Barry Garden Path

Being on a path seems to imply some kind of movement. The presumption is that the movement is mine and is in a forward direction, towards an outcome. That outcome is somehow better than where I stand.

I think I am starting to prefer to stand in place, to feel undirected toward some kind of goal. I think I like the feeling of embracing unintended outcomes and I am a little suspicious of things turning out just the way I planned.

If anything moves, it is not me but the path itself. It carries me along, intent though I might be of not falling off the edges. I am thinking less of outcomes and more about yielding to where I am. I like to sometimes just sit on the path.

I sense that I have no place to go, no where else to be. The path will carry me if I do not resist or stray onto its sides. The flow of the path knows how to carry me. I need not move but only look around and be aware of where I am. It is enough to become part of where I am.

For months, I have been sitting with groups of people as we explore the impact of trauma on all of us. We have been guided by Resmaa’s book on trauma as we have attempted to come to grips with the unfortunate impacts of the trauma experienced by our ancestors or ourselves.

In talking so intently with others about this inherited trauma, I have forgotten about something equally important. I have not remembered equally well that I am the beneficiary of countless acts of kindness, not just acts of trauma.

So many acts of kindness have shaped me. These are not just the acts of kindness I have directly experienced, but also the vast number of acts of kindness that have preceded me and had such a great effect on me. I may have a dark side to my inheritance, but I also have a bright side as well.

I think of the thousands of gestures that have both saved and enriched lives, and I received that bounteous inheritance from the first moment of my existence. I am remembering the countless acts of kindness that have created a high functioning species like me. Every morning, I immerse myself in the memory of the acts of love that have shaped the kind of person I am today.

I know that I carry the burden of past trauma, my own and my ancestors. I also carry all the acts of kindness of those who have come before me. I carry in me all the warmth and support of the sea of kindness of those who surround me with an abundance of compassionate love.

The raw hostility of the world is softened by the generous kindness that I see as the prevailing face of a universe that is essentially benevolent and kind. I have been marked by countless acts of kindness of humans just like me.

I aspire to play my own role in shaping with kindness what is yet to come. My every act of kindness reaches out beyond the time I still have to be alive.

It seems almost like an unreal dream that Kip and I practiced this time so often. I know I have been here before, but the reality is taking its time to settle in.

It has been only a week since I suspected that Kip was back in the hospital. He had not answered my Sunday email suggesting how we might schedule our routine Monday morning chat on FaceTime. There was his ominous silence. It was a silence we had laughed away numerous times before when I quipped that when he didn’t answer my email or my phone messages, I could assume he was in the ER or the hospital. Again.

This time it would be a day before I got the email from Ellen announcing that this was a serious return to hospital. Kip was very seriously sick. He was put on a ventilator on Sunday. Then came the dreaded but expected news that his close family would be gathering to say goodbyes on Wednesday morning.

Kip and I had witnessed this chain of events before. Practiced it. Examined it. Turned it over and over. Imagined what it would be like. He from one perspective. Me from another. His was about letting go of life. Mine was about letting go of a friend.

Cancer may take life, but it gives time. We had years to prepare for the bend in the road we both knew was inevitable. Though we could only see vaguely through the fog of medical uncertainty, we new there was a sharp curve somewhere ahead. We moved along as though we had all the time in the world, for today.

It has been a week since the practicing ended and reality set its uncertain course. Kip died on Wednesday. Even though it has been only a week since I was certain he was about to die, it seems like a much longer time. Even though the reality that was emerging slowly was strangely familiar and practiced, it became a slow and difficult process. The peeling away revealed a pain and sadness I had not seen before. Practice is one thing. The real performance is quite another.

It has been a week of raw newness blended with studied familiarity.

I guess that I thought I was being prepared and practiced for the inevitable. But in the arriving of the letting go Kip and I both had to do this past week, I found it unfamiliar. The more I have allowed myself to settle into the reality of Kip’s death, the more I am finding the experience deeply sad and difficult. I have been down this path before. We had practiced, after all.

