Listening For A Change

Tealights in the Tunnel

2011-01-17T14:36:00.000-08:00

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

Martin Luther King, Jr.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is one of my favorite places to drive. Even during the busy summer months when the winding 45mph road is co-opted by thundering packs of motorcycles and poky RV's, the sheer boldness of New Deal hutzpah and engineering never ceases to awe and amaze me. (Did our Recovery & Reinvestment Act funding even come close to anything as visionary? Well, that's a critique for another time...)

In the Parkway section south of Asheville, a traveler will quickly encounter a characteristic mountain driving phenomenon: The Tunnel. The Parkway includes 26 tunnels along the 469 mile route from Waynesboro, VA to Cherokee, NC, with names like "Big Witch" and "Bunches Knob." One minute you are careening along, captivated by breathtaking vistas, then suddenly you are plunged into cold granite darkness. Many of them are short--a brief submersion into the stone blocking the view. But sometimes the tunnels curve as a shawl around the mountain's shoulders, making the proverbial "light at the end of the tunnel" impossible to see. If you failed to heed the headlight warning at the entrance, all becomes very black--very quickly.

There are times in our individual and collective lives when it seems like we have been thrown headlong into a tunnel without the headlights on. It's disorienting and frightening. After the 2008 election, we were sailing along a clear sunlit road with a view of possibility that seemed limitless. And then, tunnel after tunnel seemed to obstruct the view and it was tempting to believe that we were stuck in the dark. I've recently entered into a tunnel of my own, a detour that surprised me--especially since my GPS hadn't mapped it out in my planning process.

Once I entered tunnel, however, the unexpected happened. When things seemed at their darkest, a friend sent me the perfect book I needed to read. Another person had just the right insight; I stumbled upon a music event that seemed orchestrated just for me. Each little occurrence and offering, each faithful word and hug, seemed as if people were bringing me tealights in my tunnel. And slowly, it didn't matter that I couldn't see the opening of daylight I was so desperately scrambling to reach. Right there, right where I was, the tunnel was becoming illuminated.

I hold these many small glimmers of light with me as I continue to walk through the tunnel--not nearly so frightened, and a little more curious about what will come next. I think about this today as we honor Dr. King, who was such a huge light in a world full of tunnels. Dr. King knew the power of tealights when he said "everyone can be great, because everyone can serve." The problems of our days, both global and personal, can seem overwhelming. But in each of us there is the capacity to bring a little more light, a little more hope, a little more love into the world. If we do no more than that today, it is enough.

peace and light,

One, two, three...ROLL!

2010-12-02T20:26:00.001-08:00

My friend Scott is an experienced kayaker. Whitewater, the real stuff. River or sea he actually seeks out crests and crescendoes, surrendering himself and his minnow-like craft into the crushing power of waves crashing on their merry and merciless way.

I, on the other hand, am strictly a flatwater girl. Calm and serene, the meditation of stroke, lift, stroke, breathes me into the landscape: the smell of the mud on the banks, watching for otters, sun baking my legs without a spray skirt in place. The last time I tried that, the drip of my paddle over a four-hour trip slowly eroded the paba-free, all-natural, and supposedly waterproof sunscreen from the tops of my thighs. Ouch. Several days of ouch, and a very unfortunate look for wearing shorts in July.

Scott is certain that he can teach me how to roll the kayak (even if he can't convince me to follow him to my death down the roaring Nantahala). I have complete confidence in him, although it sounds a little like Steve Thorsted in high school promising to be able to get me up on water skis..."you just haven't had the right person driving the boat!" Thirty years later I still haven't made it up for more than a few seconds. But I'm pretty happy to let that one go and ride the inner tube instead.

Rolling the kayak, though, is another story. There's a terrifying empowering in the enticement of rolling. I really want to learn it. Voluntarily turning yourself completely upside down, deprived of oxygen and encased in a fiberglass anchovy (aka coffin!) everything stops. It becomes a complete exercise of mind not to panic. Everything in you wants to barrel for the surface, head first. Not possible. The answer is counter-intuitive...not lifting with the head but powering from the core (damn it, another reason to start taking Pilates). Stay focused into the center and FLIP, you're upright, gulping air with the mammals again. Well, at least this is how I think it's supposed to go. I've not been able to get out of the upside-down position yet. Thankfully I have the wet exit down. "Safety first!" chirps my inner lifeguard.

The past few months have felt like a perpetual upside-down-in-the-kayak period for me. Interesting experiment in staying centered, practicing wet exit, and remembering not to panic. Slowly I've been learning to strengthen my core so I can right myself, surrender through the next wave and joyfully submerge, knowing that I can come full circle, alive, well and with water-free lungs. Wet exit is ok for emergencies, but the real fun comes with knowing you can flip and flip and flip and be ok. Yeah, all the spiritual teachers say the only way the core gets stronger is from practice. With all this practice, I must be on the way to expert.

Just for today, I'm righted again--catching my breath and heading toward a quiet eddy for the holidays.

blessings all...see you in Pilates class!

Bloom

2010-09-11T19:40:00.000-07:00

In 2002 as the first anniversary of September 11 approached, some friends and I grappled with how we were going to mark the event. We wanted to organize something, but what and where? There were plenty of flag-waving, terror-fighting “pledges to patriotism” being promoted; equal numbers of prayer services were available, especially in the vast array of flavors in the Christian community--you could have your pick, with flag or without.

But somehow none of these felt right. Having just returned from my first overseas service project--a summer teaching English in the newly democratic and primarily Buddhist country of Mongolia--I had the enthusiasm of the newly awakened multicultural; like many people both within and outside the Christian faith, I was sensitive to the divisiveness that this lightning rod event was causing. We needed a place that transcended all the rhetoric, a container that could hold something bigger than all our biases.

Enter Oakhurst Community Garden. As I passed by on one of my regular neighborhood walks, it seemed to speak: “By the way, I am designated an international peace garden,” the garden murmured modestly.

One phone call later, Sally Wylde, the garden’s visionary founder/director, gave the answer she almost always gave when presented with a request, or an opportunity for service. “Absolutely!” she said. “It’s perfect.”

Two weeks later the event had grown organically into an interfaith expression of remembrance and mourning, a commitment to service and a call to peace. On the evening of September 11, people slowly streamed into the garden, until nearly a hundred clustered amid the waning harvest of tomatoes and squash and herbs. Some planted bulbs, others presented poems and readings from Buddhists, Christians and Muslims; an acapella group from the local synagogue lifted a prayer in song. A letter from Peaceful Tomorrows, a group of the families of survivors, called for unity in our collective grief and our hope. As night fell, the garden glowed with candlelight under the drooping heads of sunflowers, as neighbors, many of whom had never met, offered prayers for the victims, their families and the world. A photographer from Life magazine captured the scene.

Eight years later, we gathered today in the Oakhurst Community Garden. This time the focus was not the anniversary of that fateful day in 2001, but the remembrance of a woman who was teacher, learner, mentor, leader, servant, playmate, co-creator, activist, seeker, artist, friend. Stories and song, puppets and flowers, parade and potluck embodied Sally Wylde’s life in an exuberance that words can only glimpse. Did that rainbow really appear overhead as we sauntered and drummed down East Lake Drive?...now that’s just showing off! What more would you expect from the woman who created performance art ("The Lump Journey") in response to her body's encounter with cancer? The vibrant expression of her life and faith swept us up into the power of imagination, into the possibility of personal and communal liberation.

I was happy that, among today’s glowing and honest tributes, her husband Britt lovingly acknowledged her “sailor’s mouth." Once she sat with me over coffee compassionately listening as I grappled with the pain of divorce and the personal journey into therapy. Having grappled head-on with her own demons, she looked me straight in the eye and said with that New England candor, “Of course it’s hard! No one would do this work unless they fucking had to.” Well said, and true. But Sally rode the work full stride into art and gardens and webs of connection that transformed not only her own heart, but the lives of all those whom she touched--many of whom were gathered today to celebrate, honor and remember her with gusto. As she would have had it.

Today, Sept 11, as conflict and controversy swirl around us, when hatred and ignorance are in alarmingly plentiful supply, I can think of no place I would rather be than with these people, to honor this amazing woman, and to reclaim the roots that have grounded me in the sometimes uplifting and frequently frustrating path of social justice. Tonight, Amanda and I lit the single white candle in the Peace Garden, quietly remembering that evening 8 years ago. “Yeah,” I said. “Leave it to Sally to go ahead and tackle world peace.”

Wake up call

2010-06-19T05:40:00.000-07:00

Buddy has a job, and he performs it faithfully.
Starting at around 4:30am, he rises and stretches his neck, and reaches deep down for a crow that bellows out over the garden and meadow and pond beyond.

Again at 5:30, once more at 6 ish--just to be sure we got the message. I turn over, twice, sound weaving in and out of my dream, first a car horn, next a saxophone. I'm on a gondola and there's music wafting from the shore. I squint my eyes open to see the morning. Prayer flags hanging in the trees wave in the heavy, cool summer morning air. I think they rustled a little from the boom of Buddy's call. I roll over one more time and then...crooowwwww! (Or in french: cocoRIco...cocoRIco". I like this better than cockadoodle doo. It doesn't sound anything like cockadoodle doo!)

"Alright already! I'm up." This is starting to feel personal.

I rouse myself and shuffle over to a chair by the window for morning meditation. Time to listen. The still small voice inside calls..."cocoRico." but more like a whisper, gently nudging me into consciousness, inviting me into the day, into my life.

It is said that soon after his enlightenment the Buddha passed a man on the road who was struck by the Buddha's extraordinary radiance and peaceful presence. The man stopped and asked, “My friend, what are you? Are you a celestial being or a god? “
“No,” said the Buddha. “
“Well, then, are you some kind of magician or wizard?”
Again the Buddha answered “No.”
“Are you a man?”
“No.”
“Well, my friend, then what are you?”
The Buddha replied, “I am awake.”

May I be a little more awake today, and a little more grateful for the rooster.

can big ears save the world?

