ARTICULATE SILENCE – The Power of Presence

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing...not healing, not curing...that is a friend who cares.”
HENRI NOUWEN
                                              ~      •     ~      •.     ~     .     

It’s taken me a very long time to realize that just sitting, with no task, no agenda, no expectations, isn’t necessarily a waste of time.

“Just being” is something babies and old folks do very well. I suppose you could say that’s because they can’t walk and their hands don’t work very well. But more important than how they might have come to be so acutely in the present moment is the fact that only the most cynical observer would ever conclude from their lack of “productiveness” that they’re wasting their time.

It’s a shame the art of just being is so lost on the rest of us. For it’s in that state, devoid of ambition and guile, liberated from expectations of any kind, that we’re best able to experience what I’d argue are the human pursuits of the highest order: curiosity, compassion and wonder.

NOT THEN OR WHEN, BUT NOW
By the time we’re in grade school, most of us have already been indoctrinated with the familiar mantras: Keep your nose to the grindstone; Idle hands make for the devil’s work; Work hard enough and everything will be fine. You know, the good old American dream. Trouble is, there are some worthwhile goals that don’t fall within the reach of anyone who’s reaching.

          There are some worthwhile goals that
          don’t fall within the reach of anyone
          who’s reaching.

We’re all conditioned to place enormous value on the past and the future. We think the past, the sum total of all our life experiences to date, defines who we are. We think the future is where all our hopes, dreams and fears will play out. In fact, we tend to focus so much of our mental and emotional energy on the “then” and the “when” that we fail to fully experience the “now.” As much as we’d like to think we can do it, no one can be in two places at the same time.

I learned a lot about just being during my parents’ last days in this life. These lessons come naturally when you’re with someone who can no longer communicate with words. You sit there. Maybe you talk a little, hoping the person understands you at some level. But mostly, you just sit.

Simply sitting with someone may seem like an old-fashioned idea, like visiting or court-
ing. These are things no one used to think much about; there were fewer options, fewer distractions, so they just did them. But now that we’re all wired in, on call, connected 24/7 wherever we go, it’s gotten harder and harder not to feel we should be “productive” at some level nearly all the time.

Yet it’s precisely in such moments of “emptiness” that we are most apt to be fulfilled. That’s when we let go of any notion that, somehow, we’re “in control,” that there’s something we should be doing or thinking, or that anything but our presence matters.

When our consciousness is full of stuff from the past and future, there’s no room for what’s happening now. It’s only by clearing the decks of these preoccupations that we can be open to a communion with the present, whether with our own true spirit, the soul of a loved one, or the astounding beauty of Nature’s gifts that surround and fill us.

            We focus so much of our mental and 
          emotional energy on the “then” and the
          “when” that we fail to fully experience
          the “now.”

FINDING SOMETHING NEVER LOST
To be truly in the moment is a difficult concept for some people to grasp. After all, how can you achieve something that’s accessible only to those who don’t try to achieve it? Is it really possible to notice the absence of everything?

Can you really hear silence, feel emptiness? You can if you’re ready. Just as a sponge can’t absorb a spill until it’s wrung out, you can’t understand these things without first wringing from your consciousness the concerns and constructs that saturate your mind.

Perhaps the one mental construct that clashes most with just being is our notion of time. We imagine our lives as linear paths; we move along a time line. Each day, each experience we have, becomes another part of our past, that which defines who we are.

And the line extending in front of us, the future, holds all the experiences we will have from now on, illuminated by our hopes and dreams. It’s precisely in such moments of “emptiness” that we are most apt to be fulfilled.

        

Curiously, we even tend to see the spatial aspect of our existence as linear, imagining, again, that only those places where we’ve been and where we’re to go delineate the sphere of our existence. Imagine walking through a Costa Rican rain forest, touring the Musee D’Orsay or even riding the bus home from work, looking nowhere else but straight ahead or straight behind you. Would anyone consider this a whole experience?

As Eckhart Tolle says in his wonderful book, The Power of Now, these linear paradigms are just illusions we’ve invented to help us deal with the incomprehensible reality of the infinite. 

