HOPE IN A SNOWFLAKE

What is hope? Is it anticipation? Expectation? And where’s it located? Is it all about something happening way off in the future? Must it always be about the future?

Spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle likes to say, because the past has already happened, and the future hasn’t yet, that neither exists. That the only time that’s real is now.

So, what does hope look like, not when it’s about some distant outcome, but closer to now?

Well, of course there’s the kind with a capital H, that big, existential kind that’s just out there somewhere. But the small-h, everyday kind—is grounded in the here and now, resting not as much in fate as in our own hands, heart and spirit.

It’s really a choice we make, like love or happiness. But more like surrender, cut of the same cloth as faith.

If big-H Hope is the distant glow at the end of the tunnel, small-h hope is lighting candles in the darkness.

In these discouraging times, we need all the hope we can get—both kinds. Big-H Hope to put out there in the Universe as our sacred intention for ourselves and the world.

And small-h hope, which is often just putting one foot in front of the other. It’s there in the smallest details, minutia that might slip right past us if we’re less than fully present to call it what it is.

What is hope?
It’s a rustling in the brush along the bank of Peasley’s Slough
A glint of light through the forest ahead promising the end of the portage
Kneeling down to check the thickness of the ice
Swiping on a little blue kicker over your glide coat
Casting into that deep eddy just downstream from a rock point
Sticking out your tongue for a snowflake

It’s walking out with your choir onto the stage
Composing that exotic, dream itinerary
Readying your craft space with papers, scissors and glue
Checking how many students have shown up in your Zoom waiting room
Wrapping your finished lampshade arc around the rings
And it’s watching the garage door open and wanting so much for your partner’s car to be there.

There is hope in all these things, all of them signs of wonders about to happen.

So, as we face a new year, still groping our way through this tunnel of fear and uncertainty, may we take comfort in the glow we see at the end, and light those little candles. 

May we seek and find hope everywhere. Yes, up in the sky, in the big picture of what might lie ahead for us. But let us also find it in the moment, in the common, the constant. In each small wonder, each fleeting thought, each precious moment of 2022.

A HOLE IN TOMORROW – Seeing Right Through Mortality

You may have noticed the gradually increasing frequency of my posts touching on aging, death and dying. This is partly due to my perspective, which I can no longer pretend is anything but that of a senior citizen. It’s also inspired by my experiences as a hospice volunteer. (I spend a few hours every week with people whose days are numbered.)

Despite my long predisposition to the present moment, the older I get, the more often I seem to stray to thoughts of the ever-more-precious future. Like imagining how, when the time comes for me to face my own life’s end, I might do so with half as much grace as my patients do.

       In just the past couple of years, five of my 
       family members and friends have faced a 
       cancer diagnosis.

TOMORROW…AND TOMORROW
I know, I know…worrying about tomorrow is pointless. While it’s probably more useful than worrying about the past, either way there’s little any of us can do to affect the consequences of time.

But there’s tomorrow…and then there’s TOMORROW. For someone simply living out their last days or one facing a grave health crisis, the term could mean, literally, the next day; one might not dare look ahead much further.

But for those of us still fortunate enough to still gaze out on an indeterminate horizon, the view is quite different.

Yes, there’s still that sense—especially if gratitude is part of your daily spiritual practice—of each tomorrow being a precious gift, one you should appreciate as if it were your last. But even that self-imposed filter doesn’t keep those of us in reasonably good health from fully expecting another tomorrow after that…and another…and another...

How cruelly that expectation must change when one receives, say, a cancer diagnosis. These days, I find myself thinking about that all the time, because in just the past couple of years five of my family members and friends have faced that reality.
        It’s an opportunity to introduce ourselves 
        to our faith—or at least an aspect of that 
        faith we may never have been in the same 
        room with before.

CLOSER STILL TO HOME 
Even as I’ve been writing this post, one of those loved ones dealing with cancer—a dear old friend—has experienced a dramatic change in his condition. Steve had been responding quite well to cutting-edge treatment which aimed to seek out and destroy cancer cells no matter where in his body they lurked.

But now, quite suddenly, the cancer has gained the upper hand throughout his body. There’s nothing left to do for him—at least in terms of cure-oriented medical treatment. He’s entered hospice, and doctors advise him and his family not to think in terms of months, but weeks…or maybe even days.

What a fickle friend hope can be. I can only imagine what he and his family must be going through, given that initial ebbing of the disease’s leaden horizon and then its abrupt rushing in and imminently crashing over them.

