 2012. Blog #20

Who knows where the wind blows, or from whence it comes?

This morning I woke to the sound of the wind howling, whistling, and rushing down from the mountains from the north of Crete, out to the Libyan Sea. I looked out to see trees, bushes, and flowers frantically bending and waving, pushed down and tossed, restlessly turning, trying to return upright against the vast turbulent ocean of air, an irresistible current of wind, 30-40 mph, with frequent gusts to 50-60 mph. The flowers bob and bow in the invisible current.

“A Very Blustery Day, Winnie the Pooh. ( mildly edited)

Now one fine day the east wind traded places with the west wind, and that’s turned things a bit all through the Hundred Acre Wood. Now, on this blustery day Pooh decided to visit his thoughtful spot…… (pooh) Yes, and on that day, I made up a little hum.
And it hummed something like this:
Humdum ditty dum
Hum dum dum
Oh, the wind is lashing lustily
Ad the trees are thrashing thrustily
And the leaves are rustling gustily
So it’s rather safe to say
That it seems that it may turn out to be…….
Looks like a rather blustery day, today.

(Gopher) If I was you I’d think about skeeddaddling out of here.
(Pooh) Why?
(Gopher) Cause its wind’s day.
(Pooh) Windsday? Oh, I think I shall wish everyone a happy Windsday, and I shall begin with my dear friend Piglet…….”

( and so it goes in the hundred acre wood)

Air, the second element, roared to announce itself this morning, invisible, odorless, tasteless, silent except where it meets resistance. Air makes itself known by its forceful presence or gentle touch, lethal circling tornado, vast hurricane on the sea.
Air also reveals itself by what it carries, scents, sounds, water in the form of evaporation or precipitation. Dust, sand, pollen, volcanic ash, smoke, industrial pollutants, flying birds and insects, balloons and aircraft, radio, TV, and cellular waves.

Of what is air made? Our blended, buffering, envelope of atmosphere is made of nitrogen N2=78.084%, O2= 20.95%, argon=0.934%, CO2=0.036% in addition to a number of trace gases, neon, helium, methane, hydrogen, Nitrous oxide, and ozone. Water vapor H2O, makes up 1-4% of the atmosphere. ( interesting that CO2 makes up such a little amount of the atmosphere, 0.036%. At such a small amount, it is easier to understand how all of the CO2 that comes from burning fossil fuel could alter the balance. Our precious atmosphere protects us from solar radiation and spreads the sun’s heat evenly around our fair planet. Meteors burn up as they pass through the air, falling and pulled by invisible gravity to the earth. This gentle but turbulent envelope or air thins gradually until it merges into the vacuum of space.

I grew up in Oklahoma, where the “wind comes sweeping down the plain”. My home town was in the green foothills of the Ozark Mountains, which slowly gave way to the vast open great plains. There, the wind rarely ceases. Born in 1950, I grew up hearing about the dreadful “dust bowl” days, of the 30s and 40s. In nearby fields were abandoned homes, whose owners had fled west from the drought, famine, and choking, arid dust storms, which denuded the once fertile soil of the plains. Many thousands of people were driven starving from their homes and farms by this relentless wind.

I remember playing on the front porch, when I was about 7 years old, watching as a tornado approached, seeing the black funnel cloud perhaps 3-5 miles away. My senses remember the charged feeling in the air, hair on arms tingled and smell of ozone and rain. I can still see the greenish gray clouds rippling and writhing overhead, looking exactly like the ocean in a storm. The color of the air was a muted greenish color, all the birds quiet, insects silent as a breathless waiting. But every year, in May-June, and a bit of July was tornado season. Another year, when I was about 6 years old, I was taking a bath. My mom was worried more than usual as a tornado was within a mile or two and heading in our direction. The lightening flashed repeatedly, the atmosphere electrically charged, hairs standing on end, a remarkable darkness for summer around 6:30 PM.
My mother made me get out of the bathtub, wrapped in a towel and still wet. She bundled my sister and I out into the car, inside the garage, to wait out the tornado, in case it descended on our house. It passed close but did little damage to our neighborhood. People a few blocks away were not so lucky.

I remember the hot blast furnace like wind that came out of the desert in southern California called the “Santa Ana” winds. When I was stationed in San Diego, in the Navy, I remember how lips would crack, noses would bleed, skin dry up, and irritability struck much of the populace. There is a legendary Scirocco wind that comes out of the Sahara and affects large areas of southern Europe with similar, more severe effects.