2010-03-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I inexplicably developed an allergic reaction to corn. Along with a wheat sensitivity and sugar avoidance, I'm now even more annoyingly in that 21st century category of dinner guests with a mile-long list of dietary special needs. Besides being a pain to my hosts, this limitation is also just a plain drag for me, since I LOVE a good enchilada, crunchy-salty corn chips, and popcorn at the movies.

Now that I think about it, this mysterious reaction developed not too long after seeing Robert Kenner's brilliant Academy Award nominated documentary Food, Inc., "a powerful, startling indictment of industrial food production." (PBS, POV) If you can stomach second helpings, check out also Deborah Koons' terrifying "Future of Food" (2004) and Eric Schlosser's now classic (book and movie) "Fast Food Nation." The films' messages come as no surprise to food justice advocates and folks who have been waving the red flags on health, agri-business and green living for decades. The stark reality of our vulnerability to corporate interests, particularly the devastating story of corn around the planet, is enough to make even a semi-conscious person break out in hives.

Monsanto holds fast to the argument that their genetic breakthroughs are driven by altruistic motives, such as ensuring farmers of explosive "yield potential," boatloads of increased income and the side benefit of conserving habitat for wildlife. (Monsanto) What's not made as clear by the PR spin, is the motivation behind the vaguely Soprano's-like tactics being employed to keep small farmers compliant with the slow but inexorable corporate ingestion of their livelihoods, and some would argue, our lives.

So what's this all got to do with listening, anyway? Can Big Ears really change the world? it's a pretty simple and maybe somewhat counter-intuitive approach to social change: leveraging the double-ear tactic. Being curious. Telling a story. Asking questions instead of sharpshooting answers. Building understanding instead of defense. It all sounds good, until life and livelihood feel threatened and the reptilian brain conspires with the sympathetic nervous system to make sure we're SAFE. We come by it honestly-- fight, flight or freeze are built into the package. But film makers like Kenner, Koons, and Schlosser are the front line of a revolution which will slowly dismantle power structures, institutions, and corporate strangleholds, not through brute strength or intimidation, but the power of story--engaging the listening ears of a public ready to give a deafening response...the vociferous ch-ching of cash registers ringing in organic markets, slow food movements, co-ops, and intensive gardening programs around the planet.

It can't come soon enough. I'm ready for that enchilada.

fast track

2010-02-24T16:48:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine has a great behavioral barometer: "Want to know why you're doing something? Stop doing it."

Besides being a test of willpower, the Christian season of Lent can be a testy time, as observant folks run loose without the usual fixes that keep society too hyped up on (fill in the blank...coffee, chocolate, booze, TV) to realize we're riddled with anxiety. I wonder if anyone's done a study on increased accident rates during the 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter. Moses fasted for forty days and forty nights, twice; the second time he returned to find the Israelites partying and busted the holy tablets in anger...I can relate after a few weeks without sugar.

The Biblical lesson more commonly referenced among contemporary Christians is the 40 days that Jesus spent in the wilderness before beginning his ministry, a time of being tested by Satan and shoring up his relationship with God--a journey which culminates in Good Friday's crucifixion (kind of makes you want to read the fine print on the release form before repeating that outing) and the resurrection of Easter. So the period of Lent is one marked by abstinence, solemnity, and introspection. Many religious traditions embrace some form of fasting and penitence as a means of drawing closer to God by withdrawing from our human attachments --from the great fast of Ramadan to the penitence of Yom Kippur.

Exploring my ecumenical ways, it's been a while since I've observed a traditional Lent, but always found it a provocative time. One year I gave up using the words "I'm sorry" just to see what would show up in its place. Chocolate, meat, wine, or TV--the tweaks of cravings or temptation of habits invited me to wake up from the sleepy patterns of my daily routine. And, once awake, to lean into the gap that was left when I left my familiar crutches behind. It takes a while to cultivate a taste for sitting in uncomfortable emptiness without shoving a brownie in it. The Buddhists are really on to something here.

Yesterday I sat in St. Lawrence's Basilica with devout Catholic friends visiting from Charlotte. I opened to what I would be willing to leave behind this Lent, what fast would shake things up and make more space for God. The prayer alone felt like a step into the wilderness.

There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness. We are lutes, no more, no less.
If the soundboxes stuffed full of anything, no music. If the brain and belly are burning clean with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you run up the steps in front of you. Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink, Satan sits where your spirit should, an ugly metal statue in place of the Kaaba.
When you fast, good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring.
Don't give into some illusion and lose your power,
but even if you have, if you've lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast,
like soldiers appearing out of the ground, pennants flying above them. A table descends to your tents, Jesus' table.
Expect to see it, when you fast, this table spread with other food, better than the broth of cabbages.

~ Rumi ~Ghazal No. 1739 from the Divan-e Shams-e Tabrizi

brave heart

2010-02-11T13:38:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of not-so-great parts about getting through a breakup, but one of the toppers has got to be Valentine's Day--especially when said break up is in such close proximity to said "holiday." Everywhere I turn are looming towers of bad milk chocolate in pink cellophane and ubiquitous reminders to remember my sweetie February 14. Ouch. But lest this entry become just another lament on love or diatribe on commercialism, I want to talk about the real issue at hand, or rather, at heart.

Last Sunday I attended an ebullient and gracious religious service during which a congregant got up to share a rather personal valentine's story. He is a family practice physician, and despite the insurance against disease one might guess would come with that line of work, this was the one-year anniversary of his open heart surgery. His talk was accompanied by a slide show with video of his own heart in the operating room, projected in images 5' x 4' on the wall of the sanctuary. He warned us when to close our eyes. I've never been one to look at such things on TV, but the sheer intimacy and courage of such an offering drew me in to watch. I could hear the 7-year old girl sitting next to me, "Yewwww, that's disgusting!" My contorted face echoed her sentiments in silent agreement, but I could not not watch. (Ok, I scrunched up my eyes and closed one in a couple of parts.)

The point of the story-- and the graphic accompaniment --was that in his career as a doctor, he had never successfully resuscitated a patient when applying defibrillation more than 3 times. During his surgery, after the implant was established, the surgeon applied the paddles directly to his heart to prompt the familiar "thum-thump" that would carry the body and the person back into life. The video showed the excruciating suspense of one.. two... three... four... five... six tries. On the sixth, it worked. We breathed a collective sigh of relief, even though the happy ending was standing before us in flesh and (full-on pumping) blood.

Our speaker didn't have to say it: What if the surgeon had given up at the 5th try? In his unsentimental, but transparent account, the man conveyed the almost indescribable gift of appreciating, literally, a second chance at life. This radical experience for which I was an intimate participant truly brought the point home for me. The heart and its vulnerability is magical in myriad ways, and unquestionably a brilliant work of divine design. Being exposed like this invited me to never see this organ the same way again. Watching the grisly images of this fist-sized, miracle mass of muscle--center of our being and energetic seat of love--graphically reminded me of the immensity of life contained in its 11 ounces.

Can we survive a broken heart? Definitely. Then there is rest, and recovery, and healing to be done. Then, what will we do with it? Will we give up on the 5th try? Is it too scary, too fragile to take it back out there? (Well, ummm, YES!) But if we don't, what's the point--isn't that just another kind of death? Most of us would certainly rather not have the pain that's packaged with loving a friend, a child, a parent, a mate. But just like the heart is built to pump 5000 quarts of life-juice each day, we humans are built to love--despite the risks and the breaks and the gluing it back together--because there is also joy to be received, and given, again.

So happy v-day everybody. Brave hearts, all.

p.s. And if you're struggling with the recoverty part, check out this article on Death Bear, the break-up aftercare crusader.

snow going

2010-01-30T08:09:00.000-08:00

Hills and trees and houses are frosted with a thick marshmallow frosting of snow that dumped on us last night. The neighborhood is peaceful this morning, put into temporary time-out by Mother Nature. Everything is soft and quiet, no one is jumping up to do their Saturday chores and run out to Walmart. I think we mostly enjoy the forced opportunity to turn off the "go" switch.

So far the only activity of note has been at the several bird feeders hanging outside our window. Always a hot spot, today it's getting even more action, given the limited meal choices imposed by the snowy landscape. Yellow-bellied and downy woodpeckers feast on suet; the brilliant red cardinal stands out in relief against the black and white canvas of the yards below.

The harmonious buffet is suddenly disrupted by a few blackbirds that decide to start a brawl over the suet. Everyone flees the incursion and heads to a nearby copse to wait for the bullies to move on to other territory. There are no diplomats sent to broker a shared agreement; no avian Marshall Rosenberg is dispatched to build a bridge of empathy through communication. The language is clear and not negotiable: the weaker species yield to brute strength and aggressive force--it's just the way it is.

There are plenty of examples in the natural world--happily provided to us in real time via YouTube--of compassion and care among seemingly natural adversaries; the lamb does, on occasion, lie down with the lion--or at least the kitten. The anomaly fascinates and delights us, perhaps with the possibility that even the most primal programming can be overcome with instincts of empathy, nurture and play. Biologists, and social scientists of all stripes continue the debate over whether such models are tenable as examples for homo sapiens to emulate. Read more on one such theory in Frans de Waals book: The Age of Empathy: Nature's Lessons for a Kinder Society.

I am admittedly drawn to inquire and explore the issue of conflict among humans, the more "evolved" species. I want to believe that our human-ness gives us the capacity to act differently, despite the complexities, emotional power and biological legacy of survival that can become triggered when we engaged in even the most quotidian of disagreements.

The thought brings me back to the whole reason I started this blog, Listening for a Change: to ask questions, to venture into the territory of transformation. I am no intrepid explorer--a strange internal brew of something like anxiety mixed with hope prods me forward, usually when I want to run or look the other way.

For me the exploration starts with questions: How can conflict be constructive, rather than destructive? What are the tools we need to transform conflict into greater intimacy, trust, and fulfillment? How do we repair and reconcile relationships that have been severed through betrayal and abuse, even misunderstanding. What does it look like to forgive and to heal? Big stuff. I feel overwhelmed just writing it!