If you're looking to the past, the future or a change
of scene for the secret of happiness, you're looking
in the wrong place. If fact, it makes no sense to be looking at all, because you already possess it; it’s already inside of you. It is part of you; you are part
of it.

This is why just being is such a powerful, articulate force. Notwithstanding its utter simplicity—or, perhaps, because of it—it is a most eloquent expression of a reality few of us are ready to grasp. That, outside of the present moment, nothing—literally, nothing—exists.

Even the most defining moments of your past exist only as you interpret and apply their lessons now. Even your fondest wish, your most compelling goal, exists only in the work you begin now to realize it.

THIN SPOTS – Close Encounters With Eternity

Recently, the mother of my dear old friend, Charlie, died. She was an incredible woman, smart, civically engaged and, at 97, still living independently. As a minister—ordained when she was in her sixties—and someone with a life-long passion for music, it came as no surprise that she’d orchestrated much of her own beautiful memorial service.

Some time before her death, while discussing that eventuality with her minister,
she had noted some of the most important aspects of her own, personal spirituality. Among them was her belief that human beings—at least those of us open to the possibility—regularly encounter “thin spots” in the self-made barrier between our largely-mundane daily busy-ness and other, more transcendental realities.

She felt it was her job, as a minister, to encourage people’s awareness of those convergences, because, among other reasons, they are good places to find God.

          If I could choose between this state and 
          deep sleep, I’m not sure I could tell you 
          which I’d pick.

BLISSFULLY AWAKE
The other night, perhaps facilitated by that posthumous sermonette, I encountered one of those thin spots in my consciousness.

I’d already had a unique and memorable night. Unable to sleep for some reason—
I seldom have that problem—I’d been lying there, resting quite nicely, though acutely aware of my surroundings, my body, my thoughts. It wasn’t that anything in particular was on my mind, nor even that I was unable to turn off my thoughts;
I truly wasn’t thinking of much more than how amazingly comfortable I was, both physically and mentally.

Instead of any sense of urgency or frustration with not being able to sleep, I just felt utterly at peace. I remember thinking, If I could choose between this state and deep sleep, I’m not sure I could tell you which I’d pick.

Now, to be honest, I can’t say I might not have drifted briefly off to sleep now and then during the night, but it sure didn’t seem that way.

            A tear—a real, cool, liquid tear—
            rolled down my cheek.

THROUGH THE MEMBRANE
Then, some time in the wee hours, I was suddenly aware of a presence. Not a flesh-and-blood presence, but a presence nonetheless. It was my dad. (In the 20 years since he died, I’ve had just one other significant connection with him, so I knew right away this was something special.)

We talked. I don’t remember saying anything out loud, but we talked. My “voice” felt real and true, and his…well, it seemed completely spontaneous, by all ap-
pearances his true voice, not one of my own creation.

So I asked Dad some of the questions I, because of both my reserve and his, had never thought to bring up while he was alive. “What were some of the high points of your life?” I asked. Without hesitation, he said, “You and your brother.” A tear—a real, cool, liquid tear—rolled down my cheek.

“Were you happy as an old man?” I asked. “You and mom seemed pretty detached by then, if not downright fed up with each other.” He replied, “Oh, you should have seen us when we were younger! When we got married, we were happy…and we were in love. Back then, we could talk, we laughed, we were affectionate...or as affectionate as conservative, German Americans could be (he winked)—we shared dreams…”

“Yeah, but were you happy during your final years, after you sold your homes and business?” I pushed. He thought for a few seconds. “I guess it was a different kind of happiness, the kind that comes from fulfilling a responsibility. Once I got your mom situated where I knew she’d be looked after, and sewed up some financial matters, I figured I’d fulfilled my purpose. I kind of let go.”

     In a kind of role reversal, I felt I’d taken 
     on the role of parent, and he was the child.

Dad and I talked for quite a while. I filled him in on my life since he passed away—during much of which he smiled and nodded knowingly, as if he already knew. I had to catch myself a couple of times running on about myself and tried to turn the conversation back to him. After all, I told him, this was about him.

