Awaken Engage

The summer trip we’ve been planning for years. The cancelled flights that send us home. The vibrancy of good health. The flu that has us bedridden. The feeling of finding out we got the promotion. The foreclosure on our house and ensuing bankruptcy. The moment of seeing our newborn for the first time. Attending the funeral of a loved one. The easy life of the retirement years we worked so hard for. The ailment that keeps us from doing what we want to do. That fresh, new car smell. The car that is in the shop every other week. The beginning of a new series. The end of that same series. March Madness. April Sadness. The time we sit down to a fine meal. The moment we sit down somewhere else after processing that meal. The first day with our new puppy. The last moments with our beloved pet. Spring flowers. Fall leaves. Summer green. Winter white. Sunrise. Sunset. Full moon. New moon. Waxing Moon. Waning Moon. Morning. Evening. Day. Night. Noon. Midnight. Inhaling. Exhaling.

Every “thing” that comes, goes.

But who is it that things come and go “in” and “through” and “to” and “by”?

Who is it noticing the comings and goings?

Who is the subject noticing the objects?

What is that “Who” like?

Where is that “Who”?

Who is that “Who”?

When is that “Who”?

Who are we? Really?

Where do the comings and goings point us toward? 


Who do they point us toward?

What do they point us toward?

Who is watching it all?

Do we know who?

What are we like? The part of us in which things ebb and flow.

Who “is” you?

What “is” you like?

Who are we apart from the clinging and attaching, the looking forward to the next thing, the pushing the unwanted thing away?

What does not ebb and flow?

What did we know that we have forgotten?

Where is peace? Unshakeable peace?

Rest? Complete rest?

Love? Unconditional love?

Joy? Indescribable joy?

Awareness? Loving awareness?

Do you know?

How do you know?

Where do you know it?

What is this knowing like?

What is it like to sit with these questions and wonder?

Who is sitting with these questions?

What is it like to just be with the comings and goings?

What can we release?

What can we relax into?

How can we notice what we’re holding?

How can we notice what we’re avoiding?

How can we be with life as it is, as we are?

Peace

“We’re quite stretchy!”

That’s what the tall, spindly, as-if-they-were-on-bendy-stilts fellas in sparkly blue leotards told me last night before they went about their magic in my body while I slept.

The last glimpse I had of them before I drifted into dream land was of them gleefully and joyfully and effortlessly and playfully pulling on the tissues and tendons and ligaments in my head and neck and back as if they were made of taffy. I chuckled good-naturedly at the sheer ridiculousness of the scene.

When I awoke in the middle of the night, I realized that my neck had no pain whatsoever and almost complete mobility.

This morning, more of the same.

For two days, walking has been one piercing stab after another.

Today, I not only hiked the trails, I climbed the steepest section and ran up another.

Ten feet from the end of the trail, I stepped on a piece of debris and almost lost balance.

I thought, “Well, here we go again.”

But, nothing.

Neck and back and eye are fine. Almost as if nothing had happened.

Thank you, stretchy men.

Crazy? Sure.

But I love it.

In case you missed the story behind these kinds of intentional invitations to “visitors” to do healing work on our bodies in my previous post and podcast titled “(My)graine Story (32)” here is a bit of background:

Years ago, a friend loaned me the book “Zen in the Martial Arts” by Joe Hymas. In the book, Hymas tells the story of a martial arts master who severely injures his hand doing a demonstration and guides his hand back to healing by imagining little men coming to work on it each night before he would go to sleep and while he was asleep. His recovery was, by all accounts, miraculous and unprecedented.

When I was first reading this story, I immediately had a vision that I will re-tell at another time, one that led to incredible and almost instantaneous healing of several symptoms. I have invited similar imagery during different stages of healing with different ailments to great “success.”

So last night, before I went to sleep, I opened my awareness to whatever and whoever would like to visit my body and help it heal.

Stretchy, tall fellas in sparkly blue leotards showed up.

And they worked with the body to allow it to make whatever adjustments it needed to make.

Again, thank you stretchy men, and thank you to all of my teachers who have invited me to explore and experience spheres of healing that I would have poo-pooed earlier in my life.

Okay.

There’s actually a lot more to share, including the trauma responses that arose before the stretchy men arrived, trauma responses connected to more than a half-decade of chronic disability. And, I want to share with you the power of functional neurology and ways I have found to tap into the creative unconscious, or, rather, allow ourselves to rest into the creative unconscious where the wisdom of life lives.

But that’s for later.

Peace

Yesterday, while walking Iris in the foothills, I suddenly felt a sharp and piercing pain on my right side. Almost instantly, I felt paralyzed from my right eye to my waist. My right eye shut off, I felt a wave of nausea and dizziness, and I could no longer rotate my head to the right past center. It was wet-your-pants kind of pain and, had I been alone, I would have crumpled to the ground. But there were two people that I know who were at the junction where I was getting ready to turn, so I somehow remained civil and then made my way back to the vehicle. I have no idea what I said to those two people. It was all a blur, literally and figuratively.

My dad was on the phone with me and, while my dad is a loving dad, he isn’t the first to get too concerned about pain in the body. But he somehow sensed that something was different and called me three times yesterday to make sure I was still okay. When I asked him how he knew that it was serious, he just said, “I knew. It was obvious.”

For all of yesterday, I experienced intense sensations of shooting pain in my neck and right eye and face. None of my treatments seemed to help. I stretched, I iced, I used ibuprofen, I breathed into the sensation, I worked with opposites, I had Emily help stretch my arms, I used trigger point techniques and everything else I could access.

This morning, I awoke at 4 a.m. after a fairly restless night of sleep and decided to do breath retention work.

Deep inhale to the belly and chest. Let the exhale go. Deep inhale. Make it circular. Quickly. 35 times. Then, hold.