I don't know the answers, but often "I don't know" is a good map to use. I do know that my sweetheart and I are no longer a couple and that parting is painful. A friend and I are in a strained conversation about differing needs. A remark made by someone at lunch "pinched", and I retreated. There's no getting away from it or skipping over it. The way out is through. Hopefully we get to the other side without inflicting more wounds, without having amends to make, by forgiving and being forgiven.

Meanwhile, the hillside is filling with kids and dogs and sleds. Time takes time, healing can be slow going. And a good dose of fun can't hurt either.

Peace. It's not for sissies.

2010-01-17T15:05:00.000-08:00

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in his 1957 speech Birth of a New Nation, shared a gritty and radical conclusion, based on the influences of his own spirituality and the example and teaching of Mahatma Gandhi:
“The aftermath of nonviolence is the creation of the beloved community. The aftermath of nonviolence is redemption. The aftermath of nonviolence is reconciliation. The aftermath of violence is emptiness and bitterness.”

Images of inconceivable devastation in Haiti have captivated our minds and hearts this week. Yet in the midst of tragedy, there have been countless examples of generosity, humanity, and selflessness.

Perhaps these moments are hopeful glimpses that Martin Luther King's ideal of the "Beloved Community" could be a reality. We have come far, it is true. In Dr. King's day, it was inconceivable that a black U.S. president would be directing intervention efforts in a major international disaster. Still, I want to resist the temptation to focus on a romanticized notion of the dream that Martin Luther King dared us to actualize. On this day of remembrance, I am also compelled to acknowledge how far we have to go--in healthcare, in economic justice, in domestic and international peace.

As one friend said recently, "It's true that what Dr. King did was monumental, but who he was--a man committed to a relationship with God--was what made that possible." Dr. King believed in and relied on the power of Love, a power greater than himself, working through him to transform hearts and minds and communities into containers of healing and justice and peace. For Dr. King the idea of the Beloved Community was not a camp circle singing kumbaya. He led a movement which led real people voluntarily into real encounters with real violence and hatred. Certainly not a volunteer job for the pusillanimous. I admit I would much sooner sign up to serve disaster victims than face clubs and fire hoses in the name of equality, and am humbled to know those that have chosen, and still choose, to do so.

On my way to Atlanta Sunday morning I stopped off at a gas station in a small South Carolina town. At the next pump were two African-American men in their twenties, in suits, presumably on their way to church. I was struck with the realization that the possibility of being harassed, assaulted, and worse still lives in the recent memory (and current experience) of my black neighbors, friends and co-workers. Grandparents may still pass groves of trees where family members where lynched, or neighborhoods that were terrorized by midnight hordes robed in white.

And beyond the ravages of racism are other forms of violence that surround us each day, some explicit, some covert. In the U.S. child abuse is rampant, a sexual assault is reported every two minutes, homicides are a leading cause of death. And all this before widening our vision to the unbearable reality in Darfur, the Congo, Iraq; the list goes on and on. Our compulsion for power and force spawns infinite injustices in economic, socio-political, and interpersonal realms. Our relationship with conflict and violence is older than our humanity, and is unlikely to leave us any time soon.

Yet tragedies like Haiti consistently reveal our capacity to extend beyond self-interest and to experience the heart-expanding joy and goodness and creativity that is unleashed when that occurs. What would the aftermath of an earthquake of Love look like? Cataclysmic indeed. Dr. King could see that world, and he held in his words and example a radical vision for us to inhabit. Today I give thanks for his life and for the challenge of the gift he left in our care.

It's a scary thing to pray that God would use me--I might not like the assignment. Perhaps it is delivering water to disaster victims, perhaps it is defending the defenseless, perhaps it is sitting with others offering the metta-prayer. Perhaps, as President Obama said in his acceptance speech, it is living the commitment to "listening especially when we disagree." Whatever it is, I pray that I do it and that I will cultivate the internal resources to stand, hands extended, in the circle of beloved community. It's not for sissies.

So in many instances, we have been able to stand before the most violent opponents and say in substance, we will meet your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We will meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will and we will still love you. Throw us in jail and we will still love you. Threaten our children and bomb our homes and our churches and as difficult as it is, we will still love you. Send your hooded perpetrators of violence into our communities at the midnight hours and drag us out on some wayside road and beat us and leave us half-dead, and as difficult as that is, we will still love you. But be assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer and one day we will win our freedom. We will not only win freedom for ourselves, we will so appeal to your heart and your conscience that we will win you in the process and our victory will be a double victory.
(Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered this message to the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, Christmas 1957.)

No Why-ning!

2009-11-16T11:25:00.000-08:00

You want to ask the big W-H-Y? Check out "Flying On One Engine", Joshua Weinstein's unflinching documentary about the complex and heartbreaking life of a terminally ill surgeon who barely survives in the U.S., but drags his oxygen tank to in India each year to conduct mass-surgeries on children with facial deformities.

Why does this 8 time Nobel Prize nominee live in poverty? Why must these children live with such unbearable burdens? Why do soft drink executives sleep in 600 count sheets while a volunteer doctor shuffles around rats in his apartment....Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (birth defects) Why? Why? Why? (starving children) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (roof caves in) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (car breaks down) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (moms with cancer) Why? Why? Why? Why?(no job in sight) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? (dad goes away) Why? Why? Why? Why? (tornadoes) Why? Why? Why? (floods) Why? Why? Why? Why? (fire) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (greedy bastards) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (the Holocaust) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (war in Darfur) Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? (deer ticks) Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (war, war, and more war) Why? Why? (it didn't work out) Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? (me). And so on.

So far, gnawing on it just hasn't proven fruitful. Karma? God's plan? Sadistic randomness? Greater minds than mine have contemplated the why's and wherefore's of Life's curve balls. I don't get to know the reason "bad" things happen. Besides, as a friend in recovery says, "'Figure it out' is just not one of our slogans.'" I guess what's more relevant, is...what now? I pray I can have even a thimble full of the courage and willingness displayed by the surgeon, parents, and patients in this film.

(But, if you simply must (whine), make it count! You can get a free hour to do so at Rob Brezny's Unhappy Hour where you can milk the why-ne for all its worth, and perhaps break through into the What Next?...

blessings all

green beds

2009-11-09T12:59:00.000-08:00

I admit it, I'm a little jealous. My sweetie has been playing around in other beds.

Now why would he want to do that? We practically broke our necks and pushed our collective 100 years to the limit getting a mammoth mattress into the tiny loft of his cabin. It's now draped in deliciously warm and cozy blankets, including a moss-green one we affectionately call Green Acres, and a hand-dyed quilt that is somehow both rugged and gorgeous. Plus, a couple of days a week it has me in it. What more could he want?

Dirt. The man loves dirt. More accurately, he is in love with his garden and, like many garden-lovin' folks, spends as much time as he can between april and november tending to his raised beds with the devotion of a lover--tenderly placing seedlings and seeds in the warm soil of spring, weeding and watering and harvesting throughout the summer season, and, with the first frost, preparing the beds for winter with the tenderness of a dad tucking in his child.

This past Saturday, he solemnly led me to witness the hills of dirt covered in straw, ready to rest.

"They look like burial mounds," I said. "There could be bodies in there." I eyed him suspiciously.

"Look at this compost," he said, tactfully ignoring me. "This is good stuff. Come spring we are ready to go!" His face shines with satisfaction. I shake my head. You can't help but love the guy.

There are two kinds of people, garden people and non-garden people. I am of the non-garden variety, completely happy to enjoy the fragrance and visual appeal that edible landscapes add to neighborhoods, country roads, and even rooftops, but lacking any aptitude for the awe-inspiring process that brings juicy tomatoes and hearty zucchini from the earth.

Living in Asheville, home of all things green and progressive and organic, I'm admittedly self-conscious about this dirty little secret. (This is a gnawing feeling not unlike my fear that the Greenlife checkout gal will publicly shame me over the intercom for forgetting my canvas shopping bags, "Paper bag at line 2. She doesn't have her own bags." "I do have my own bags," I insist. "I just forgot them today!" Checkout gal rolls her eyes.)

Though I don't have the gardening gene, I do appreciate the hard work that makes the garden grow. I am a good appreciator, and glad to put in some sweat equity along the way. We devoured our summer feasts with gusto: thick slices of Cherokee Purple tomatoes, pestos bursting with the tang of thai and sweet basil, savory chutneys, and crisp yard-long beans. (Mustering enthusiasm about the steam on the compost pile is a little more challenging--this skill is for advanced appreciators--but I have diligently saved my banana peels and coffee grounds to do my part in building up the soil.)

Each summer morning before work, David would wade across the dewy grass to putter among the rows of beans and squash and herbs. Each night he would rush home eager as a suitor to visit the patch of soil on the south side of the creek.

"Are you going to see her again?" I teased.

While there are plenty of urban gardeners, my sweetheart lives out in the hinterlands of Western North Carolina. So when we first started dating (at the beginning of the growing season) I was a little skeptical about our country mouse/city mouse differences.

"I get allergic smelling hay," I sang in my best Eva Gabor accent.

How was this going to work? Could our attraction survive my pull toward urban activity and his pastoral past-times?

Joking aside, we considered the topic one day, sitting in the car during a spring downpour. I quoted Drew Barrymore in Ever After: "If the bird and the fish fall in love, where would they live?" Luckily I did not have to admit the source of the quote.

He stared thoughtfully through the windshield for a while, then finally answered in a quiet voice.

"Well, I know that we both need to be in a place that fits," he said. "And I also know that there's such a thing as a flying fish."

Well, he sure put that one to bed! How could you not love a guy like that? Compost, garden girlfriend, and all.

Scary stuff

2009-10-30T18:35:00.000-07:00

These days we're way past worrying about tainted Sweet Tarts slipped to unsuspecting little Harry Potters and Hermione Grangers on Halloween.

What's REALLY scary this year? Germs.

Parents are spinning from warnings about contaminated costume masks. Or potentially germy candy wrappers handed out by careless, sniffling neighbors. As darkness falls on Saturday evening, legions of children will descend on neighborhoods toting paper bags and hand sanitizer. Maybe some will take the issue head on and dress as H1N1. (Thank you Laura D. in Seattle!)

