Observations that dive deep into life and come up with treasures for all

Last night I went to my mother’s, who is 95 and lives in Blackstone, to help her get her e-mail working. I am not ashamed to admit this—although I should be—but we had one of the best talks we have ever had. We all talk to our mothers, to be sure, but can we measure the depth of our talk? What ruler can mark the inches of the soul?

I can measure this talk with my mother by all the other talks I have had with her. These were always horizontal talks about external things and events, what we are doing or going to do and how we feel about them. These kind of talks always left me with the sense of something unsaid, something not filled. Maybe there is more.

But last night,  our talk was deep, and by deep I mean so full of space that our words seemed to come from the core of our being. We talked about death, about life, about who we are, and about our discoveries in this journey. Time seemed to stop,

The bottom had fallen out of our horizontal conversation, and Being came rushing through the hole like clear spring water. I didn’t want to leave or think about what I wanted to do next. We had what I call a vertical conversation. There was nothing more to be said.

Posted under General Observations

Kind of a gruesome topic, but that’s what I was feeling this morning in the hot tub when the jets went off. Every morning before dawn, I have been waking up to my day in the hot tub, and the tub’s jets are either off or on. For those of you who don’t have a hot tub, the jets come on when the water heats. Or you can turn them on manually.

This mornng they were on, and as I was coasting along in the swirling water and noise, suddenly the jets cut off, and I felt myself floating is this vast sea of space and silence, like a rocket that had just dropped its boosters and was free of gravity, This is what death must be like, I thought.

We are all going along in our noisy body and mind, coasting on the turmoil of physical existence, and then, WHAM, the physical force field drops off, but we keep on going. And we are startled. What happened? Then we are aware that we are still here, still conscious, but without any limitation or the heaviness of the physcal form. i am free!

I came back to my silent sea of warm water and floated in the silence embracing me. “So that is what death must be like,” came the thought. “That’s not so bad. What is there to fear in that?”

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For those who have been following this journal, you may remember the adventure with Pedro, the ‘86 Jeep Wagoneer that I bought for my friend Guy so he could afford to buy it and give my truck back to me. The scheme was a disaster. Pedro went for spare parts, and Guy and I were still unable to untie this knot that binds us. Unable to afford a good car right now, Guy needed my truck to work.

This was a great example of the double-binding knot which refuses to untie no matter what string you pull or what plan you put into action. In the double-bind, every action to get out of the bind just makes it tighter. If you want another good example, think Jews and Arabs. We all have double-binds in our life. If we have an ego, we have a double-bind somewhere.

But this double-bind unexpectedly came to an end this week, and in a manner that we couldn’t have imagined. My brother-in-law’s recent passing, left his old Chevy S2 pickup without a purpose, so his children, who were settling his affairs, weighed the options.

When I told them about Guy, whom they had met while he was working on the patio for the pond here, they thought there could be a deal. Then I told them that my truck, since I would have it back, could be the family duty truck for any hauling that was needed. That was all they needed to know.

When they left this weekend to return to their separate worlds, they left word that Guy could pickup the pickup this morning, and when he finished with the patio could do some work for June, Jimmy’s wife, to pay for the truck.

Knot untied. And I didn’t have to pull any strings.

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The bride danced with a paper statue of Elvis at her wedding last night, just for a moment to ackowledge the King’s place in her heart where his music touched her. The music of Elvis, because it was so pure when it was young, awakens our heart to the presence of our own being, as if our own soul were speaking directly to us. And our knees bend under the quivering of our hearts as his penetrating notes touch our deeper cords.

So the bride’s mother, out of love for her daughter and her secret wish to dance with Elvis, brought in an Elvis impersonator as a surprise. The actor tried his best to become Elvis for those who loved him, but, his efforts notwithstanding, he was no Elvis.

How can a mortal form replace the formless? Even if Elvis came back in his physical form, he could not replace the Elvis of our hearts. And we wouldn’t want him to, either. Because the place in our hearts where Elvis lives is a sacred place where space and time have no sway.

Elvis—like the Krishna of Indian mythology, who dances at the same time with all his devotees—now dances with all of his devotees whenever his song is played. He is like bread that has been broken into infinite pieces and placed on the tongue of each longing heart that yearns for the eternal Beloved.