He disagreed, but I guess that’s one reason this encounter was so amazingly special; in a kind of role reversal, I felt I’d taken on the role of parent, and he was the child.

I told him how proud of him I was…and am, and how much I love him. And how sorry I am that I wasn’t able to express that pride and love more overtly while he was still alive. In one of Dad’s patented responses—usually issued when the rare mention of love came up—he said simply, with that familiar, twinkly-eyed smile of his, “Ditto!”

Finally—I don’t know if I eventually did drift off to sleep or if it happened consciously—we said our good-byes. But not before I made him promise that he’d come back. He promised…and I’m waiting...

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 FLAVORS OF FATE

In my continuing efforts to demystify the spirituality of awareness, I often find myself at what might be described as the back door of Buddhism. That is, I embrace ideas associated with Buddhism, but without paying the price of constant study and discipline.

One such theft is of the idea that happiness hinges on detaching oneself from expectations—those uniquely human constructs built on the past and future, but having nothing to do with the present moment.

That said, detachment does imply faith. Yes, you most certainly have plans and goals; yes, you apply yourself to the task at hand. But beyond that you believe the universe will steer you to exactly the outcome it—and you for that matter—needs.

MM-M-M-M, MENINGITIS!
An old friend of mine applied this tenet in his encounter, many years ago now, with cocci meningitis, a fungal infection of the lining of the brain. It was thought at the time to be a terminal diagnosis.

Walter—an aspiring Buddhist by the way—tried just about every alternative, new-age treatment you can think of. He meditated. He hung out with crystals. He traveled afar and dug deep within for answers. (The first thing one spiritual/medical guru, in Texas, asked him was, “So, Walter, why did you decide to get sick?”)

I’ll never forget when Walter announced to our men’s group that he’d come to a place of peace with the disease, come what may. As he put it, “It’s like ice cream; if having cocci meningitis is vanilla, then not having it is chocolate. Either way, life is delicious.”

Walter, twenty-plus years later, is still with us.

The trick is to handle these events the best we can, not let them handle us.

A GREATER REALITY
We all face events and decisions every day in which we vest the outcome with a value—from how the barista makes our latte in the morning, to whether the house we just bought is really as good a deal as we think it is, to coping with illness, even death.

And we always have the choice between seeing unexpected consequences as failings or misfortune, and seeing them as simply parts of a greater reality which can be labeled as neither good nor bad. It just is.

The trick is to handle these events the best we can, but not let them handle us. And, once we know we’re doing our best, as Walter did, we let go of the outcome.

It’s incredible how liberating this attitude can be. For it does not suffer fools gladly; useless emotions like disappointment, regret and fear are dismissed before they can utter a word.

This is how I want to live my life. But it’s not easy. Ever since I was three or four, nearly every lesson I’ve been taught, every message absorbed from the culture, every example held up to me, has been about investing all you’ve got in an outcome and never letting go of that expectation.

   It may be an outcome we could never have 
   imagined, one understood only by the boundless 
   wisdom of the universe.

JUJU BEINGS
Perhaps it’s the luxury of being an older, more independent man, but my instincts have been quarreling with all those do-or-die lessons. They're arguing—when they can get a word in edgewise—that the outward pursuit of success, happiness, faith…whatever…is a fool's quest.

Human beings are hard-wired for happiness. So, instead of looking outside ourselves for a certain result or to acquire some special juju, the real answer is to look within. It is a process not of acquisition, but of divesture, shedding all the garbage that has piled up on top of the perfect juju we already have.

So Walter's point—made, admirably, under the direst of circumstances—is well taken. Except that I'd add one thing. If the outcome we would have liked (before our conversion to quasi-Buddhism, of course) is chocolate, and the one we wouldn't is vanilla, there's a third option: a result that is neither—an outcome we could never have imagined, one understood only by the boundless wisdom of the universe.

As I ponder the deliciousness of all three of these possibilities, an odd thought sidles into my consciousness—a craving for ice cream. Not vanilla; not chocolate. Neapolitan.