It still remains to be seen whether the virus is truly a widespread threat or another highly successful viral marketing campaign based on fear. Despite the flurry of recent panic, experts still note that even in kids--the highest risk group for this strain--swine flu has been relatively mild. More people overall may get symptoms, but so far it's not even close to the impact of the garden variety seasonal flu which kills about 36,000 Americans a year. So far, the CDC has confirmed 1,004 swine flu deaths.

(Meanwhile, according to the National Association of School Psychologists, every five hours a child or adolescent in the United States dies as a result of suicide. Kind of seems like chasing a mosquito in your living room while a tiger is sitting on your sofa.)

I attended church last Sunday, not a regular thing for me in recent months, but being a card- carrying Episcopalian I get a hankering for the comfort of ritual and community. After the customary handshakes and greetings during the peace, we settled in for the communion portion of the service. The pastor paused before heading up to the altar.

"We're being mindful these days, so now that we've shared the peace, we are going to share the Purell. Just take a bit and pass it on down to your neighbor."

Huh? I hadn't noticed the little bottles tucked into the end of each pew. I dutifully squeezed out a blob, rubbed and handed it down the line. The sanctuary filled with the peppery smell of alcohol and citrus. My nose itched. I tried not to scratch it before approaching the rail, lest I be sent back for re-sanitizing. I imagined the scene with Jesus after healing the leper,

"Hey Peter, could you hand me that Germ-x?"

Maybe the flu is a real threat. Maybe not. Time will tell. But most days what can really infect me is fear. It sends me into hiding, into hoarding, into survival mode. It pits me against you. It's contagious. And it's on every channel, every news site, because it sells stuff.

But, fear not! Vaccines are available: Turn off the news. Hug somebody. Or at least go dress up as a germ.

spookily yours,
cj

Will the real idealist please stand up

2009-10-21T08:01:00.000-07:00

Life only demands from you the strength you possess. Only one feat is possible--not to have run away.

~Dag Hammarskjold, Markings

A few days ago I was seated on a plane headed home after a week in San Francisco, where we had joined in the fun and celebration of my sweetie's daughter's wedding. I had felt a little torn about going, the internal voice that demands practicality and productivity really likes to be in charge. Especially when there's a chance to play or dance or relax. I decided to ignore it and go anyway.

As we were settling in for the long flight, I could hear the conversation of the two men behind us, their voices rising over the roar of the engines.

"It's been a tough year," one man said. "I'm an electrician and have been out of work. I'm not used to this, never had it like this before. I've been living on my savings."
"Where are you headed?"
"I'm on my way to my son's wedding. I'm not going to miss it."

I can read it in the headlines or hear stories on NPR, but somehow having someone sitting behind me on an airplane or the checkout line makes it more real. I'm not the only one wrestling with the uncertainties of this time. And every day gives me a choice about how to respond. Do I hunker down, get in my cave, try harder to fix it and figure it out?

Well, I could (and sometimes do) but people are getting married! Twenty-eight year olds who own playstations and work at software companies. And it's not just the chance to have health insurance. They're choosing to believe in love and commitment and a life together despite the odds and evidence set against success. Can you think of anything more deliciously idealistic and courageous than that?

It's true that the fairy tale ending is a myth. I think it was Alice Walker who said "There are no happy endings, only happy plateaus." This past few months I've been reading memoirs--not a genre that usually drew me, but the perfect one for this year--stories of people who wrestled with their own demons and challenges in between great moments of achievement and simple bites of joy. It's been a great reminder not to compare my insides with other people's outsides. Just about everyone has struggle and no one gets out alive. In weddings and memoirs I'm reminded that to show up for all of life is the assignment..and to share it is the reward.

FYI... here's my list: An Interrupted Life by Etty Hillesum; Reason for Hope by Jane Goodall; Fourth Uncle in the Mountain by Quang van Nguyen; The Story of My Life (restored edition) by Hellen Keller; My Name is Bill: Bill Wilson and the Creation of Alcoholics Anonymous by Susan Cheever. I'm currently reading Markings by Dag Hammarskjold.

blessings
cj

Postcards from Daisy

2009-08-27T08:58:00.000-07:00

August 14
Dear Mom,

I can't believe you're going to be gone almost 3 weeks.--in canine time that is like 4 months! And who is this human you've left me with? What kind of name is CJ anyway? Are you sure she's qualified? You said it would be fun, but I'm not sure about this. I think I will go lie on my dog bed and sulk now.

your,
~daisy

August 16
Dear Mom,

I let CJ take me out today. It was a successful walk--even on the leash I caught a rabbit! I don't know why she made such a fuss and wouldn't let me take it home. I tried to explain to her that I am not a vegetarian, like you. Don't I get to have any fun while you're gone?

despondently,
~daisy

August 19
Dear Mom,
Things are looking up. CJ has a fun human friend that has a lot of hair, at least on his chin. And he likes to swim, too. Can we get rid of her and keep him?

Hiked on the Laurel river today. Good smells, high quality stuff--but the hairy one stops to check out more plants than I do!
your,
~daisy

August 20
Mom,
I think the training about the treats is going well. Not sure why she freaks out when I clean out the goodies in the cat box, seems like I'm doing someone a favor.

hygenically your,
~daisy

August 23
Dear Mom,

Spent the weekend in the country, at David's cabin. I guarded the front porch, and made friends with Rosie, the 3-legged shepherd next door. She showed me the neighborhood, where the groundhog lives, the best trash cans, etc.

Went on a couple of good adventures with the humans, rustled up a turtle and two deer; scaled a waterfall. I tried not to show off too much.

They still don't seem to believe me when I tell them you let me eat all I want.

hungrily yours,
~daisy

August 26
Mom,

CJ may be a little co-dependent, which is working out well. After some pitiful looks, I now have my breakfast served outside on the veranda. It wasn't my fault the screen locked behind her this morning. I watched her climb in the kitchen window in her butterfly pajamas. Usually tail wagging gets me a treat, but today I just stayed out of her way.

Back to the dog bed for a nap. I wonder what's for dinner?

your,
~daisy

August 28
Dear Mom,

It was fun to talk with you last night, though I don't know why she felt silly holding the phone up to my ear. I don't have hands, so what does she expect?

It seems like I'm doing most of the work around here. I was up every night this week at 3am barking at those troublesome neighbors. CJ seems to get a little agitated...doesn't she realize I'm doing my job? I'm going to take a nap now.

Can't wait to see you soon!
~daisy

August 29
Hi Mom!

Swam in a four-star waterfall today...I finally trained her to throw me that stick until I'm done.

Saw a bear and two turkeys. I tried to jump out of the car to chase a turkey, but she was too quick with the electric window.

Visited Mt. Mitchell. I had to be on the leash, but it was pretty cool to be at the highest point on the east coast. I consented to a photo.

You know, I think she's going to miss me when she leaves.

happily your,
~daisy

In praise of hay and fleas

2009-05-23T11:53:00.000-07:00

My sweetie lives out in the "country", in a strikingly beautiful valley near the Smokies, surrounded by three different mountain ranges.

During a recent visit on a bright spring day, my eyes started itching. Then I began hacking and sneezing and coughing. Having evaded the endemic allergies during my 18 years in Atlanta, I was a little slow to realize what was happening. Finally it dawned on me as I sat on the porch overlooking the field next door.

"Is that hay?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yup."

It was official, I had hay fever! Graceful suffering is not one of my strong suits, so I kvetched and groaned my way through the next 24 hours, lamenting our proximity to the culprit grasses, until a good afternoon rain cleared the air.

That night I ventured back onto the porch to see the stars, cautiously inhaling and eyeing the field, prepared to bolt if it suddenly launched pollen missiles at me.

And then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the black night, I saw that the entire grassy expanse was alight with hundreds of fireflies, the first of the season. I can honestly say I've never seen anything like this vision. It was almost like looking at a reflection of the starry sky in a pond. I held my breath, and not because I was afraid of getting dusted.

The field of fireflies was a good reminder for me. I forget that I don't know what form blessings will come in. Sometimes they look (or feel) like misfortunes, especially if things aren't turning out like I think they should. Sometimes I curse the package and miss the blessing altogether, often until months or years later.

Many people have heard the story of Cory ten Boom, a Holocaust survivor, who in her book The Hiding Place relates an incident which taught her this principle. She and her sister, Betsy, had just been transferred to the worst German prison camp they had seen yet, Ravensbruck. Upon entering the barracks, they found them extremely overcrowded and flea-infested. Their Bible reading that morning had reminded them to rejoice always, pray constantly, and give thanks in all circumstances. Betsy told Corrie to stop and thank the Lord for every detail of their new living quarters. Corrie at first flatly refused to give thanks for the fleas, but Betsy persisted. She finally succumbed. During the months spent at that camp, they were surprised to find how openly they could hold Bible study and prayer meetings without the brutal interference of the guards that the other women's barracks experienced. It was several months later when they learned that the guards would not enter the barracks because of the fleas.

These past months have been challenging to say the least. But this morning, talking with my friend Kitty, I realized that my life has been, and likely will continue to be, filled with hay and fleas and all manner of things I can label as "bad", especially when I'm afraid, or uncomfortable. The invitation I hear today is to give thanks in all things...remembering not to pray to be relieved of hay fever, but to be able to see the fireflies.

Gamboling Problem?

2009-04-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

It's great to be known, isn't it? My best friend Jenn Manlowe, an editor and author, has duked it out with me in many a Scrabble game. We actually call it "squabble". Not that I'm competitive or anything...(cough).

Anyway, she sent me yesterday's Word of the Day from dictionary.com. I love that she not only knows I would enjoy such a diversion, but the word itself: GAMBOL:

gambol \GAM-buhl\ intransitive verb

1. To dance and skip about in play; to frolic

2. A skipping or leaping about in frolic

What a perfect time for this to be the Word of the Day! Just when we want to hunker down, try harder, worry and fret, stare at our 401K statements, and do anything other than frolic. What's there to frolic about?

