Author: barryschade@gmail.com

I live in a world where only a part of reality is visible to my searching eyes. Beyond the tactile and the seen, an experience of unfelt and unseen ghosts abides. There is a vibrant and dynamic reality that I can only barely become aware of. It is a ghost world. It has none of the shapes or forms of my more familiar world.

It is not enough for me to only know or or to simply realize that I live in a realm of unseen reality. It is not something so passive and lifeless that it is beyond my experience. The unseen world is as vibrant and alive as the world that is populated by what I can see and touch. I simply have to get more comfortable, familiar with it. This realm is a thriving arena of animated ghosts, entities as real as all the features I think I can see and touch.

Science has now reckoned with the ghost world of dark matter. Experience in the seen and tactile world has lead many to conclude that there is more to reality than what they can see and touch. A whole world of dark matter evidently exists, a world composed of ghost matter that is multiple times more vast than the matter we think we see and touch .

I sometimes wonder if the consciousness I experience is only a small part of a vast consciousness that reaches far beyond my finite experience. I wonder about a ghost consciousness that thrives with exuberance and vitality that is outside my seen world.

There is more stuff than the world I label as “material.” I already know that my experience of the material world is illusory and a fabrication of my own mind. What formless ghosts are there that also inhabit this world that reveals itself to me by my sight and touch?

Winter has become a time of deeper reflection for me. I’m less distracted by the exuberance of a warm, illuminated world populated by animated plants, rocks and animals. These are some of the material things I can see and touch, and they are a little less obvious, less available to me in winter.

I become more immersed in solitude in winter, and I am more inclined to settle into reflections on things I cannot see or touch. In winter I can better open my mind to an expanded reality, and in a small way I become more aware of the unseen ghost world. It is a ghost world that I am typically unwittingly a part of, a world outside my normal experience and attention.

Mindfulness is notably a practice of intimate contact with the material world of the seen and touched. Mindfulness also can extend to a world otherwise hidden from view. Winter offers me a quiet space of isolation where I can become more aware of the ghost world of the unseen. It is a world I can experience without the benefit or distraction of the customary shapes and forms of my seen world. And it is no less real.

I am glad for the occasional opportunity to rub up against a consciousness, an awareness not readily available to me in times of visual, tactile exuberance. Slowly I can become more comfortable living and moving around in a world dominated by ghostly exuberance and vitality.

For a long time, I’ve wondered about my fascination and experience of watching my model trains move around the wandering track in my basement. I sometimes even enter into that feeling just by imaging, remembering what it is like to watch them move.

I easily feel an openness and inviting allure that can arise even when I am only thinking about the experience of seeing the trains snake around corners or rumble down straight stretches of track . The puzzling part is that it is a felt experience not unlike what I encounter when I am entering into a state of focused, deep concentration on my meditation cushion.

Much of this is not new. For a long time I have considered this fascination with moving trains just part of my having Aspergers Syndrome, or AS. I’ve accepted that the orderliness and predictability of a train moving along a carefully defined path is an experience that someone with AS would find both comforting and attractive.

For me, my heightened interest in moving trains, seemed a normal trait of someone like me whose brain circuitry is slightly different from typical humans.

Now I am not so sure. I think that there is more to it. Because the train experience is so similar to focused concentration, I think it is more than just a symptom for someone with an uncommon brain circuitry.

Now, I am less apt to dismiss it simply as a characteristic AS symptom, and I am more prepared to see it as a helpful, reinforcing pathway to insight.

I am noticing that, for me, moving trains have been a learning experience. Moving trains allow me to feel what it is like both to enter into focused concentration and at the same time have a close encounter with impermanence.

A moving train is different from a train the is standing still on a fixed track. Watching a moving train has all the felt experience of encountering changing reality. It invites an abiding awareness of impermanence.

I might find a similar fascination with a spinning wheel or the whirling blades of a windmill. There is a sense of fixed reality coupled with an immediate experience of constant change or impermanence . But for me, it has been trains that have been most helpful.

A moving train going around a sinuous track is a facile way of experiencing impermanence while at the same time having an anchoring in a static reality. For me, it is a reflection of the changing world arising out of a solid foundation of infinite possibility.

Even a moving, constantly changing train simply “is”. A moving train offers both a focused concentration on “being”, while it is also in a state of constant change. It is a reflection of the impermanent world that simply “is” all around me. It is not unlike what I glimpse from time to time while sitting on my cushion.

