A BOOK LOVER’S DILEMMA

            Looking through the fall OSHER catalogue, Bantering Bibliophiles’ Club caught my attention.  How could I not sign up for a club for book lovers taught by Deb Mukherjee?  I had at least one rational reason why not.  I’m in the midst of a spiritual quest and reading several books that are slow, thoughtful, prayerful reads, including The Upanishads, Sufism:  The Transformation of the Heart, and Prayer of the Heart in Christian and Sufi Mysticism.  For my early morning meditative reading, I’m reading from The Cloud of Unknowing.  Before bed in the evening, I read a poem or two from I Heard God Laughing, by Hafiz, a Sufi poet.  On the other hand—my mind works in paradox—perhaps that is just the reason I should take the course.  It would most surely give me some balance.              

In the past, I read a lot of fiction and looked with disdain on those who minimized fiction with a superior “I only read non-fiction”.  As I’ve switched to more non-fiction, the other has become merely an escape from the intensity of the spiritual reading I’m doing.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit that the fiction I choose is sometimes a light, quick read—often a mystery—though I have to admit that I can sometimes turn the most superficial book into an important lesson. 

I signed up, wondering about a book lover’s club where a different book was assigned each session.  We weren’t expected to have read or required to read the books, yet would be discussing the author, theme, plot, context, writing styles, etc. 

            I’ve often described myself as a person who can’t see the trees for the forest.  I see the whole more easily than the individual parts and context more easily than the individual pieces that make up the story.   The first class showed me how different my reading style was and I wondered if I could fit my style into the whole, or would I have to, for the six sessions, forsake my style of reading—learn to read all over again.    It came to me the day after class that I read with my heart/mind, not my thinking mind.  Whether fiction or non-fiction, I have to have a heart connection with the story.  Since I also believe that I am/we are each part of the whole—that each person I meet is a part of who I am, and everything I see, hear, touch, smell, taste is a part of the whole, it is not difficult to find some portion or person in a story to wrap my heart around.  How can I experience the story if I am looking for plot, history, travel, characterizations, motifs, etc.?  If I am focused on what’s plausible or not plausible, how do I feel into the story with my heart?  How do I hear the truths that may not be fact, but may, in fact, be deeper truths—or at least my truths?  How do I focus on punctuation and grammar without missing the heart of what the story has to tell me?

The week before our Bibliophiles’ class, I began rereading Peace Like a River.  I’d read it years ago.  It has currently replaced I Heard God Laughing as my bedtime reading, and I can hear God laughing at the irony.  Due to eye problems and difficulty staying awake past 10 p.m., I have not yet finished the book, but again it is touching my heart in ways that are difficult for me to talk about in the context of the agenda.  But the fear that I will lose my ability to read from my heart/mind is fading—I doubt that this class will remove that ingrained way of reading.  My hope is that in learning to read more objectively, the “trees” will come more into focus and I will emerge with a sharper experience of the rich life of the books and the individual people that surround me with their knowledge and insight.    

A BOOK LOVER’S DILEMMA

            Looking through the fall OSHER catalogue, Bantering Bibliophiles’ Club caught my attention.  How could I not sign up for a club for book lovers taught by Deb Mukherjee?  I had at least one rational reason why not.  I’m in the midst of a spiritual quest and reading several books that are slow, thoughtful, prayerful reads, including The Upanishads, Sufism:  The Transformation of the Heart, and Prayer of the Heart in Christian and Sufi Mysticism.  For my early morning meditative reading, I’m reading from The Cloud of Unknowing.  Before bed in the evening, I read a poem or two from I Heard God Laughing, by Hafiz, a Sufi poet.  On the other hand—my mind works in paradox—perhaps that is just the reason I should take the course.  It would most surely give me some balance.              

In the past, I read a lot of fiction and looked with disdain on those who minimized fiction with a superior “I only read non-fiction”.  As I’ve switched to more non-fiction, the other has become merely an escape from the intensity of the spiritual reading I’m doing.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit that the fiction I choose is sometimes a light, quick read—often a mystery—though I have to admit that I can sometimes turn the most superficial book into an important lesson. 

I signed up, wondering about a book lover’s club where a different book was assigned each session.  We weren’t expected to have read or required to read the books, yet would be discussing the author, theme, plot, context, writing styles, etc. 

            I’ve often described myself as a person who can’t see the trees for the forest.  I see the whole more easily than the individual parts and context more easily than the individual pieces that make up the story.   The first class showed me how different my reading style was and I wondered if I could fit my style into the whole, or would I have to, for the six sessions, forsake my style of reading—learn to read all over again.    It came to me the day after class that I read with my heart/mind, not my thinking mind.  Whether fiction or non-fiction, I have to have a heart connection with the story.  Since I also believe that I am/we are each part of the whole—that each person I meet is a part of who I am, and everything I see, hear, touch, smell, taste is a part of the whole, it is not difficult to find some portion or person in a story to wrap my heart around.  How can I experience the story if I am looking for plot, history, travel, characterizations, motifs, etc.?  If I am focused on what’s plausible or not plausible, how do I feel into the story with my heart?  How do I hear the truths that may not be fact, but may, in fact, be deeper truths—or at least my truths?  How do I focus on punctuation and grammar without missing the heart of what the story has to tell me?