Skipping and frolicking are Pollyanna stuff, right? Things that only children do. And we are grownups, with serious business, life and death responsibilities, on our shoulders. If you went out today and saw an adult skipping down the sidewalk, you'd look around uncomfortably and cross to the other side, wouldn't you?

As this economic crisis has called into question the entire framework of our culture, what if this time also presents the chance to consider that we, as a people, have a gamboling problem? Sure as Americans we're famous for leisure and excess of show-stopping proportions. But are we capable of joy, of wonder? When all else is stripped away, can we surrender our fear, our need for security, long enough to gambol with delight?

Admittedly hard to do, when you're worried about where the mortgage is coming from or how to put gas in the car. But after all our best efforts, we are ultimately powerless over those things. What could it hurt to try something counter-intuitive? Like a lot of spiritual practices, a good dose of pointless giggling may not "make practical sense" but may be the best antidote to our woes. Could gamboling actually help strengthen my faith?

"Everything can be taken from a man but ...the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

--Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

Why not? Today I commit to gamboling...hmmmm, what would that look like? Dancing around my living room (private so nobody can call the guys in white coats), blowing bubbles (more public, but socially acceptable and enjoyed by most people who aren't sociopaths), maybe take a child to the park--let her grab my hand and skip. (You can get away with it, if you've got a kid with you!) Hang out with people who like to laugh and play for no reason at all.

"I've been told dolphins like to gambol in the waves in these waters,

and that sighting them brings good luck" --Barbara Kingsolver, Where the Map Stopped

Happy gamboling ya'll.

Making space for a change...one couch at a time

2009-02-14T08:39:00.000-08:00

Where home is concerned, the tide is turning.

Worldwide, and even in these doggedly individualistic and territorial United States, people are surfing. "Couch surfing", that is. CouchSurfing is a worldwide network for making connections between travelers and the local communities they visit. A quote from the website says it best:

"We make the world a better place by opening our homes, our hearts, and our lives. We open our minds and welcome the knowledge that cultural exchange makes available. We create deep and meaningful connections that cross oceans, continents and cultures. CouchSurfing wants to change not only the way we travel,

but how we relate to the world!"

And I thought I was idealistic! I have found my people. This is a concept that makes complete sense to anyone who has ventured outside the cultural comfort zone and been immersed in the intimacy of visiting as more than a tourist. I have been privileged to be received as a teacher and professional exchange participant in Mongolia and Israel, respectively. The experiences transformed me, and my worldview, beyond what any guided 2 week/7 city tour would ever allow. And the couchsurfing trend is apparently working: last week alone 8,591 new couches opened up for like-minded travelers and cultural connectors.

The thing that interests me about this most today is the concept of sharing our space as one of our most precious resources. As economic hardship tightens its grip, and the prevalence of isolation becomes one of contemporary society's most insidious ills, making space on the couch or in the guest room makes good sense. For Americans in particular, the idea can be a foreign or downright threatening one. We hold tightly to the autonomy and the independence afforded by our own square acre. And there's no doubt that living with others can be a pain, there are risks, and the potential for conflicts and inconvenience.

In the past 15 months I have traveled in a pilgrimage that has taken me into the homes, guest rooms and even couches of 12 different households. Some were rented, others traded for, many others offered gratis. This nomadic existence was not the original intention of my journey, nor would I have ever signed myself (or you!) up for it in advance. Circumstances of sometimes seemingly Biblical proportions--floods, for instance--kept disrupting my best laid plans for putting down roots.

This time of mobility has stretched me in my capacity for flexibility and faith. It certainly lightened my load quite a bit--now I think twice before adding anything to my inventory of stuff! But mostly it has engendered a deep sense of gratitude and appreciation for the sacred art of hospitality.

The word hospitality derives from the Latin hospes, formed from hostis, which originally meant a 'stranger' + pets, to have power; the word hostire means equalize or compensate. In the Greek tradition, sacred hospitality is about compensating/equalizing a stranger to the host, making him feel protected and taken care of, and at the end of his hosting, guiding him to his next destination. This sense of caring for each other, and in turn accepting that care, punches a huge whole in the fierce self-reliance on which we generally rely.

In our current economic climate, when capital is scarce, we might benefit from sharing a resource that's right under our noses...our homes. It's true, and admittedly dismaying, that Americans are such conspicuous consumers, especially in the area of homebuilding. Industrial ecologists report single-family homes in the 1950's were built with an average of 290 square feet of living space per resident; in 2003, a family moving into a typical new house had almost 900 square feet per person. The new-home footprint increases each year, while families enjoy their rambling domiciles less and less as they work two 60-hour/week incomes to meet the mortgage.

It will probably take a huge shift in consciousness (nudged by the huge pinch we're experiencing now) to get us to change our ways. This week's story about a Florida congressman's family offering their spare home to a homeless family provides a great example of not letting our glut of space go to waste. You don't even have to offer it for free...lots of folks could benefit right now from some extra income. Progressive programs such as Housemate Match in Atlanta have been linking renters and older adult homeowners with extra room since 1984 (check out their great video).

Closer quarters may be a challenge for most of us. And they also may be a crucial step to facing into our mutual responsibility to care for the planet and each other. Surf's Up! What other ideas do you know about? ...I'd love to hear.

Talking is so out of vogue

2009-02-02T20:28:00.000-08:00

Ok folks, I have yet to use this blog for a rant but here it is. Admittedly that's not the default of my temperament. As the moniker for this space implies, I value communication that goes both ways, and talk radio style blathering (which usually comes in the form of yelling) isn't my speed, even in writing. There are only a few things that can really propel me post haste onto a soap box. One of them is leaf blowers...don't get me started. The other is email.

It's not that I don't use it, or value it, for making connections, staying updated, coordinating plans and relaying information. Especially in business...it's efficient. It keeps things moving and speeds things up (not always a good thing), etc, etc. It's eco friendly, it's in writing. There are lots of benefits, and Microsoft would be glad to give us a white paper on them. Go ahead, google it!

It also goes without saying (but in a rant you get to say it anyway) that the notorious downside of email is the lack of social cues that you have when you communicate in person or over the phone. We're mammals--social, relational creatures--and those subtle intonations, expressions and body language shape the impact and meaning of what we say. In their amazing book A General Theory of Love, three psychiatrists explore the neurobiology of this connection and make the case that our very survivial depends on it. So all that goes out the window and we're left hanging in the breeze to interpret the words without the limbic phrase book.

But I digress. This is actually not the focus of today's rant. Today I am taking to task the cowardly cover that email gives people to not deal with each other like human adults when conflict arises. What is up with this? In the past week I have heard from at least two friends in business and another in a romantic pairing where conflict is occurring and misunderstandings are happening and everybody is trying to solve these relational issues with a form of communication that is for all intensive purposes just about as effective as a telegraph. Next thing you know we will be texting each other our break up letters...OMG UR DUN. Of course, even as I write this I realize this probably does happen with regularity and I have just shown myself to be oh-so 20th century.

Yes, it's easier to just shoot off an email instead of actually having to listen, reflect, deal with people's feelings (or our own). But you know, we're an evolving species. We can handle it. Strengthen that human courage gene in the greater scheme of things. By just using a little old-fashioned talking to each other. Pick up the phone. Lord knows everyone seems to have one. Better yet, meet at your favorite locally owned coffee shop. Chat a bit, discuss, straighten it out. You need to get out of the office for minute anyway. Still too scary? Get some skills! And guess what, you may find that in the end, things end up being more productive and satisfying to boot.

Agree? Disagree? I'd love to hear about it. Call me!!!

Dare to dance...average

2009-01-22T13:06:00.000-08:00

The President inspires me. Ok, this sentiment is neither revolutionary nor unique. Our 44th Commander in Chief embodies "role model" as an orator, a leader, and simply as courageous human being.

But I'm talking about the dancing. When he and Michelle stepped into the Inaugural Balls on Tuesday night--in just about the brightest and most visible spotlight one can imagine--they weren't all that great at the foxtrot. Clearly that was one activity that was cut in the rehearsal department, understandably, say, after "delivering Inauguration Address", and "giving crisp salutes".

From my point of view it takes guts to be willing to "dance average", or even badly, in front of people. Especially when you're the President. I may also be saying this because I'm learning how to dance, so as I'm stumbling across the floor and tilting and whirling and occasionally crushing toes, it helps to think that even celebrities and role models can look a little stiff on the dance floor.

Still, one could clearly see that joy and delight in each other that propelled the first couple with slightly awkward steps across a global stage. The pundits may have declared that "the Obamas' performance level dipped in the dance department" (groan), but to me, it was just another example of how this leader and his strong and beautiful partner continue to invite me into challenges that may be just beyond my comfort level. That call me to stretch, twirl first, and let my courage catch up to me afterward. So I'm going to keep dancing, even if I'm average. Besides, I'm in it for the joy.

The image of the Obamas makes me want to make a slight adjustment to Elizabeth Alexander's beautiful innaugural poem: "praise song for dancing forward in that light". Indeed, "what if the mightiest word is Love?" Love that is forgiving, cuts us some slack, celebrates doing the dance imperfectly rather than sitting against the wall. What if as a country, as families, as co-workers, we chose this kind of Love--and to dance into it, swirling, tipping, dipping, smiling...average.

Laissez les bon temps roulez!

2009-01-06T15:46:00.000-08:00

.

It would be wrong to disparage the rain--we so desperately need it in our drought-ravaged region. But today's weather in Western North Carolina was so distinctly Seattle-like that I was having flashbacks to the interminable days of clouds and wet during the winter months in the northwest. The good news in the southeast is that we are reasonably certain that the dismal skies today will yield to sunny ones before too long. This southern girl is soooo glad to be back!

Though the day was dreary, it also marked the colorful celebration of Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, ending the 12 days of Christmas and beginning the season of Carnival--a period dedicated to decadence that culminates in Mardis Gras and the beginning of the more austere season of Lent. Asheville is celebrating in high style with a festive night of costumes, masks, zydeco and great New Orleans fare with traditional King Cake at Ed Boudreaux's Bayou BBQ.