                                 

GOOD 4 U – Kids: Take Your Parents Outdoors!

We humans—like many animals—have five basic senses (that is, the senses most of us learn to use the most). Can you name them?

When I was a kid, we used all of our senses, all the time. We spent tons of time outdoors. When we got on our parents' nerves, they just said, "Hey, I've had it! Go outside and play!"

We had TV, but our parents only let us watch it when there was something really good on that the whole family could watch together. We had no computers, no video games, no cell phones. If we were bored, we went outside. What do 
you do when you’re bored?

The best, most interesting, most beautiful things 
in the world are already right there, within reach 
of our own, natural, non-electronic senses.

THE DARK SIDE OF DIGITAL
Today, we have all this technology, all these wonderful machines that make life easier, allow us to do things faster, connect us with other people—across the room and around the world.

But all these machines, all that amazing technology, has a dark side. Too many people are starting to confuse it with their real senses. It makes us forget that, often, the best, most interesting, most beautiful things in the world are already right there, within reach of our own, natural, non-electronic senses.

What’s happening in this photo? What would you be doing if you were in their place?

Okay, video games, TV, computers, cell phones and the Internet are great tools for some uses, like learning, looking up information, and just having fun. But there are still some things technology will never be able to do.

Too many kids—and adults too!—are losing touch with all the information, learning and fun that's already right out there in their back yard, down the street at the park, or at a beautiful nature center nearby. What have you learned about Nature close to your house?

Technology often gives us information or experiences made up by someone else. They may be fun, but they don't make you use your senses, your imagination, your creativity…all things that need exercise and that make you smarter and happier.

Your body gets soft and weak…and so does your brain!

IN TOUCH? REALLY?
You can be in touch with your friends by cell phone or texting, but usually that's all it is, just saying hi, where are you? whatcha doing? It's not really like talking, just very short, not very important messages. What’s different about talking with your friends in person instead of texting or tweeting them?

To really communicate with someone, you have to use all your senses, don’t you? You want to see their eyes, the expression on their face; sometimes you need to touch them.

Nature’s full another kind of energy, one we all need much more than we need electricity.

It's the same when we communicate with Nature. Is seeing a picture of a beautiful waterfall the same as being there, standing in front of it? No! Seeing the picture, even listening to someone talk about that waterfall only calls on us to use a couple of our senses, and even those are kind of weak…because what we're sensing is just a story; it's not real. What senses would you use if you were standing next to a waterfall?

Have you ever noticed how, when you have a bad cold, you can't taste your food, even your favorite things? That's what it's like if you're not really outdoors where you don't just see and hear Nature, but also feel it and smell it and taste it.

Nature has no electrical outlets, no Internet, no cell phone reception. But it's full another kind of energy, one we all need much more than we need electricity.

SENSING ON STEROIDS
Now, are smelling, tasting, touching, hearing and seeing our only senses? Some people think so, but I believe there are other senses, ones that are a bit harder to describe and might be very different for different people. One of them is called the sense of wonder.

Wonder is what you're feeling when you come across something that's completely new and amazing, something you've never sensed before—like the first time you turn over a rock or a log and find a little bug or worm that lives under there, the tracks where it's moved, maybe its eggs, and all you can say is Woh-h-h-h!

Wonder is when you're looking up at a big flock of birds and, all of a sudden every single one of them turns at the same time as if they were one giant bird. It's when, in the wintertime, you shuffle your feet across the carpet and then touch something—or some one—and BZ-Z-Z-T!! There's a spark. Have you ever done that?

SO EASY THAT IT'S HARD
Wonder is my favorite of all the senses, but it's very hard for some people to find. Why, because it isn't something you can go looking for. In fact, the harder you look, the less likely you are to find it. No, wonder is something that has to find you! And the only way it can do that is if you leave the door open and make room for it.

That can be hard, because we're all so busy. We've got school, music or dance lessons, sports, sleep-overs, and all kinds of other events. We're always worried about being on time, not missing anything. Our time is full, our minds are full…

If you guys keep growing up as disconnected from Nature as many kids are, Nature will have a very hard time staying healthy herself. 