So, after a few songs, Elvis left the building, and the wedding returned to it celebration of love in it’s mortal form. “That was no Elvis,” you could almost hear the bride say. When it comes to our soul’s choice of devotion, our hearts will submit to no substitute.

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“Oh, look, there are flowers on the statues,” the little boy said as he stood at the edge of the Buddha Pond to look at the fish. If the little boy had ever been to India, he would probably have said, “Oh, look, there are no flowers on the statues.”

Here in my backyard, my statues—two Buddha’s, one St. Francis, one Shiva, and one Guru—all have fresh flowers. I can’t wait for a proper time or place to practice Devotion, because, like Love, if not free to roam, Devotion will soon dry up. So every morning before the day begins in full, I place my devotion at the Lord’s feet, which in this case, are my statues.
In Devotion the heart makes real the experience of what the heart longs for. Devotion gathers all things to it, like the mother gathers her children to her breast. Even the bird feeder that hangs for the birds reminds me of Devotion: every act of devotion is a seed that our beloved can’t help but fly down to and eat.
Devotion, no matter how small or large the act, is a sacrifice no different than Holy Communion. Devotion can have no aim other than to give of itself.

So when one offers a flower to the Beloved, no matter what form the Beloved takes, then the Beloved can’t help but fill your life with fragrance.

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The proper course for rivers and creativity is to first find the source, then allow the stream to make it way towards the sea by removing obstacles, and when the stream has become a river, then you can decide what the river is and give it a name. This is the path of no effort.

When we put the process in reverse order, and decide what we want to create and then go about creating it, we are on the path of effort. It takes effort to make the world fit our concept of what it should be.

So, now that this stream of writing has become a year-old river, still young, to be sure, but old enough to not be threatened by drought or other changes in the climate, a friend of mine and I have been trying to find a name for it and place it on the map of our known world.

So what am I doing and what shall I name it?  My friend  came up with “Chronicles,” and I added the word “Blackstone.” The Blackstone Chronicles. Several people have pointed out that I may have a book here among these meanderings, a theme that points to something consistent and present in the life of everyone.

I started writing features for the local newpaper in 1986,  with the stated purpose of finding the diamonds in our own backyard, which is the place where we are living. This is a verticle exploration, not a horizontal one that takes us to distant places where we think the diamonds may be buried. No, the verticle search begins with the faith that the diamonds are right beneath our feet in our present moments, and that all we have to do is uncover them.

So, I uncovered diamonds in Blackstone for eight years, and then for nine years the stream went underground and I didn’t write a thought, as I spent my time in building a photography studio. The diamonds I was finding now were images, not stories.

Then, last year at this time, the river broke through the surface and began its easy push to the sea. There were no obstacles, and no dead end meanders that ended up pouring into a desert and drying up. The river had a life of its own and seemed to know where it was going.

Now, this blog has  become the river bed, because it allowed the stream to find itself without any external forces trying to shape it into something that would fit an existing concept of what is popular or marketable. The blog—I don’t like that name— gave freedom to this stream of insights, and allowed it to cut deep into the soil of the mind and find the diamonds buried there.

Now the task is to sort through this pile of words, find the polished jewels and string them together in a beautiful necklace for my readers. The Blackstone Chronicles will be published some day.

Posted under General Observations

That is the question we all ask every day of our lives. We live in a culture that generates so much stuff that we are in danger of being buried. For that reason, God has created two kinds of people: those who save, and to save them, those who don’t. There are extremes on both ends of course, but most of us fall somewhere in the middle.

My wife is a saver, and everyone in her family is a saver, but each to express their individuality, saves different types of stuff. My wife’s mother saved Harlequin books, receipts, material for dresses she never made, recipes for meals she never cooked. Her house was a resource center for things she never got around to. The mantra of every saver is, “I’ll get around to it.”

Then there are those who throw things away. Everyone in my family throws stuff away, mainly because my family moves around a lot. We have a lot of stuff here that my mother threw away. if her coffee maker stops working, she throws it away, and we clean the stopped nozzle and get a nice coffee maker.

The mantra of everyone who throws stuff away is: “Darn, I shouldn’t have thrown that away.”

