UNDER CLOUD NINE – Reclaiming My Lightness of Being

Sometime during my adolescence I felt my identity as a carefree boy being challenged. Nothing extreme, just occasional negative thoughts, self doubts, perhaps a tinge of fatalism. 

ILLUSTRATION: Dreamstime

Part of it was, of course, simply being a teenager. I was experiencing feelings typical of this difficult stage: worries about fitting in, embarrassment over everything my parents did or didn’t do, frustration that I was neither a
child any more nor quite yet an adult.

But there was also something just a bit more sinister, a kind of low-grade dread. Of what, I wasn't sure. Maybe there was some dark secret my family was keeping from me.

By no means did this ruin my life; I was still generally a happy, healthy, functioning teenager. But it did have an effect, inhibiting my social life, I’m sure, and giving voice to a kind of self-defeating alter ego. I just had this vague sense that something stood between me and the full happiness I imagined was possible.

Most of the time I wasn’t even conscious of these feelings at a level I could have described, much less that I thought anyone else might notice. I just figured they were normal, that everyone felt that way.

Those hazy, dark thoughts, that elusive doubt, continued to weigh on my spirit well into my adult life.

                 Why do you always have that
                 dark cloud over your head?

DIAGNOSIS! 
When I was about 40 I had an epiphany. It occurred during a meeting of my men’s group.* That night, in our continuing effort to understand each other and challenge ourselves to grow, we were doing an exercise called simply “feedback.” **

Each of us got a handful of three-by-five cards. We were to write down for each of the other men an observation about him. No judgments, no criticisms, just an observation. We could either sign our cards or remain anonymous. 

The first card handed to me—signed by Peter, a man I admired very much for his courage and insight—read: “Jeff, why do you always have that dark cloud over your head?”

The consequences of that question have been profound. The immediate impact was a sense of relief, perhaps like that felt by a patient finally getting clarity after suffering for years with some undiagnosed illness.

Finding out that it has a name, that it’s not all in your head, at last lets you address the problem and start doing something about it.  

All this time I’d managed to keep my little affliction stuffed into an uneasy little corner of my psyche, figuring that’s just the way life is. Finally I knew that it might not be normal after all, and, more significant to me, that everyone else could see it.

 Either I’d keep entertaining this unwanted guest
 in my house, or I’d put out the “No Vacancy” sign.

CLEANING HOUSE
The very next day, finally seeing my little burden as others could see it, I began cleaning house, realizing that each time I became aware of my defeatist self talk I’d have a decision to make: either keep entertaining this unwanted guest in my house, or put out the “No Vacancy” sign.

In a sort of self-styled Zen, I started working to detach from expectation and the illusion of control. I chose to feel good, not bad. Gradually, I reclaimed my sense of completeness and rediscovered the lightness of being I’d known as a boy.

Now, lightness of being doesn’t mean one is always happy. It means that, even when all’s not going well, when you’re in pain or sorrow, you acknowledge those hurts, but don’t let them define you. You look for gratitude to supplant expectations. You take it easy on yourself and find humor in your imperfection.

A MANTRA
One thing that’s really helped is my new mantra. I guess I’ve always believed in it intuitively. But I’ve only called on it regularly since the traumatic confluence of disasters that have piled up on the world over the past decade or so. And since I’ve started encountering the many personal physical and emotional challenges of growing old.

IMAGE: Genuine Tibetan Arts

So when I find myself especially overwrought about the state of my life or of the world, that’s when I invoke it: If there’s something, anything, I can do about it right now, do it. If not, let it go.

   The things triggering them literally do not exist.

PAST, TENSE
To clear my skies of the dark cloud it’s also helped considerably to identify which tense my self talk is using to discourage me. And, if that tense is either past or future, not to listen to a word of it.

As the gifted spiritual guru Eckhart Tolle teaches, the past has already happened; it no longer exists. The future hasn’t happened; it doesn’t yet exist. The only time that does exist is the here and now.

I spend lots of time thinking about those tenses, trying to fully realize that emotions like expectation, fear, regret, dread and guilt are pretty useless considering that the things triggering them literally do not exist.

AND YOU?
So do you have a dark cloud? An inner voice that blocks out the sunshine of your spirit? We’d love to hear how you’ve come to recognize the encumbrance and how you manage it. Jot your reflection in "Comments" below.