Recently, when I was in Ireland, I hiked up a mountain peak called the Slieveleige, that plunges in a cliff face, 3,000 feet down to the crashing Atlantic surf. On the trail, there were several areas where wind gusts could blow you off the cliff, if you were a child, or not wary. The strong steady north wind blew as a constant presence on the Isle of Iona, Scotland, and also out of the Scottish Highlands down to the Monastery at Dighty, Stirling, Scotland, chilling me even in bright sunlight.

Air of course is also beneficial, vital for life. There is 14.6 pounds per square inch of air pressure at sea level, perfectly balanced with our internal body pressure. Fires cannot burn without oxygen, and wind can whip a forest or grass fire into a raging firestorm of incredible destructive power. Our own oxidative metabolism that is responsible for every inner or outer movement or operation of body tissue is continuous. Without air, we humans can only live 4-6 minutes without dying or suffering severe brain damage. As we inhale, our diaphragm acts like a bellows, sucking in air from outside our bodies. The air moves into our mouth and nose, down our throat, past our voice box, and through our windpipe, down into the bronchial tubes, branching into bronchioles, and then into tiny alveoli, lined with capillaries, where the blood flows by the alveolar membrane, releasing its waste product of metabolism, CO2, and picking up O2 onto the hemoglobin molecules of the blood. The blood then carries O2 to every living cell in the body, fueling the oxidation of glucose, turning it into heat and energy of cellular activity, through a complex series of chemical reactions, Krebbs Cycle and others.

Of course, we couldn’t speak or hear anything without air. The air moving across our vocal cords creates sound vibrations that become speech, song, or cry of joy or distress. And sound only exists when there is a medium to carry the sound vibrations, air. So all music, and speech is a gift of air. So too is scent, smell a gift of air.

The element of air has entered our vocabulary with its own specific connotations, “air-head”, “airy fairy”, full of hot air, a blowhard, head in the clouds, “blowin in the wind….”, the universal comedy of wind in the form of flatus:~>;)

For millennia, air or wind has been seen as the movement of spirit. The Hebrew word for wind and spirit was “Ruach”, in Greek, wind was translated as “Pneuma” (think pneumonia), and in Latin, Spiritus. In each of these languages and traditions, these words for wind were also used for spiritual issues. When we “inspire” or inhale, we take the actual life-giving spirit of the divine into ourselves, and like the O2, it spreads throughout our body into the tiniest capillaries, permeating our body and soul. We may feel inspired with a great idea, calling, or inspired by God to some service or choice. In Genesis, in the Old Testament, God fashioned man out of the dirt of the ground and breathed life into him. Without breath, we are lifeless matter, clay or dust. In the Eastern traditions, Hindu Yoga focuses on breath to gain unity of mind-body-spirit. Likewise, Kundalini Yoga employs the breath as an avenue to kundalini awakening. Similarly, Zen Buddhism’s primary meditative focus is on the breath. In Chinese, it is called chi, the life force, energy of spirit.

For me, the practice of mindfulness is primarily the practice of observing my breath. Doing so, is the most practical and immediate way of moving my awareness into the present moment, the present breath, this breath, now. When the spirit wind blows, it is utterly unpredictable and uncontrollable.

In John 3:5-8 Jesus answered (Nicodemus’ question), “Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and of the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. You should not be surprised at my saying, you must be born again. The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit”. I quote this verse not to affirm any modern day exclusivist use of the term “born again”, but to acknowledge that through multiple faiths throughout the world and history, spirit wind is used to describe the animation of the spiritual life beyond the physical life, which comes through waters of the birth canal, physical birth.

During this sabbatical year, I am seeking inspiration and waiting, asking, listening for it every day. I sense the presence of spirit very frequently and am energized and uplifted, encouraged and strengthened. In the New Testament the spirit is called by many names, guide, teacher, comforter, healer, wisdom, the essence, the spark of the divine that animates my body and empowers my soul. The spirit is the still small voice within, to which I try to listen, beneath my noisy, restless egoic “monkey mind” and the cacophony of the world and it’s distractions, it’s “10,000 things” that delude and distract me from the One. The paradox is that the “One and the Many” are both true, depending upon the level of reality, the domain that I am looking at. I believe that I am incarnated, here on earth as a fleshly animal to learn to be fully human, as Jesus modeled, fully alive and animated in my body, fulfilling the specific calling of my soul, the acorn becoming an oak tree. At the same time, I am called to live in such a way as to awaken and increase the holy spirit in my self and in others.