With the current economic situation as bleak as today's gray skies, it seems that the traditional Carnival motto, Laissez les bon temps roulez! (roughly translated "Let the Good Times Roll"), seems a courageous and faithful rebuke to fear and gloominess. It is an invitation to celebration, to abundance, to color, life, dancing and fun. In short, it may be what we need more than anything right now. I'm keenly guarding my attention these days--will I focus on the negative and link my well-being and future to the grim narratives of newscasters? Or keep my gaze open to evidence of a Universe of plenty that is all around?

In the past 6 days, I've witnessed numerous examples of miracles of opportunity and expansion:

a friend landed a job within 24 hours of posting his resume online
a neighbor transferred to a better position that is a mile from her house, in an organization where there are "never" openings
a real estate agent closed on her 3rd home sale in the last 4 weeks
a friend's daughter was contacted by a former client asking to correct a billing error in which they owed her $6,000.

I am not suggesting that we ignore the suffering, struggle and concern that so many of us are facing in these uncertain times; there are real challenges to be met now and in the days ahead. The brutality in the Middle East continued today, there is violence and deprivation all around. But, at least for today, I choose to put my faith in abundance, in joy, and to nibble a sweet bite of king cake, and declare (if only in a whisper) "Laissez les bon temps roulez!"

May they roll with you and yours as well.

Life in the Slow Lane

2008-12-28T03:03:00.000-08:00

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I set out to buy the ingredients for the next day's holiday potluck. I zipped through Greenlife and Ingles with all the other last minute shoppers, studying my list and periodically whistling along with the piped-in carols. The feeling in the air was an odd mix of frantic and excited; shoppers rushed around with smiles alternating with grimaces. I found myself in a very jolly mood, eagerly anticipating time with good friends and grateful that the mall and walmart were nowhere near my destination list.

Waiting in the checkout line, I remembered a last minute item and assured the Man Behind Me "I would be right back." Fearing the glares of my fellow line-waiters, I ran across the store. "You could have walked downtown and back," the Man Behind Me grumbled when I returned, "at the rate this checker is going." Our gal did indeed seem to be moving at a snail's pace; she had a weary look about her. I wondered if she was sick, or sad. "It might be the best thing for us," I cheerily replied, "the Universe trying to get us all to slow it down." The Man stared at me for a minute, wondering if he should take offense at my chipper chiding. He decided not to and smiled, "Maybe you're right."

This interlude held a little more significance for me this year, since the potluck I was preparing to attend was being hosted by friends who are involved in the "Slow Food Movement"--a worldwide "eco-gastronomic" (!) membership of folks dedicated to counteracting the fast food culture by creating events and discourse around food appreciation and food justice issues.

Founded in 1989 when Italian activist Carlo Petrini protested the opening of the first MacDonald's in Rome, Slow Food has rapidly grown in recent years to 85,000 active food loving members in 132 countries. My friends had just returned from the international convention, Terra Madre, held in Turin, Italy, and were excited to share their passion with friends and family with a Slow Food Christmas feast.

My Slow Food hosts had invited us to create meals based on local foods, grown organically, with fair trade values, etc. This proved to be a interesting assignment; I admit I just take for granted that I can get bananas when I want them. What IS grown locally and in season during winter in western North Carolina? I wondered if we would be having 17 different renditions of squash casserole, so I started paying attention--talking with the produce pros at Greenlife, and rising to the challenge of finding something interesting to cook. I was delighted to find NC grown yams for my favorite holiday sweet potato pie, along with a variety of salad greens and beets to make a roasted beet and green salad with local goat cheese and Georgia pecans.

Christmas afternoon, I arrived at the common house in Pacifica, a new co-housing community in Carrboro, NC. The table overflowed with all manner of eco-gastronomic offerings: cabbage with roasted potatoes and lentils, winter leek and sausage casserole, arugula salad (grown right on the property), spicy collards, holiday cole slaw, homemade bread, and more. Feast indeed! With not a squash in sight. And in typical slow food fashion, we lingered for several hours, refilling our plates as new offerings arrived, and rambling over all manner of topics from favorite recipes to politics to discussion of whether one resident's request to install a woodstove would find consensus with his neighbors. (Sure, living in community sounds great, but then you have to deal with all the other people! But they're doing it with messy grace and authentic joy. It's amazing to witness.)

At the end of the night, we swept and cleaned and put everything back in its place in the common house, then walked the 50 yards toward home. The sky was full of stars (visible since the ambient light is minimal by design). We paused, inhaling the night, happy and full.

So, I plan to slowly enjoy the remaining 12 Days of Christmas, these waning winter days that extend like spiritual speed bumps between December 24 and January 6. These 12 days invite me to savor the year, reflecting rather than rushing pell mell into 2009.

I pray you, too, find some savoring in Slow.

Have Yourself a Grinchy Little Christmas!

2008-12-11T05:26:00.000-08:00

"And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?"
---- Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel). How the Grinch Stole Christmas! New York: Random House, 1957

Contrary to the speculation of my extended family, I do not "hate" Christmas. Au contraire! I still revel in the sparkle of decorations, the crisp, evergreen scent of trees adorned with a history of family treasures, and--in the vicinity of little Cindy Lou Whos--the unmistakable crackle of electricity generated from the anticipation of what treasures Santa will bring this year. Yes, I still love Christmas. I even tour the neighborhood light displays while playing my Charlie Brown Christmas cd. But don't tell anybody.

But, like many adults, I have also wrestled with the pang of nostalgia and melancholy that can haunt the last days of December. As the month glides through its choral concerts and holiday craft fairs, it seems like hopefully moving toward a lush desert oasis that draws closer and yet remains always just beyond reach. The buildup is overwhelming! What Super Santa could possibly satisfy this cultural craving? God bless him.

I was in my early 30's before I finally surrendered to the reality that the traditional Christmas observance just didn't work for me. The frantic buying didn't suit my temperament or my budget. Not having kids, the Christmas morning ritual of present opening just seemed worn out and contrived. The presents are nice and thoughtful, but often didn't quite hit the mark. Besides, did we really need that L.L. Bean fleece vest or the latest teeny weeny digital camera?

So, as of 2003, I officially resigned from the ritual gift exchange. (Though my stepmom keeps sending a few presents--sigh. She says it makes her happy and I can't stop her. True.) Now new traditions and rituals have emerged, cobbled together with remnants of the old--midnight mass and carols at the Episcopal church--and unconventional--snorkeling in Key West on Christmas Day. Talk about sparkly gifts swimming around!

My favorite so far was with a group of similar-minded single friends in 2004. We decided to spend our Christmas in the North Georgia mountains, at the Len Foote Hike Inn, one of Georgia's best kept secrets. http://hike-inn.com/ Accessible only on foot (a pretty easy 5 mile hike) the rustic lodge is outfitted with double bunk rooms, hot showers, a chef on staff and comfy common areas with windows showcasing the beautiful forest. Well fed, we spent Christmas Eve doing puzzles, playing scrabble, and roasting in front of one of the wood stoves. Each person brought one gift for the group: cookies, a poem, a song, a candle, which we shared before heading off to bed. On Christmas morning, the innkeepers gently rang a gong for those who wanted to see the sunrise. Sleepy-eyed and clutching our coffee mugs, we shuffled over to join the other guests in a room with 180 degrees of windows. The golden red sun rose quietly over the Appalachians. That was it.

Merry Christmas!

It came, joyfully, without packages, boxes or bags. I think the Grinch really had it right after all.

The "ping" that connects us

2008-12-05T07:47:00.000-08:00

I received this Advent reflection (below) in my inbox today. I wish I had written it--it so eloquently articulates what prompted me to start this blog. What a great holiday gift! I hope it speaks to you as it did to me.

Advent has always been a meaningful time in my spiritual life. A few years ago, I made the decision to opt out of the hype and pace of pre-holiday December. Advent has become a time that feels in rhythm with the reflective, quiet, waiting feel of winter.

I used to think of this season as waiting for the "birth" of Christmas to reveal itself. Now I experience it more as a sinking into what is-- knowing that Creation is constantly growing in and around me. And, in the quiet, I can hear the 'ping of connection that lets me know that all is well and more will be revealed. Blessings on your advent and this season of peace.

"Advent Readings from Iona" by Brian Woodcock & Jan Sutch Pickard, Wild Goose Publications, 2000.

Advent began in a dramatic way one year when seven potholers emerged unscathed after ten days underground, in France's largest rescue of its kind. Trapped by flooding, forty metres down, they managed to stretch their three-day supplies and survive the freezing conditions. People searching the cave system had been drilling through rocks and lowering microphones without detecting any signs of life. Two groups of people, each listening for the other in the darkness, In 'ping the other was there. Neither had known for certain, but they had kept going as if life depended on it. Which it did.

Listen! I am coming!' Saved by the listening. And by looking. And by not giving up. Real humanity is sometimes buried very deep. In our society and within ourselves. Sometimes we can only hope it is there;we cannot know for certain. But it can be found and reached, touched and healed.And, little by little, brought back to the surface.

It is possible, if there is listening. Listen from deep within. And listen on behalf of others. Whole communities can find their humanity if a few keep on listening. It is not always necessary to listen for words and instructions. To listen simply for signs of life is enough to make the connection. But those who come to our rescue will need to listen as well. For even God listens -very close to us, down in the darkest places, patiently seeking us out.Listening is our salvation. Listening, and not giving up. We are saved by a listening God.

Listening for a Change!

2008-11-09T15:13:00.000-08:00

Like many other Americans (those both jubilant and disappointed), I am still digesting the fact that Barack Hussein Obama II is the 44th President-Elect of the United States of America.

There are lots of implications to be explored in this historical event, but the one that is most exciting from the perspective of this blog and this blogger is this short excerpt from his election-eve speech: "and I will listen to you, especially when we disagree." Hallelujah! Listening has been officially endorsed by the white house. What a concept!

