Loving the Two Halves

Usually, without growth being forced on us, few of us go willingly on
the spiritual journey. Why would we? The rug has to be pulled out from
beneath our game, so we redefine what balance really is. We eventually
get a feel for true balance when we fall and rise a number of times.

More than anything else, this falling/rising cycle is what moves us into
the second half of our own lives. All falling, no growth! Always on top,
no growth! There is a "necessary suffering" to human life, and if we
avoid its cycles we remain immature forever. It can take the form of
failed relationships, facing our own shadow self, conflicts and
contradictions, disappointments, moral lapses, depression in any number
of forms. All of these have the potential to edge us forward in life, or
dig in our heels even deeper, producing narcissistic and adolescent
responses that everybody can see except ourselves. We either "fall
upward," or we just keep falling.
(Fr. Richard - Loving the two halves of life)

***

Peter Gabriel ~ Downside Up
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2TZyYkohxk

I looked up at the tallest building
Felt it falling down
I could feel my balance shifting
Everything was moving around
These streets so fixed and solid
A shimmering haze
And everything that I relied on disappeared

Downside up, upside down
Take my weight from the ground
Falling deep in the sky
Slipping into the unknown
All the strangers look like family
All the family looks so strange
The only constant I am sure of
Is this accelerating rate of change

Downside up, upside down
Take my weight off the ground
Falling deep in the sky
Slipping into the unknown

I stand here
Watch you spinning
Until I am drawn in
A centripetal force
You pull me in

Pull me in
Pull me in
Pull me in
Pull me in
Pull me in

ovo ovo ovo
ovo ovo ovo
ovo ovo ovo

ovo ovo ovo
ovo ovo ovo
ovo ovo ovo

Downside up
Upside down
Take my weight off the ground
Falling deep in the sky
Slipping into the unknown
***

Tender and Beautiful Heart

Remember you are Magical. You are Unique.

I am searching for a way to commit to living life. Being alive.
I have the luxury to be able to say this. As I am not struggling to survive.
I want to have the expansive heart to appreciate this life. As Chogyam Trungpa describes; a raw, tender and beautiful heart.
Is it possible not to question every moment as if waiting for an answer, that is either an apology or an enraged rejection. I believe it is.
Can I bare not to question the struggle. Cherish the challenges in life that carve out this twisted shape, hiding secret chambers, each one sounding a unique note.
And so in my job I use the word 'resilance' to parents of children who want more and more and more, of what they are not sure.
Tonight I watched a dramatization of the life and work of Vincent Van Gogh taken from his letters to his brother. It seems to me that he struggled his whole life to feel a deep connection. A validation that made sense of his world. Where his aliveness was not rejected. Where he belonged.
I yearn for a continuity. I yearn for community - as did Vincent. And when community is forgotten I find myself lost within a crowd. And so I treasure my own space where I cut myself off. Running away. Far away from everyone else. From myself.
As I reflect on life being change. Each moment passing. The one life line is Spirit; that pulses in our bloodlines.
When we all die from this life our voices shape the music that creates the vessel this earth. Without this continuity it seems to me that the desolute isolation that Vincent felt, can only increase as we see our disconnection externalized in the loss of our environment.
As more of our wilderness disappears more of our senses dull. And so we rage on and the fires spread deep in the earth, stripping our woodlands bare. We are lost. Paths dissapearing. The earth melting our shoes. Peeling our ashen skin back, to smiling bare shining white bone.
Our nostrils full of smoke. In our desperation to touch earth. Unable to breathe. Unable to sing. We limit our capacity to live. We limit our capacity for empathy.
If there is a Devil this is it. Hopelessness. Addiction. Seperation. Violence. This Devil a shadow puppet hiding a face full of tears. An ocean of tears, where upon floats so many ships, full of lost souls.
Dare we look upon this our Devil?
Rather than being overwhelmed is it possible to deeply feel?
Sensuality. Celebration of life. To be fully awake deeply sense the world.
As a child the breeze brushes against soft bare skin, feeling each tiny hair vibrate. Feeling the tempeture rise or fall. Catching smells diverse, rich, dark, light, delicate, raw. Beautiful. Creating space. Connecting time. Connecting memory.

"There is unlimited sound, unlimited sight, unlimited taste, unlimited feeling and so on. The realm of perception is limitless, so limitless that perception itself is primordial, unthinkable, beyond thought."

