Listening to the Breezes Beyond Time

I’ve done nothing.  I’ve simply written down what I heard from the Gods

Giacomo Puccini (classical music composer)

Sometimes I structure things, I lay out plans, I have a clear view of the road ahead.  That’s okay.  There’s a certain meek satisfaction there.  But it often feels dull.  Yes, I have to put the work in to accomplish things, and indeed they do get done, but there’s another realm … of juice.

Mr. Puccini wrote twelve operas.  He needed a broad musical knowledge to accomplish that, but there was a beyond.  He listened.  Unknown guides were whispering in his ear, and he allowed himself to fall forward into the mist, to trust that a vaster mind was placing gifts in his hands.  Please, let me be so orchestrated.

I’ve learned not to censor the words that tumble from my mouth.  Oh, I still hear the ancient tones of “Be Careful” but they don’t hold sway.  I respect such acquaintances but I don’t wrap my arms around them.  It’s more like nodding as I acknowledge their presence.

Today was a hug.  As I was doing the Mutual Awakening Practice with a partner, the world was flowing free.  I was being carried by a lilt in the voice, a spring in the step.  And then the revelation landed from the nether regions:

I have happy fingers!

Yes, it was true.  “They get to hang out together, and bobble and wobble together.  The fingies touch and then bounce away.  And you know what’s the best?  They’re all part of this … hand!  They’re part of a whole, one that can wave, and hold things, and rest on my lap.  My happy fingers never get lost out there in the sky.  They have a home – always connected, always a part of something big.”

Perhaps Giacomo Puccini is proud of me today.  I wasn’t measured or effective.  I was dancing to the whims and whispers from other lands.

Parent and Child

They were staring at me through the basement window, steady in the eyes and sorrowful in the soul.  Their gaze never left mine through the pane of glass.  There was a silent request washed with resignation.

Why had these lives soured in the depths?  Why weren’t my new friends scampering across the lawn?  Would they have more tales to tell their loved ones, or was this the end? 

I looked back, from the inside to the outside.  Small kindred spirits stood motionless as they made my acquaintance.  Was there something to do or should I turn away and proceed with my human endeavours?

I felt drawn to the world without walls.  My apparatus sat still in the garage and I motioned it to my hand.  Soon I was on the green grass at that very window.  There was a squeezing and a lifting … and we were all free.

Lonely in the World

The singer is Nanci Griffith.  The song is “When I Dream”.  The sadness permeates all.  There is lonely with money and lonely without money.  This is with.  It looks good – being able to head to Paris on a whim, eat at the best restaurants, host elegant parties, be liked a thousand times on Facebook.  But it’s not good.  It’s empty … of life.

Nanci is not just dreaming of a soulmate, a romantic partner.  She longs for true human contact – with people young and old, male and female.  She longs for kindred spirits.  There is a connection possible between human beings that is profound.  There is no gap between.  It isn’t two folks trying to understand and empathize.  It’s two folks inside the same immense reality that easily escapes our best words.  Together in that, and each person still deeply him or herself.   More of me.  More of us.

Too often we narrow our view to see intimacy solely as the realm of sexual partners.  There is a world of contact beyond the lovers.  Such interlacing is available for anyone willing to come close to the other.  It is our birthright.

The words of Crystal Gayle lie below the singer.  They point to despair tinged with a touch of hope.  There is another destination.

I could have a mansion that is higher than the trees
I could have all the gifts I want and never ask please
I could fly to Paris, oh, it’s at my beck and call
Why do I go through life with nothing at all?

But when I dream, I dream of you
Maybe someday you will come true

I can be the singer or the clown in every room
I can even call someone to take me to the moon
I can put my makeup on and drive the men insane
I can go to bed alone and never know his name

But when I dream, I dream of you
Maybe someday you will come true

Not in Control

I’m often a Zoom host on calls of 10 to 40 people.  I started learning how to do this in October, 2019 and it’s been a rocky road since.  I’ve made lots of mistakes, ones that diminished the experience of many folks.  And I’ve forgiven myself for that.  It’s always my intention to be excellent but sometimes my brain has trouble keeping up with my heart.

Twenty-one months later, I’m a good Zoom host – not brilliant like a few Zoomies I know, but I take care of the participants well.  Then there was today.  I was a host three times … and adventures abounded.  For instance:

1.  There’s a chat feature in Zoom.  My job in the early morning was to post a message that the organization wanted to be passed on.  I copied and pasted and … Voilà (!) the window started filling with fast-moving “j”s!  Within two seconds, the space was full.  I scrolled down, trying to get to the end of the letters – still full – so I scrolled some more.  Finally a blank space at the end of the zooming “j”s.  I slammed my finger down on the space bar and the flood stopped.  I held the backspace key down and watched in horrified fascination as page after page of “j”s were sucked back into cyberspace.  “What’s going on?!”

