Author: barryschade@gmail.com

I think I have an over-active memory.    I know that it occasionally doesn’t cooperate when I’m trying to remember someone’s name.    But most of the time my memory is in over-drive shaping my thoughts and what I feel.

I am learning more and more how to better connect my attention more directly to my senses.   My awareness of what my eyes see, what my ears hear and what my skin touches is frequently becoming a direct experience.   I am a little surprised to notice how much my imagination is active in shaping and giving meaning to what my senses pick up.   It is as if my imagination is a translator that explains and also shields me from what I am seeing or hearing.   From a practical aspect, this is a useful function.   My imagination gets me through the day.   However, it also reduces my level of discernment and enjoyment.

My imagination is heavily reliant on my memory.   Memory supplies the  content and context.   I remember my past experience with what I think I am seeing, and that allows my imagination to fill in any blanks.   I remember how I felt when I heard a certain sound in the past, and my imagination makes instant reuse of that past feeling.

This is probably a useful ability and can help me to react to situations that could possibly be harmful.   It is also very limiting because memory is limited to my past experiences, and can easily make associations that are not applicable or desirable in a current situation.   Fear and prejudice are blatant examples of where the memory of past experience can interfere with my awareness of what is going on right now.

When I dream, all those memories are given free reign to fill my imagination with fanciful images and feelings.    Without sensory input, my imagination relies totally on my stored experiences for content.

When I am awake, I want to encourage my imagination to take more of a break.  I want my memory to function more on an “as needed” basis and not have such an influence on what I imagine is real.

I’m working on more of a direct sensory experience that bases my awareness less and less on my imagination.    I want my imagination to enhance the energy and input of my senses, not filter them.

I love to think of my garden as in constant motion.   I smile to remember all those times I was told that animals move, plants don’t.   My plants never have heard that, so they are free to ignore it.   So do I.

I walk through my garden at least once a day, visiting and greeting all its residents.   It can be a rowdy bunch.   Some of those perennials have no reserve about constantly venturing into their neighbors’ area.   That Lysimachia has no respect for personal space.

There is hardly a hosta in my garden that is not reaching out  for a better place in the light, no matter that they are shading their companions.    I am routinely corralling the roaming Tovara into one corner of the garden.  So much Wild Ginger has ended up in the compost bin that I’m surprised that it still is so obsessed with wanderlust.

I watch my garden twist and turn, without the help of the wind.    I think of all the activity in the cells and internal structure.   I watch them slowly stretch and change shape between my visits.   I see their leaves breathing in carbon dioxide and exhaling oxygen.    I join the circle and take a deep breath of their constant flow of oxygen.

I’m convinced that everything is likely in motion because of the energetic nature of things.   Everything around me is alive with activity, even if I don’t have the eyes that can see it.  This desk, this keyboard, this chair, my space;  all are vibrating with an enthusiasm I can only imagine.

My garden, however, makes no secret of its vibrant activity.    It is in constant and exuberant  motion, internally and before my eyes.   Some of its action is a slow-motion dance.    I love when I get invited to join in the dance.

I’v escaped into the realization that there really are no answers.  There is only the probability that something is ‘such and such’.    Dogmatism always did bother me anyhow, and it is such a relief to be convinced that certitude is probably a mistake. It’s at least an illusion.

Even being certain that there are no answers is probably a stretch and not true.   I can only say that is likely that there are no real answers.

So is the railing on my deck cold, or does it only give me the experience of coldness when I touch it?   In all likelihood, the railing is cold, but I only have my experience of coldness to rely on.   The railing is probably in a state of coldness, but there is a certain ambiguity about my touching it.

I can use some kind of instrument to mimic my senses and try to determine how cold the railing is.  Even then, my instrument cannot directly communicate its finding.   It can only give me an image, a read-out perhaps that relies on my sensory experience.   Again, what is the likelihood that I am correctly reading the instrument?   My reading the measurement can only tell me what I am likely to feel if I were to touch the railing.

All my instruments can only relate back to  me what I am likely to feel, see  or hear if I were to use those senses directly.    Even my sensory experience can only imply something about an object, and not much more.   My senses can only go so far to imply that something is likely present and it likely has certain properties.  That experience, uncertain as it is, is all I have to rely on.

All around me there are fields of surging energy, manifesting in so many ways that my senses experience.   I seem to be constantly living in the illusion that something is actually there, and my imagination fills in the gaps of information.   It is a marvelous creative world of no certitude, no answers.

 

It seems such a waste to move through the world unmoved and untouched.  Yet, that seems so common.   Like me, so many people seem shielded and protected from the world.   The fear of being moved and touched by the world has been with me as long as I can remember, and I see it all around me.

I remember very well that time when I was 20 years old and first realized that this was not the way I wanted to live.   The process of changing has been going on for over 50 years.   Some things take time.