Wild Geese (wild geese are a Celtic metaphor for the spirit) Mary Oliver

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine,
Meanwhile the world goes on
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of rain
are moving across the landscapes,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
Over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Mary Oliver

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Mother Ocean and the Water of Life

June 6, 2012. Blog #19

Moonstruck. The water of Life

Last nite, I caught sight of the full moon rising, deep red as it slowly crept above the horizon, over the restless water of the indigo sea, about 9:30 PM. I was sitting in a Greek taverna, eating my gyros and hot dolmades, when the proprietor called out Opa! La lunes!, to the French men he was serving. He was the first to see the red demilune peek above the sea. A turned and was transfixed as it slowly emerged over the minutes. One of the Frenchman came over by my table to watch, saying, “fantastique”. There was a hush in the taverna by the sea. Even the local Cretan men, drinking Raki, shot by shot glass, we’re hushed from their loud emphatic conversation and proclamations. As I finished my meal and sipped on the local vintage red wine, from the mountains behind the village, I gawked and stared at the full red “moon like a lover” as the lyrics of the Little River Band song, “Cool Change” goes. It’s a song I have long loved. Part of it goes, “If there is one thing in my life that’s missing, it’s the time that I spend alone, out on the cool blue water. It’s such a lovely feeling to be out out on the sea alone, staring at the full moon like a lover….. Time for cool change, tiiiime for a coooool change……”. And that feeling is not missing for me any more. :~>)

The red moon offered its blood red moonbeam path across the water. Slowly, over the next half hour, as it rose, it became orange with a beckoning orange light path, moving and shimmering, inviting. So full and fat and mesmerizing, I continued to gaze at its lengthening pathway across the waves as it continued to rise as I walked along the seaside promenade back to the road leading to my cottage. I remembered so well a book that I found and read to my kids when they were small, “The Garden Behind the Moon”. It was as magical and enlarging of my children’s imagination as this red to orange moon was now. What do you, what do I imagine the garden behind the moon is like? It feels akin to the faery stories and magical leprechaun legends of Ireland, stirring my fancy with wonder. This moon and it’s beckoning path was a waking dream for me, that still trembles in my chest.

And the sky has been inviting us into a different space of wonder, with the transit of Venus across the raging sun, once in hundred years, last night, on the 5th of June (my 36th wedding anniversary). It was a fitting day, indeed for the transit of Venus, goddess of love:+>;). And the partial eclipse of the occurred on June 4th. Meanwhile, Mars has been in opposition, closest approach to Earth on March, 3rd. And Saturn conjunct opposition, closest approach to earth on April 15th. Old Jove, Jupiter reached conjunction with Venus, <; 3 degrees apart, the two brightest stars in the western sky March 14th. And they were joined nearby with the crescent moon, March 3-25th. There will be many more such events this year, leading up to the winter solstice, 12-21-2012 and the 11:11 digital phenomena (more on this controversial and fascinating cycle in future).

Of these heavenly bodies, though for me, there is a trinity of Earth, Moon, and Sun, with Venus, the maid of honor.

And then there's the sea, the sea.

What of the elements especially touched me today? I invite you to go with me. It was a very windy day, with whitecaps and strong surf, the tide coming in with the full moon, when I went to swim and snorkel. I think you know how it can be stepping in to cold water. First, I dipped my toe in the foaming water and noted a slight shock, that it is cold! Then, slowly, I stepped on up to my ankles, the calves, in the surging, breaking wave impact on the smooth round pebbled beach. I put on my snorkel, then stepped deeper, to my thighs, wheee, ok, time for a dive in, across the bigger rocks, as the surf crashed into me up to my crotch. As I dive, I notice the instant chill and thrill of the cold sea surrounding my body, immersing me and triggering a thousand skin touch and temperature receptors, with reflex sudden inhalation through my snorkel. I am looking down at the rocks and surging stirred up water, and feeling the waves crest and breaks over me. I breast stroke hard, out beyond the shoreline surf and feel myself held in the buoyant heaving sea. The wind is high and the waves come rolling and pushing me up and back. I notice as I swim out towards the underwater rocks, where the fish hang out, that I am making little progress. There is current east to west along the beach against me and also the tide coming in wants to wash me back to shore. I stroke and kick and stretch, gradually making progress. I am glad that I am fighting the current and tide while I am fresh; I know I will have it at my back on my return. I note that, after a few minutes of swimming against the current that I am not cold; the water is wonderful! I feel myself gliding, my arms reaching out and pulling me past the waves and the rocks on the bottom. My feet kicking now automatically, pushing me forward and splashing a bit on the surface. A bit of sea water enters my mask, but not a problem.