* My men’s group, founded to challenge ourselves and each other to be more thoughtful, more loving—more evolved—human beings, has been meeting more or less every two weeks since 1977. Forty-seven years!

** We were fortunate to have two members of our group who were organizational development professionals. They provided many thoughtful team-building, consciousness-expanding and communication exercises. Among them, the “car wash,” where each week one member had to sit and be “washed” with compliments from the rest of us; a ropes course, which forced us to recognize and apply each member’s unique strengths to bring the whole group through a series of physical challenges; and taking the The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) test to explore our respective personality types and how they colored our relationships with each other.

“I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.”
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

MIXED BLESSING – The Fortunate Yin and Yang of My Upbringing

This luxuriant, unfurling season between Mothers Day and Fathers Day seems
a perfect time to reflect on the honorees of both.
                                             ~     •.      ~    •.     ~     
The more time that's passed since my parents died, the better I understand them. The more I appreciate the many gifts they’ve bestowed on me. Their respective influences, though often seeming polar opposites, have actually turned out to complement each other. And that, I believe, is a good thing.

My father, like most men of his generation—or, for that matter, any generation—was a problem solver. He relished a challenge, whether that meant fixing a leaking this or a squeaky that, reglazing a window or mastering some mental exercise. He’d apply every milligram of his engineer alter ego to analyzing the problem, planning a solution, and then methodically executing it. (He desperately wanted the process to be a point of connection with me and my brother—an invitation we too often spurned.)

I’m sure Dad was just emulating the role models who’d guided him in his growing up—his father, his friends, perhaps a couple of teachers, a boss or a Scoutmaster. These were competencies reinforced by cultural norms; cleverness, resourceful-
ness, focus, all were essential both to his successful career as a restaurateur and to his role as a homeowner.

              Mom’s response was not to fix it.
              It was to outlast it.

LET IT BE
To Dad’s yang, my mother was definitely the yin.

When Mom would face a challenge, her response was not to fix it; it was to outlast it. She never said it in so many words, but she evidently embraced that old saw, This too shall pass. You have a lump or a pain somewhere, you keep an eye on it and chances are it will eventually disappear all by itself.

It’s possible that, having grown up as the only girl among four brothers, that stoicism was a coping mechanism, perhaps one way to distinguish herself. And, just as Dad’s fix-it disposition proved an asset in his career, Mom’s let-it-percolate makeup must have equipped her well for her career as an artist. (She was a commercial fashion illustrator.)

PUTTING ON HEIRS
Both Mom and Dad radiated definite, and quite different, vibes. He, while often serious and businesslike at home, also had a much lighter side. Once in a long while, I’d overhear him laughing and joking with friends. I’ll never forget the good-natured bonhomie he showed at work, an air of competence and warmth that surrounded him as he walked around his cafeteria chatting with customers.

Mom’s temperament was more homogeneous; she was a total introvert. Quiet, shy, slow to speak, reluctant to act, but much of her reticence was simply shyness. I’m sure some people thought she was a snob. More chari- table folks described it as a sort of regal aura.

The older we both got, the more I felt there was a philosophical or spiritual angle to my mother’s demure disposition. I started seeing it as kind of Zen-like.

     Sometimes it suited one better to simply relax   
     and let things happen.

OMEGA MALE?
I inherited parts of both of these distinct MOs. Like my mother I was the gardener, the artist. I too was quite reserved and a bit of an introvert.

But I also had to be a businessman. So, in some aspects of my life I, like Dad, had to plan, anticipate challenges if possible and be methodical in taking them on. I had to meet deadlines. I also learned that, when it came to courting new clients, I had to at least act like I enjoyed schmoozing.

As for ambition, though, I definitely came down toward Mom’s end of the spectrum, adopting much of her long-suffering patience and her faith that every-
thing eventually turns out okay. I managed to eschew stress and striving, opting for
a sort of subsistence career, never leveraging my one-man free-lance marketing communications practice into anything grander.

I was gradually learning what Mom always seemed to know instinctively: that in Western culture folks expend an awful lot of energy struggling to make things happen, and that sometimes it suited one better to simply relax and let things happen.