For a long time, I was focused on making a large part of the connection through one individual.   One at a time.   That did not work well for me or for them.

I think that I have been helped by a continuing and subtle connection with the natural world.   I have always been amazed and moved by the living landscape.   I was not exactly swept away by it, but the wonder of it has kept my attention and a small part of my heart.

A lot of this has changed.  As time goes on, I feel so much more free to be moved and even absorbed by the world around me.   I lean into it and smile in wonder.   I am touched by the living and non-living landscape in ways I never before experienced.

My heart reaches out to the humans on that landscape`in a much more open and fearless way.   I am choosing to touch and be touched.   I enjoy waking up and seeing the same happen in others.

I have a deeply rooted fear of loss.   It is a scary place that I am reluctant to face and enter into.  This fear alone is reason for me to pay attention.

I want to be able to enter into and allow myself to steep in loss.   I want to be able to accept the sadness of loss, to feel the empty space, to allow it to envelop me.

I don’t think I can make room for whatever else might enter in unless I have burnished the empty space with sorrow.   I want to become friends with the emptiness, become familiar with its depth and breadth, accept it in all its unpleasantness.

I have seemed to go to great effort to avoid the pain of loss.   The loss might be for something that has been or even for what might be.  Perhaps this is because the taste of loss encompasses so many memories,  I must swallow again the bitterness of losses already felt.   I know this and yet I must swallow and go on.

I should never gamble or go to an auction.    The pain of possible loss could cause me to do things I would regret.

I want to become open to the sadness of loss.  Fearing it does not serve me well.

Maybe this is what happens when you get older, but I am deliberately choosing not to live by faith.   I think relying on faith is a royal “cop out.” It is a decision to live in a fantasy world, and that is not something I want to do.

How many times have I heard “you have to have faith,” and obligingly handed over my mental acumen to an illusion.  For me, having faith means deciding to follow your imagination rather than make the effort to sort things out.    Substituting an imagined world for a real, experienced one does not seem like something I am willing to do.   Settling into perceived reality seems much more appealing than living in a world shaped by imagination.

In my experience, faith has usually meant living in a world created by someone else’s imagination.

I know this sounds like it is all about religion.    Actually most of it is, but it also goes beyond religion.    It equally applies to the mind-set I have when I pick up the newspaper.   The news is presented in a way that requires me to have faith in the writer’s grasp of reality.   I  am reading about the author’s experience of the “news” and reliably not much more.

If I make the jump to believe that what is reported is an accurate description of reality, I have to have faith.    All that I truly know is that I am reading the newspaper.   Believing in what the writer reports means entering into the world of their experience and their imagination.     Some reality, some non-reality.    I’m not sure I can easily make the distinction.

I’m not willing to have faith in religion or the morning paper.   However, both do provide some amusement and entertainment.

I am saddened and disappointed by the impoverished role religion has played in  the development of humans, including me.   While I am thinking primarily about ‘religious institutions’, I am aware that there are few religions without a religious institution.   Not only has religion neglected to promote healthy human development, it has actually opposed and destroyed the development achieved by others.   Humans have been served poorly by religion.

I acknowledge that religions often encourage and promote virtuous behavior and that is a significant contribution to individual and community growth.   A prime feature of religion, however, is to restrict behavior and thinking in a narrow, defining manner.  That is how a religion and its members maintain their separate, unique identity.

In a literal way, religion is about thought and behavior control.    It has been used in that way by many individuals who wanted to acquire or maintain power.   Inevitably, that has included stamping out any opposing views.   That often has involved torture, death and war.   It has also meant the loss of knowledge.

The success of any religion requires having members who are willing to live by a fantasy.   Faith requires putting reason and experience aside in favor of a hypothesis that is undemonstrated or unproven.   Having faith in something is part of belonging to a particular religion.   Religion requires a certain amount of living in ones imagination or the imagination of someone else.

Historically, that has meant the destruction of ancient learning about the natural world by Christians because what the pagan Greeks taught did not support what the Church taught.   It has taken humans more than two millennia to catch up with what the Greeks of the 5th century BCE had concluded about the essential nature of reality.   It took the work of free thinking people like Einstein to re-discover what the ancient Greeks knew and the Christian religion could not tolerate.

Thanks to religious thought-control, the western world had to go through intellectual dark ages.   Supporters of Christian religion wanted control of people, which meant controlling their thought.   They, unfortunately, were very successful, and most humans languished.   People lived in a fantasy world for many, many years.

While religion has exercised behavior control in beneficial ways, religion has also guided people in many misguided directions.  The list is lengthy and includes crusades, burnings, witch trials and intolerance.   But for me the real disappointing thing has been the dishonest way religion has encouraged faith and discouraged intellectual growth.