As the waves heave and roll past me, tossing me up and back and forward, my beloved snorkel remains above the waves and my breathing is deep and regular, a pleasure to focus on the deep breathe in and out of my snorkel. I don't have to lift my head or struggle to keep my head above the breaking waves, I glide and float, flexible, strenuous, increased heart rate and breathing with joy and a kind of ecstasy. Once in a while, I lift my head to see where I am with respect to the beach and the rocks. I am coming up on a rocky outcropping from the shore. The waves are pushing me hard into the rocky cove. I change the angle of my stroke and move parallel to the current until I am past the rocks. I swim back closer again to watch the fish hovering along the craggy breakwater. Timing my strokes, I stay clear of the breakers, as I am heaved up and down, back and forth in the foaming water.

Feeling the beginning of fatigue and noting that I am perhaps 3/8 mile from my point of entry, I turned back and luxuriated in the following sea pushing me forward with its rise and fall, surge and recession. I zigzag and play with the favorable current, swimming to each under-water rock formation to watch for fish. As I near the beach where my towel, glasses, hat, water bottle, and small mat is, I swim further out to sea. I pick my spot and begin to swim the crawl hard and steadily. The current and the tide at my back carry me in, sailing, slipping, flying through the white topped waves. I let it carry me through the surf and stayed head down, swimming until I was only a foot from the bottom, my hands grasping the pebbly beach, to avoid the bigger, more bruising rocks a few yards further out. I haul myself up, panting and smiling, endorphins pulsing and fall onto my towel and mat to catch my breath and dry off.

For me, that is the elemental at its best. It is one of the most fun things that I can imagine, though I might prefer calmer water and coral reefs. Sorry, my imagination always has a temptation to go one step beyond heaven…..

How is water elemental? It covers 70% of the planet, makes up 70 % of our bodies, and is the mother from which all evolution of life seems to have come. We cannot live more than a week without fresh water, or only a few days, in the desert. It is becoming the most precious and limited, irreplaceable resource. Droughts cause famine and untold misery for millions of poor people. Floods and tsunamis devastate vast areas of land, washing away homes, fields, livelihoods, and people. As we seek to investigate the potential for life on other planets, we seek evidence of water as a critical factor in the possible life on the planet. We love the sound of the ocean, the rushing river, the small steam burbling, the creek whispering…. Something about the sound of water is reassuring and tends to help us sleep. Swimming, snorkeling, scuba diving, deep sea diving, bathyspheres plummeting into the abyss, for salvage, rescue, exploration. Fishermen and whalers, oceanographers and scientists take the pulse of the life on our planet.

We have countless words that describe water and its action or qualities. Tides, currents, waves, breakers, surf, ripples, still waters, rainbow. Reservoirs, lakes, ponds, puddles, canals, channels, pipes, bays, inlets, lagoons, tidal zone, mangrove swamp, wetland, waterfall, geyser, eddy, vortex, whirlpool. Bath, basin, tub, glass, hose, faucet, tap, nozzle, flush, toilet, bidet, W.C. Mist, fog, clouds, steam, rain, hale, snow, sleet, freezing rain, rime, ice, iceberg, ice floes, ice skates, ice cubes, ice caps, ice bags, glacier.

And our senses, taste, drink of water, splash and wash hands and face, bathe, shower, hot tub, jacuzzi, hydrotherapy, swimming pool, steam room, cold shower, sauna with cold dip, eskimos. Water gallons, squirt guns, sprinklers, splashing.

The elemental fury of water is always present as well, Hurricanes, tornadoes, typhoons, cyclones, monsoons, downpours.

But, we also notice personality traits, fluent, in the, deep, still, wishy washy, rain maker. Depth psychology and our dream life see water as universal symbol, feminine, emotional, unconscious, chaos, primordial soup. Thar be dragons, the old sailors knew. Sea monsters, leviathan, Kraken, Scylla, Charybdis, Loch Ness monster.

And what is the spiritual aspect of water?