The week before our Bibliophiles’ class, I began rereading Peace Like a River.  I’d read it years ago.  It has currently replaced I Heard God Laughing as my bedtime reading, and I can hear God laughing at the irony.  Due to eye problems and difficulty staying awake past 10 p.m., I have not yet finished the book, but again it is touching my heart in ways that are difficult for me to talk about in the context of the agenda.  But the fear that I will lose my ability to read from my heart/mind is fading—I doubt that this class will remove that ingrained way of reading.  My hope is that in learning to read more objectively, the “trees” will come more into focus and I will emerge with a sharper experience of the rich life of the books and the individual people that surround me with their knowledge and insight.    

 

THE SIEVE

 

 My mind is a free-floating sieve.  Thoughts visit,

 but none stay for long,  

            Moving on waves and rapids—floating slowly,

disappearing unexpectedly into a whirlpool,

always moving. 

Moving away from a flash of insight

seemingly important at the moment,

but escaped before I could write it down or

properly note it—make it stay put so I could examine it. 

 

Hit and run. 

Tease, just tease. 

A bit of a poem possibility—gone

before I can nab it and work it—gone

before the snippet I caught on the fly settled into a formed thought.

 

Perhaps the detritus that catches in the sieve of my mind

 is the debris I’ve been hanging on to for much too long—

past pain, past anger, past injustices—my own and others. 

Let it go.  Let it flow through the open pores of the sieve to join the river.  

Don’t let it stagnate polluting the life around it.   

Let it merge its song into the flowing stream of living water.  

Let it dance in its eddies, rest in its still pools.

            Let it ride the laughing rapids,

joining the songs of the ages

riding the river of life. 

 

 

 

 

Random Thoughts: New Years 2013

            People who escape into theism too readily and don’t allow themselves to feel the pain of “the world”, sometimes become blinded and unable to show real compassion to those who are hurting.  Some of them just hide heads in the sand and ignore the hard realities.  Others become hardened and “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” people, not realizing that there are some things one cannot do alone and some things that cannot be fixed.  Many lose their compassion toward hurting people, impatiently expecting them to stop complaining and move on before they are ready or capable of doing so. 

            As I move out of my mid-70s towards my 80s, I am becoming more attuned to and accepting of the cycles of my days especially as they “go south” into the grays of depression which has been a part of my makeup since I was a child.  I have the time now that I am retired to feel them more fully, explore them more deeply.  And I have the knowledge gleaned by therapy, existential reading and classes, discussions with friends who find hope even in conflicts, calamities, and depression, to know that:  1) depression can turn around. 2) I can change my thoughts and perceptions. 3) Much depends on my attitude and expectations.  Many examples inform me:  Hurricane Sandy; the Sandy Hook tragedies, to name two.  Glued to my TV and radio the first day or two, I grieved deeply for those I did not know personally, but felt deep in my heart and soul.  I looked at the shattered homes and shattered lives, listened to the names, looked at the faces, and cried.  Then came the stories of love, of compassion, of people helping people, victims helping other victims, people digging deep into the love in their hearts connecting to others and to the world of love, not hate.  There were other stories, I know, but I chose to focus on the stories of love and to look in my own heart for ways I love and ways I can love now and in the future.

            My secret grandiose goals of years past—of being a successful psychologist, successful writer—were all about money and fame.  They hinged on others approval and disapproval, of success as the world so often rates success—number of clients seeking my services, reading my articles, and amount of money I earned, number of books sold, compliments of clients and of people who read my poetry.  When the numbers didn't add up to enough for me, I became discouraged and withheld my gifts. 

My goals of today are simpler and freer—to be the best me I can be in my corner of the world.  To love and give to my friends, family, and people I meet in the course of my day what I have to give—my smile, my laughter, my words, my time, my love.  This year I want to live more fully in this world, feeling all; its pain and its glorious surprises.  I want to stop still and let its wonders fill me with awe.  I want to give more compliments, give more hugs.  I want to listen better—hear what is said in and around the words that are spoken--and give more time to others.  I want to do this as my small gift, given freely without expectations of approval or gratitude.  And when the cycle of depression comes, as it most certainly will, I want to honor it, explore it and learn its lessons, knowing that the more I open my heart, the more I am able to find the true gift of goodness and love that lies in each of us and in our troubled world.  

The Empty Classroom

 The classroom is empty now

Walls hold children’s excited voices

The floor absorbs their final breaths.

All is silent.

Outside, wind whispers in trees stripped bare.

Inside homes holiday joy is banished by grief.

Hearts are broken…yet…

Spirits are strong.