What would the political process look like if we actually listened for a change--especially when we disagree. What would our foreign policy and relationships with the nations of the world be if we actually made it a priority to hear and understand their points of view. Not that we haven't done this to some extent with diplomatic efforts. But it's never been the centerpoint, only the stepchild of the strategy of force. Bullies don't listen, they push you down or twist your arm.

What would it be like if our elected officials, business leaders and diplomats learned how to use Nonviolent Communication in decision making to hear the feelings and needs of other human beings http://www.cnvc.org/.

What if we did it differently--and directed the energy of fighting across the aisle and across the border, into understanding and constructive action. Imagine what could be accomplished.

My vote on Tuesday was not only for this man but for the ideals that he is bringing to the table. The origin of the word "vote" is from the Latin votum "a vow, wish, promise, dedication". In this light, voting becomes a pledge of action that continues on after the election results are finalized and the winner is announced. My vow, my wish, my promise and my dedication is to support President Obama's efforts to listen, to build community, and to restore the trust, respect and vibrancy of our great country. And that is something I really want to hear about.

stuff and more stuff

2008-09-11T13:27:00.000-07:00

"Our enormously productive economy...demands that we make consumption our way of life, that we convert the buying and use of goods into rituals, that we seek our spiritual satisfaction, our ego satisfaction, in consumption...we need things consumed, burned up, replaced and discarded at an ever-accelerating rate."

Victor LeBow, Free Enterprise:The Opium of the American People, 1972

I just moved into my housesitting job for September. I've been doing a lot of that over these past 12 months, kind of a modern study in nomadic culture. When I was in Mongolia in 2002, I was amazed at the concept of the yurt and moving every 4 months. Little did I know that I'd be having a similar experience in my own not too distant future!

In preparation for this pilgrimage, I let go of most of my "stuff" with care, keeping only the things that really mattered to me. Want more insight into your attachments? Have a yard sale! I hovered over the books like Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice. My face recoiled in horror as an excited shopper planned to use my framed Chihuly prints to showcase his Batman comics!

Even after all of the letting go, I was still left with a lot of "stuff", which is now strewn across the country in various safehouses awaiting my next domicile. (Hopefully that will happen soon, as I am wearying of the constant movement of this extended road trip.) One thing about carting your stuff around is that you will really start to pay attention to what you use, what you buy and how much it weighs!!

I never considered myself a "materialistic" person--though how could this really be true--let's face it, I was born and raised in a culture where consumerism is the fundamental religion. Nevertheless, I always said I didn't get the shopping gene and tried to keep things relatively simple. So it's been somewhat of a shock to see all the stuff I've still been carrying around. How much I use, or more accurately, don't use, as I cart my belongings between house stops. I'm not advocacting for a commune mind you, but there is something to be said for sharing stuff. It sure does cut down on the use of resources and the need for disposal.

But that would throw a wrench in the system and then what would we do? Annie Leonard spent the last ten years researching The Story of Stuff and her 20 minute documentary is simplified, but worth watching. http://www.storyofstuff.com/

Take a look around at your stuff. Try for a month to be conscious of how much you actually use, appreciate, touch. What does it mean to you? What would it mean to let go of it? What would be left? Or what would fit in the gap left behind?

Berry Good

2008-09-02T15:44:00.000-07:00

My summer adventures in Western North Carolina continued this weekend with a field trip to a most succulent destination: berry picking at The Long Branch Environmental Education Center in Leicester, NC. http://www.longbrancheec.org/

This fertile and fruitful oasis was found 35 years ago by eco-visionary Paul Gallimore and his wife. Long before the organic and raw food movements were a rumble in the tummies of green farmers (and a ringing in the register of green marketers), Paul was steadfastly and quietly nurturing 1600 acres of organic berry patches, apple orchards and gardens. He's recently compiled his experience and wisdom into a tome called "Healing Appalachia".

The not-for-profit center charges a minimal fee for harvesting the fruits of the earth and provides as little or as much eco-education as you can digest during your stay. Hosted by volunteers like our guide, Steve, a 20-something nutritionist whose glow and enthusiasm practically bellowed "I'm high on healthy!", you can almost feel the antioxidants doing their magic right on the spot. (I felt a twinge of guilt about the decidedly non-vegan north carolina bbq I'd eaten with gusto the night before. But boy oh boy, was it good!)

I wandered in awe with my bucket as I took in the abundance of nature's generosity. The berries were bursting from the bushes, full and juicy from last week's torrents. I could hear the "thump" of apples falling from the trees, ripe and full. The center will be pressing cider soon in an attempt to use up some of the bumper crop. We buzzed from bush to bush like bees, gathering some, nibbling some, our fingers sweet and faintly blue.

And yet in the midst of all this abundance, I felt some sadness too. How is it possible that there are people right here in Buncombe County, not to mention Africa, South America and Asia who go to sleep and even die hungry? Nature's way is the way of abundance, not for the sake of productivity, (can you imagine the berry bush anxiously awaiting it's performance review?) but for the sheer joy of it. How can we as humans be have a grace to receive that goodness? And have the courage and creativity to be a channel for it. There is, as economist Jeffrey Sachs and others assert, no tangible reason that poverty needs to exist. http://www.earth.columbia.edu/pages/endofpoverty/index

Could it be true? Is there really enough--more than enough--to share? Looking at berries spilling over my countertop, I want to say, to know, the answer is YES!

water symphony

2008-08-25T20:45:00.000-07:00

It's raining in Western North Carolina tonight!

This is a big deal, as we are in a drought--"extreme drought" according to the experts. All of nature is parched and thirsty, rivers are low, crops languish, and flowers droop.

It's hard to believe that patter of the rain would be such a joyous and welcome sound for me, after leaving Seattle unable to settle comfortably into its seemingly unceasing precipitation. But this morning when I woke up and saw the drizzle, my heart jumped with excitement for the good fortune. I worried that it was only a drizzle, not enough to soak the roots and seep down good and soggy, giving the plants a deep drink of nourishment.

Then tonight I heard the sound of pouring buckets, the cowbell tone of drops bouncing off the eaves, water pouring through the trees in my backyard. Glorious sound! I'm sitting on my deck, listening, letting the shower symphony wash over me, filling me back up after this long dry journey home.

Tomorrow will be green and juicy and full of gratitude.

The Power of Play

2008-08-16T17:06:00.000-07:00

I've been half-jokingly calling this summer of transition my "Asheville summer camp". I truly think you'd have to make a sincere effort not to play in such a glorious location. From long walks along the peaceful Swananoa to dancing in drum circles in Pritchard Park, I've been surrendering to the spirit of play that seems to bubble up just from being here.

One of my favorite playgrounds is water, and Western North Carolina has a host of pristine rivers, streams and lakes--though most have been severely affected by the prolonged drought in the southeast. Nevertheless, I was delighted to find a near perfect swimming hole at Hooker Falls in the Dupont Forest. Though hardly a wilderness area, it's a gathering place for all shapes, sizes and colors of swimmers, looking for a respite from the August heat. The squeals and giggles remind me of otters chasing each other through the slippery rocks. What other choice do you have but to jump in too?

In my serious pursuit of recreation, I was also delighted to listen to Krista Tippet's interview with Stuart Brown, the Director of the National Institute for Play. Dr. Brown's years of study in medicine and psychiatry ultimately led him to become the nation's first champion of play when he started the institute at the age of 62. Hear more about the science of play and it's invaluable role in our formation as humans and the hope of the planet. http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/play/

With that kind of scientific backing, I may just play the whole rest of the summer! Y'know, for the good of the planet and all.

Can you hear that picture?

2008-08-09T19:13:00.000-07:00

When you look at something do you hear sounds? No, not the sound made by the particular object like dog: barking. It's kind of like when some people hear certain music they see colors. This is the opposite. If so you have a rare form of synaesthesia, interesting article: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7545888.stm

Listening to the otter

2008-07-30T17:15:00.000-07:00

I've been attending a great contemplative prayer group at Servanthood House in Asheville. Every Monday through Friday morning, they gather and sit in silence for half an hour and then visit on the porch of the historic home that serves as a center for prayer, healing, and fellowship. Today our convener offered a short reflection on the Mary and Martha story from the New Testament. It's always been a favorite of mine, and I suppose I needed to hear it today.

For those who aren't familiar with the story, Mary and Martha are sisters who are part of Jesus' community of supporters. They host him at their home one evening and Martha gets bent out of shape because she's slaving away in the kitchen while Mary "sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what He was saying". When Martha complains to Jesus, he responds "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her" .

Now how's that for a countercultural approach to our human doing-ness? Jesus never was much for worshipping at the altar of our western notion of "productivity". From what I can tell, he never held a salaried job in the three years documented of his ministry. He'd go up on the mountain to hang out with God for days at a time. Yet his embodiment of Spirit and his message to humanity lives on, shaping our world 2,000 years after his physical body is gone.

I suppose the Mary story resonates since this is a summer of listening for me. Listening for guidance on the next leg of the journey, staying quiet enough to hear the still small voice that sometimes doesn't even use actual words. Today it spoke to me through a carving of an otter placed casually on the altar of the meditation room. Otters have always been a powerful totem for me, representing the sacredness of play and partnership. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kavoAsYkjq4 Like today's visit from the otter, the messages I receive often don't make sense in the left brain way that I'm used to and comfortable with. But when I'm willing, I hear and comprehend in a place beyond the thinking, doing part of me.

Now the big challenge is, will I listen...as in "follow the direction"? Will fear steer me back into strategic planning and compulsive doing to make me feel safe? Hopefully not. But if I do, then is the opportunity to return again to the listening. There is Mary sitting cross-legged at the feet of Jesus. And there is the otter, speaking its playful invitation to come out of the kitchen and do what really matters.

The sound of...silence?

2008-07-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

I'm summering in Asheville this July and August...for those who don't know it, recently named one of the happiest places in the U.S by NPR correspondent Jerry Weiner in "Geography of Bliss" http://www.ericweinerbooks.com/content/index.asp. Well, technically he didn't say that, but give a tourism board an inch and there ya go. I say they deserve it. I've met a lot of really happy people here!

