what next?

torrential, relentless

rain, darkness, obscured vision

void after cancer

 

photo-6
THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Listening

That word, Listening, arises today again and again. Relentlessly it pulls at my heart-strings begging me to come closer, to be more aware of how much there is to hear.

ImageHenning Mankell

The sun calls to the wind, “blow me a kiss.  why are you so coy with me today?  Yesterday you tickled my toes and today you ignore me.”

I hear the tree outside my window.  It too has a voice, “My leaves grow with each word you type.  You please me beyond measure with your dreaming.”

And, of course, Amelia, the grand baby, “Gigi story.  Pwease a story.  I nap in Gigi’s bed with Gigi.”

Kali, our dog, just returned to us from the hospital, stitches and all, “How did this happen?  It was just a pecan.  I have eaten so many others.  It hurts.  I am glad to be home.”

The faucet in my bathroom, “Drip.  I said drip.  Does no one notice I am running?  I have been left as such since morning.  Drip.”

The collage over my computer, “Look at me.  Remember, the best thing after having control is having none.  Back to basics.  The walls are about to cave in.  We like women with gray hair.”

The authors of books strewn across my desk: Lao-Tzu, “How can you follow the course of your life if you do not let it flow.”  John O’Donohue, “the human person is a threshold where many infinities meet.”  Desikachar”We must expect cycles of clarity and confusion, recognizing that falls from clarity may be more disturbing that a state of no clarity at all.” Pema Chodron, “Always meditate on whatever provokes resentment.”

My desk plant, “I am forgotten again.  Dry and neglected I sit and wait for you to notice, to hear me.  Please, water me, now.

The miniature green flocked Christmas tree, “And why, pray tell, am I still about.  I should long ago have been stored away.  My season has long passed and I grow weary of passers by looking at me askance. May I go up to the attic now?”

My nose, “Blow me.  Blow me now or I will send mucous down your throat and make you cough.  I will.  I will do it.  I am so annoyed with you.”

My I-Phone,”I incessantly beep and you do nothing except peck, peck, peck away on that silly key board.  I am important.  I bring you news of the world, Facebook, text messages.  What would you do without me?”

The silence, “I hold the answer to all your questions.  Stop whatever you are doing right now and listen…..”

LISTENING- Rumi

What is the deep listening? Sama is
a greeting from the secret ones inside

the heart, a letter. The branches of
your intelligence grow new leaves in

the wind of this listening. The body
reaches a peace. Rooster sound comes,

reminding you of your love for dawn.
The reed flute and the singer’s lips:

the knack of how spirit breathes into
us becomes as simple and ordinary as

eating and drinking. The dead rise with
the pleasure of listening. If someone

can’t hear a trumpet melody, sprinkle
dirt on his head and declare him dead.

Listen, and feel the beauty of your
separation, the unsayable absence.

There’s a moon inside every human being.
Learn to be companions with it. Give

more of your life to this listening. As
brightness is to time, so you are to

the one who talks to the deep ear in
your chest. I should sell my tongue

and buy a thousand ears when that
one steps near and begins to speak.

Daddy

Dani Shapiro says she keeps banker hours writing Monday through Friday.  I write every day.  I don’t know any other way to begin my day.  A word, a phrase crossed my mind.  I have to sit down at the computer.   Where will it lead me?  I never know.  I just keep writing.  To whom am I writing?  Today to my father, my hero, my nemesis, my abuser, my lover, my friend, my compatriot, my idol, and for a long time my God.  Yes, I worshiped the man who assaulted me.  I craved his love and attention.  I still do.  I want him to reach down from heaven and kiss my check, to wrap his arms around me and tell me, “You can do it.  You can write a book.  It has always been inside of you.  Let it out.  Follow it, follow the voice from within.”  I see him sitting beside me, here in my office, legs crossed, smoking his pipe, smiling.  “Daddy,” I call out, afraid to look to my right for fear he will disappear.  He is only a shimmer in my peripheral vision but I know he is there.  My heart gulps, holding back tears.  I love you Daddy.  I have such a wonderful life.  I wish you could hold Amelia.  She would love you.  I know she would.  I can see you holding her, as she wraps her tiny arms around your neck and says, “Lips.”  She only likes to kiss on the lips.  Her eyes sparkle as she says, “I love you GiGi.”  That’s what she calls me.  Jimmy is Pops.  She was here last night for Christmas Eve dinner.  Boy was she wound up, running through the house dragging a twenty foot strand of gold bead garland, dancing, jumping, laughing as she wrapped it around the dog, our legs, anyone and anything she passed.  It is because of you I have this tiny ball of light in my life.  Never before have I stopped to think that through you I have created two new generations.  Without you, we would not be here.  You gave us life.  I want to reach out and touch you, to tell you how grateful I am to be alive.  It hasn’t been easy, this life you gave me.  I hated you for so long, but  now that anger seems petty in comparison to this moment of pure joy.  Often when I sit down to write, I feel a gnawing deep inside, a longing to connect to someone or something, to know that I will be heard, that someone out there will read what I written and say, “I understand.”  So today Daddy, I write to you.  Merry Christmas.  Thank you for pushing me to be more, for taking me to the library where I found myself in the books I read.  Thank you for your anger, just the right alchemical mix to forge my creative drive.  Your perversion, your rage, your depression, your loneliness and your love tempered me.  You boiled me in the cauldron of your miscreant soul until I was ready, like Rumi’s chickpea, to jump out of the pot.  You pushed me down again and again until I was fully cooked and ready to escape.  I ran as far from you as I could.  Today I come home.