MOTHER NATURE
My spiritual life—most of it involving experiences in Nature—has been more like my mother’s. I’m ravenously curious, very much in the moment, comfortable just sitting and being. And, like Mom, I long to commune, if not with people, certainly with animals, plants and places.

I know I got some of my love of Nature from Dad too, more specifically his sense of adventure. As a boy he was quite involved in the Boy Scouts, and in his teens and early twenties went on several extended wilderness canoe trips with a friend in the Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Wilderness and Ontario’s Quetico National Park.

In that way, I did follow in Dad’s wake, paddling nearly half of all the canoe routes crisscrossing the Boundary Waters—until my responsibilities as father, husband and breadwinner made the Nature Boy get down to business. I’m so happy that my career path allowed me to continue both exploring and writing about it.

So here I stand, straddling that graceful S-curve boundary that separates the black yin from the white yang in the celebrated symbol. Since there is no gray, perhaps it’s the infinity of that line—its continual return to itself—that’s the aptest metaphor for blending of influences, the fortunate abundance and integrity of my life. My parents—both of them in their wildly different ways—made this possible. I am eternally grateful.

THE ZEN ZONE – Twelve Ways to Know You’ve Glimpsed the Essence

Those of you who follow me here know I like to take occasional pokes at the arcane, seemingly impenetrable façade of Zen spiritual practice. I just believe that one can reap the benefits of mindfulness—in a form not all that different from that practiced by serious aficionados—without committing to a lifetime of study, denial, nor a solitary stint on some icy crag in the Himalayas. This post is a reflection on that kind of...well...let’s just call it Zen Lite.
 

FROM BATTERED TO BLESSED
If you’re anything like me, you spend the vast majority of your waking hours either consciously or unconsciously pursuing someone’s—perhaps your own— agenda. It’s as if there’s this insidious, self-refilling to-do list; no sooner do you check off one task than another pops up to replace it.

Welcome to 21st century life in the western world.

Since retiring a few years back, I've been more or less free of the largely client-dictated schedule that used to drive me most weekdays. Even so, I’ve found it very hard to rise above other daily compulsions and expectations.

But then, in the past year, I’ve had to undergo a couple of surgeries—the first, to open up my sinuses and, I hope, avoid the frequent bouts with bronchitis I'd been suffering for several years; the second, major surgery to reinforce a crumbling spine.
         I’ve come to realize what a blessing 
         those operations have been.

And in the month and a half since the latter procedure, I've come to realize what a blessing those operations have been. First of all, it appears they may have cured both my recurring respiratory problems and my chronic pain.

Secondly, the spine surgery has forced me to make room in my daily busy-ness—much of which is really of little consequence—for my rehabilitation. And, for me, at least for the first couple of months, that has meant walking, lots of walking. I've already worked up to over two miles a day…and I plan to do even more.

And finally, the amazing success of my surgeries has given me a new—or perhaps I should say heightened—sense of appreciation for the many small miracles of life. Nowadays I celebrate each and every pain-free step, every single unimpeded breath.

THE ZEN ZONE
For years I've aspired to be more conscious—of myself, of others, of this amazing planet…of life. Like most folks, I find this hard to do while preoccupied with workaday goals and deadlines. But my forced re-allocation of time, and the recent glow of awe and gratitude I’ve been feeling, has allowed me to renew that quest for consciousness.

One result has been more frequent encounters with a state of mind I’m lightly calling the Zen Zone—an extraordinary feeling of connection with my own body, with life and, dare I say, with the cosmos. And it’s changing me to my core.

So far, as a relative novice in exploring this stuff, I’ve found two ways to rather easily reach such a place of heightened awareness. One is by meditating (which, in the form of a kind of self-hypnosis, helped me immensely in preparing for and recovering from my back surgery). I continue to do it—though I could practice anywhere, I’ve been doing it mainly indoors. Through meditation I follow my breathing, turn deep within myself, and find there a profound sense of understanding, a place which feels like it encompasses all space, all time.

          It’s a place that is all places, that exists 
          not within myself, but beyond.

ART: Colleen Wallace Nungari

During this journey inward I have these extraordinary flashes of clarity. It feels like I truly get that everything—all this beauty, everyone I’ve ever known, all the love in the world, all life’s possibilities are connected, and they're all in there. I've heard it called a state of centered-ness. 