I now realize that the practice mostly made it easier for me to slide down a familiar route. Letting go was a practiced experience. I felt little resistance to the reality I slowly settled into. The practiced ease, however, has also allowed the sadness to enter in so effortlessly and deeply. Practice was no shield from sadness.

I wonder what it was like for Kip. When I knew he was dying, I wished him acceptance and an ease in letting go. I never thought to wish him the joy of realizing that he had experienced a wonderful life. Perhaps it is not too late to remind myself to think of what a gift it has been to have Kip as a friend, to have shared all those moments of supporting friendship.

As I delete all those future 9:00 FaceTime visits with Kip from my calendar, I also remember all those past scheduled times that are still there. We may have spent a little time practicing for what was to come, but we spent a lot more time living shared moments of life together. A good blend.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted things to stay as they are. I’ve wanted things to be permanent, stable, and above all predictable. I certainly had flashes of excitement when some things changed, but I actually liked to have my feet solidly on the ground, a ground I was familiar with.

I’ve been chipping away at that solid foundation that seemed so permanent. I’m not so sure any more whether anything can be permanent, no matter how much I want it to be. I’m not so sure anything can remain the same, no matter how much I might find that appealing or comforting.

I eventually came to grips with the idea that life is not permanent. Getting older gives me the choice to try to hang on to staying alive or to yield to the inevitable and accept that I am going to die someday, perhaps soon. The idea that this will all pass away has something of a futuristic sound to it. It will happen some day, but not right now. I’m not so sure. That may be just a small part of the reality.

I’m noticing that there is nothing permanent about today, this hour or even this moment. For me to embrace impermanence goes way beyond accepting that “some day” I am going to die and my body will lose its animation. I am actually being carried along on a current of moments that has no characteristic at all resembling permanent. I and everything around me is constantly disappearing, vanishing, eroding away.

I once sat on the south ridge of the Grand Canyon and watched the sun gradually disappear below the ridge across that vast abyss. The sun was there one moment and then slowly it sank below the horizon. What had been there moments ago with amazing brilliance was no longer present or perceptible. In an instant it seemed, the whole world around me changed. I was enveloped in the approaching clutches of darkness.

So it is every day, throughout the day. Each moment, each instant that seems so firm and permanent is suddenly gone. There is nothing permanent that offers me stability and comfort. What was here a moment ago, is totally gone. There is nothing I can hold on to, nothing I can reclaim. The wisp of smoke in which I live is constantly changing, constantly evolving. I am constantly changing along with it.

It is becoming apparent that what was there at the beginning of this sentence is no longer there when I strike the “period” key. I live in a world where the concept of permanent has no place. The more I live in harmony with that lack of anything permanent, the more I will be awake in a real world. There actually is comfort in that.

I have long been attracted to the sensual quality of words in poetry and enjoyed their ability to allow me to share in the hidden experiences of the writer. This has mostly been in some context and the emerging magic has been in the weaving of words together. Some words are taking on an ability to stir deep feelings in me without the context of syntax, or rhythm or woven imagery.

All words have some cognitive resonance and recognition, as long as I understand the language. Some words, all on their own, can stir sensations beyond the enjoyment of recognition. I find that even without context, words like “emptiness” bring on sensations that ripple through my body. “possibilities” is a word that conjures up a murmur that relaxes all of me. “Inbetween” instantly takes me to a deep sensation of recognition and being centered.

I know it is my past experience with these words and my deep immersion in them that causes this sensation in me. It is like they are a small opening into a space that is wide and wonderful. Just by thinking them, they instantly remind me of where I have visited before.

There is one theory that language has the effect of rewiring the brain. We think in patterns conditioned and even formed by the assemblage of words in our language. I think that the rewiring of my brain might also be associated with individual words. The words individually concur up whole wide experiences that would normally take many paragraphs to describe

I think that I normally have rich experiences that I associate with individual words. When speaking with others, I use those words, realizing that there is no way that they can understand the full meaning that those words have for me.