CHICKPEA TO COOK

A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot

where it’s being boiled.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

The cook knocks him down with the ladle.

“Don’t you try to jump out.
You think I’m torturing you.
I’m giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice
and be the lovely vitality of a human being.

Remember when you drank rain in the garden.
That was for this.”

Grace first. Sexual pleasure,
then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat.

Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook,
“Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.
I can’t do this by myself.

I’m like an elephant that dreams of gardens
back in Hindustan and doesn’t pay attention
to his driver. You’re my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking.”

The cook says,
“ I was once like you,
fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time
and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.

My animal soul grew powerful.
I controlled it with practices.
and boiled some more, and boiled
once beyond that,
and became your teacher.”

~Rumi

The Alcoholc: Compliance vs. Surrender

Image

The following is loosely excerpted from SURRENDER VERSUS COMPLIANCE IN THERAPY WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO ALCOHOLISM by Harry M. Tiebout, M.D., an article a friend shared with me.  I now understand the difference between compliance and surrender.  My childhood trained me to comply.  I learned to say yes even when I knew I needed to say no.  I agreed with anything and everything to avoid punishment. When my father came into my room at night, I laid still.  I never fought.  If my mother screamed at me, I felt guilty.  I knew she must be right.  I must be bad.

Now, I must be authentic.  I want to live a sober life.  Compliance is not enough my enemy.  Alone, compliance is my enemy because it blocks my total surrender.  I am an alcoholic.   I can no longer afford to be half-hearted.

Submission, resignation, yielding, compliance, acknowledgment and concession only work on the conscious mind.  With each of these words there is there a feeling of reservation, a tug in the direction of nonacceptance. Sobriety requires that the unconscious and conscious minds join forces.  

Unless the unconscious has within it the capacity to accept, the conscious mind can only tell itself that it should accept but by so doing it cannot bring about acceptance in the unconscious which continues with its own non-accepting and resenting attitudes. The result is a house divided against itself: the conscious mind sees all the reasons for acceptance while the unconscious mind says, “But I won’t accept!” Wholehearted acceptance under such conditions is impossible. Experience has proved that in the alcoholic a half-hearted reaction does not maintain sobriety for very long. The inner doubts all too soon take over. The alcoholic who stays “dry” must be wholehearted.

We are thus confronted with the question: What does produce wholehearted acceptance? My answer is, as before, surrender. But surrender is a step not easily taken by human beings.


In recent years, because of my special interest in the phenomenon of surrender, I have become aware of another conscious and unconscious phenomenon, namely compliance — which is basically partial acceptance or partial surrender, and which often serves as a block to surrender.”


“Compliance needs careful definition. It means agreeing, going along, but in no way implies enthusiastic, wholehearted assent and approval. There is a willingness not to argue or resist but the cooperation is a bit grudging, a little forced; one is not entirely happy about agreeing. Compliance is, therefore, a word which portrays mixed feelings, divided sentiments. There is a willingness to go along but at the same time there are some inner reservations which make that willingness somewhat thin and watery. It does not take much to overthrow this kind of willingness.”

“One thing must be made absolutely clear: There is a world of difference between’ thinking of compliance in conscious terms and in unconscious terms.  An alcoholic, at the termination of a long and painful spree, decides that he has had enough. This decision is announced loudly and vehemently to all who will listen. His sincerity cannot be questioned. He means every word of it. Yet he knows, and so do those who hear him, that he will be singing another tune before many weeks have elapsed. For the moment he seems to have accepted his alcoholism but it is only with a skin-deep assurance. He will certainly revert to drinking. What we see here is compliance in action. During the time when his memory of the suffering entailed by a spree is acute and painful he agrees to anything and everything. But deep inside, in his unconscious, the best he can do is to comply — which means that, when the reality of his drinking problem becomes undeniable, he no longer argues with incontrovertible facts The fight, so to speak, has been knocked out of him. As time passes and the memory of his suffering weakens, the need for compliance lessens. As the need diminishes, the half of compliance which never really accepted begins to stir once more and soon resumes its way. The need for accepting the illness of alcoholism is ignored because, after all, deep inside he really did not mean it, he had only complied. Of course consciously the victim of all this is completely in the dark. For a while drink was anathema but now he begins to toy with the thought of one drink, and so on, until finally, as the noncooperative element in compliance takes over, he has his first drink. The other half of compliance has won out; the alcoholic is the unwitting victim of his unconscious inclinations.”


