STILL A PERFECT DAY

Last night, after another of my vertigo-like episodes had me recliner-bound
and dodging nausea all day, it was a great relief going to bed and getting fully horizontal.

IMAGE: Wikimedia Commons
http://www.scientificanimations.com/wiki-images/

Compared with most days this one hadn’t been fun. And yet, when I began my nightly prayer—typically one of mostly gratitude—instead of that misery blunting my thanks, I found it only sharpened its clarity.

As my tally of the day’s blessings unfurled, I realized it included just about every one I’d listed the night before when I was feeling fine. And when I got to part where I acknowledge my relatively good health, instead of that item migrating over to the unspoken list of negatives, there it was, still right there on the plus side.

  I appreciate...the smallest, most essential wonders:
  each precious heartbeat, every precious breath. 

Maybe it’s a product of one’s aging, but don’t we find ourselves doing this more and more? Being grateful, even for some unpleasant things, that they weren’t worse? For the reminder that one cannot take all the good stuff for granted?

IMAGE: www.thetabernaclechoir.org

After all, I’d still gotten up and gone to bed a free man, living in peace, and owning a few modest talents and ways of sharing them. What more does a person need to be happy and fulfilled?

With this new awareness of adversity’s inability to taint such blessings, I appreciate as never before not just those the big, broad wonders of life, but its smallest, most essential ones: each precious heartbeat, every precious breath.  

Thank you, Great Spirit, despite—or maybe I should say because of—the occasional pain, for another precious day of living, breathing, sensing, feeling….and, above all, of loving.

TWO STEPS TO GRATITUDE

This pandemic, this past two-plus years of unimaginable, worldwide catastrophe, have brought gratitude into sharp focus for me.

There are two steps to experiencing true gratitude. The first is appreciating the blessing. The second is understanding—totally accepting—the impermanence of it. It’s one thing to feel blessed while you’re enjoying the gift, especially if you fully expect it to continue. It’s another thing to still feel the gratitude after the blessing ends—which they're bound to do…except one.

Maori fishhook / gratitude symbol
IMAGE: Vassil, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

I feel grateful today for my life. Not only for the gift it is right now, but for there being no known end to it. But what if I learned tomorrow that I have incurable cancer and that my life will be ending quite soon? Would I still feel grateful for the very, very fine life I’ve already lived?

As a hospice volunteer for the past eight years, I’ve been afforded quite an intimate view into the process of dying. Far more important, though, has been the view these beautiful people have gifted me of the process of living. Not one has said—or acted like—they’ve felt cheated by the prospect of death.

So, as my days wane I thank God for my life—both the promise of its continuing (the blessing that always ends) and the gift of its having been (the blessing that never does).

THIS, MY ONE PRECIOUS DAY

Another in my ongoing series of reflections, As If For the First Time, describing the most mundane of daily activities through a fresh lens, one of innocence, wonder and gratitude.

I awoke this morning to a gift, one laid gently on my being by the hand of providence. It is the gift of a certain perspective, one I try to cultivate, but which seldom gets the chance to leaf out in that groggy torpor when thoughts first jostle
to fill the blissful vacuum left by sleep.

PHOTO: Pixabay

It is that rare awareness that, despite what may be on my mind’s calendar for the day, the agenda for my heart and soul will not be confined to some little boxes on a page or screen. It’s knowing my prospects are, at least for this one day, about nothing but blessing and bounty.

In this frame of mind, it is not lost on me that this one precious day just might be my last. It’s not a morbid thought, just a sharpening of my resolve. Let's just say this day most certainly will be the last one just like this one. 

Today, I am uncommonly mindful of how thoroughly, deeply blessed I am, and a silent prayer emanates from my consciousness: Let me be worthy of these many gifts. Let me truly know them, love them, share them.

           Are you able to seize the day, or does 
           the day, with all its expectations and 
           obligations, seize you?

SUPPLY AND DEMAND
Funny, isn't it, how much more significant this state of promise becomes as one ages. For with each passing year one’s remaining days—however many there might be—become an ever-smaller, ever-more-precious percentage of one’s lifespan. Supply and demand, I guess you could say.
 