Then there’s another kind of Zen Zone, the one I occasionally find while outdoors walking. And, while the level of consciousness feels like that of my "inner" meditations, its location seems precisely the opposite. Again, it’s a place that is all places, a time that is all time, but now the expansiveness exists not within myself, but beyond. My essence, life’s essence, the Essence, seems to flow into me from somewhere, everywhere, outside of me—from that speck of soil under my sandal to the incomprehensible reach of the heavens.

Part of this happens simply because I want it; I’ve made room for it in my consciousness. But it's also because I'm deliberately practicing it. By doing so I’m able to find that outer-expansiveness more and more frequently every day. It may have started during those daily rehab walks, but now I encounter it at other times too. (Certain kinds of music seem to help put me in a receptive frame of mind.)

PHOTO: Pixabay

Here are the top twelve ways I know when I've found my Zen Zone:

1. I’m aware of human life going on well beyond the reach of my basic senses. It’s a poignant, deeply empathetic realization that, at this very moment, a baby is being born, someone is dying, a crew buried deep in a mine shaft somewhere prays for rescue, folks are experiencing triumph and heartbreak—around the world, in my city…perhaps in some of the houses I’m passing.

2. Strangers pass and I experience a sense of kinship. I wonder about her, what he does, what going home looks like to her, whether he’s happy. As we move on, it feels like we've blessed each other.

3. I believe I am one with other living things too. I regard a tree, a knot of wildflowers, a sweeping green lawn, as fellow sentient beings, each all-knowing in its own way, each my co-inhabitant in the Essence.

4. I feel my own body in a new way. I experience my weight, visualizing each horizontal slice of me, from head on down, bearing the cumulative load of all the slices above. I notice the circular rhythm of my breathing, absorbing each inhalation like water in a thirsty sponge. I’m aware of my blood flowing, from heartbeat to arterial pulsing to all those barely seeping little capillaries just under my skin. It makes my hands and feet pleasantly warm.

      I am myself at all ages, like I was as a boy, 
      like I'll be as an old man. All of it is now.

5. The sun, though a mind-numbing 93,000,000 miles away, warms me as if it were a cozy little bonfire at my feet, its warmth shining on me, in me, through me.

6. Bird song, squirrel chatter, even the rasp and whir of insects, feels like it has meaning, evoking a spontaneous urge to answer. When a critter is close enough, we stop and size each other up. I pray it  knows I mean no harm. And I know deeply that, while we may not have the same blood, and that perhaps ten or twenty percent of our DNA is different, we share the identical force.

7. Any fear, anger or negative thought I may have carried a few minutes ago is consumed in a calm sea of patience and certainty.

8. I am myself at all ages—like I was as a boy, like I'll be as an old man. All of it is now.

9. I am unaware of looking for wonder, joy, love; it all seems to find me...and then
...it is me.

    I appreciate each blessing so poignantly that 
    I am aware, simultaneously, of its absence.

10. It’s not as if I’m without a mundane thought—little aches and pains, daydreams, my ever-present to-do list—but somehow they seem to just float lightly on the surface, above the liquid depths of my reverie.

11. I appreciate the blessings in my life—love, good health, peace, freedom…even that venerable cottonwood I just passed—so profoundly that I am aware, simultaneously, of their absence. Knowing they are not yet gone causes tears to well up in my eyes.

12. Finally—and this may well be the most telling of signs—as if any one of these sacred facets of consciousness weren’t spellbinding enough in itself, they all cast their radiance on me simultaneously. If I weren't so calm, I'm afraid it might be overwhelming.
                                            ~ // ~     ~ // ~     ~ // ~

Once again, I am a mere pretender at any respectable kind of Zen meditation. Yet I’m reminded that all of one’s abilities begin with pretense. With any new skill or awareness, what keeps you doing it are those first blushes of accomplishment—Hey, I could really do this!

Perhaps some day I’ll be able to find myself in the Zen Zone—where I am the Essence and it is me—at will. But for now, at least I know a few things to do and places to be where it is most likely to find me. And I know to open my heart and soul to it when it does.

My friends, I wish you such blessings.

THE SPACES BETWEEN – Learning to See Both Everything and Nothing

In Nature, as in life, we can see more if we notice not just things, but the spaces between things; not just sounds, but the silences they frame.