“One of the first things to recognize is the fact that the presence of compliance blocks the capacity for true acceptance. Since compliance is a form of acceptance, every time the individual is faced with the need to accept something he falls back on compliance, which serves for the moment.  But since he has no real capacity to accept, he is soon swinging in the other direction, his seeming acceptance a thing of the past.  This unconscious split in the compliance mechanism has deep psychosomatic reverberations.”

“As long as compliance is functioning, there is halfway but never total surrender. But the halfway surrender and acceptance, serving as it does to quell the fighting temporarily, deceives both the individual and the onlooker, neither of whom is able to detect the unconscious compliance in the reaction of apparent yielding. It is only when a real surrender occurs that compliance is knocked out of the picture, freeing the individual for a series of wholehearted responses — including, in the alcoholic, his acceptance of his illness and of his need to do something constructive about it.”

“After an act of surrender, the individual reports a sense of unity, of ended struggles, of no longer divided inner counsel. He knows the meaning of inner wholeness and, what is more, he knows from immediate experience the feeling of being wholehearted about anything. He recognizes for the first time how insincere his previous protestations actually were. If he is a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, he travels around to meetings proclaiming the need for honesty — usually, at the start of his pilgrimage, with a certain amount of surprise and wonder in his voice. Quite frankly, before he was able to embrace the program, he had no idea he was a liar, dishonest in his thoughts; but now that A.A. is making sense — that is, he is accepting A.A. wholeheartedly and without reservations — he sees that previously he had never truly accepted anything. The A.A. speaker does not follow through to state that, formerly, all he had been doing was complying; but if asked, he nods his head in vigorous assent, saying, “That’s exactly what I was doing.” A more articulate individual, after a little thought, added: “You know, when I think back on it, that was all I knew how to do. I supposed that was the way it was with everybody. I could not conceive of really giving up. The best I could do was comply, which meant I never really wanted to quit drinking, I can see it all now but I certainly couldn’t then.”

I surrender.  Divine Mother, please take away my deep-rooted denial.  Relieve me of the desire to drink not just on a conscious level.  touch my inner most soul with the power of your love and grace.  For it is by your grace that I will have the courage not to drink today.  Protect me, guide me and use me for your highest good.

I will not be able to attend a meeting today, but I will call a friend in AA.  No matter what happens, I will not drink today.

Do Not Hide From Your Shadow

Aside

“And what do you find at the heart of fear, dread, loathing, anger, hatred?  You find a surprise.  You find a gift. A gift at the center of hatred?  A gift at the center of aversion.  Could it possibly be?”  Stephen Cope

Could it possibly be?  The knot in the middle of my throat signals, yes.  Yes, I am getting close to the truth.  Can I dive into the burning heart of my anger?  It strikes like a burglar in the night, creeping into my dreams, disturbing my sleep.  My anger lashes out, blaming my husband and others for my unhappiness, my frustration, my lack of enthusiasm, my fear of dying, of getting cancer again and more.  I feel like a Tansmanian Devil howling at the moon, ravaged by an deep desire to destroy every one and every thing around me.  Who would want to live this way?  Why would I invite this intensity into my life?

Instead, I could practice more yoga.  Meditate more.  Go back to my therapist.  Get acupuncture.  Quit drinking alcohol and coffee.  Stop eating sugar.  Take antidepressants, again.  No.  I do not want to do any of those things.

Instead I want to follow the advice of Marion Woodman:

The shadow may carry the best of the life we have not lived.  Go into the basement, the attic, the refuse bin.  Find gold there.  find an animal who has not been fed or watered.  It is you!!  This neglected, exiled animal, hungry for attention, is part of your self.”

I sold my business last year.  Without going in to detail, I will say that I cried more tears than I ever knew could flow out of one person’s eyes.  I filled thousands of kleenex with snot and spent hours wondering if I would ever stop crying.  Then a friend told me, “Your  tears anoint you.”

Wow.  I never would have thought of it that way.  My tears were a baptism, a passage from a long term identity, into the unknown.

I always believed that my anger originated in my childhood, in the abuse I received and witnessed.  It never occurred to me that I could have fresh, raw, newly wrought anger.  The great philosopher, Krishnamurti, talks about staging a well planned prison break only to create another such prison somewhere else.  It is not others who imprison us.  We do it to ourselves.  I constantly set traps for myself and then pretend to be shocked when I step into one of them.  I lie in waiting, lurking in the shadows, ready to attack myself.  After the kill, do I lick my chops with delight?  No, I cry and whine, play the part of the victim, withdraw into my depression and blame the world for my plight.  Not a very pretty picture.

Where is the gift in this rage?  What is my soul attempting to say?  Today, I promise to listen.  I give myself permission to be a mess.  I commit to hear my anger, to give it a voice. Rather than ignore it, or banish it, I will invite it to sit and eat with me.  I will ask it to talk to me, to tell me her story.  I am going to write this story.  The story of my rage.

And maybe, just maybe I will discover that  what Rumi said is true.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

come momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

the dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.