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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.

I never asked for or chose my lineage. It just happened that I come from a line of racists. My parents and the parents before them are part of my lineage. Like me, they too sprung from racist stock, rooted deeply in a highly racist culture.

It appears to be my fate to have grown up with a racist flavor in how I respond to others, how I feel in their presence, how I interpret their actions. My expectations of others, whether white, black or otherwise, have been set by the culture and the family from which I come. It is my lineage to be racist.

I still have choices I can make. I can decide how to act, what to say, what to conclude. But all my thoughts and the movements of my heart are shaped and influenced by my racist lineage.

My family lineage is, perhaps, more evident in my brother. He seems less critical or reflective of his natural, spontaneous reactions to his world. To me, he seems often guided by the racist lineage we share. A few days ago, he easily spoke of his frustration with the killings and lawlessness. His solution is to annually take five jail inmates out to a local bridge and hang them from that bridge as a deterrent to lawlessness.

I was actually surprised how much his “solution” is saturated and shaped by the history of lynchings. His lineage is filled with the experience of white people who took comfort, sometimes delight in a practice of lynching. It is something they absorbed from their infancy. It is part of his lineage, mine, and many white people to think of lynching as a normal response and solution to fear and lack of control.

The influence of my racial lineage is usually more subtle and doesn’t include aspirations of lynching. My racist lineage gets exposed when I watch how my heart responds to people of color. My racist lineage was evident to me in the emotional tone in my response to trick-or-treaters on Halloween.

My lineage showed itself in how I felt when black children came to the door, and I noticed how different it was from when white children showed up. My caution, my benevolence, my expectations shifted depending on whether the children were black or white. My lineage influenced how I regarded Asian or Latino children, all of whom seemed close to being white.

My lineage was not surprised when a young black boy ran through my garden, tearing up lights and decorations in his path. It was what my lineage expects, fears, and then judges.

I do not reject or deny my lineage. If I embrace it at all, it is an embrace of recognition and acceptance. I do not let it guide me when I become aware of its influence . I try to be mindful of its presence, its rooted and familiar place in my life. I attempt to be attentive to its subtle coloring of my thoughts and my heart.

I am not about to bring a great change in my racist lineage or culture, but can limit how I am influenced. I can become more intimate with my racist lineage, observe it, be aware of it in all its features.

For me, it is finding the middle way, and I am not about to deny or purge what is so much a part of me. Instead I choose an open, benevolent heart and let my awareness guide me.

Last evening, two members of my book group described their recent experience of looking into the night sky. They were each in the Southwest and in an area protected from lights. Their descriptions of the richness of the experience awakened in me the memory of sitting on the end of my dock at the cabin and being drawn into the vast expanse of the Milky Way.

I am lucky that there are so few lights around my cabin, and the night sky can glow with a deep, inviting splendor. On nights when there is no moon and no clouds, the night sky is magnificent.

Last evening, all three of us spoke of the feeling of being drawn up and into the night sky. For me, it has been the closest thing to the experience of being absorbed. The three dimensional aspect of the sky is highly inviting, and I remember having the feeling of leaving the ground and being in the midst of all the glowing, distant stars.

This is the same night sky that my ancestors saw and were drawn into. I suspect they had a similar experience of awe and attraction. Yet, it is also different. I am also reminded that it is not exactly the same night sky that must have enthralled ancient people.

Our sun and its planets rotate around the Milky Way once every 250 million years. Since its formation, our solar system has made that journey around the galaxy something like 18 times. So our position in the Milky Way has changed since the time of the first humans, and the view of our companion stars has shifted. But I suspect that the experience has changed little.

I am fortunate that I was able this morning to resurrect so vividly the memory of looking deeply and plunging into the night sky. Today, the enthralling, captivating memory became the focus of my concentration practice, and I once again was able to experience the wonder of the night sky stored in my memory. The awareness of the night sky became the object of my meditation, and the experience of absorption in its vastness flooded my heart.

It is relatively easy to remain focused on realities that seem close at hand. But there is another dimension hidden more deeply. Being able to focus on the night sky draws me into a reality that invites me into a place where there are no limits, where the possibilities are infinite. It is so good to have the experience of the night sky residing in my memory.