I noticed that it took a lot of effort to breath in deeply and as I did, I noticed the areas in my neck and eye and right hand beginning to burn.

It didn’t seem like I was doing any damage, so I kept at it, “pointing” the breath into these areas of pain and constriction and burning.

What I noticed is that the areas began to relax and open with the breath.

Breathing in peace. Breathing out stress and tension.

Then, hold.

During the holds, I could feel little bubbly sensations working into the muscles in the constricted areas. It was so fascinating to watch and observe and feel.

With the second set of 35 inhalations/exhalations, I turned my head to the right and into the outer edge of the constriction, burning, and pain. Deepening the stretch as appropriate.

Again, more opening.


By the end of the 4th set of 35, I could almost turn my head all the way to the right as far as I could turn it to the left.

I then sat in silence for 10 minutes and toward the end of the meditation I had the visualization of those little electric pads that you can put on your muscles to activate them.

Well, I don’t have any of those electric pads, but all of a sudden I heard my voice activating. It was as if my body was producing similar frequencies to the electrical frequencies that the electric pads emit.

I didn’t have much to do with this process except to observe and feel and alter the pitch such that I could feel the vibrations in the constricted, burning, painful areas of the head, neck, and back.

It was quite incredible to behold and experience.

At one point, there was a frequency that required my top and bottom teeth to be very close together so that they were vibrating off of each other. That frequency went deep into the muscle groups.

By using throat singing and head singing, I could adjust the frequencies and direct them to other areas that showed up in my awareness.

Iris, my dog, was greatly amused by the whole scene and eventually just rested her head on my lap. That was good medicine all on its own!

I then grabbed the didgeridoo and again played around with frequencies and pitches and it was as if the whole body was getting a gentle and focused massage.

By this time, it was around 5:30 a.m., so I decided to go outside and prepare the sweat lodge. After getting it good and hot, I crawled into the hot darkness with the aroma of cedar and white sage filling my lungs. What a luxury.

20 minutes of the sweat and I then went into the ice bath for 5 minutes. I hadn’t planned on staying so long, but I hit the “ecstasy” zone where time seems to stop, pain stops, everything stops. Silent. Peaceful. Complete equanimity. I kept checking in with my body to see if I had actually just passed away because of the timeless, effortless, no-thing-ness. But the body was still working, heart still beating slowly, lungs breathing easily.

I got out of the ice and stood under the stars with deep gratitude, feeling as though I was being led through some sacred ritual this whole time, perhaps for my whole life.

I then crawled back into the womb that is the interior of the sweat lodge and sat in stillness in the darkness, submerged in hot vapor, thankful for the fire, water, air, and earth that were all working together to share life with me.

After another 20 minutes or so, I crawled out of the womb, back into the cool air of the outside world, and then submerged myself in the ice bath for another 2 minutes of glorious sensation.

Excercise, yoga, breakfast and a visit to my functional neurologist followed and by the time I got to my doctor, he expressed that the neck was mostly open again and that it was very likely a neurological blip that had triggered a shut-down response between the brain and body.

Since it is Spring Break here, I had the flexibility to take a mid-morning walk with Iris once I got back from the doctor’s appointment.

For whatever reason, the excruciating pain wasn’t at all gone once I began walking on the trail. It was very clearly still present and I found myself really wanting it to be gone.

“Just go away!”

I noticed that I was feeling anger toward the discomfort and the limitations that it was creating with my movement.

I heard my interior chatter: “I just want to feel good, especially this week! I’ve been working so hard on being healthy in all ways and now this had to happen. What else can I do? What if this doesn’t go away and I end up like several of my friends who have chronic neck pain? I’m tired of this already. I was going to begin running this week and now I am struggling to walk!” And so on.

As I noticed the internal monologue amping up and intensifying, I also became aware of music playing.

It wasn’t music on the outside.

It was music playing in my body.

I was humming.

And as I noticed the humming, it grew and grew and then words showed up.

I heard myself singing as I walked:

“I will carry you with gladness. I will carry you. I will carry you with gladness. Yes. I will.”

Over and over and over.

And then it became, “I am carrying you with gladness. I am carrying you. I am carrying you with gladness. Yes. I am.”

I felt a warm glow in my heart as I heard myself directing these words to whatever was happening in my body. Instead of fighting it off and resenting it and trying to get rid of it, my deeper heart and self arose and said, “I will carry you with gladness, I will carry you. Yes. I will. I am carrying you with gladness. I am carrying you. Yes. I am.”

It is difficult to describe what seemed like an instantaneous transformation of thought, feeling, and emotion.

My eye and neck didn’t necessarily feel any different.

But I felt different feeling them.

Does that make sense?

I felt strong and fatherly and motherly. I felt kind and compassionate. I felt gracious. I felt capable. I felt loving and loved. I felt carried.

I will carry you with gladness. I will carry you.

Yes. I will.

I am carrying you with gladness. I am carrying you.

Yes. I am.

You are welcome to stay as long as you need.

I am not defined by this symptom.

The quality of my life is not defined by this situation or circumstance or challenge.

Of all the lessons of the TBI recovery, none have been so important to me as the reality that life doesn’t have to change in order for me to live fully.

I can be with life as it is as I am.

Two of the maxims that experientially moved me from resisting life and wanting to just die during the it-looks-like-you’re-not-going-to-get-better years of my post-TBI recovery read as follows:

“Life is only unbearable when I demand it change.”

and

“That which we welcome cannot bind us.”

This morning, today, right now, here is the lesson again, deepening and validating and reminding me of its message in my life.

I share these words that arose this morning not as my own.

They are meant for more than me.

I have no idea what you might be going through. Perhaps you are experiencing a season of life that feels like more than you can bear. If so, I hope you can find the right support and comfort and care, whatever that means. There is so much good medicine in our world.