Perhaps AS has given me an opening into the experience of something that otherwise might have been more difficult. Perhaps it helped moving trains give me a taste for what later would for me become part of deep concentration.

At any rate, I am grateful for moving trains. I think that my experience of trains has offered me a gateway to experience something much more than constantly turning wheels on fixed tracks.

I like the notion of embracing the unexpected. I even think of myself as learning to lead a non-purposeful life. I am, in small ways, learning how to give up “doing” things and “being done to” in the interest of yielding to a simple joy of “being.”

In its simplest sense, I am becoming more comfortable with just “doing nothing.”

This is not an intellectual game. It is not even an intellectual process, although it does affect where I put my attention. Rather it is a state that arises gradually from repeated surrender in time of concentration, in times I am sitting on my pillow. It is a state that arises from time to time as I immerse myself in the ordinary, daily experiences of mindfulness.

Sometimes, I have no expectations when I am walking across the room or when I am pushing the knife through banana bread. Sometimes, there is nothing I anticipate as an outcome, nothing expected in a felt manner.

Leaning into the unexpected is nothing that originates in my head but oozes out of my body as I feel myself absorbed in whatever is happening. I have little investment in the outcome, in the expected result. But I have a developed affinity for what is happening and that fills my body with a glowing joy. It is so good to be “here,” involved in whatever is happening.

My body is becoming accustomed to the simple and gentle joy of being. I can no longer be “the one” who acts to produce an outcome or to resist what is happening “to me”. I less frequently create an outcome, nor do I resist the actions of others. I have fewer expectations that I intend to meet.

I am in many small ways learning to accept things just as they are. I do not have a great interest in resisting them or changing them. I allow myself to be seduced into a close encounter with what is happening, with what is being.

While this intent to embrace the unexpected is strong in me, it is also seriously challenged by the squirrels who found it necessary to sever many wires and darken all the lights on two trees in my back yard. I have repeatedly called them naughty and lectured to them as I relocate them many miles away. But my heart is not resisting what they have done as it might have a couple years ago.

I may have been surprised, and saddened by my unexpected encounter with wire-cutting squirrels. But I have also experienced a quiet absorption that remains firm and calm in the midst of this unhappy event. I am part of what is happening, I am unhappy about it, I find it difficult. But I also am not resisting it.

None of this happens because I thought it through, or was convinced of its value. I am learning how to deal with the unexpected simply by repeated surrender in moments of deep concentration. I find that it is a slow process, but I am finding joy in yielding to events with little investment in the outcome.

I may even develop a habit of embracing the unexpected, just because it is.

As the earth has begun to tilt back toward the sun, I am attentive to the constant experience of change. It is a good time for me to remember that I am on a planet that is traveling around the sun at the remarkable speed of over 66,000 miles per hour. I am reminded of the way we use time and space to measure and observe change. Measuring speed is a way we attempt to express what appears to be a movement involving time and space.

My whole sense of change is dependent on and involves what I perceive as time and space. I think of a day in units of time invented by humans to measure what appears to be the movement of the sun across the sky. Humans have gone to great length to establish an unchanging basis for time, but still even that basis is constantly changing. It all is relative.

Even the measurement of space is relative, based on a perception that ignores the changing nature of the standard. If I can remove either aspect of change, either time to space, my experience of change vanishes.

Even if I attempt to examine what I experience without any measurement of time , there still is a before and an after. It is also a challenge to direct attention to any experience without evoking a notion of occupancy of space. It is difficult to step away from a world where space and time appear to be a constant. I mostly live in a persistent deception that space and time are a constant, and they are both changing.

There are moments of concentration when the notions of space and time do become uncertain. I sometimes feel I am on the edge of something wonderful and magnificent, the edge of an experience where there is no time and no space. I sometimes enjoy standing on the edge of that unchanging, non-relative reality. It is a distant sense of no change.

Very slowly, the feeling of release is creeping into my life. I’ve never found much comfort or appropriateness in the common notion of “letting go.” That well-worn expression has too much the feeling of disengagement, stepping out of the situation, abandonment.

I find it much easier to embrace the notion of “release”. It has all the feeling of an unfolding flower. It allows me to be fully present while releasing control. I let the situation unfold, but never step away from it.