I am aware that some words not only have that rich depth of meaning for me, but they also cause sensations. The ones I am thinking of conjure the feeling of unmistakable peace and calm. It is nice to have my brain wired to them. It is nice to have them so accessible.

I sometimes reach out for a hand, and none is there.

I wonder if this is just part of being human in the midst of others like me, or is it an invitation for me to relax into a realm of no formations. There is a rich joy in the experience of being connected with another person, a plant, a rock or any other entity. This is mirrored in the rich joy of being connected with nothing at all. The beckoning lure of nothingness extends a powerful invitation to enjoy the sphere where there is no recognition, but all things abide.

I am caught in between the poles of this duality in my life. The invitation of each is so strong, and sometimes very distracting. Perhaps there is an in between where both abide.

I’m never quite sure what people mean when they talk about “being present.” I am even rather vague about what I mean when I say that I am present. However, I am noticing that there are a group of characteristics that show up when I experience what I consider being present. Actually, focusing on those characteristics of experience sometimes help me have an experience of being present.

There are traditionally five aspects of experience, and paying attention to them makes my life much richer. I have more experiential contact with what being present is about. Although they can be looked at individually, they are like the panels of a five-sided ball. While they can be understood when examined individually, they are best experienced when observed all at the same time. Experience is the bundle.

One obvious aspect of experience involves material form. This is the sensory aspect of experiences and includes all matter and the related physical sense impressions. A tea cup sitting next to my keyboard and my seeing it is an aspect of experience. My feeling the warm cup in my hands and pressing my lips against its hard rim all are aspects of my tea cup experience.

Whether this is a pleasant or unpleasant experience is a wholly mental activity and a second aspect of experience. Every experience is pleasant, unpleasant or neither-pleasant-or-unpleasant. Sometimes this is called feeling tone, and it is a basis for developing likes or dislikes, which is another aspect of experience. If I recognize the experience as neither-pleasant-or-unpleasant, it typically means I am tuned out, not paying attention. I am in a moment of delusion. To experience being present, I have to know if the experience is pleasant or unpleasant.

Recognition of the tea cup is another aspect of experience and a second mental activity. In my constant stream of sense activity, I am constantly singling out objects that I recognize. I relate this current experience of seeing and holding a tea cup to a mental storehouse of previous experience. There is great vulnerability and chance of error in this aspect of experience. Recognition or perception is not always accurate. It is important that I suspend beliefs, desires and fears in experiencing a tea cup. It is a challenge to recognize things as they are and not as I imagine them.

A fourth aspect of experience is my attitude to what I perceive. This aspect is also a mental activity and includes all the things that express my will and motivation. This aspect of experience includes a vast range of mental experience: likes, dislikes, confusion, joy, tranquility. My experience of the tea cup can include a great assortment of moods and emotions. My attitude to perception is a major part of the moment of experiencing the tea cup. I often experience my tea cup as comforting, soothing, tasteful, delightful.

The fifth aspect of experience is the knowing quality of my mind or consciousness. It is like a cloak thrown over the rest of the experience. It is the most complex concept of experience, and is the most basic knowing of my tea cup. Consciousness is like the hand passing in front of my face. It is simply there.

There are times that I examine my experience from the perspective of each and all these aspects. Like a pilot going through a check-list before take-off, I check each of the five. Then I hold them all together in my attention, like the pilot who is aware of all the green lights at once.

It is one experience after all, and it is necessary for me to hold all five aspects in mind in order to understand it. I hold them together in one moment, one experience, while still being aware of all five aspects. It is that collective understanding that forms my sense of being present.

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At what point will I no longer be the one-who-sees and all that remains is the seeing? The boundaries have seemed hard and fast. But I lean to the time when there will no longer be a seer and only the seeing will prevail.

So much of my life has been devoted to setting boundaries, defining who and what I am. Much of this effort has been in the interest of creating my sense of self as I have come to understand who and what I am, and what I am not. Now I am not so sure I want to continue that selfing project as I begin to experience a different way of seeing. Something has begun to feel loosened. That boundary between myself and the world around me seems to be less fixed than I thought.