So this being fully alive is a lack of seperation. And with this I imagine comes a deep awareness of responsibilty. A deep love. Beyond conflict - 'Drala'

"One of the key points in discovering drala principle is realizing that your own wisdom as a human being is not seperate from the power of things as they are. They are both reflections of the unconditioned wisdom of the cosmic mirror. Therefore there is no fundamental seperation or duality between you and your world."

Shambala - The Sacred Path of the Warrior by Chogyam Trungpa.

Dare to feel. Dare to Care.

"Placing the blame or judgment on someone else leaves you powerless to change your experience. Taking responsability for your beliefs and judgments gives you the power to change them" ~ Byron Katie

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5fOvcta3Ws&feature=related ~ Peter Gabriel 'Digging in the Dirt'.

When in discussions on peaceful ways to responding to violence I have found this question is often posed: "What would you do if a person had a gun and was going to threaten to kill someone?". And the people asking this sometimes go on to add ~ "Because you do not want to harm them; would a peaceful response mean just standing by and not intervening? Would you stand by and let them kill others?" Not surprisingly I have found myself struggling to respond.

I have heard a a range of answers. One which I have found very moving is that a peaceful person would stand in front the person with the gun. They would risk their own lives to protect others. Selflessly. That it is the vacancy of fear that breaks the cycle of violence. And on hearing this I have pondered whether I could do such a thing, whether I could act not out of fear. And to be honest my answer has been that I am not confident that I could.

Then I remembered a time when I saw two young men deep in a very bloody fight. I went straight up to them and split both of them a part. They stopped. I didn't shout. I felt no fear. Just a desire for them to stop hurting each other. I was with another who when we left the two young men was enraged with me for intervening. He had watched on in fear for himself and me. He said to me what if one of them had turned on you with a knife? Or had a gun? He said I was stupid because I did not think of my own safety or his. I responded that I wanted them to know that someone cared. That it was not OK. That I did not want them to hurt. I remember feeling this very strongly.

I also remember many a time when I was a child where my father would be submerged in a mad rage. And I use the word mad as I now consider he had lost his self and sanity. Such was his level of madness he had at one time almost killed my mother. And if I think if he had a gun when he 'lost it' what then? If someone had stepped in would love and compassion have touched his true self through the madness?

Back to the question. This pondering then led me to ask why were people so frequently posing this question. I began to realize that this question kept me in a mental bind/dead end, that saw the violent act in isolation. Could this question, this moral dilemma be in fact a trap which would not help in finding responses to violence? In fact in order to respond to violence and create peaceful loving living maybe what is needed is a different approach. And this could lead to different questions being asked. Could the question itself actually be part of the problem of how violence is seen?

Growing up in a violent family I have only recently began to appreciate how this has given me much insight, with regards to violence. This journey continues and so far has taken over 20 years of searching to understand. And I am sure I have more to learn, more healing will occur and with that further understanding. Key to this learning and discovery is how the violent act follows after a range of non physical violent behaviours. This abuse can come in the form of emotional, psychological and mental communications. The hit is like a confirmation of all that has been before. The violent physical act is like a locking of a door. And it's key is control carved out of fear.

The other main insight I learnt was that after I had become a victim of an abusive relationship was that I had internalised the oppressor/aggressor as well as the victim. Some describe this as a Shadow part. And that this Shadow had two faces both the oppressor and aggressor. Which like a cloaked figure whispers words; giving a warped view on the world. I also realized ~ How else could I have accepted someone else treating me like this if I had not this Shadow inside?. If I had not normalized violence. The healing for me was to see this cycle of violence. To see that I could step outside of the violence. I had choice. I had power.

I think we need to see physical violence as a symptom and not cause. If we do then I think we begin to see that violence is not just a physical act, but in fact part of a much more complex problem which we all can be locked into. Because we are all connected. And because we are all connected then we all have power to create positive change. Physical violence comes after a long history of behaviours which can be as subtle as a thought expressed in word or even a look. It is generational in families and in societies. If we see that violence is not an isolated act done by evil individuals, then we can also see the connections that led to the violence. We there by step out of blame and into sharing responsibility. This is an empowered place to be. A place of believing and knowing that we all can have a positive impact.

Violence is normalized and accepted in our society. Children are taught this at home and in school. The highs of the emotional intensity that we see daily in our press, on the TV, in our films is an addiction covering up pain, loss and isolation. It is deeply dysfunctional that violence is romanticised through endless disaster movies and violent computer games. So many have a need to forget they have a disconnection to true self, that is expressed through the numbing of pain that is created by and creates violence. It can be a vicious cycle.