When I experience release, I no longer experience constraints. The feeling of discomfort, or dis-ease, departs. All my life, I have struggled to be free of the constraints that society, my culture places on me. All the while, it has mostly been my internal struggle to release myself from my adopted notions of how things are. When I experience release, I feel like I have finally come home.

My meditation pillow is my training platform. When I meditate, I rapidly slip into a state of release. I leave all notions of my body, the room, the world behind and release myself into a formless space. My stepping-off point is my breath. Being aware of my breath, then releasing that feeling of physicality as I become aware that I am aware, allows me to enter into that formless space. I have a deep and full feeling of release as the experience of an unfolding flower saturates my presence.

For me, this is a release into something that must be like an experience of absorption. Concentration does not arise by force. Instead, concentration arises when I release my notion of how things are. More likely, I am releasing my mind from any notion of what things should be like.

Release does not just happen but results from an extended progression for a gradual seclusion from my notions of reality. It is a gradual relinquishment from all I have learned, from all my mental and emotional constraints. I am gradually able to be free, released from physical and emotional disturbances.

In time, I am becoming released from all I know, from the constraints of knowledge. I am no longer sure of anything. I am especially not sure of what others tell me. I constantly ask myself, “Are you sure?” The question releases my mind from the constricting moorings of certitude. I become slightly awash in a sea of infinite possibilities.

I am but a beginner in this business of release. It is something of a new experience for me. I am discovering, however, that when I intend to release, I become released. That is an experience of fullness, energy and joy. I feel like I have come home.

I notice how much energy I put into the future. There is such an allure to put attention on what might occur in the future that I often scarcely notice what is going on right now Sometimes I am distracted by the allure of the future. I’m not sure if this is is how I have been trained or if it happens naturally. I know that being a “planner” is a skill valued in our culture.

The future is often like a siren song luring me to a place that does not exist. It becomes the focus of my attention and my efforts. I recognize that some of this is important for living in the relative world, a place that relies on time and space for structure. I like it better when I live in the moment I have right now, rather than be captivated by a promised future. It could be an alluring future filled with delightful attraction or beckoning me to a place of fear and dread.

I often worry about the future, that it is something to be avoided or solved so that it has limited impact. I am drawn by an expectation that a future will give me the satisfaction and joy I do not now possess. Because of the alluring future, I miss the joys and satisfaction of the moment.

I notice that there are people who live in the expectation, the allure of a future rapture. The notion of a future heaven is such a strong part of our culture and part of our avoidance of suffering and death. It is a future heaven that is always just out of reach, and a distraction from where we are, what we can do right now. The allure of a future happiness can cause me to miss the opportunity to enjoy the rapture available to me right now.

The promise of a future heaven or threat of a future hell can easily be a distraction from the good or the harm that I can bring about right now. Keeping my “eye on the prize” may make sense from a planning perspective, but it is not a full way to live. I want my prize to be right now.

Having a peripheral awareness of possible futures makes for good preparation, for good planning. I do not want to put much energy, however, in something that might eventually exist or never happen. I want to maximize my attention and energy in a present moment. I want to avoid the allure of the future.

I notice how much energy I put into the future. There is such an allure to put attention on what might occur in the future that I often scarcely notice what is going on right now Sometimes I am distracted by the allure of the future. I’m not sure if this is is how I have been trained or if it happens naturally. I know that being a “planner” is a skill valued in our culture.

TO BE CONTINUED

They were just two short sentences, but each was a wise reminder of how I aspire to be a parent. Last evening after my book group gathering, one of the members said two things that shocked me in my tracks and reminded me of two aspects of parenting I want to possess, each of which has been out of focus lately.

I was reminded that what I give of value to my young-adult children is not advice, information or guidance. What I want to give primarily is loving support and the confidence that they will figure things out on their own. My days of advice-giving have passed. I am no longer a parent-teacher. What my young-adult children value more, and require more, is my steadfast support and encouragement.

My children, in fact, don’t want advice or even subtle suggestions. They are annoyed by most of what I tell them to do. What they want is my full-bodied confidence that they have the power and potential to sort things out and be a full human being. They each are well on their way on that path.

I was also reminded that I do not want to project my issues onto my children. My issues are for me to resolve. My anxieties are mine and not those of my two children. If I require my issues to be dealt with by how my children run their lives, we are both going to suffer.