PHOTO: Children's Theater Company

As if to underscore this awareness, it seems more and more of our loved ones find their once-ample outlook suddenly eclipsed by some dark curtain falling between them and their future—a loss, a crisis, a life-threatening infirmity. I thank God—especially on lucid mornings like this—a barrier like that has not yet fallen between me and what I somehow imagine should be the rest of my life.

So, how do you approach each new day? Do you think you fully appreciate the freedom and grace bestowed on you by a future whose only limitation is your imagination? Will you allow yourself the joy of it? Are you able to seize the day, or does the day, with all its expectations and obligations, seize you? Can you see all the wonders it offers as if you were glimpsing them for the first time?

  Greet sun and fresh air today as if you’d spent a lifetime in a cell. 
  Like a wonderstruck child, let a brand new world delight you.
  Then turn this around. Imagine a today with no tomorrow. 
  Notice how your appreciation moves from wonder to gratitude?
   FROM JEFF’S BOOK, UNDER THE WILD GINGER – A SIMPLE GUIDE TO THE WISDOM OF WONDER

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.

NIXED BLESSINGS – Laying Claim to Life’s Elusive Gifts

The past few years have been trying times for me. A couple of serious health problems have been taking a toll on both my body and my spirit.

When I’m down like this, I find that one of the best ways to feel better is to get out of myself and help someone else. So I enlisted as a hospice volunteer.

       Why, when she seems so lost about 
       everything else, did she sound so certain, 
       so fully present, about this?

Today I was visiting Bill, one of my patients. Though he still possesses nearly all his faculties, he lives in a facility that specializes in so-called memory care, so I’m accustomed to seeing his neighbors wandering aimlessly, misplacing what little stuff they have left, often looking quite bewildered.

Just as we’re leaving his room, one of them tottered up to me. June is a very quiet, shy woman who walks idle laps around the perimeter of the floor and often mistakes Bill’s room for her own. She rarely speaks to anyone—certainly not to me—and when she does, it’s usually just to ask for directions.

PHOTO: Imgur

Okay, I thought, maybe she’s mistaking me for a staff member or a fellow resident. So I said a casual hello, and then, just as I turned to walk away, she reached out, put her hand on my back and rubbed it sympathetically. “It’s going to be okay,” she said in a sure but gentle voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

That scene—the effect of June’s touch, the clarity of her gaze, the knowingness in her voice—has kept replaying in my mind all day. Was she just confused like she is about other things? Why, when she seems so lost about everything else, did she sound so certain, so fully present, about this? Could she possibly have sensed that I’ve been hurting?

    It’s as if there’s this rhythm to life. We can’t 
    always hear it because the dance hall is such 
    a cacophony of other sounds.

DEAF TO THE MUSIC
I realize now that it’s entirely up to me what the meaning of this little interaction was—and is—for me. And no matter how or why it was given, I believe it was a gift. Not only did it help me feel better; it also reminds me of how many other blessings there are in my life like this one, hiding in plain sight.

Little gifts like this come very close to us all the time—warm smiles lost in passing, inspirations not seized, narrow escapes unappreciated, coincidences rationalized away, Nature’s wonders taken for granted. It’s so easy to miss them in the muddle of agendas, expectations, worries and sheer self-indulgence that surrounds us much of the time. 

It’s as if there’s this rhythm to life. We can’t always hear it because the dance hall is such a cacophony of other sounds. We falter and stumble. But once we manage to turn the din down, even a little bit, sure enough, there it is. And, once we hear the rhythm, feel it, suddenly, miraculously, we no longer have to even think about where to place our feet, for the music is moving us.

Isn’t that the way it is with small wonders? When we allow the background noise of life to get too loud, they don't move us because we can’t hear them. Just like the simple gift June bestowed on me, it’s so easy to miss them, or at least to misinterpret them as chance or error or simply devoid of meaning.

Don’t we have the power—and I would suggest a compelling need—to give them that meaning?

WAKING UP – As If For the First Time

(This is the third post in my series of reflections, As If For the First Time, describing the most mundane of daily activities through a fresh lens, one of innocence and wonder.)