PERMEABLE PERMANENCE
I guess this is one positive effect of death—a silver lining, if one thinks broadly enough—in the whole human scheme of things. It causes those left behind to confront the reality of our own mortality.

It’s also an opportunity to introduce ourselves to our faith—or at least an aspect of that faith we may never have been in the same room with before.

It’s that faith that renders the dreadful, absolute finality of death somewhat more forgiving. As if that barrier to yet another tomorrow becomes, rather than a dark, impenetrable, tombstone-granite wall, perhaps more like a fine-mesh screen which, while it certainly inhibits our free, physical movement from one dimension to the other, at least allows the free flow of air and sunshine and spirit between the two.

As death becomes an ever-more-frequent visitor to my aging circle of loved ones, I’m asking myself if my faith is up to the task. Can I, as with any other aspect of wonder, learn to be fully present with my mortality? Might I, if faced with a terminal diagnosis, be able somehow to see beyond—if not right through—death’s dark curtain?

Could you?

SELF-DRIVING CARS – And Other Collisions With Consciousness

I don't know about you, but I’ve never been able to read a book outdoors. It’s like, okay, here I am, worshiping in the sacred temple of deep woods. So I think I’ll just tune that out, escape to Manhattan and engage in some sexy shenanigans with Eva and Gidean.

What?

      These days folks walk around with their 
      thoughts as far away from the here and now 
      as a gasp of wonder is from a yawn.

The advent of iPads and smart phones has not helped. These days folks walk around—not just in the woods or mountains, at the beach or on the water, but anywhere at all—with their heads down, their thoughts as far away from the here and now as a gasp of wonder is from a yawn.

A HARD BARGAIN
Don’t get me wrong; I’m no Luddite. Technology is amazing. The irony that I'm here every day, urging moderation in the use of the very same media I employ to air that message is not lost on me.

But the key word there is moderation. It’s one thing to break up a long road trip by letting the kids play a video game or watch a movie in the back seat; it’s another to let them arrive at your destination utterly clueless as to the characters, landscapes and happenings they’ve passed along the way—not to mention the goings-on inside the car.

So, back to the progression of technology at the expense of consciousness. We are now very close to seeing the mass marketing of a driver-less car. Aside from the obvious concerns about safety, how might this hasten the already-alarming atrophy of human awareness, curiosity and wonder? Could it further deepen our separation from Nature?

I’ve discussed this with my wife, who’s a fierce advocate of technology. She points out that with no need for drivers or passengers to keep their eyes on the road, the robotic car might actually increase one's ability to enjoy the scenery. But I’m not buyin’ it. My money's on most folks turning to their iToys or laptops, or even—now here’s a quaint notion—reading the newspaper.

    Anyone else find it sad that the only way this 
    new concept of transportation will transport 
    you is from point A to point B?

A PERFECT SYMBIOSIS?
I was going to say we’ll know I’m right when car makers start touting the obsolescence of windows. But that evidence is already old news. In the May 15, 2015 issue of the Atlantic, the article “Why Driverless Cars Don’t Need Windows” (excerpted from author Peter Waymer’s book Future Ride) paints what seems to me a grim, dystopian picture:

 “Daimler doesn't seem to think the passengers will spend much time actually looking out (of windows). Photos from the company emphasize the way that four passengers can sit facing each other, talking, working or playing games, all while ignoring the outside world.” (Anyone else find it sad that the only way this new concept of transportation will transport you is from point A to point B?)

“Daimler sees the car of the future as a ‘digital living space’ that provides ‘a perfect symbiosis of the virtual and the real world.’” (And what part of this would you describe as the “real world?”)

 “The sentimental among us may still choose windows out of nostalgia, but... accountants will flinch at extra costs and almost certainly grow to see windows as an extra expense that breaks too easily and adds too much to the air-conditioning bill.” (I'll tell you what breaks too easily: the human spirit when we allow others to decide what is and what isn't worth looking at.)

     Call me old-fashioned, but I’m going to fight 
     for the right to look out...at the real world.

KEEPING YOUR HEAD DOWN
Might those bean counters someday reach the same visionless conclusion about other vehicles? Trains? Airplanes? How about our homes?

And might we human beings, besides our already-predicted evolution toward bigger eyes, wider butts and longer fingers, eventually transform into so many forward-slumping, nearsighted moles, incapable, any more, of looking up or out
at anything?

What do you think? Are you ready for a windowless world? Not me! Call me old-fashioned, but I’m going to fight for the right to look up and out—whether I’m walking or riding or flying...or just sitting in those deep woods—at the genuine, perfectly beautiful, first-hand miracles of the real world.