Throughout the country—the world,

People look into the faces of children and see:

Charlotte, Daniel, Olivia,

Josephine, Ana, Dylan, Chase

Jesse, Emilie, Jack, Noah,

Caroline, Jessica, Benjamin,

Allison, Madeleine, James,

Catherine, Grace, and Avielle,

Their earth voices stilled.

Their angel voices sing in our hearts.

Churches are filled.

God weeps with us.

Held together by an invisible thread,

We will learn to live, laugh, and love again.

The Persian poet, Hafiz, writes,

Come Dance with me…

And so we dance our sorrow; our rage,

We dance our way out of despair

Into Hope,

Into Courage to go on

Into Joy.

            I was sitting at the computer trying to compose my annual Christmas letter.  The song, “Love Came Down At Christmas” kept running through my head.  My thoughts turned to the conflicts that surround us at every turn.  I wonder if instead of focusing on the conflicts, allowing them to draw us in, feeling we need to take sides, what would happen if we focused as strongly on love and understanding.

            Today Love came down to me as I listened to NPR’s Krista Tippet’s interview with Robi Damelin, mother of David, who was killed in the Israeli/Palestine conflict and Ali Abu Awwad whose brother was also killed.  Together they have chosen to face their grief and pain not by turning to violence, but by getting to know and understand the other side.  Today I heard their shared story and the story of a network of survivors who share their pain and their humanity and explore their ideas for lasting peace.  They are more interested in being honest than in being right.  I’m looking forward to watching their story in the Documentary Film, “Encounter Point” which I’ve put on my Netflix list. 

Robi shared a personal experience.  Someone she met had told her she felt the need to go overseas to work for peace.  Robi suggested she could work for peace wherever she was.  There is conflict everywhere.  Standing next to this white woman were three black women.  They turned and looked at each other and one spoke up, “Would you like to get together?”  And so they began in their corner of the world.

Just recently here in Centennial Farm, a quiet, beautiful, peaceful community where I live, discord has reared its ugly head.  Sides have been drawn.  Voices raised in anger—neighbor against neighbor.  I feel drawn into the conflict, yet I wonder…Could I get to KNOW those on the other side?  Could I listen to their concerns with an open mind, not preconceived judgment?  Could I take seriously their concerns, their fears?  Could I strive to understand their perspective?  I recognize I have far to go.  I am prone to arguing my side of things and someone opposing me only intensifies my need to control and “win”.  What if I thought more about being honest, than being right?  What if I truly loved them in my heart and it showed through?  I believe Love is the answer, easy to say but difficult to put into practice. 

                       

Love teaches us

to love our enemies

to listen with our hearts

to not let our differences separate us.

to connect through our common humanity.  

Fall Morning Musings

            On this cool fall morning I am part of a group attending a Nature Write class at Indian Springs MetroPark.  It is my second class.  After some discussion of the readings, our assignment is to take a half hour or so to walk out into nature, choose a path or let a path choose us, find a place that speaks to us, ask permission to be there observing, listening, watching—just being.  Be quiet in our space and let it speak to us, whatever its voice. 

            I’m feeling shy and uncertain today.  Self-consciously I turn from the group and begin to walk away.  Most often drawn to the cover of the woods, today I am drawn to a grassy hill, specifically to the lone bench sitting empty at the top.   I follow a path keeping the bench in my sight, but also scanning the grasses alongside me.  A tiny pink aster peeks around a blade of grass, seems to nod to another lone flower, this one a yellow daisy.  A gentle breeze blows and the daisy turns its back.  A fly buzzes.  Ahead of me is a stone wall—beyond the wall a garden, its summer colors fading and dry, golden brown taking over—and beyond the garden the hill.  I stop, lean on the wall and silently ask for permission to come into this space, to listen and observe—to learn with my heart.  Closing my eyes, I wait for an answer.  Opening my eyes, I’m drawn again to the lone bench sitting against the background of blue sky, waiting.  Two lone geese fly overhead, leaving some space in their togetherness.  A silver plane drones across the broad nearly cloudless sky.  I breathe the freshness of the morning air; stop to marvel at the sparkle of dewdrops on patches of grass.  A spider web glistens. 

I have my answer as I’m led on a path around the side of the hill to another wall, a circular stone wall.  Beyond the wall, a pond.  Not to the woods, not to the hill, not to the pond.  Enter the circle.  Be quiet.  Watch.  Wait.   I enter, sit on the wall, close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and chest.  A cool breeze caresses my back and shoulders.  I open my eyes and again notice the bench at the top of the hill, the cluster of small trees part way down the hill, and at my feet a stone circle in the center of the larger circular wall.  Wild flowers, some might call them weeds, emerge from the cracks in the stone.  How strong and courageous they are to grow in such a place, merging their green life with a life of dry fragile sticks and hard stones. 

            Again my gaze looks up at the bench at the top of the hill.  I’m tempted to climb, but there’s not enough time, I think.  The time for climbing is past.  The time for following steep, winding paths to see what’s on the other side holds less attraction for me these days.  Today my explorations take me closer to home.  I have often chosen the path less traveled.  Today I again chose a path less traveled as I move inward toward my heart