Well, what wonder looks for is a place where you and your senses have nothing else to worry about except just being—being quiet, being observant, being curious, sometimes being playful...just being. That's when life's amazing little miracles happen…or should I say that's when you notice them, 'cause they're happening all the time, even if you don't notice them. It's just a lot more fun when you do.

So I hope you'll ask your parents to help you find times when you can make room for wonder. Times to be outdoors, not with any kind of toys, but just with Nature. Times with nothing else to do or worry about except playing, exploring, learning…just being with Nature.

If you've made room for wonder, you'll never be bored and you'll never be lonely, because Nature can be a very good friend. Do you have any friends that aren't people?

GOOD FOR YOU!
Learning to sense wonder in Nature is good for everyone. It's good for you because it helps you grow strong and healthy and smart and happy. It's good for your parents, because they want you to be all those things—and also because they want to be all those things too!

And it's good for Nature, because if you guys—this generation of children—keep growing up as disconnected from Nature as many kids are, Nature will have a very hard time staying healthy herself. Because only when we know and love something do we do what's necessary to take care of it.

We need to take care of Nature. Only if you girls and boys and your parents care enough to make sure we don't pollute the air and water, don't build things where they ruin the homes of wild animals, keep people and companies from using more and more and more stuff we don't really need, can we make sure that when you grow up, your children and grandchildren will still have a beautiful, WONDER-ful world to love too.

The truth is that being outdoors is just as safe 
and beautiful as it was when they were kids.

So, do your parents—and yourself—a favor. Take them outdoors whenever you can. Remember, they probably spent ten times more time out there when they were kids than you do now. Maybe they've forgotten. Maybe they're so busy that it seems they have no time. Maybe, like most parents, they just worry about keeping you safe.

But you can help remind them that:

• You need free time—when you have nothing else to do, and they're not around. That’s when you’ll get outside, explore and play with your friends and the many animal friends and fun toys Nature provides.

• Many of their concerns about keeping you kids safe come from news on TV, radio or the Internet that focuses only on a few bad people and bad things. The truth is that being outdoors is just as safe and beautiful as it was when they were kids.

• You don’t have to go to the wilderness, out in the country, or even to the suburbs to experience Nature. It’s can be as close as your front porch or back yard. 

• Nature is good for you. Science is proving that it helps you be healthier, smarter and happier.

So, kids, can you do that: remind your parents that you need Nature every day just like they did when they were kids? You will? 
GOOD FOR YOU!
(For another perspective on kids, technology and Nature, see my post from March, 2012, SCREEN-BOUND KIDS – The “Missing” Generation)

A SLOUGH OF WONDERS – Celebrating My Happy Place

Where's your happy place? You know, that one favorite spot you escape to when you're in pain, under stress or just bored to death. The place that always takes you in, where you restore your equilibrium, reclaim your truth.

For some people, it might be about home and family—perhaps their mothers' kitchens when they were children. For others, it might involve a favorite activity, like gardening, golfing or fishing. I suppose it could even be an imaginary place, a kind of spiritual outdoors you get to by just walking out on your abrasive thoughts and surroundings for a while.

But what I'm thinking of would be a place in Nature, a real locale, a tangible space delineated by air, water, earth and life. Do you have such a place that's dear to you?

            If it were to be wiped from the 
            face of the earth, I'd still go there.

A DOSE OF WILDERNESS
My happy place is a real place. I go there physically when I can, and in my imagination when I have to. If, for some reason, it were to be wiped from the face of the earth, I'd still go there. That's how much a part of me it's become.

It's a slough, or side channel, of the St. Croix River, the beautiful stream that separates Minnesota from Wisconsin for 125 of its 164-mile length. I discovered it as a boy, when my family would spend summers at our home just across the river. And, even though I've had few lasting connections with the house and land, I've continued going to the slough, in both body and spirit, for more than fifty years.

             These days that's not a bad price 
             to pay for a dose of wilderness.