So when we are given moral dilemmas like this question, I would suggest stepping back and asking why this question is being asked. What might be the hidden agendas? That in fact there is another way in responding which adds to further understanding. That address the causes. Enabling more ways to heal. More ways to step in earlier. More ways to prevent the violence because we will be more equipped to respond, having addressed potential wounds in ourselves and in our own relationships and ultimately in our societies. We can see how all of us can have an affect by sharing ownership and responsibility. We can step outside the duality of them and us. How though it might seem fear has the upper hand ~ healing is possible. We then will be more empowered ourselves and able to support one another, in being in a place of compassion. Out of Love.

Yes it can be painful thawing the ice. But unless we thaw our hearts not only will we not feel the pain inflicted on ourselves and other humans, but also our beautiful nature and planet.

After I had split the two young men up, I heard that they later on went back and started fighting again. This was when I was out of their view. So I leave with this thought what do I choose to focus on. That they continued with their violence or that for that moment they stopped. That they saw that some one cared?

I believe that we create life how we want it. So I believe in the power of love. I believe it is never impossible. I believe it is never too late.

So mote it be.

A link to Gene Sharp whose work has been so influential as has been read by activists in Egypt. The Albert Einstein Institution.
http://www.aeinstein.org/

and a wonderful book:
"Small Acts of Resistance. How Courage, Tenacity, and Ingenuity Can Change the World." Steve Crawshaw & John Jackson.

A Short Adventure of a boy who dared to climb an apple tree

Once upon a time there was a boy who was happy but for a nagging pain on the sole of his right foot, where a splinter had been lodged following climbing the old apple tree in his parents garden.
He wanted to look over the wall that stretched for miles and miles, surrounding the huge estate hiding behind many tall dark trees. He thought if he could get high enough he might be able to see through the tall dark trees.
He should have listened to his parents who warned him never to climb the apple tree. His mother said if he did; the terrible growling, snarling, saliva spitting, frothing dog would see him and scare him so much, that he would for ever and ever chase him in his dreams.
Surprisingly this did not stop him from climbing the apple tree, as he had never heard or seen the dog. In fact the more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that there was and never had been a dog. This disbelief grew and grew to such an extent that he felt more alone than he could have imagined. It was then he realized that this was what people called a lie.
Worse still, he started having arguments with himself about whether there was a dog, because he had spent many years imagining what a terrible growling, snarling, saliva spilling, frothing dog would look like. And smell like. Over the years the hair of the dog had grown, as had his blood dripping yellow stained teeth.
So on this average quiet day he decided that he would look over the wall; so he climbed and climbed and climbed, and climbed as it was a very high tree. Anyway, he got to the top only to slip and fall. He awoke stunned with a pain in his foot which remained even when the splinter was removed; much to the confusion of the local physician.
It was from that day that Barefoot was his name because he could no longer wear any shoes; so bad was the pain. His father was the village shoe maker and try as hard as he could to design different shoes of all shapes and sizes; he could not make a pair of shoes that his son could wear without aggravating the pain.
His father went up to Barefoot and said he had run out of ideas, but he knew of a Master shoe maker in the Big City, who might be able to help him. He knew his son was scared and did not want to travel outside of the village and certainly not beyond the estate wall. But he did not know of any other way.
Finally Barefoot gathered up his courage and left for the Big City. The journey was far over rock, clay, grass, stone and sand. He saw amazing lands and incredible animals of earth, sky and water. So much colour and movement that filled his body and crowded his dreams. At times his feet became sore, but still he want on until eventually his feet became hardened to the hot and cold. At times he forgot the reason why he had travelled so far. At times he forgot the pain in his foot. He crossed rough seas of fire and ice, finally winding down the river to the mouth of the Big City.
Barefoot wandered the streets for 2 days amazed and shocked at all the strange sights and smells. However, on the second day 2 minutes past 4 o'clock he arrived at the Master shoe maker's shop. He stood looking up at the winding, twisting, moving, shaking, quivering stairs of the huge snake; wondering how he could catch the tail. He decided to make a huge leap and flung himself on. The stairs gave one almighty shake and then became still. Barefoot gingerly crept up and , as he touched each new step a different note sounded out until he reached the top to a cacophony of noise. He had been announced and the door swung open! Barefoot was greeted by the Master shoe maker.
The Master shoe maker was an old man with long white hair that merged from his head into his long white beard that trailed to the ground. The Master shoe maker greeted Barefoot as an old friend and listened carefully to Barefoot's story. In response he said he would consider making shoes for Barefoot on condition that he work for him for a year and a day, and learn that shoe makers trade.
Days, weeks and months passed until that final day arrived and the Master shoe maker announced the shoes were finished.
"And they will stop the pain in my foot?" asked Barefoot.
"Oh no, they can't do that!" replied the Master shoe maker.
"What old man, I know you are a magician. You promised you would make me shoes. So what's the use of these then?" shouted Barefoot as he flung the shoes back in the Master shoe maker's face.
"Well, they will stop you getting more splinters" said the Master shoe maker.
"What's the use of that? Splinters don't bother me. I can just pull them out. It's the pain in my foot that won't go away!" exclaimed Barefoot.
"But don't you know, you are cured of the pain" replied the Master shoe maker.
"What, are you mad? No I am not cured!" Barefoot at this point was barely containing himself from punching the old man in the face.
"Well, if the pain was that bad how did you manage to walk all those miles?"
Barefoot puffed himself up to tower of the Master shoe maker and replied;
"Because I am strong and brave!"
"Um, so I see" said the Master shoe maker not looking convinced.
"Yes"
"You sure?"
"YES!" yelled Barefoot.
"I don't believe you" replied the Master shoe maker calmly.
"You calling me a liar?!"
Barefoot at this point was shaking with rage then realized in utter amazement that the Master shoe maker was shaking too; because he was desperately trying to hide that he was laughing.
The Master shoe maker then straightened himself up, grew a few inches taller, pulled off his beard and exclaimed;
"Well done my son! You have journeyed far and long. Over come many fears, many challenges and learned many lessons. So you too can now become the Master shoe maker like you father!"
Barefoot was silent for a while and then replied;
"Thank you father. I am no Master shoe maker. I shall not take your name. Barefoot I am and Barefoot I shall remain!".