PHOTO: Mike Hulsebus

My friends look up in wonder as I glide over the fountain-like crowns of elms. Their admiration is almost palpable. Just for the fun of it I dip lower so I can slalom among the huge, spreading branches.

I have no idea why I can fly, but I'm exultant. The soft, late-summer air sweeps my hair back. Ah-h-h-h...

Wait, what's that? Another sound interrupts the whispers of air brushing past my ears. I slow down. Instead of falling, I kind of dissolve back into the air and ground, settling gently into a dark, quiet place. But still that sound…My God, it's shrill, insistent!

My eyes crack open just far enough to make out the blurred red digits: 7:30. I reach over and shut off the alarm. Damn, the air's cold! I snatch my arm back under the covers and reach over to my wife's side of the bed, forgetting that she's already been up for two hours.

There's a certain kind of stretch...that seems to 
send relief to every fiber of my being.
 
I'm a pretty active sleeper; it seems like I change positions every few minutes all night, finding no more than momentary relief from the pain—the generalized kind often attributed to some forms of arthritis.

I'm used to it. But there's a certain kind of stretch, one of those luxuriant, full-body stretches one reserves for waking up, that seems to send relief to every fiber of my being. I don't want it to end. These mornings, when I have no pressing deadlines, the bliss of being pain free keeps pulling me back into the arms of Morpheus.

Why, I wonder, can't I get this to happen all night?

Thank you, God, for another precious day, a blank slate I can write on in any way I wish.

Now, my body wants to sink deep into the mattress, but my mind is waking up. I say a prayer. Thank you, God, for another precious day, a blank slate I can write on in any way I wish. I just pray it will be something worth reading.

With this thought I see myself and my situation as one sometimes does when looking in on someone else's life, romanticizing it, coveting the freedom and clarity of purpose one imagines they must be enjoying.

This radiant outlook is a rare and fleeting one for me; once I get up, I know other concerns will begin to blur it. But at least I've caught a glimpse, once again, of what it looks like. I suspect that's more than many people are getting this morning.

I use my elbow to lever my torso up, swing my legs out and sit there, trying to hang onto that blessed feeling. Something deep inside me tells me it's a clue to the secret of happiness...if not the ultimate meaning of life.

With that lofty thought, I shuffle to the bathroom.

HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU – A Reflection on Eye Contact

When I was a newly-arrived freshman in college, someone told me that one of the distinguishing qualities of the "Amherst Man" was that he always acknowledged and made eye contact with passersby. So, of course, I did just that. As a freshman, I guess it was just to make sure I fit in. By the time I graduated it was woven into my personal code, meshed with other common courtesies, like saying please and thank-you or holding the door for someone—simple acknowledgments of another's existence and worth.

I still try always to look to the eyes of strangers. And because my work is all about observation, I think about eye contact and have come to appreciate its nuances. I'm also aware, perhaps more than most, of how rare the practice seems to have become.

One thing I've noticed is how many of the people I most admire—as well as occasional strangers who just strike me with the power of their presence—tend to be those who best connect with others through eye contact.

So what is eye contact all about? What difference does it make?

It suggests you can trust me, I know what I'm talking about, I find you attractive or a score of other messages.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

I can't begin to comment fairly on eye contact without acknowledging the great cultural and historic differences in how this powerful form of expression is perceived around the world. In some Islamic, African, south Asian and Native American cultures, among others, eye contact—or eye contact for more than a very short period—is considered disrespectful.

I suspect this may also hold true in some sub-cultural groups, such as inner-city gangs and abusive households, where day-to-day survival seems to hinge on the same kind of dominance-subservience rituals that apply in the animal kingdom. Here, to those bent on violence, eye contact may be taken as a challenge or even an act of aggression.

In the realm of my experience, though, it's hard to understand how meaningful communication can be done without looking at the face of the person you're conversing with. In my world, eye contact is an indispensable authenticator of any dialog, demonstrating attention, competence, confidence, attraction and, yes, respect. This is the context—you could say the bias—in which my reflections should be taken.