Today, the trip involves a little more effort than that boyhood walk of about a quarter mile to the river. Now I have to drive north from my home in Minneapolis for about an hour. Then I get my canoe and gear in the water and paddle about half a mile to the inconspicuous gap in the wooded bank that marks the slough's entrance. These days that's not a bad price to pay for a dose of wilderness.

By the time I pull up at the landing, I've already begun my transformation, dropping off my worries  along the way, picking up a few parcels of quiet anticipation. When I step out of my car, the air's clean and fragrant, the sun warm, the clamor of the city left far behind. And, if I'm lucky, the St. Croix looks just right—low enough to leave exposed a few welcome sandbars, but not so low as to require portaging into the slough.

       

REFLECTIVE RHYTHMS 
What best exemplifies my metamorphosis, though, is the striking change of vehicles—leaving the one designed for a mile a minute for the one whose progress is measured in yards. I'm also trading a conveyance that both consumes and breathes poison for one with no appetite nor breath but my own.

There's something so perfectly liberating and empowering about the self-reliance of traveling by canoe. Each paddle stroke, each foot I might have to drag or carry my gear across a log or shallow sand bar, rewards me with a modest, well-earned result. It's a celebration, not simply of freedom, not just of connecting with Nature, but of the way my body works and feels.

         Their breath and mine, as well as that 
         of a thousand fellow beings—poplar 
         and pine, deer and otter, cardinal and 
         eagle—mingle in this delicious air.  

The synthesis of physical exertion with my mental and spiritual surrender make me part of this place—one that, very likely, has changed little since the days when the Ojibwe or Dakota plied these waters three centuries ago. Their breath and mine, as well as that of a thousand fellow beings—poplar and pine, deer and otter, cardinal and eagle—mingle in this delicious air.

My time in the slough is like a meditation on two levels at the same time: the syncopated rhythms of paddling and breathing center me deep within, while a lush tapestry of sensations wraps around and, like the sure guidance of trusted friend's arm, draws me out to become one with my surroundings. My mind, free of schedule or expectation, glides, like my canoe, wherever I choose to take it—or just drifts with the wind. Either way, my spirit is nourished completely.

               It's a change I'm afraid too many 
               people find so easy that it's hard.

OVER THINKING
It's funny: I don't think very much while I'm paddling in the slough. I used to feel I could use the time to do some creative problem solving or to make difficult decisions about my life. But I've come to understand and accept that that's not where my spiritual energy wants to go. It wants to lift me above all those mundane tasks and embrace that one deceptively simple task of simply being. It's a change I'm afraid too many people find so easy that it's hard.

I hope you have a happy place, a place where easy is easy. If not, I hope one will find you.

We should all have at least one real, tangible happy place we can go to, a setting whose highs and lows, whose bends and backwaters, whose headwinds and tailwinds have become parts of who we are. What's extraordinary about this is that, no matter where that might be, even in the years we all know will come when we can no longer go there physically, we'll still be able to go there in our hearts and minds.

Where's your happy place? Is it one of peace and reflection? Do you ever go there virtually?

HAPPY FOR NO REASON –

(I was inspired to write this post by my dear friend, author and spiritual maven Robin Easton, who always has something inspirational to say -- Naked In Eden.)

I don’t claim to have the secret to happiness. But for the past decade or so 
I’ve been hacking away at some of the gnarled undergrowth that makes that age-old mystery so hard to untangle. I’ve learned a thing or two. And though 
I keep hacking, it seems the more I do so, the less important the object of the quest becomes. Why is this? Here are a few of my observations to date:

THE MAKE-ME-HAPPY MYTH
Some people seem to think they need a darn good reason to be happy, like something extraordinary has to happen to them first. Otherwise, they figure, they'll just have to settle for either being unhappy or, perhaps, not feeling much of any-
thing at all. I feel sorry for those poor souls; that construct, it seems to me, is exactly the opposite of how the cosmos really works.

     The way Creation intended us to feel most 
     of the time—our default setting, if you will—
     is joy.

No, the way Creation intended us to feel most of the time—our default setting, if you will—is joy. What needs a reason is sadness, anger, fear and all those other lurking saboteurs of joy.