There are some things we can just let go of and there are others that are ours to carry for awhile.

What we always have a choice in is how we are present with what we are carrying.

We can be unwelcoming resistance and we can be welcoming presence.

Sometimes, we are both.

Sometimes, we are the welcoming presence of our unwelcoming resistance.

But, we can always be welcoming presence.

In fact, my experience has been that who we truly are is unchanging, loving, welcoming presence in which the ever-changing flow of life arises.

Sometimes, I welcome life from that state of being.

And, sometimes, like this morning, I have to choose to welcome life and, in doing so, am reminded and reassured that this is my true state of being.

Perhaps better said, life chose me this morning and I simply said, “Yes.”

I will carry you with gladness. I will carry you. Yes. I will.

I am carrying you with gladness. I am carrying you. Yes. I am.

Yes. I am.

——

Note: if you are listening to the podcast, you are welcome to continue listening as I share the recording of the song that my heart began to sing this morning.

Peace

“The important work, the work we really want to do, doesn’t come with a recipe. It follows a different pattern. This practice is available to us — not as a quick substitute, a recipe that’s guaranteed to return results, but as a practice. It is a persistent, stepwise approach that we pursue for its own sake and not because we want anything guaranteed in return…This is a path followed by those who seek change, who want to make things better. It’s a path defined by resilience and generosity. It’s outward focused, but not dependent on reassurance or applause…The practice is a journey without an external boss. Because there’s no one in charge, this path requires us to trust ourselves — and more importantly, our ‘selves’ — instead.” (Godin, The Practice, pp. 6-8).

My dear friend, Sylvain Paslier, gifted me with this book at least 6 months ago, but it wasn’t until yesterday, while he and I were engaged in one of our marathon phone conversations, that I remembered that I had it.

It had been sitting on the shelf, just waiting for this moment.

What I am finding quite fascinating is that my life has already begun the shift to the kind of practice that Godin describes, particularly my attitude toward results and feedback. 

As I’ve mentioned before, “positive” feedback is nice, but I don’t actually care all that much right now. I am doing the work that I am doing for its own sake, for my own sake, and out of a deep sense of trust that I have cultivated with my self and others around me.

Applause? Great. Crickets? Great. Nothing guaranteed? Great.

Still, I must create. I am an artist.

It feels strange to write those words and say them aloud and perhaps it is Godin and Sylvain who have bolstered my confidence in the matter.

Godin says, “If we care enough, we keep looking for that feeling, that impact, that ability to make a difference. And then we look harder…That search has created our culture and the world we live in. More and more people, engaging and contributing, weaving together something worth building. Let’s call it ‘art.’ The human act of doing something that will make a difference. The emotional action of doing personal, self-directed work to make a change that we can be proud of…Your part matters. Your art matters” (p. 9)

We’re not on the outside of “art” looking in, we are on the inside creating out.

Even so, I’ve had my doubts about myself. I have an unwritten and unspoken list of people that I consider artists.

For example, I have long thought of my friend Sylvain as an artist. He is an accomplished musician and storyteller whose creation “Hajmiin” is a multi-sensory masterpiece combining the elements of music, mood, meditation, visuals, and story.

Then there is my younger brother who works as a copywriter in Chicago and has a seemingly endless amount of creative energy. I highly recommend checking out his “Coolness Graphed” book and/or his tumblr at www.coolnessgraphed.com, as well as his “United States of American Cheese,” which documents his journey of chewing pieces of cheese into the shapes of all 50 states and then writing a short historical bio for each state. Both of these projects are brilliant and fun and zany and something that no-one else could do like my brother. And, just so you have some context for the photo used for this post, in high school my brother went through a stage of creating videos, dressing up like different characters, and really producing some crazy content. One of his videos was an advertisement for a faux company called PedEx that specialized in shipping human beings in boxes - at least that’s how I remember it. Could that have been? Anyway, one of the characters was a homeless man and so my brother showed up to our grandparents farmhouse as this fellow, came into the house, and scared our grandma half to death. It was such good fun, hilarious, and uniquely my brother.

My older sister is a painter and yogi and teacher and multi-disciplinary artist who also has spent her whole life living as an artist in my mind.

And, to that point, so has my younger sister whose artistic genius seems to have no bounds and no imitator. Paintings. Elaborate fairy houses. Pottery. And she is currently building a geodesic dome as an alternative living space!

Now that I think of it, I am surrounded by artists.

My children are both avid readers, thespians, singers, writers, and creators. They have several storylines that have been going on for YEARS, elaborate in their characterizations, plots, and settings.

My wife is more of an undercover artist than anyone I know and very few people have any idea just how skilled she is at planning, writing, drawing, dancing, leading, designing, bringing people together, supporting, and connecting people to their untapped potential. She is the most selfless human being that I have ever met and the most secure human being I have ever met. Her life is a beautiful work of art.

Do I know anyone who isn’t an artist?

I actually don’t think so.

My dad (a farmer and rancher who has never worn anything on his feet but boots and on his head but a cowboy hat) would tell you he isn’t an artist. But, you should see him plow a field. He doesn’t just plow a field. He sets the plow to just the right depth and goes just the right speed so that you cannot even tell that there were separate plow shears. The soil is smooth and even. And when his cows are getting ready to calve, he brings them close to home so that he can watch them, read their signs, and be ready to help them in any way that he can. He knows them like a father knows his children. When he drives a truck, he shifts seamlessly and effortlessly and takes delight in treating the machine with care and precision. Our farm is very much his painter’s palette.