Far from empty, these inhalations in the song of creation are what make each note so clear, so sweet.
From Under the Wild Ginger – A Simple Guide to the Wisdom of Wonder, by Jeffrey Willius

                                                            —//—         —//—          —//—

Once again, it’s Australian Open time. For me this winter tennis tournament is a welcome escape from the cabin fever that’s so often hanging, cold, damp and gray, around my shoulders this time of year.

Besides watching the greats—Djokovic, Williams, Nadal, The Screamer (Sharapova)—alternately pick and beat each other’s games apart with astounding skill and endurance, there’s another pleasure for me in the Australian Open.

       Most of the impression comes from what
       we read, as it were, between the lines.

For the past several years, one of the event’s main sponsors has been ANZ, a banking conglomerate serving Australia and New Zealand—thus the initials. Its logo appears somewhere in the background of about half the camera angles.

I’m a former marketing communications guy and brand designer, and I think ANZ’s logo is, at least design-wise, among the finest corporate marks I’ve ever seen.

A POSITIVE-NEGATIVE ATTITUDE
The main reason I love this graphic so much is that it engages the eye in a most effective interplay between positive and negative space. The positive forms—essentially just two light blue circles, one cut in half; the other with a light-bulb-shaped bite taken out of it—are laid onto a dark blue background. The negative space is just that background area flowing between and into the circular elements.

And it’s so simple; that’s what makes it so elegant. With just those three basic forms the designer’s created both an interesting arrangement of the shapes, and, with the spaces between, a unmistakable human form.

More than that, in the way that little being’s arms and torso flare out around the blue circles, it becomes a dynamic, playful expression. It spreads, and reaches, and grows. It seems the arms are reaching out toward you, welcoming you, perhaps blessing you in some way. It’s friendly, exuberant, simultaneously humble and confident.

Just what you want in a bank, right? And most of the impression comes from what we read, as it were, between the lines.

     In western society…we’re taught to see 
     what’s there, and completely miss what’s not.

SEEING WHAT ISN’T THERE
I’ve written occasionally about this interplay between positive and negative space. As I’ve tried to capture in that quote from my book, Under the Wild Ginger, it can have a profound effect on how we see the world and life.

It’s knowing the whale’s down there without even seeing it. It’s the void, the potential, in the human experience an entrepreneur or inventor sees and then fills. It’s the powerful meaning in someone’s hesitation when you ask them what they think of something you’re just nuts about.

Seeing and appreciating the spaces between is one of the great little secrets of being truly aware and in the moment. And it doesn’t come naturally to everyone. At least in western society, we’re often raised and educated quite literally. We’re taught to see what’s there, and completely miss what’s not.

            To twist an old axiom a bit, 
            you have to believe it to see it.

NATURE THE TEACHER
Allowing existence to something most people would say isn’t there takes a little practice. What’s perhaps most difficult for many folks is the irony that, the harder you try to do this, the less likely you are to succeed.

My best teacher has been Nature, with a dash of faith, instilled by my parents, thrown in. If you can simply BE in Nature—no agenda, no schedule, no expectation, just pure, simple presence—Nature will eventually show you both what is and what exists right next to that, behind it, even in the space it now occupies, but once didn’t.

Sounds a bit metaphysical, a little new-agey, right? That’s where the faith comes in. To twist an old axiom a bit, you have to believe it to see it. And how does one unaccustomed to it come by that faith? It helps if you want to—something which I’m not sure many milennials do, addicted, I fear, to all the pre-digested information and virtual experiences available to them at arm’s length.

The other key to hearing and believing in Nature’s counsel lies in what I like to call seeing generously. It’s the attitude, the belief, that truly seeing—even what may not seem at first to be there—is more like giving than receiving. Far from the competitive, materialistic fervor our culture seems to believe drives our economy and makes us all happy, it is not an act of acquisition. It’s an act of surrender.

THE EDGE OF WETNESS – A Snowbird's Ode to Heat

My wife and I spend a month or so every winter in a warm place. A very warm place. In fact, the forecast for every single day of the past few weeks here in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico has required just five words: high: 90; low: 72; sunny.