NON-VERBAL MESSAGES

As children we instinctively absorb all things visual, our eyes like little black holes of curiosity. So it's no coincidence that kids look people right in the eyes. Before we're even a year old aren't we already learning that changes in the facial expressions of those we most depend on might make a big difference in how we're treated?

Depending on that treatment, the innocence, the openness, the disarming clarity of our childhood gaze might survive our growing up—if we're lucky. But more often than not it gets pushed down by learned associations like fear, guilt and shame.

And this all works the other way around too. Just as we learn how to interpret messages in others' eyes, we also learn how to send those same messages with our own.

Eye contact is an eloquent form of non-verbal communication. To a stranger, it may say simply I'm here, my receptors are open for business, and I'm ready to interact with you if you like. Add a little smile or perhaps a simple greeting and it suggests I'm sharing a bit of my spirit with you today. With a whole vocabulary of other, sometimes subtle, visual clues, it might say you can trust me, I know what I'm talking about, I find you attractive or a score of other messages.

Acknowledging another human being with your eyes is also an act of generosity. It's a sharing not just of time, attention and some of those implied messages, but also of a sort of spiritual energy. Don't you, as I do, experience a lifting of your spirit when a stranger bestows a smiling greeting on you?

Don't we all have days when we're so sad or angry or ashamed that we just wish we were invisible?

TURNING INSIDE OUT

When I pass someone whose gaze remains fixed straight ahead—or who never even looks up—I imagine what might be going through her head. I try not to make judgments—Well, she's sure an unfriendly sort! or Geez, what a snob!—and understand that, instead, she might just be deep in thought, feeling insecure or coping with any one of a thousand ailments. Or is it one of those cultural things?

I know I sometimes feel I don't have enough energy or goodwill even to get through the day, not to mention sharing it with someone else. And don't we all have days when we're so sad or angry or ashamed that we just wish we were invisible?

Sadly, some misplaced instinct tells us keep to ourselves just when we could most use a little human contact—when we're depressed or lonely. Isn't it precisely the diversion of isolation to contact, self-pity to altruism, that so often proves the best antidote for these afflictions?

Might the same factors that make us avoid eye contact with others also cause us to miss the myriad wonders going on all around us every day?

So when I observe the eye-avoidance behavior in others, I know I have a choice. I can either take the hint—whether intentional or not—to keep my distance, or I can share the light of my spirit with them anyway. When I'm on my own game, I'll do the latter; I smile, say hello and wish my fellow human being a good day. Sometimes there's no response...that's okay; I hope the gesture helps in some way.

On a really good day, I might add a little unspoken blessing to my acknowledgment—perhaps wishing the stranger the strength he needs to hold up under whatever that burden he's bearing, and the clarity he needs to find his way out from under it. And in this case, though eye contact wouldn't seem absolutely necessary to convey a blessing, I still try. I guess I hope that, in the same way a handshake seals an agreement, eye contact might help ensure that the "message" gets delivered.

EYE CONTACT WITH NATURE

I can't think for long about anything without asking myself how it relates to Nature and the ways we humans interact with Nature. So, here's a two-bit theory for you: Might the same factors that make us avoid eye contact with others also cause us to miss the myriad wonders going on all around us every day?

And, just as the human interaction of giving and sharing can draw us out of ourselves and restore us to emotional and spiritual health, doesn't a similar interaction with Nature produce the same kinds of healing?

Every single day, whether you live in the wilderness or the inner city, you're surrounded by Nature's gaze. Return it.

So, even if you're having a bad day—especially if you're having a bad day—let your eyes be your vehicle to that healing. Look for connections with others. Realize that, as poorly as you may feel about yourself, the person with whom you make eye contact just might need that affirmation, that blessing, more than you do.

Look, too, for connections with Nature. Every single day, whether you live in the wilderness or the inner city, you're surrounded by Nature's gaze. Return it. Send it the blessing of your spirit, your loving intention.

It's all about what I call "seeing generously," the notion that, by looking with care, compassion and wonder, we confer our blessing on every person, place or thing we behold.