By Elizabeth Silver fox

Place to Be

by Kindra Clineff {1}

Where is the Secret Garden in this City, shall I follow the voices of children?

So how much have I chosen this life? How much am I connected to others in this web of weaving. We talk of bloodlines. Of patterns of behaviour and learning being passed down. How much of those patterns are memories in our shared blood. How am I a memory of my ancestors; an imprint of ghosts reliving. And at what point does one life begin and another end. Is my life my own or how much of my life is a shared gift.

In this city lost, with souls rubbing shoulders pretending that they didn't choose this. Pretending not to care.

**

Living in a city I am increasingly seeing children who are not socialized with an inability to communicate and behave within different environments, contexts and people. I am seeing more children emotionally charged and reactive. Unable to be happy with themselves let alone their environment and others. I understand for many Life has been a threat and they are trapped in flight, freeze or run. And for many this learned survival is a lesson hard to re-learn.

Some see but I am not one of them that this as isolated problem with certain families. This is a growing symptom of our country where Margaret Thatcher proclaimed "There is no such thing as society, there are individual men and women and there are families". In this statement where is the desire for community? Where is shared responsibility? Where is shared accountability?

I learnt in my psychotherapy training that it was only possible for a group therapist to keep in mind no more than 10 with comfort or at a stretch some argue a maximum of 15. This led me to pondering on whether there was also a geographical limitation on how much an individual could relate to/keep in mind. And so for me this combination of number of people and space are key to understanding how community is created. So following this train of thought I wondered how in a city or in country I could feel part of a community.

Recently I was listening to a BBC Radio4 debate on ethics where two very similar scenarios were given. First one: a person is given the choice of saving 5 people from a runaway trolley/train or another person who was standing away from the other 5. In order to save the 5 they would need to push a button to redirect that trolley/train and in doing so would kill a person they did not know. In the second scenario the person has to physically push the single person onto the track to save the 5 other people. Apparently when given these two scenarios more people are able to say that would push the button than push the person. This ethical dilemma is called the proximity question. And since hearing this question I have been concerned at the mentality which created such question. This reminds me of the experiments that psychologists did on baby monkeys to see how they survived without a mother ~ either with a soft cuddly toy or not. I had found myself tied in mental knots trying to figure out this ethical dilemma until the light came on and I realized that ~ We are dealing with the wrong questions.