The very first thing we do when we get here—and it starts with that first hot breath that envelops us as we step out of the airplane—is sweat. And then we keep going, shall we say, with the flow, every day we're here, from the moment we emerge from our villa's air-conditioned bedroom into our open-to-the-elements living area in the morning till a few minutes after we go back in at bedtime.

For most of the day, every day, we walk—into el centro, to the supermarket, to the laundromat, perhaps to Las Gatas, the fabulous little beach around the other side of the bay.

          Sun and breeze wring the sweat out 
          of a body like water from a wet mop.

FISH OUT OF WATER
We love the walking. But the sun here at 18 degrees north latitude on the Pacific coast of Mexico is brutal. Add to that the humidity, lapped up from the sea by sun and breeze, and the very hilly terrain, and it'll wring the sweat out of a body like water from a wet mop.

It doesn't help that folks like us have just left a place where, if you're lucky, there's only about eight hours a day of wimpy sunlight and even Nature can muster no color. So we apply a layer of sun-blocking goo over every inch of our bodies. It feels like you're wearing one of those cheap transparent plastic rain ponchos, like not a breath of air can actually reach your skin.

Now we understand why so many native Zihuatanejenses manage to keep to the shade, carry umbrellas and still, many of them, practice the time-honored tradition of the siesta every day between two and five.

OM-M-M-M
A siesta? But we're on vacation, too busy enjoying the absence of snow and ice and cracking skin to miss a moment. And so we walk…and we walk…and we sweat some more. In just the first block from our villa, up the long, steep hill toward town, it's already soaking through in dark blotches on our tee shirts.

  We know exactly where, and at what time of 
  day, every little patch of shade in town resides.

Walking in this heat becomes a kind of perverse meditation for us. We've memorized nearly every step of these two-or-so miles, how to pace ourselves and negotiate obstacles in the fewest number of them possible. Uneven cobbles, off-and-on-again curbs, exposed utility pits—all things OSHA would have a field day with back home. And we know exactly where, and at what time of day, every little patch of shade in town resides.

Our favorite of these little oases is right at the spot where the La Ropa neighborhood ends and La Madera begins. There, at the top of the steps leading down to Calle Adelita, between Kau Kan restaurant and a rustling stand of bamboo, the wall seems to catch every whiff of breeze off the bay and funnel it down to that hundred-square-foot remnant of Eden.

FLOW-THROUGH
Not only is it shady and breezy there at Kau Kan; it's also the best place in town
for flow-through. Flow-through is that miracle of aerodynamics where a nice steady breeze catches your sleeve at just the right velocity and angle to puff it up, works its way across your back or chest prying the wet fabric away from your skin, and then flows back out the other sleeve.

It is heaven, our reward for all that sweating. Next to a cool shower, and perhaps a couple of ice cold Coronas, flow-through is the most refreshing break a wilted snowbird will ever get. You really should try it.

       One must find one's own ways to be cool.

As I've been jotting this all down, I'm thinking there might be more to flow-through than the mildly humorous image of a grown man standing by the busy Scenic La Ropa Road with a blissful expression on his face, his arms spread limply like a poor rendition of the Crucifixion. There's a kind of metaphor here, isn't there, a lesson in slowing down, opening up and letting go when one travels?

I'll let you draw your own parallels. Whether you do or not, suffice it to say one must find one's own ways to be cool.

CALL ME CAP'N CRUNCH – Walking On Acorns

While out on my evening walk yesterday, I found myself doing something that's become, for me, a harbinger of autumn. I crunched dry acorns underfoot. In fact, I go out of my way, to the very edges of the sidewalk where most of the iconic little oak bombs lie, swept aside by the elements and a hundred other walkers.

Whole acorns don't crunch so easily; even the broken ones still have a little meat
to cushion the blow. But those little caps, they're the crème de la crème of crunch, delivering a crunch so deep and satisfying you can feel it in your head.

Be careful, though. If you step and there's no give, there you are on a bed of ball bearings, and the crunch you hear might indeed be in your head.

Here, fittingly, is one of my favorite posts in my series, 101 Tips on How to Be 
In the Moment.

 TIP #65

Celebrate your own footsteps.

A whisper through crispy autumn leaves; the earnest crunch of dried acorns; the thin chatter of a kicked pebble.

Though they bear the weight of the world, let your feet proclaim their joy…not just in getting somewhere, but in the going.