And then there is my mom. Her Swiss father, among other things, was a carpenter and so she decided to take up his craft in honor of him and made a kitchen table with inlaid tile, bookshelves, and outdoor benches. She made my older sister’s extravagant wedding dress from scratch! And she has crocheted more blankets than I can count. She serves children at her local elementary school and knows their names and their stories and their triumphs and their tragedies. She has served as a chaplain for the jail for decades and her artistry as a cook is legendary. She wrote an exquisite autobiography full of anecdotes and photographs. She scrapbooked our entire lives. She is constantly studying and writing and learning how to be the person she longs to be. And she loves others in a way that I can only hope to emulate.

Art. Art. Art

My wife’s parents are no exception. Nor are her siblings.

I am surrounded by artists.

I am surrounded by art.

Godin says, “When you choose to produce creative work, you’re solving a problem. Not just for you, but for those who will encounter what you’ve made…You are sharing insight and love and magic. And the more it spreads, the more it’s worth to all of those who are lucky enough to experience your contribution. Art is something we get to do for other people” (10).

He then lists a set of “truths” to guide us on our journey:

- Skill is not the same as talent.

- A good process can lead to good outcomes, but it doesn’t guarantee them.

- Perfectionism has nothing to do with being perfect.

- Reassurance is futile.

- Hubris is the opposite of trust.

- Attitudes are skills.

- There’s no such thing as writer’s block.

- Professionals produce with intent.

- Creativity is an act of leadership.

- Leaders are imposters.

- All criticism is not the same.

- We become creative when we ship the work.

- Good taste is a skill.

- Passion is a choice. (pp. 11-12)

According to Godin, these truths are counter to the systems and dominant power structures that are based on compliance and recipes.

I’m not sure what all of Godin’s truths imply, and am particularly interested in “Leaders are imposters” and “We become creative when we ship the work”. I suppose that he will unpack them later in the text.

But I do know that he has struck a nerve and I’m already thankful for new perspectives I am experiencing about the people I have been so blessed to spend time with and know and love.

And I believe that we all have the capacity to share insight and love and magic in our own unique way.

As Godin says, “We don’t have to wait to be picked and we don’t have to stand by, hoping that we will feel our calling. And we certainly don’t have to believe in magic to create magic. Instead, we can model the process of the successful creatives who have come before us. We can go on a journey with our eyes wide open, trusting the process and ourselves to create our best contribution. This is our chance to make things better. Being creative is a choice and creativity is contagious” (pp. 15-16).

Peace.

Last week, my daughter Sophia woke up in the morning not feeling well. We sort of evaluated the options and used the “Do I have what it takes to______?” question to move from one morning task to the other.

Do I have what it takes to get out of bed?

Yes.

Do I have what it takes to walk to the table and eat breakfast? 


Yes.

And so on.

This allowed us to get to the big question “Do I have what it takes to go to school? Do I feel well enough to go to school?” without deciding Yes/No too early in the process.

On that particular morning, Sophia answered “Yes” all the way to school, even if she wasn’t 100%.

After school, I received a phone call from her and it was obvious that she was in a bit of distress. She was not feeling well and was supposed to report to volleyball practice right away.

I was not particularly compassionate or empathetic toward her because I wanted her to push through and go to practice.

Missing practice as an athlete was a huge “Never!” for me when I was in school and I was unwittingly projecting my storyline onto her.

So, I pushed her to give it a try, letting her know she could phone it in and I would come get her, if needed. Emphasis on the “if needed”.

I finished the phone call, “Do you feel like you have what it takes to show up to practice and participate?”

Her answer was, “Yes. I do. I gotta go.”


She was pretty distressed, way more than she normally would be under the circumstances, and, in hindsight, I’m fairly certain that she was pushing hard because she sensed I would be displeased if she didn’t.

As the end of her practice time neared, I went to her school to pick her up and stepped into the gym.

Rather than practicing, I saw her sitting on the bleachers, watching.

My blood pressure shot up, I got tense, and I got really uncomfortable.

I noticed a whole dialogue going on in my thinking mind:

“Why isn’t she out there? How long has she been sitting and watching? How could anyone watch their teammates working and just sit on the sidelines. Her teammates need her. She is going to look like a quitter to the coaches. She is missing out on her opportunity to show that she is tough and resilient. She is developing bad habits that will follow her all of her life. I can’t stand watching them play without her. Now they’re doing end-of-practice drills. I should just go out there and do push-ups with them to show them that she cares. I can’t stand this whole scene. Ughhhhhh…..Argghhhhhh….”

And so on.

Oh. My. It’s so humbling to see these thoughts in words.

It truly was quite a scene happening in my interior. 

And, it was pretty obvious to Sophia that I wasn’t happy.

I was very curt with her.

“Why aren’t you out there? How long have you just been sitting here? They’re getting ready to end practice. Why don’t you at least go to the huddle?”

Both my nonverbals and verbals were judgmental, harsh, and wrapped up in my own stuff.

As practice ended, we walked out to the car in silence. She rushed ahead of me and got in first.

When I got in, she said, “Dad, are you mad at me?”

I said, “Well, I’m not happy with you. Why didn’t you push through? Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

She said, “Dad, I thought you would be so happy with me. I pushed through to the very end. I had just sat down by the time you came. I’m feeling so horrible, Dad. I did what you asked of me. I listened to my body and I stopped when it felt like too much.”

Silence.

I was swimming in emotions.

Once we arrived at the house, I told her that I would keep being hard on her because I want her to succeed. And, I told her that I also want her to push back when she needs, as she was doing.

It felt like a bit of a compromise and we walked into the house together with no real hard feelings.

The next morning, however, after taking her to school (she again did not feel all that well), I came back to the house to prepare for teaching my classes and a wave of emotions came over me.