If there's no reason for any of those unpleasant emotions, or, more importantly, if the reason is one we can work our way around or through, well, then we're just stuck with what's left: happiness.


BETWEEN STORMS

I'm not saying life doesn't throw us a curve now and then. Disappointments show up; we feel lost or out of control; loved ones get hurt or lost or pass away. Of course these events trigger powerful emotions; that's part of life. But, like so many aspects of human consciousness, we'd do well to recognize that these emotions—even staggering ones like shame, grief or hopelessness—are not the end of the world, but temporary storms on an otherwise tranquil sea.

In those periods of turmoil happiness may seem like it's nowhere to be found. But even though we're overcome with unhappy emotions, happiness is still there, in the background, just waiting patiently for its chance to take back its rightful place at the helm of your emotional ship.

FAITHFUL FEET
So how do you believe in something you can't see? It takes experience, knowing that, as you've observed more than once, this too shall pass. It takes a sort of discipline—keeping your eyes and heart open, at least a crack, for the signs of hope and healing. And, as with anything we desperately want but can't immediately see, it takes faith, in ourselves, in others and in whatever we revere as our higher power.

        If I choose to start rolling back a layer 
        of doubt, regret or anger to see what’s 
        there, it helps if I expect it’s going to be 
        something good.

You may have heard me say that, in general, we see what we expect to see. This is as true in our own disposition as it is in Nature. When I lift up a leaf to see what’s under it, I don’t do that because I expect to find nothing. It’s as much an act of faith as it is of curiosity. That is, my chances of finding something increase in proportion to how much I expect to find it. The same is true of happiness. If I choose to start rolling back a layer of doubt, regret or anger to see what’s there, it helps if I expect it’s going to be something good.

When it feels like the earth's dropped out from under your feet, as if emotion's moved you away from your true center, getting happy again may seem like the last thing on earth you can—or even want—to do. At times like these, it may be all you can handle to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. But you must remember that peace and happiness are still there, and will eventually rise up to meet your faithful feet once again.

Once you're back on solid ground, you re-connect with your lightness of being. You again see your world as the ordinary, routine, often mundane, yet breathtakingly beautiful place it is. No reason. Just joy.

What barriers would you have to navigate in order to 
be happy for no reason?

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

 TIP #94

Introduce yourself to your dark side. Sign a treaty.

Know that little voice inside? Is yours your champion or your worst critic? Does it light the way for you or leave you in the dark?

Have a conversation with your alter ego. Write down the dialog as if you were a detached observer. Acknowledge the voice; try to understand whose it is; listen to what it has to say. You might just be able to win its admiration instead of its scorn...or at least meet halfway. Hey, what've you got to lose?

ARE WE HAPPY YET? – Knowing How Much Is Enough

As the holidays approach, with their propensity for expectations and excess, do you sometimes yearn for a simpler life, one in which small miracles get noticed? One where your schedule leaves room for spontaneity? A life of humility and gratitude? This popular little parable about knowing happiness when you see it bears repeating:

An investment banker stood at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellow-fin tuna. The banker complimented the fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The fisherman replied, “Only a little while.”

The banker asked him why he didn’t stay out longer and catch more fish.

The fisherman said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.

The banker then asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, and stroll into the village each evening, where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life.”

The investor scoffed, “I'm an Ivy League MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and, with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, and eventually you'd have a whole fleet of fishing boats.”

    Do you sometimes yearn for a simpler life, 
    one in which small miracles get noticed?

The investor continued, “And instead of selling your catch to a middleman you'd then sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You'd control the product, processing and distribution! You'd be able to leave this simple village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually New York City, where you'd run your expanding enterprise.”
 

The fisherman asked, “But how long will this all take?” to which the banker replied, “Perhaps 15 to 20 years.”

“But what then?” asked the fisherman.

The banker laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right you'd announce an IPO, sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You'd make millions!”

“Millions. Okay, then what?” wondered the fisherman.

To which the investment banker replied, “Then you could afford to retire in style. You could move to a small coastal fishing village where you'd sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you'd sip wine and play guitar with your amigos.”