The Nile river was a crucial part of the Egyptian myth and spirituality. For the Greeks, when a person dies, he/she must cross the river Styx, ferried by the blind boatman, Charon and terrified by the 3 headed dog, Cerberus. All creation myths begin with chaos, water to be separated into dry land, sky/heavens, and subsequent creation of life. In Genesis, God's spirit hovered over the face of the deep, before he separated the dry land. The Celtic myths begin with the first inhabitants arriving from out of the western ocean. The Irish have long considered wells and springs holy as well as their rivers, especially the River Boyne. Modern pilgrims to the Holy Land of Israel, bring home small vials of water from the Sea of Galilee, the Jordan River, or the Dead Sea. Or pilgrims bring home water from Lourdes after drinking, washing, anointing, bathing in it with hopes of healing.

The river, mother Ganges, is the sacred art river of life and death, a pilgrimage site for millions for baptisms, bathing, healing, special prayers, blessings, and cremation and burial.

In non-dual awareness, what we experience, sometimes in meditation, sometimes in nature, or in moments of great beauty, music, art, love, and compassion, a feeling of connectedness to All has been well described as oceanic consciousness, united with all, yet paradoxically, still a separate drop in the ocean. This sense of union with God, all created beings, and the universe has perhaps its most tangible metaphor and symbol in the ocean. Similarly, we may often experience our life like a river, time flowing onward, drawing ever nearer to the return to the oneness with the sea.

A wise friend and dear cousin emailed me a note about the elements of the sacrament of the eucharist (eu is Greek for good, charism is Greek for gift (good gift). In the sacrament, we as Christians celebrate the mystery, in remembrance of Christ's offering us His body and blood at the Last Supper, in the form of the bread and wine. At the beginning of His ministry, Jesus' first miracle was changing water into wine at the wedding feast of Cana. Later, he met the Samaritan woman at the well, and asked her for a drink of water.

And the Jesus is baptized by John the Baptist. This was the beginning of the sacrament and ritual of Baptism, cleansing and washing away sins of the old life, actually being drowned, dying to the old life and arising newly born in the spiritual life, a member of the family of God. I remember my own baptisms. When I was 7 years old and my sister was 3, our mom took us by train to Chicago and then train to New York City. We had Catholic relatives there and a family church of St. Josephs.
We had pouring of the water over our foreheads and prayers chanted in Latin. We had to wear special baptismal clothes. It was mysterious and over my head (whoops, sorry). However, when I was in the Navy overseas aboard a ship (US New Orleans), that docked in the Phillipines, I had begun to realize that I did not really have a clue about relationship with Jesus Christ. My view of God had been far more distant, abstract, and mystical than the personal relationship with God through Jesus. I had heard all this in college, (Baylor was a southern baptist university at the time, often called Jerusalem on the Brazos River). So, I was baptized a second time in a swim suit, full immersion, in the warm tropical sea off of the Island of Luzon. The element of water is a spiritual renewal on many levels.

In The gospel of John 4:10 and 13, He said to her if you knew the gift of God and who it is who asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water. Everyone who drinks this (well water) will thirst again, but whoever drinks the water that I give will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.

Also in the Old Testament, when God was angry with humanity, in the days of Noah, he sent a huge rain 40 days and 40 nights to the drown the whole world, except for a few righteous ones, Noah and his family, and 2 by 2 of every creature onto the ark. A rainbow sealed His promise never to drown the whole world again.

In the biblical book of revelation, the final book and final chapters after describing the apocalypse, Revelation 22:1-2 "and the angel showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. In the midst of the stream, and on either side of the river of life, was there the tree of life, which bare 12 fruits and yielded her fruit every month; and the leaves of the tree of life were for the healing of the nations.

I invite you to contemplate the element of water, mother ocean, river of life, H2O, in all and any form, and give thanks.

Note the qualities of beloved water, how it behaves, flowing always down with gravity, filling and taking the shape of its container, and slowly powerfully eroding mountains, nourishing forests, in a never ending cycle of evaporation from the ocean, precipitation, flow, and water all of life, moving back down to the ocean again.

A few Haikus about water. I plan to try some of my own:-)

At the ancient pond
A frog plunges into
the sound of water
(Basho 1644-1694)

rain falls on the grass
filling the ruts left by
the festival cart
(Buson 1715-1783)

a world of dew
and within every dewdrop
a world of struggle
(Issa 1762-1826)

solstice dawn
a flotilla of sea ducks
turns eastward

thunderstorm
The feeling of the air
beforehand

gale force wind—
the shrieks of the gulls
flying in place

honeymoon
we wade into the current
of a great river

the ripple effect
one's power spreads hope and change
for a better world
(Gloria Buono 2006)

after summer';s rain
God's promise is remembered
glorious rainbow
(Udia)

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