People like the mystics were attacked and pushed aside.    People who explored the natural sciences, such as Galileo, Darwin and Teilhard, were vilified and kept from inspiring others with their discoveries.

I’ve come to the conclusion that faith and religion are highly over-rated.  All my life I have struggled to reach outside the confines of religion, and have been seduced back inside so many times.    Now that I have finally stepped outside, I see what an impoverished edifice religion is.

For me, a large part of being vulnerable is giving up the illusion of control.    I am no longer in charge, or at least no longer think I am in charge.    Becoming vulnerable has a lot to do with relaxing, allowing things to happen without imposing my sphere of controlling involvement.

My being vulnerable means that I am no longer in charge, I let go, I no longer try to hold on to myself or someone else.   I put aside all my familiars and assurances.   I yield to the wonder of the moment.   I allow it to happen.

Mindfulness has become for me an exercise in vulnerability.  I give up the role of controller and allow reality to happen without my intentional involvement.   I totally yield to what is.

The gateway to this kind of vulnerability begins with my body.   Before anything else, I sink into a deep relaxation.   This is something that can now happen almost instantaneously.    I tell my body “It is time to let down.”    It is no longer time to be physically vigilant, not time to adjust, not time to move about.  All my senses seem to become both at ease, but vibrant at the same time.

This is also true of my mind, my attention.    When I let go of vigilance, my mind becomes suddenly hyper-vigilant.   This is similar to my other senses.    With nothing to do, no agenda, my mind becomes more aware.   If allowed, it goes willingly and compliantly where I nudge it.   But mostly it simply stays relaxed, alert, full of power and energy.

Again, this is a paradox.    By becoming more vulnerable I seem to tap into a storehouse of incredible ability.  I welcome the power of vulnerability.

I may be forever grateful to Alain de Botton who has shown me the value of flirting. ( onbeing.org/programs/alain-de-botton-the-true-hard-work-of-love-and-relationships/ )   He has helped me realize that we have so sexualized flirting that its broader value has been diminished and hidden.

The common narrative is to shame one another for flirting and discourage its practice.   Once again, the fear of sexuality wins out.

Flirting, rather than abusive, can be a very loving thing to  do.   When I flirt with someone, I signal that “I enjoy your presence.”    I am saying that someone has gotten my attention and that I am responding to their attractiveness.   I notice you, you have all my focus, you give me joy.

I think that I do this kind of flirting habitually, with women and men.    I want to cultivate the combination of openness and responsiveness shown in flirting.    I want to be aware of people I meet and I want them to experience that connection with me.   I want to  enjoy them.   I invite the same kind of openness and enjoyment that I express.

I suppose that with women there may be a footnote message that I might consider them as a sexual partner .   Sometimes it might even be true, but that is way down the list.   More likely is the message that I see them in all their attractive radiance.    And I might want to give someone a hug.    That could be either a man or  a woman.

For me, flirting is a form of loving.   It says “I see you” and I have an open heart to you.   Flirting says that we can play and show our playful self without fear.   It says I am not a threat and I want to know more about you.   I am willing to be  vulnerable with you.    At this time and in this space.

 

 

It is a terrible burden I place on someone I decide to love.  It is almost like a default reaction for me, an easy response, almost “natural”.   I know what it is like to have this burden placed on me, so I am familiar with this experience from both sides.

It has happened to me many times.   The person I love is not standing before me but largely exists in my imagination.   There obviously is some reality to the situation, but I can also be swept away by my imagined lover.   This can be both good and bad.

It can be good if it delivers the exhilaration of finding someone who really understands me, someone who is just what I want in another person, someone who is ideal.    In a  word, someone who is perfect.

It can be bad because it sets an expectation, a standard no one can measure up to.   Reality disperses the hologram of a perfect lover, and disappointment descends.   As I come to recognize who they really are, I realize that they are not the perfect one I fell in love with.   It is easy to hold them responsible for not measuring up to my expectations.

I am most familiar with this dynamic as the one who did not measure up to expectations.   I was not the one that someone fell in love with, and it took time for the reality to set in.  I was not perfect.   I was just good enough.   The glass was not full, just half full.

The cultural pressure to fine the ‘perfect one’ as a beloved is so burdensome on us all.   It has failure written all over it.   There is no hope of joy if expectations are set so high.   Loving based on reality, and a first step must be to get rid of all the fantasy, all the cultural images of a perfect relationship.

I am becoming more aware of how this works,  and I try to break the spell of the imagined beloved.   I am attentive that the perfect one exists only in my imagination, and I try to place that expectation and burden on no one and no one individual.  I  make it a daily practice of approaching people with an open heart and the intention to see them as they really are, not as my imagination pictures them.   Seeing them as beautiful humans means they are all at least good enough.   In this case, that says a lot.