I don’t even know what sparked it, but all of a sudden I could see Sophia sitting there in the gym, alone on the bleachers, and her dad coming in and getting caught up in his old stories and systems that prized pushing through at all costs, ignoring pain, doing everything he could to keep others from going away, performing that he might stand out, always putting others interests ahead of his own, and never, ever giving up or resting because there is always more to be done.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought of how proud she thought I would be of her for honoring her body and listening to her body and responding to life instead of reacting.

And I just left her alone. Alone with my disapproval.

A wave of shame and guilt pummeled me and I found myself struggling to find air.

These are old stories for me and old ways of doing things.

A decade ago, I would have gotten caught in a shame cycle and made things worse and worse.

But that is not who I am anymore.

Feeling the shame and guilt, I decided to give those feelings my loving attention and my loving presence, the very things I now wished I would have given to that girl sitting alone on the bleachers.

Not try to force them away. Not demand that I feel different.

Just be with them.

So, I extended my compassion and empathy to a part of me that is still a 12 year old boy trying to find approval, fighting to know his place in the world, struggling to listen to his heart.

And then I decided to engage in a powerful practice that has been so helpful for me in my journey. It’s a simple “Day’s Review” meditation from Integrative Restoration (iRest®) that I normally use it at the end of the day, but I realized that the time was perfect to engage in it.

This is how it goes. Please feel welcome to join with me in the meditation as you read and/or listen:

——

“Take a few moments and welcome the environment and sounds around you, the touch of air on your skin, the sensations where your body touches the surface that’s supporting it.

Now, search out moments from your day that feel unfinished.=

Then, imagine redoing each of these unfinished moments. Imagine the ways you would have liked the situations to have unfolded, what you would have liked to have said or done, and what the others involved would then have said or done.

Like watching a movie, replay scenes over and over again until you feel a sense of ‘Ah, that feels perfect. That’s the way I would like to have lived that moment.’

Then — not just in your mind’s imagination, but with your entire body, heart, and mind, feel the completion of each event as if it had truly happened that way.

Replay each scene again in this new way, feeling that this is the way you lived these moments.

As you replay each scene, take time to weave your inner resource, your refuge, your safe place and secure haven, into what you’re experiencing.

Take time to nourish feelings of love, gratitude, peace, and joy into your entire body.

Then, carry the sense of completion and the feelings of gratitude, love, joy, and well-being with you.” (iRest®, The iRest Program for Healing PTSD, p. 195)

——

I emerged from this meditation with a sense of compassion, understanding, empathy, wisdom, and the next steps I needed to take.

Those next steps included communicating with Sophia and I found myself typing the following words in an email to her:

“If I could turn back the clock of time to the moment I stepped into the gym and saw you sitting on the bleachers, here is what I would do:

I would smile at you.

And then I would walk over to you, climb up the bleachers, and sit next to you.

If you wanted, I’d put my arm around you.

And I would communicate in as many ways possible how much I love you and am pleased with you.

I would trust that you listened to your body and knew when it was time to stop.

I’d watch the rest of practice with you.

And you would have no doubt that I love you no matter what.

That’s what I would do.

I love you.”

I pressed “Send” and then went about my day with the realization that I am growing, that I don’t have to be an involuntary subject to the patterns of my past, and that I have the resources I need to live the life that my heart is calling me to live.

I felt loved and loving.

Later in the day, I asked Sophia if she had gotten my email. She told me she hadn’t seen it and asked if I would just read it to her. So, I did, sensing that this would be some big, emotional moment where she would get all the feels and that we both might even tear up.

But, she just smiled, hugged me, and said, “I know, Dad. I know. I love you, too. Can I have a donut?”

Peace

Perhaps I have mentioned before that I wrote extensively during the worst years of the traumatic brain injury recovery. The distance and time of that season is measured not in weeks or in moths, but in years, beginning in October of 2015. Over eight years later, I am now beginning a non-linear and quite random process of reading what I wrote. Much of the writing was done in what could be called the valley of the shadow of death, or dark night(s) of the soul.

Recounting the post-traumatic brain injury syndrome journal entries (yeah, that’s a mouthful) was actually the first idea I had for these essays, but I wasn’t quite ready in early February of this year. I did publish one entry previously and may now begin to publish more and more of them as I go along. For the first time, I feel like I may be ready to revisit those days, knowing that many gifts came out of them and through them. And that many gifts were written down for later use and not only my eyes.

I’ll proceed with a few scattered bits and pieces of entries, the first of which was written almost a full year after the traumatic brain injury that sent me into a free-fall, led to the end of my career, and closed one door of life after another. By the time of writing, most of my identity markers were gone, I was in near-constant pain, always dizzy and nauseous, migraining, losing vision, losing feeling, and the symptoms were getting worse and worse. The days and nights were quite dark, but as I re-read what I wrote, there was also light. “How shall my heart be unsealed unless it be broken?” asks Kahlil Gibran. Certainly, there was much breaking and much unsealed.

To stay true to the entries, I will write them as closely as I can to the way that they were written, which may or may not be all that helpful to the reader and listener sometimes. Perhaps I will cobble together more again soon and come up with a more organized plan. Perhaps not. We’ll just see how this experiment goes and adjust as seems right. And, it may have to wait a bit. Getting close to the lived experience of that season again is revealing wounds that are still healing.

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October 16, 2016

Evening

Yes, that is my voice you hear. The more you listen, the stronger it gets. I have clarity for you and as you listen to me, you will know what to do and how to do it and who to do it with. It will not take long for you to become clear. Each time you listen, you open up exponentially. Almost everyone is opened up in the days and moments before their last breath here. You need not wait to see who you were to become. You can become it now. If you listen. A flood of amazing waits. Fall into it.

October 27, 2016

“I have what you are looking for.” Heard in the night and wrote it down. Very real sense that I was also the speaker.

November 10, 2016

Thankful for wholeness at the core even when there are broken pieces.