2.  My job includes dividing participants into pairs for the breakout rooms.  There’s a “Create Rooms” window that appears.  Piece of cake occasionally, lots of focus required usually.  I clicked a little up arrow to increase the number of rooms to accommodate the 20 people who were on one call today.  Suddenly 100 breakout rooms appeared and I couldn’t think fast enough to get that number down to 10.  So there were 20 folks, each alone in a room, surrounded by empty rooms.  I gathered my wits (slowly) and manually paired up the participants.  The body was shaking.

3.  On another call, I set the length of the breakout sessions to the standard 30 minutes.  I thought I was finished with that part when I glanced down and saw that the time had magically morphed into 300 minutes.  I fixed that.  Then I got busy with other tasks.  Just before I was to open the rooms, a little birdie told me to check the settings again.  The big uncover?  The sessions were set to close in 3 minutes.  (Sigh)

Somehow (thank you, whoever you are) I got through all this.  The participants were well served, and blissfully unaware of my trials.

I ended the afternoon chatting online with a Zoom support person.  After much exploration together, he thought my program was corrupted.  “Uninstall and reinstall”.  So I did.

And tomorrow is another day.

Expressing

Well … it’s been awhile.  I’d guess six weeks.  It felt like it was over – all this writing.  There was a sense of moving on, away from a blog and towards teaching the Mutual Awakening Practice Course with the Evolutionary Collective.  I’m in a year long teacher training with the EC and it’s intense.  “No time for WordPress!” I solemnly declared.

But here I am.  Will this be a cameo appearance or a full-length novel?  (Hmm … that feels like a mixed metaphor.  Oh well.)

Part of the reason I stopped was that I seemed to have run out of things to say.  1374 posts.  Isn’t that enough?  Apparently not, since my fingers are on the move again.  I feel porous, and surely with all that space within and around me, there’s room for the new to show up.  How about something profoundly new, that I’ve never thought of?  Or maybe nobody’s ever thought of.  (Another hmm.  Do I hear delusions of grandeur on the horizon?)

The pot is being stirred, and it doesn’t feel that I’m the cook.  Hopefully something delicious will show up for supper.

See you tomorrow.

Fading Into The Past

So here we are, thirty minutes from Game Seven in the hockey playoff between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadiens … and I don’t care.  How can this be?

I grew up in Toronto.  I convinced my parents to let me listen to the first period of Leafs’ games while having my obligatory Saturday night bath.  Back then only the second and third periods were televised.  I attended four Stanley Cup parades (celebrating the league champions) and watched the players raise the Cup on the steps of Toronto’s City Hall.  1962, 1963, 1964 and 1967.  I was there.

A few years ago, I was excited by the dynamic play of a 19-year-old Leafs player – Mitch Marner – and dreamt of a fifth parade.  I followed the rises and falls of the Leafs’ season.  Once more, they didn’t win a playoff series.  The last was in 2004.  Tonight may change things.

And I don’t care.  Why has hockey faded from my life?  Is it the reality of Covid, where hockey games are played in mammoth arenas with no fans?  Is it because my sporting passion has travelled to tennis?  I don’t know.

Right now, “O Canada” is being sung by Martina Ortiz-Luis.  She has a lovely voice.  For the first time in a year, there are fans in Scotiabank Arena.  Alas, just 600 of them.

Now the game has started.  The blue-and-white are rushing up the ice, pressing the red-and-white.  I’m trying to decide if the crowd noise is real or recorded.  Can a few hundred people make that much noise?

I’m watching.  The skating up and down the ice is pretty continuous – very few referee whistles to stop the play.  But no thrill is rising in me.  The players skate really fast … but I’m not enthralled.  Now here’s William Nylander dancing through the offensive zone, evading opponent after opponent.  That’s nice.

How strange this is.  Where did my love of the Leafs go?  Is it a bad thing?  Would I be a disappointment to all true Canadians?  Should I “gird my lions” and start cheering?

No.  On this potentially historic night in Toronto hockey history, I’m switching the TV to tennis.  Without a touch of embarrassment or deficiency.  I hope to see Roger Federer being his classic self.  I hope you understand.

“Namaste” and “Bam!”

It’s pronounced “naw-moss-tay”, with an equal emphasis on each syllable.  It’s a greeting common among Buddhists and Hindus, usually accompanied by placing your hands together and bowing.  But it goes deeper.  A simple translation is “The Divine in me sees the Divine in you.”

Namaste is quiet.  There are soft eyes that go right into the centre of the other human being.  Receiving the greeting can be an immense experience of being seen – not just in the roles we play and the personality we show … but in our essence.  For most of us, being met in this way is rare or even unknown.