These two opposites always attract each other, both knowing in their souls that they need each other for salvation. Marriage then become the game called “Where’s my stuff?”

If I didn’t throw stuff away there would be no horizontal spaces in our house. A saver never saw a horizontal space he or she didn’t like. But, I also know that when I throw the food out on a plate that someone is still eating from, I’ve gone too far.

The trouble is not with the saving or the throwing out, because both actions are needed. The imbalance comes when these actions are put on automatic pilot. I will throw stuff out without knowing what I’m throwing out. If some stuff is lying around unattended, my automatic hand will pitch in into the trash.

And a saver does the same thing when the pilot is asleep. Stuff comes into the house, and it never leaves, whether it has real value or not. The automatic hand does not know how to open a trash can lid.

So the game of “Where’s my stuff?” is a great game because when we play with humor and the intent to take back our consciousness from the automatic program, the game has rich rewards for both players. By becoming aware of what the automatic hand is doing, we learn to be more present to life.

In this way, the savers find out it’s okay to throw something out, and the non-savers learn that they won’t be buried if they save something that might be important to the saver. The game when played this way becomes, not “where’s my stuff?” but “where is my awareness?”

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I walk my dog every chance I get, but no one knows this, because I don’t have a real dog. But I do have a mind that acts like a dog, so I walk it. Before you think I’ve gone to the dogs, let me explain.

When we walk a real dog, we want to go from here to there, but the dog wants to go everywhere,  sniffing this hydrant, that piece of trash, and that, well, we won’t go into that. So we let the dog sniff and then gently pull the leash to bring the dog back to our purpose, to get from here to there.

Well, I’m always going from here to there, from the bathroom to the kitchen, from the store shelf to the checkout; my life is full of “here to there’s.” When I’m at a “here” or a “there,” I’m occupied with some task. But when I’m leaving a “here,” I have no task, so the dog wanders, thinking about this hydrant, or that piece of trash, or, well, we won’t go into that!

I forget that I still have a task or a purpose. And I feel that it is a greater purpose than getting from here to there.

My purpose is to be present to life, to this very moment where life lives. Life doesn’t live in the past or in the future, which  is where the dog wants to go all the time. So, when I walk, I take the dog, but I gently remind the dog to stay with me and do the walk. I teach the dog to walk by my side, to heel, and be ready, but be quiet. Let us both pay attention to our walk, and he soon gets the idea.

We notice how the body moves, how the arms swing loosely, how the feet contact the earth, almost pushing it away with each step. We notice the surroundings. We notice the breath and how it moves in and out with each step. My dog and I become present. We are learning to become a team. When he is needed, he is there, but when he is not, he stays by my side, quiet, obedient, and at peace.

And if my dog wanders and starts sniffing into the past or the future, I just smile and gently pull him back to the present and our purpose.

After all, he’s just a dog, and that’s what dogs do.

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Those of us who a serious in our religious practice come to this juncture quite often. I know I  do. The question is: how do we create our world? Or, in other words, how do we do something we haven’t done before?

One could say, “Well, if God wants me to do this then He’ll have to find a way to make it happen.” Then just sit back and wait. Or, one says, ”Well, if God wants me to do this then He’ll have to find a way to make it happen.” Then do it.

This goes right to the heart of “the degrees of separation.” If we think that we are separate from God, then we would choose the first option. If we know that we are not separate from God, then the second option comes into play.

But in actual practice, it must be both options at once. Is it possible to let God do it, and be God doing it at the same time? There is no other way because there is on the bottom line only action or being. You can’t split action. Well, you can, but that’s what the ego does already, and we don’t want to go there.

Because the splitting of action (or being)  is an illusion. It’s can’t be done.

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This morning, as I greeted the rising sun and the flowers in my front yard, I stooped to cut away some browned marigolds next to the porch. James, the six year-old grandson  of Jimmy Powell, who just passed away, came out in his pajamas to see what I was doing so early in the morning.

“Why are you doing that?” he asked, finding it strange that someone would cut the dead flowers away instead of cutting the beautiful ones.

“I’m cutting away the old flowers,” I said, but before I could explain why, James understood.

“Oh, so there will be room for the new ones.”  Wisdom, like flowers, can pop up anywhere.

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