February 20, 2017

Ringing in the ears was intense last night.

Tried fighting it. That was crazy-making and led to cognitions like, “How can I live like this for the rest of my life?”

Then I tried to make it go away by using opposites.

Nope. Got “worse.” Became even more aware of it.

At some point, I sensed that I was focusing all my energy and attention toward the ringing and corresponding sensations and thoughts.

As soon as I welcomed the ringing and allowed myself to hear it and THEN began to direct attention to sensation in other parts of my body (for some reason, I was able to identify strong sensation in my right big toe), I fell fast asleep.

When I awoke, I noticed the ringing, but then went back to the big toe and then to sensation of the toe and sensation of the ringing…back and forth…and then fast asleep.


Woke up with the thought: “pain is a concept.”

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I found these entries scattered around a symptom journal that accompanied me to doctor’s visits, visits that were becoming increasingly discouraging as “We don’t know what to do, so let’s try…” became the constant refrain. I fairly despised having to keep the symptom journal because it felt like I was looking for things that were not going right, putting so much energy into trying to prove myself and explain myself.

Invisible injuries like TBIs are especially challenging to navigate. I do know that I wrote much about the challenge of looking fine on the outside and feeling that I must have been making it up because no one else could see that anything was wrong from the outside.

Yes. That was its own particular agony: trying and having to prove to others something that I didn’t want to be “true” in the first place.

When we have a broken arm, it’s easy for others to see that we are injured and there is a standardized, accepted course of treatment. There are specific things that the patient can do to actively recuperate. I am a star when it comes to recovering from those kinds of injuries and have even been referred to as a “Super-Healer” by several doctors.

But the brain injury recovery did not work that way.

It was invisible. And there wasn’t a standardized course of treatment.

And I was not a “Super-Healer.” In fact, my determination to recover often led me to being overactive in my “work to recover” and kept me from the deep rest I needed.

Hmmmm…

I will pause now as I am feeling waves of emotion rising and falling in my body. There are the waves that are joyous and whole and full of strength and gratitude and hope. And there are waves that are sad and grieving and waiting for their story to be heard and told. Wave after wave washes over me as I sit here.

Wave after wave.

I am reminded of Ram Dass recounting the following anecdote.

Someone asked him, “Ram Dass, are you sad?”

“Yes.” Ram Dass replied.

“Ram Dass, are you happy?”

“Yes.” Ram Dass replied.

Yes, I reply. Yes.

Peace.

In Sand and Foam, Kahlil Gibran writes, “Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you” (1994, p. 14).

He makes a good point. I might say that three quarters of what I write is meaningless; but I write so that the other quarter may reach my conscious awareness.

If anyone else benefits, that is fine, but it’s not the main point at this stage of my journey.

I write because I have to do so. It has become like breathing and no amount of approval or disapproval or praise or criticism or audience or lack of audience or comfort or discomfort seems to make any sort of difference. I simply must do it. For now.

Looking back, the act of taking up this writing challenge 45 days ago was more like answering a lover’s call. I could not and cannot help but to respond.

As Gibran says, “Love that does not renew itself every day becomes a habit and in turn slavery” (p. 28).

In some ways, I really do have the sense that I am falling in love, or have fallen in love, or am in love, and there are few things that I guard more dearly during my days than these sacred moments where I get to see and hear and watch pre-word-thought being birthed into words.

Love, Gibran tells us, “Love is a word of light, written by a hand of light, upon a page of light (p. 28).

What word? Whose hand? What page?

What light? Whose light?

I suppose I have always felt drawn to writing, but much of that writing is buried in journals going back to my elementary age years. It dawned on me several weeks ago that my Bachelors Degree is in Literacy and Composition. I had not thought about this in a decade! How strange, that forgetfulness. Did I intend to study writing? How did that even happen? I’m not really sure.

In more recent years, along with journals, my writing has found homes in lengthy text message strands to different groups of friends (groups that have been going on for years), dialogues with student writing in their journals and essays, social media posts, and now in this space and place in your presence.

Gibran says, “Should you care to write (and only the saints know why you should) you must needs have knowledge and art and magic — the knowledge of the music of words, the art of being artless, and the magic of loving your readers” (p. 19).

I’m not at all sure what that means, but I do love the “sound” of it and the sound and rhythm of words, in general. I love the sacrilegious tone of being artless in our art. And while I have earlier said that the point of my writing is not to benefit you the reader (and perhaps listener), perhaps I do love you and have you in my mind and heart as I sit here. I do think that is true. Some of you have long been a part of my heart, others are more recent in your presence, and still others have yet to come into my vision. I am not sure where we are separate anymore. This is good. And, I think, true.

“Words are timeless,” according to Kahlil. “You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness” (pp. 20,21).

I believe it. I feel it. I know it. I experience it. Yes, Kahlil. Yes. As you said, “A work of art is a mist carved into an image” (p. 79). And that seems to be the reason you also told us, “Every thought I have imprisoned in expression I must free by my deeds” (82).

There is both the necessity to write and the necessity to know the limitations of the writing that are created by the writing. 


Wonderful ironies. Wonderful pairs of opposites.

While not the exact opposite, my original plan for this essay was to write about the Dark Night of the Soul. I had already selected a wonderful Michael Meade quote from his most recent episode of Living Myth. But while I was sitting in my chair next to the bookshelf, Gibran’s little book of aphorism, poems, and fables caught my eye.

I turned a couple of pages and saw a line that fit in so well with my intended theme.

It said, “One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night” (p. 8).

What an amazing connection!

But when I began to write, it was as if Kahlil wanted to say something, something timeless. He said, “Give me an ear and I will give you a voice” (p. 12).

So I did, and he quickly reminded me that “The voice of life within me cannot reach the ear of life in you; but let us talk that we may not feel lonely” (15).