In my opinion, it's a title much deserved by this charming jewel nestled in the Appalachians. Surrounded by a moutain range more gentle than majestic, supposedly one of the oldest ranges on the planet, they say the mountains have "grandmother energy". I believe it. Even the air feels gentle, the people are friendly and the eclectic mix of indie folk music, spendy tourists, healers, academics and old southern money give it the feel of all the scraps of grandma's quilt coming together to make a treasure both beautitful and unique.

Until you start to hear the chainsaws. Ah yes, the downside of being discovered, of growth, of progress is that everyone wants a piece of it, literally. Nearby, another condo development is being constructed and the lot is being systemically cleared and prepared for new Ashevillians. That's not a bad thing. Of course we need housing and responsible planning and jobs for the hardworking folks that are building the condos and mcmansions. But it is just downright painful each morning to hear the chipring birds and cicada songs abruptly drowned out by the bulldozer yanking tree stumps their bearings and the growling of mulchers grinding them to so much rubble.

Ok, yes I'm a tree hugger. Literally. My dad has a picture of me trying to wrap my arms around a giant douglas fir in the Olympic National Park. I love being surrounded by them, hearing the breeze blow through the leaves, sitting under them in the shade. And yes, I love a good fire too and appreciate the 2x4's that hold up my roof. But I still lament that we rip them down indiscriminately, without ceremony, without acknowledgement of their place in the ecosystem, their beauty, and their invaluable carbon monoxide transforming contribution to our well-being.

The empty clearcut lot is silent as I pass it now, kind of like a cemetery but without the peace. It looks like battlefield where the bulldozer won. The Ashevillians are fighting to save a hundred year old magnolia tree that graces the town square. http://www.citizen-times.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=200880807124 I hope they do it. That victory cheer would be a sound worth listening for...

A corps of listeners

2007-11-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

You've probably heard of Storycorps, if you haven't already huddled into one of their community vans to interview your great aunt or the owner of the neighborhood drug store that's been there for 57 years. It's the NPR program solely dedicated to the act of listening to the extra-ordinary stories of ordinary people.

Now they have a cd collection out so you, too, can share in the delight of listening to the folks on your street. I love this title, but couldn't get away with something so earnest on my website, so here it is:

"Listening is An Act of Love"
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16088311

Consider giving the gift of listening this holiday season--and you don't even have to buy the box set to do it!

earfully yours,
cj

"Shhhh, quiet, please."

2007-08-16T15:13:00.000-07:00

When I was little, I loved the library. It was a free and somewhat anonymous escape from chaos and confusion into worlds of imagination and wonder. The smell of old books was dignified and mysterious. And somehow the "shhhh" of the librarian was comforting. She guarded the silence with the fierceness of a Praetorian Guard at the gates of Rome. She knew her job was a sacred task. It took me many years to learn exactly how much so.

Today, I still love the library and frequently walk to the Decatur branch near my home. It doesn't seem as quiet these days. The librarians, no less vigilant in their friendly yet imposing watch, now have much to handle in monitoring cell phones and rebooting internet computers.

This scene is not unlike my mind most days. I frequently call on my inner librarian to quiet the rowdy revelers in my head that don't want to settle down. These self-appointed advisors arenot convinced that we'll be ok if they're off duty. But when it's quiet, the guidance I receive from connecting with self and Spirit is infinitely wiser, more adventurous, more creative, and accurate than anything I can conjure up out of my noisy brain. Probably because it bypasses the brain and comes straight from the heart--which is too polite and kind to raise its voice. So I must request, "shhhh, quiet please". I breathe in and out and listen. Sometimes I ask "what do I need to know?" Sometimes I just enjoy the quiet. The more I do it, the more I hear. And the less fearful I've become.

What's your heart whispering today?

I'm certain I don't know

2007-06-14T10:29:00.000-07:00

One of my teachers used to say that biggest obstacle to peace was the human tendency to "lust for certainty". The need to be right, to have a guarantee, to lock down THE answer can get in the way of the good stuff in life, (you know, things like relationships, learning, exploration, growth) which can be decidedly messy and less linear.

The tricky part is that in order to learn you first have to admit you don't know. Oft-quoted Socrates himself admitted it. This can be an understandably uncomfortable position to visit, not to mention to live in. And in this day of polarized positions, we don't get a whole lot of cultural training or support on stretching into the gray area of not knowing. Our whole system is set up to measure, analyze, get answers. We worship at the altar of Opinion and Empirical Knowledge.

In her book "Finding Our Way--Leadership for an Uncertain Time" (2005, Berrett-Koehler), organizational consultant Margaret Wheatley describes listening through uncertainty as a critical tool for modern relationships, both in the workplace and elsewhere:

"If you're willing to be disturbed, I recommend that you begin a conversation with someone who thinks differently than you do. Listen as best you can for what's different, for what surprises you. Try to stop the voice of judgement or opinion. Just listen. At the end of this practice, notice whether you learned anything new. Notice whether you developed a better relationship with the person you just talked with. If you try this with several people, you might find yourself laughing in delight as you realize how many unique ways there are to be human."

So what keeps us from adventuring into the Land of Not Knowing? The Wise Ones say: "Would you rather be right or be happy?" Easy to say, until I sit down to discuss the war with someone...When my pulse is racing, palms sweating, and I can't believe you just said that...it's hard to entertain the option that surrendering my RIGHTness could lead to serenity.

Rumi said "Out beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there." I've found great comfort and community in learning Nonviolent Communication--it gives me practical tools and strategies for getting to that field.

I'd like to meet you there. Stay tuned...

Listening for Now

2007-05-08T17:12:00.000-07:00

My friend Reid loves all things audio. He enjoys sound in all its varieties like other people enjoy a great meal or a piece of art. My pal Pearl is a contemplative person, a camrade in the Resistance Against the Assault of The Media. While she is quietly observing the audio map of a neighborhood evening-- cars parking, birds chirping into nests, and humans clanking dinner dishes, he may be listening to a soundtrack of convention hall cacophony--booming announcements, caffeinated chatter and background Muzac. Yet these two seemingly dissimilar listeners share a powerful common thread: attentiveness to sound brings their experience of the present moment to life. And from what the spiritual masters like Thich Nhat Hanh and Eckhart Tolle say, this is a good thing, so I'm trying to pay attention.

I'm beginning to see (or rather hear) the beauty in tuning in to the sonic snapshots of what's going on around me. Recently I was at the 2-minute car wash, hardly the most meditative of environments. It was a hectic day, and I was feeling rushed and disheveled. Suddenly the clanking of the chain moving the conveyor belt caught my attention. I began to listen --and was pulled into the car wash world around me with a laser-like intensity: the cough of the attendant, the swoosh of water and brushes, keys jangling impatiently while we waited for our vehicles to emerge shiny and clean.

Somehow that quick tune-in lowered my blood pressure, calmed my brain and brought me back to center. Focusing on the sounds around me helped offset the disarray of mind and spirit that, ironically, often feels exacerbated by the relentless stimulus of contemporary urban life. Maybe that's why the NPR Soundclips series is so popular. From clips of antique engines to defective ceiling fans and noisy dryers, the bizarre and mundane are transformed into an audio canvas of storytelling and life.

Could be worth a try. What are you listening to today? Are you here, now? Listen in.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

2007-04-24T19:21:00.000-07:00

My apologies. I'm shouting, I know. But a quote in last month's Wired Magazine really stuck with me and prompted this week's blog entry.

In that issue, Clive Thompson wrote a great article on the "new transparency" that is rapidly unveiling a reluctant corporate america. "I think that most of the rage people feel toward these big institutions, like government or corporations or media, is that they feel they're not listened to, that no one's there," says Shel Israel, coauthor of Naked Conversations. By seeming "basically like a normal human," a company can quickly generate a surge of goodwill."

What about this rage that author Israel observes as commonplace? In addition to high levels of caffeine, logjammed traffic and unrelenting schedules, could this 21st century anger actually be attributed to lack of listening? Perhaps the explosion in popularity of social media points us to a void being filled around the deep, human need to be heard?

I guess the proof is "you know where". Check it out today. Take time to really listen to someone. Respond to a blog. Ask to be heard. See how it feels.

Thanks for listening!

Listening is good business

2007-04-17T17:44:00.000-07:00

Recently I sat quietly on a conference call and witnessed a public relations firm lose an account with a client of mine.

The client was very clear in her concerns and requests, yet the folks on the other end of the line just didn't seem to get it. They barreled forward with ideas and apologies and, being a public relations firm (no offense to my esteemed PR colleagues) did a lot of talking. What the client wanted was to be heard. By the time the call was over, so was the account.

And Listening for a Change was born.

I've been talking about launching this initiative for at least a year, but this one incident was the tipping point that launched me into cyberspace and, hopefully, connect with other listening fans and those who might want to give it a try.

So what is it about listening that makes it so rare, so hard to master, so difficult to find in this Age of Communication? Certainly we're spending enough money to be heard....the telecom industry, despite its challenges, is raking in billions of consumer dollars to keep us connected.

(And, apparently doing a good job of getting heard themselves--Telecommunications companies spent $60.3 million on political contributions over six years and a minimum of $83.4 million on lobbying over two years, according to a 2005 Center for Public Integrity analysis.)

But, I digress. Apparently we're hungry to be heard. But is anyone really listening? Certainly the majority of us have ears that work pretty well--though listening is not limited to all things audio. Nevertheless our appetite to be heard isn't being met by the fast food communications diet of our culture. Listening seems to be a little like healthy eating: we know about the food pyramid, but it's just so much easier to drive through.

What if we learned to listen, really listen, to each other. It takes a effort, to stop, be present, be curious, to actually BE with people. It might sound touchy-feely as a business strategy, but what do you have to lose? Maybe that key account...

More later. ..

Listening is important, honey!

2007-04-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

Listen actively.
Listen empathetically.

I'll talk about this more later.

my first post

2007-04-11T19:13:00.000-07:00

this is my first post.
only good vibes!!!