LOST IN THE HERE & NOW – Embracing My Affliction

“...the past gives you an identity and the future holds the promise 
of salvation, of fulfillment in whatever form. Both are illusions.”  ECKHART TOLLE

BEARERS OF BAD NEWS
For the longest time, I asked myself why I felt so uncomfortable when people would ask me something about my past. Perhaps, I rationalized, I have a few regrets, maybe a little sadness knowing I couldn’t change things that had already happened.

Come to think of it, talking about the future wasn’t so great either. That, too, troubled me, weighing me down with a vague sense of responsibility. Hell, how could I know what was going to happen tomorrow, not to mention twenty years from now?

       

Planning, while I realized it was a necessary part of life, often left me feeling powerless, especially if it had anything to do with money. I tried budgeting many times, accounting for every dime I was spending and every dime I needed. Eventually, though, the solution to the equation kept coming up the same: You don’t earn enough money! I got sick of the reminder.

        With everyone but me having a pretty
        good handle on yesterday and tomorrow,
        I concluded these must surely be the
        most important parts of life.

AN ORIGIN AND A DESTINATION DO NOT A JOURNEY MAKE
My family put a lot of stock in the past and future. My parents, siblings and several other relatives not only dutifully tended the family tree, they loved to talk about genealogy, and some kept boxes and boxes full of family records and relics.

On the other end of the time scale, most of my role models were also excellent planners. I got the feeling some of them might just have figured out, before they were 30, exactly how they wanted to spend the rest of their lives. Poor me, I never had a clue.

                      

Naturally, with everyone else having a pretty good handle on yesterday and tomorrow, I concluded these must surely be the most important parts of life. So my always managing to get wrapped up in things of no consequence beyond today always felt wrong.

I typecast myself as, among other roles, the irresponsible little brat, the dreamer, the dabbler, the lazy, naïve…you name it. Whatever you called it, it meant not measuring up to the people in my life I most admired.

       My problem wasn’t an inability to deal
       with where I’d been or where I was going;
       I simply didn’t care.

ALL THERE
My epiphany, if you can call it that, happened gradually, rather unspectacularly, over a period of many years. Let’s say I grew into the realization that my problem wasn’t an inability to deal with where I’d been or where I was going; I simply didn’t care.

I realized I’d been consistently choosing—somewhat guiltily—to spend most of my time, my thoughts and my creative energy on wherever I happened to be, whatever I was doing, at any given moment.

The reason? I think it was simply that that's where I found the greatest happiness. It had taken years, but I was finally understanding that this wasn’t a flaw at all, but one of my greatest strengths.

           

As my self-criticism morphed into something between pride and gratitude, I started celebrating the fact that being in the moment is one of the essential tools of life. It is nothing less than the medium from which spring creativity, discovery, gratitude, wonder, and, yes, happiness.

That’s not to say you must—or even can—maintain a constant state of spontaneity in your life. But whether you’re in the woods, listening to a friend, or catching glimpses of ultimate truths, it’s pretty hard to do it very well when part of you’s not there.

THE GIFT
I understand that very little in life—things, people, conditions, even consciousness—is ever all one way or all the other. The trick is finding the balance that works for you. But when it comes to awareness that balance can be hard to strike.

I guess the people I admire most are those who can move their focus to the past and future when necessary, but remain essentially centered in the here and now. Most of us would say, I think, that we're pretty good at this…but, based on my observation, I'm not so sure.

With the pace life seems to throw at us these days—the pressures of a highly competitive workplace and sometimes shaky economy; technology that's raised our expectations of what can be accomplished in a minute's time; communications that have persuaded us we should be accessible any place, any time; media that's constantly eroding our attention spans—it's awfully easy to lose touch with what's happening right now, right in front of our noses.

             Will the next generations care
             enough about Nature to care for
             her, to fight for her?

I worry especially about the next generations. With all those pressures, as well as new ones we can't yet imagine, will they ever be able to really know the power and joy of quaint ideas like reflection, dreaming, patience or wonder?

Will they ever have the time and interest to know Nature in the marvelous ways many of us in my generation have been so fortunate to experience—ways that only being fully present can reveal? Will they care enough about Nature to care for her, to fight for her?

                        

I guess it's up to us. I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to find every way I can to help people—especially children—notice and celebrate small wonders. I'm going to encourage institutions—families, schools, churches, architects, medical entities, governments—to integrate Nature into who they are and what they do.

And, whenever I meet a young person who seems lost in the moment—perhaps one who, like I was, isn't quite comfortable with that affliction—I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that kid recognizes it for the wonderful gift it is.