Then there is Rafa.  Rafael Nadal is a Spanish tennis player, full of championships and charisma.  He plays with fierce joy.  His physical and spiritual power fills the stadium.  There is no more intense competitor in the sport.  And yet one time, when his wayward shot hit a ball girl in the head, he rushed over to her – asked her if she was okay and then kissed her on the cheek.  “He’s a very nice man.”

On Thursday, Rafa watched as a statue of him was revealed at Roland-Garros, the site of this week’s French Open.  I looked at his face and I thought “Bam!”  An exploding.

We need both

Spoken Softly … Penetrating

Sometimes the words just spill out, crammed with truth.  They enter the world unselfconsciously.  There’s no fanfare.  They’re likely spoken quietly.  But the power is unmistakeable.  You know that the words are real, that they touch realities and emotions that are real.  You can trust them.  Even if the words are wrapped in pain, you don’t turn away in the hearing.  You face what’s true.  And then you act.

Your actions may be in the realm of social justice.  They may focus on “being with” every person you meet.  They may be centered in prayer.  But you do act.  And the world is lifted, caressed, allowed a shoulder for it to fall upon.  We evolve … together.

***

A white man and an elderly Native man became pretty good friends, so the white guy decided to ask him: “What do you think about Indian mascots?”  The Native elder responded:

“Here’s what you’ve got to understand.  When you look at black people, you see ghosts of all the slavery and the rapes and the hangings and the chains.  When you look at Jews, you see ghosts of all those bodies piled up in death camps.  And those ghosts keep you trying to do the right thing.  But when you look at us you don’t see the ghosts of the little babies with their heads smashed in by rifle butts at the Big Hole, or the old folks dying by the side of the trail on the way to Oklahoma while their families cried and tried to make them comfortable, or the dead mothers at Wounded Knee or the little kids at Sand Creek who were shot for target practice.  You don’t see any ghosts at all.  Instead you see casinos and drunks and junk cars and shacks.

Well, we see those ghosts.  And they make our hearts sad and they hurt our little children.  And when we try to say something, you tell us, ‘Get over it.  This is America.  Look at the American dream.’  But as long as you’re calling us Redskins and doing tomahawk chops, we can’t look at the American dream, because those things remind us that we are not real human beings to you.  And when people aren’t humans, you can turn them into slaves or kill six million of them or shoot them down with Hotchkiss guns and throw them into mass graves at Wounded Knee.  No, we’re not looking at the American dream.  And why should we?  We still haven’t woken up from the American nightmare.”

(Source unknown)

Your Gift

There was a young man in a special ed class. He couldn’t write much. He couldn’t speak well. He couldn’t think clearly. And although he was cared for by the school staff, he wasn’t seen as emerging, as a work in progress. He was a static reality in the eyes of many. “Oh yeah, I know Trevor. He’s …” (Choose your label)

Trevor wasn’t seen. Nobody thought to look for what his gift might be.

What would his life be like if this curriculum was gift-based, if we were able to see the gift in each of our children, and taught them around their gifts?

I’m reading a novel to the Grade 6 kids. They sit there in rows of rectangles on my laptop screen. At least I get to see them. The novel is The Last Leopard, the third in a series that follows the adventures of two 11-year-olds in South Africa: Martine and Ben. Over the first three books, Martine has been approached by an elusive white giraffe, and allowed to ride him – a privilege no other human being has been offered. She healed a beached dolphin, who lay on the sand close to death. She was pinned down and cut by a leopard, who then looked at her with curiosity, let her up, and wandered off into the bush. Martine’s obvious gift is her communion with animals, but it’s not that simple. She’s also astonishingly brave in the face of danger.

I asked the kids to look inside and see what gift resided there. Few of them were willing to volunteer a response. Was it a question they had never heard? One fellow said he could move his mouth in a weird way. I asked him for more. I asked him for deeper, but he stopped there. Fair enough. Another boy said he was a really good cook, and I visualized his future creations making lots of people happy.

I’ll keep asking the question as we watch Martine weave her magic. The light will shine on each of these online children. I know that much will be revealed.

Kissing

I haven’t kissed anyone in six years.  The last time was in the wee hours of the morning on November 12, 2014.  I had awakened in Jody’s hospital room to the sound of no breathing.  My wife had died.

Will there be more kisses in my life?  I think so but I don’t know when.  What I do know is they won’t be a peck on the lips as I rush out the door.  There’s something precious about two bodies being parallel, directly facing the beloved.  And staying there, in that field of contact.

The next kiss will be sexual … and far beyond.  It won’t be two people trying to get close.  It won’t include thoughts such as “Am I doing this right?”  It will be a communion that also includes the richness of life flowing over the horizon.  It will be timeless, and moving just the same.

Namaste … the God in me sees the God in you.  Our lips linger.  And somewhere across the world, another couple smiles into each other’s eyes.