In the reminder, I felt his presence since “Remembrance is a form of meeting” (p.6). And how incredibly profound, because on my city walk with Iris tonight what I felt more than anything was the sense of being lonely.

I gave myself permission to welcome the sensations of loneliness and accompanying pangs of longing. I know where resisting those sensations leads me. And it isn’t Home.

Even so, I could not find words for what I experienced in the acceptance of the longing.

But I would soon read them as if Kahlil had written them for this very moment:

“There is a space between man’s imagination and man’s attainment that may only be traversed by his longing” (11).

The very thing I was wishing would go away but decided to welcome to stay is actually the conduit to finding the peace that was waiting to be found.

So connected. So whole. So unfragmented.

As Gibran says, “It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life. Now I know that I am the sphere, and all of life in rhythmic fragments moves within me” (p. 4).

And, “They say to me in their awakening, ‘You and the world you live in are but a grain of sand upon the infinite shore of an infinite sea.’ And in my dream I say to them, ‘I am the infinite sea, and all worlds are but grains of sand upon my shore” (p. 4).

Okay.

Enough words.

Thank you, Kahlil.

Thank you, reader.

Thank you, listener.

“Though the wave of words is forever upon us, yet our depth is forever silent” (p. 17).

Peace

As you may know, night walks are city walks.

Tonight is not only a Friday night, it’s one of the first really nice evenings of the year and downtown was bustling with life and energy.

I was far from the only person out walking. But I was the only person walking a dog and I was wearing quite the frumpy outfit.

It was pretty clear that I wasn’t part of any of the myriad scenes and groups who were gathering, mingling, and enjoying the city.

I noticed that I was noticing.

I had the entertaining realization that I could go home, decide which group I wanted to fit into, put on the appropriate clothes, channel the corresponding attitude, and adopt the identity markers to at least play the part for awhile.

About the time I was enjoying the thought of doing something like a month long challenge where I intentionally change identities, I met an older couple while waiting at a crosswalk. They were both dressed to the nines. A handsome couple. The woman’s eyes caught mine and there was such a lovely sparkle and a warm, friendly exchange. The man’s eyes caught the interaction and he reached for her hand and moved quickly ahead.

Maybe that’s how it went.

Something like that. I was prepared to meet his eyes with the same welcoming kindness and I actually caught his eyes first but he had looked away toward the crosswalk light.

Anyway, all of this is quite beside the point of what happened next.

As I watched the couple walk ahead of me, they slowed to join a party of similarly aged and dressed folks. A group of beautiful people who, by all appearances, have plenty of whatever they want and need. The kind of look that says that you made it in life and are now going to enjoy what’s left of it.

For whatever reason, a sad story arose into my awareness. Several years ago, I was volunteering at a memory care facility, playing music for the small group who lived there, getting to know them and their families, and experiencing a lot of healing and meaning of my own.

I met a gentleman there whose wife was one of the residents. She was quite young, as was he. One day, he explained that they had looked forward to their retirement years all of their lives. In the first year, his wife received her diagnosis and before the end of that year she needed advanced care.

They were younger than the couple I met at the crosswalk.

As I felt the sadness of this story, all of a sudden, tonight, walking along the street, rather than seeing any of the clothes or identities that anyone was wearing, I began to see them without any of those layers, real or perceived.

I noticed my heart soften and open.

Not only did their layers shed before me, but my own shed.

Several people approached me, frumpy-dog-walker-look and all, just to say “Hi!” One gentleman, who was so in love with his partner that you could feel it a block away, stopped me and introduced himself, “Hi! What’s your name, sir? My name is Dan. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

What?

What had I really been wearing? What layers of “No. I’m not interested.” had I clothed myself in and closed myself off with?

Whatever they were, they weren’t there anymore.

Shed.

Many years ago, during my business traveling era of life, I was delayed at Chicago O’Hare and decided to walk around the airport for awhile.

I was upset. Other people were upset. 


Everyone looked angry.

We were all just passing each other and passing along irritation and agitation.

Suddenly, something shifted.

I had nothing to do with it.

I just noticed that I stopped seeing the face that each person was making and began to see what their face looks like when they are enraptured, blissful, joyful, shining!

I stopped in my tracks.

And I noticed that as each person passed by me their face and countenance quite quickly transformed into what I had seen and was seeing.

It was remarkable. Astonishing.


My own face was radiating.

My body was glowing and pulsing and receiving and communicating so much joy and love that I wondered if I would burst.

I began walking again and one person after another began to beam. It was as if the sun had come out of the shadows and was producing a warm glow on all of us.

Several times, after passing another glowing sun, I would turn my head back while walking and notice that they, too, had turned their head.

Just to see. Just to make sure.

Oh, the smiles. The moments. The knowing laughter.

Eventually, I returned to my gate and boarded the plane and closed my eyes and dreamed a dream where the sun shone on the world and filled us with such joy and radiance that we almost couldn’t take it anymore.

Peace.

I don’t have much to say today except that I felt unwell enough this morning that I decided to pause for a moment and listen to my body.

Now, I didn’t want to listen to my body.

What I wanted was to get up and force myself into the ice bath and perform all of the other practices that I have been doing that help me feel better and, as I am finding out, are also things I partly rely on to convince myself that I have what it takes to get through the day.

At times like these, I am quite thankful for my longstanding and ongoing intention that goes like this: I step out of reactivity and allow myself to accept and feel what is in my body. I embrace what is present.

That intention got my attention this morning because I could see and feel that I was being gripped by some anxiety and internal criticism about breaking my ice bath streak.

“You’re weak. If you skip today, you’ll start skipping more and more. You’re not that sick. This will make you stronger. Yeah, I know that the research says it is a bad idea to get into cold water when you’re sick, but you’re stronger than that. Prove them wrong. What will such-and-such think?”