This is a made up scenario. Last week I was in a situation in which I had not chosen to be part of. Where the people who I was with lied to me. They set up the situation partly through the rues of getting me to leave the scene temporarily. And so I was unwittingly implemented as I had come with them. On my return I was witness to police racial/class brutality against two 13 year old girls. I did not know where to turn. How to help the girls. I was frightened for myself too and had no where to run as more and more people came involved. Family and neighbours watched on. The girls were taken away in a police van and I left standing with the family and neighbours. With their mother asking why the police had been violent to her daughters.

This quote has been inspirational for me this last week as I struggled with what I felt was my impotence. As I have questioned what more could I have done? What more can I do now other than what I have done including making a formal complaint and talking to others helping their hearts to thaw and feel their hurt and outrage of that incident:

I have come to believe that every one of us is an activist, and that every action taken in the name of interconnection ~ every action that brings us closer to ourselves, to each other, to the planet ~ births a better world.

Marisa Handler {2}

So when I see a person I do not know in pain, do I walk on by because I do not know them?When I hear that the tube train I am on is delayed and diverted because someone had fallen onto the tracks. Do I feel annoyed that I will be delayed by a person whose face I did not see, miles away from where I am? Or can I feel those threads that exist inside and outside of me shake and shiver. Daring to thaw my heart.

When our children rebel and refuse to answer the questions that we set them. Maybe we need to ask ourselves whether we are asking the wrong questions. If they answer in rudeness or anger it is time for us to step back and pause because we might just be asking the wrong questions. And those questions inform actions. Too often people presume and assume to know and understand. Have others speak our answers to our questions ~ the wrong questions.

So I hope to learn answers to questions that I did not know and are beginning to understand.

{1} http://scienceblogs.com/bioephemera/2010/03/spider_spiral.php
{2} http://www.marisahandler.com/home.html

This Wild Love

As I travelled back into London I was bringing the dislocated parts of myself together. Where would I find my Secret Garden in this city?

I arrive to the grand Arch and gateway of Paddington train Station. Made of metal, stone, wood. Fuelled with water and fire filled with sweat, steam and burning coal.

I remember my lost garden where upon plunging my hands into the black earth I was stung by a sleeping bumble bee. The devil had stolen my hands and I longed to feel the earth in my hands. Smell the soil under my nails seeking the crevasses, lines, creases, cracks and sores.

I smile to myself as I wish to find another platform 9 and 3/4. Perhaps if I squeeze myself small. Bound tight forgetting my full woman's body with her feet size 8 and her hands full and hairy [if seen on certain nights if lucky!] I say to myself ~ No that won't work. Never did work. Trying to believe those false words that pushed my skin and bones into a shape convenient. Manageable and tamed. Hair neatly shaved, cut, bleached and trimmed. A wild mad woman me...nah...that wasn't me....

I walk the concrete and stone ground unaware of whose bones lie underneath my feet. The skulls buried that once held life flowing with moment after moment after.

I remember the caresses of my lost love. As his fingers traced my contours that tracked pathways inside this heavy head.

The landscape of London constantly changing. Buildings going replaced with new. But the roads, streets, paths, lanes remain the same. They follow the same map. They keep the same names.

I feel lost. Landmarks holding memories going. A city of ghosts.

Yesterday I walked paths with a new friend - paths thick from shared laughter, tears, arguments, hello's and goodbyes, screams of joy and sorrow, songs sung with gusto from bellies full and strained from throats torn with liquid fire.

We walk over the bridge from the north to south. Deep in conversation. My words building hands lost to the devil.
My words grow to a new rhythm. My words build life. Creeping, running, stamping, tip toeing, jumping, leaping, crawling over the eyes, ears, mouth of London.

As I write this a group of young men/boys and women/girls are screaming, shouting and running, some with bikes, some with hoods up have chosen to bang my dustbin. It is an old style metal dustbin bright shiny and new and makes a wonderful loud sound. Crashing into the night. They have sharpened the sleepy dark night and man lit street. They reclaim this street as their own. The darkness creeping closer.

In their screams I hear a desire and longing to share the excitement of being alive. Bare and naked. No wonder ~ I think ~ they sometimes hide their faces. Theirs is a sound of hope. Singing with tongues that don't lie. The river runs loud in their veins. Some may call this ugly but I call this beauty. This wild love. These are forked tongues that cannot lie.

Now the street is empty and quiet. I understand the desire to walk bare foot in the city.