How my children live their lives are now their affair, not mine. How I live my life also belongs to me alone, and not at all to them. Decisions they each make are likely to be different from mine. I want to habitually step to the side and not attempt to walk in their footsteps or expect them to walk in mine.

I will address things they do to the degree that they directly affect me, but I do not want to be invested in how they choose to live their lives.

I was reminded of my resolve not to give advice to my friends, family or children. I was reminded that I am determined not to make my sense of stability dependent on how my friends, family or children act.

I suspect that I always will be a parent to my children, but the way in which I am a parent has changed. I am grateful that I was reminded of that.

I’ve always been a little uneasy about the idea of “giving thanks.” There seems to be something contrived about it, something thought up. It seems as though giving thanks is something I do, and perhaps is not a genuine expression of who I am.

I prefer to rely on the idea of gratitude. To me, it seems to be more a way of being than a way of acting. It seems to involve a deeper level of engagement. It is an expression of who I am.

I think it is wholesome and socially beneficial to express thanks to someone, to act thankful, to thank individuals. But I also want to be someone who lives in a state of gratitude. I want to have a disposition of gratitude. I want to have an attitude and openness that is grateful for whatever I experience, grateful for whatever exists.

Gratitude is not about something that I do but is something that I am. It is an expression of being mindful, attentive, perhaps even absorbed. Gratitude is a recognition of what “is” and does not attend to what “is not”. It notices what is present without paying attention to what is absent. Gratitude evolves from the old notion of a glass being half full, not half empty.

I was talking with someone yesterday about how much fun it was to have a huge breakfast with Lily upon her return from Oregon. The comment I heard was “That must have cost a lot.” I was clearly taken up with gratitude for Lily’s return and the fun of going out for a big breakfast, not with noticing the cost of it all.

I think that gratitude is an aspect of the 4 Noble Truths. The 4 Noble Truths point out the unease that emerges when I attempt to avoid what I dislike and grasp for what I like. It is part of the balance of simply seeing things as they really are, and perhaps getting a little absorbed with that reality. Gratitude emerges from a heart that is open to things as they are, not from the notion of how I want them to be.

For me, gratitude comes naturally from being able to recognize and embrace the deep value of whatever occurs. It is a simple expression of insight into the marvelous nature of things, of people, of happenings.

I just noticed that another turning of the earth has brought me back to facing the sun. It is morning. It is, for me, another time of facing the sun, another day by common reckoning.

Morning has arrived yet again, the earth still spins on its axis, the sun burns with vigor and amazing gusto, and I am once again finding myself in the midst of this wonder-filled dance of sun and planet. I have to experience another day.

As I get older, I am beginning to think more about the finite number of mornings I get to experience. My mornings have some kind of apparent limit. I can calculate exactly how many mornings have come and gone for me, and are no longer part of my short life. I have no way of reckoning how many more mornings are yet to come for me. Their number, however, could be counted,

Would it make a difference if the earth spun a little bit faster or a bit more slowly? Would that affect the number of mornings in my life? Or is my body and all of its mysterious rhythms so connected to the turning of the earth toward the sun that any change in the earth’s speed would have no effect on my number of days. Perhaps there would be no change in the number of times that the sun would appear above me, my body functions are so tuned to the rhythm of the spinning earth.

Even my sense of time and the passing of time is so tied to my experience of the appearance of the sun. Time is so subjective and speed so relative that I might not even notice a change if the speed of the earth’s spin would change. Perhaps my reckoning of my weight would change, and also my counting of my mornings.

But I might not really notice a difference because my whole world would have shifted its references. Morning is such a benchmark for my life and my experience of living. The benchmark, however, is flexible and likely illusory.

It is exciting to be part of this wonderful rhythm, the turning of the earth and the reappearance of the sun. I am aware that it might be daily marking off the days that I live, and that is a somber task of the sun. But the morning greeting I give and receive with the sun is still a thrilling experience..

It is an experience I want to be immersed in and absorbed into. I want to be aware what it is like to be an intimate part of this celestial exchange between the earth and the sun. I also want to be aware of its illusory nature.

I want more to be fully aware of each new morning as a gift that is infinite in measure. I want the morning to remind me of the illusion I have of time. I want the experience of my morning to erase, or at least blur, the significance of the illusory limit of my number of mornings.

I look forward to each morning being the messenger of wonder and joy.