As that boundary becomes less and less stable, so does the notion of “myself” seem to weaken.

There are times that I look across the room and the couch in front of me no longer seems so separate from me. My experience of someone who is seeing the couch becomes unstable as I become simply atune to the seeing. What had previously been a narrow and focused experience of my seeing the couch has shifted into a wide and spacious experience of simply seeing. The couch is being seen. I am not so aware that I am seeing the couch.

This happens in other ways. As I walk down the snow-covered sidewalk, the firm pavement is simply felt. I am not so much aware that I am feeling the hard surface under my feet. The sidewalk is being felt. Music comes from the black speakers near my chair and I am not so aware that I am hearing a flute and harp. There is only the soft experience of a flute and harp sound being heard.

Seeing in this changing way is more than simply being more mindful. When I am mindful, I am still quite aware that I am the one being aware. “I” show up routinely, even habitually. Seeing without boundaries is more of an experience of unity of attention. The one-who-sees fades from the experience and attention centers on the seeing quality of mind. Boundaries soften and there is a kind of absorption, shared space. Distinctions and forms become less important.

There have always been unique occasions when this kind of seeing was possible. I mostly remember this type of seeing when I was in the presence of a vast landscape such as the Grand Canyon or waves on what seemed a limitless ocean. In those settings, it was easier for “me” to step aside, to get lost. Now I am happy that this kind of seeing is much easier to experience, and I don’t have to travel to distant places.

The more I can remove the seer from the experience, the more likely this quality of seeing will occur. Snow, people, lights, couches, candles, Beethoven. All become vibrant and present when they are part of this kind of seeing. More and more I am becoming less the one-who-sees and only the seeing remains.

Trying to understand better who I am, I examine the traces left by my ancestors. My emergence from the substance of the cosmos has been shaped by the hands and minds of those who have proceeded me. I look for the traces they have left behind.

The traces tell me about the ancient use of fire, a legacy of my progenitors. Traces were left by them some 400,000 years ago, and the results are part of who I am. Much of what I am is the consequence of actions taken so many years ago and I know them by the subtle traces that remain.

My inheritance is defined by the scratches on bones left by ancestors who ate the last of the wooly mammoths. The traces they unknowingly left behind tell me part of the story of what it means to be human. Hints of my legacy define in subtle strokes the emergence of the creature I am now becoming.

So too the written marks on tablets and stone are traces of minds who transformed the world and shaped my culture. Today, on the anniversary of the massacre at Wounded Knee, I am reminded of the indelible traces my ancestors have imposed on my own life by the horrible actions they took against fellow humans. The traces all remind me of the history that lives in me.

I did not come into existence without those many traces of the past that defined both my inheritance and who I am. When I was born, I entered and became a living part of a world shaped by those who individually and collectively left traces of their lives behind them. I was born with instructions, traces written by the hands of the many who lived before me.

With little awareness, I became part of a world shaped by ancestors who left many revealing traces. To become more aware, I study whose traces to better understand just what it means today for me to be part of humankind. The traces left by them are not so much for my inspiration as they are a definition of who I am.

I am also noticing that the traces I cause around me are defining what the present has become. My world is etched by traces of who I am, very like the scratches left on bones or chips on stone tools left by my ancestors.

I leave more than footprints that indicate, or at least suggest, the kind of creature I am. The traces say that I am a builder of roads so that I can move about more easily. I am a destroyer of forests so that I can have an unlimited supply of toilet paper. I am a creature who uses fire to create light and motion.

I like to remember that I am also a gardener who creates beauty around me. I produce enjoyment and nurturing for creatures both different and like my own kind. My traces tell what I have become.

I’m not sure what she had in mind, but I think she pretty much sums it up. Margaret Atwood has supplied the words that might well serve as the epitaph for humanity:

…..Sorry about that. We got stupid.

We drink martinis and go on cruises…….