And so on.

Stepping back, listening to, and visualizing the critic, I realized that the critic had the face, and look, and tone of a 12-year-old boy who was trying to prove himself to others.

I had a bit of a loving and good-hearted chuckle.

Because while a part of me might still be 12, that part is loved and cared for by a wise 46 year old father who has been through hell and back with his family for almost a decade and is here to tell the story and share his life with the world.

That man is strong and kind and wise and full of delight and playfulness.

So, I gave the 12 year old some love and a hug. In my eyes, he could see that all is well:

Nothing to prove.

Nowhere to go.

Nothing to do.

Noone to become.

He quieted down and relaxed and looked up at me with gratitude, imbued with his father’s strength.

By listening to my body this morning, stepping out of the reactive urge to “just do it” even though my body was telling me, “Hey. I need to chat with you!” I heard a deeper wisdom and accepted the challenge to do that which was actually much more difficult than getting into the ice.

What required the most will power, the most strength, the most wisdom this morning was choosing to listen to the wisdom of the body and to take a day to rest.

So, I did.

Gentle warrior wisdom.

Deciding what to do was less of choosing this/that like an on-off switch and much more like I had my hand on a dimmer knob and was experimenting with it, turning it this way and that, noticing what the mix of sensations, thoughts, and beliefs felt like until I found just the right spot for the moment.

That felt good.

I am becoming more like a dimmer knob than an on-off switch.

That feels quite profound — the feeling of being with life as it is, welcoming the unwelcome, listening, responding, waiting, and then acting in honor of the wisdom I have received.

Being with life and adjusting to its flow.

Less either/or.

More both/and.

Less separating.

More mixing.

Less simplifying. 
More generalizing.

Less categorizing.

More conceptualizing.

Less closing.

More opening.

Less deciding.

More discovering.

Less controlling.

More flowing.

Less taking.

More giving.

Less owning.

More stewarding.

Less holding.

More releasing.

Less forcing.

More allowing.

Less isolating.

More relating.

Less judging.

More understanding.

Less powering through.

More considering the way.

Less thinking and doing.

More feeling and being.

Less reacting.

More responding.

Less fighting.

More peacemaking.

Less like an on-off switch.

More like a dimmer knob.

Peace.

Earlier today, I went upstairs after what felt like a half day of spinning my wheels on tasks that I either couldn’t complete, didn’t complete, or forgot that I was even trying to complete. Walking by my wife, I said, “I feel intensely unproductive.” She said, “Do you need to rest?” I said, “Of course, not. I have too many things to do.”

And then I went back downstairs to spin my wheels some more.

Because, at least if I’m spinning my wheels I feel like I’m doing something.

I realize that is a laughable statement, but likely also relatable.

I also realize, as I briefly pause my day to write this short essay (because I wanted to at least check something off of my to-do list), that I have had one moment after another today that I actually have treasured, noticed, seen, heard, and embraced.

Many of those moments are connected to my interactions today with fellow human beings who I don’t require to be intensely productive to be my friends. In fact, I really enjoy my friends who are not caught up in being intensely productive and who actually enjoy the intense unproductiveness of days and even seasons as a way of balancing themselves in a world that gives us plenty of chances to spin the wheels of our lives like madmen, not go anywhere at all, and miss all the meaning that was waiting for us right here all along.

Perhaps, I am just worn out and tired of being productive, but I think that my heart is trying to get my attention and is simply unwilling to be settled until I listen.

The gift of this unsettled feeling and the accompanying fatigue that I feel when I look at today’s to-do list is that I am being compelled to see a bit more clearly and feel a little bit more intuitively and know a bit more wisely.

And all of that adds up to a kind of calm settling of my spirit even now as I write.

The image that is arising is of me watching me walk slowly into a completely calm lake until I am submerged and swimming below its surface. Peaceful. Quiet. Serene. Embraced.

In Amrit Yoga Nidra, we say, “Now move from thinking and doing, to feeling and being.” We say these words very deliberately and slowly, feeling them as we say them, because they are cues to the body and mind that we really can just “be” and that all doing that needs done will get done in the right time and in the right spirit. And, if we can’t get the specifics done, we can be with life and others and ourselves in the unproductive parts, even the intensely unproductive parts.

Like now.

While this writing exercise began as a way to cross something off of my to-do list, I am swimming in that calm lake, my friends. I come up for air to type a few words while I effortlessly float, and then I dive back under the surface and feel the gentle pressure of water folding over my body like a weighted blanket.

My heart has the feeling of being seen and heard and loved. And now the love begins to saturate my whole being and overflow. Wow.


Sublime.

The body is at ease, calm, and now I am feeling some waves of sadness and accompanying goodwill and loving kindness for several friends who are feeling overwhelmed by life right now. There is room for them here, now, in my heart. Twenty minutes ago, there was not such space available. Too much to do. A wasted day. Unproductive.

But on the other side of those thoughts, behind them and through the window of my awareness, lies the deep-seated equanimity and even hope that is our birthright.

This reminds me of a beautiful poem by Naomi Shihab Nye that I was just introduced to by my friend, Annie Keeling.

“Window”

Hope makes itself every day

springs up from the tiniest places

No one gives it to us

we just notice it

quiet in the small moment

The 2-year-old

“kissing the window” he said

because someone he loved

was out there

Wow.

I’m feeling that Naomi. Thank you for taking time to write those words down and share them with our world. Wow.

I think I will go now and be less intensely anything and more intentionally just be. Here. Now.

It is enough. I am enough. And, ironically, I also notice welling up within me what feels like infinitely more energy and clarity to resume my to-do list. Haha. I love it. What a ride this life is.

Peace.