Sensing Wonder

Keeping it Clean

2011-11-25T18:05:00.044-05:00

It's not what I'm expecting. The flash sparkle of many white lights in the tower above me dazzles. Naomi and I look up. This is one of the new towers being built in lower Manhattan's World Trade Center. The view at night is markedly different than by day. With construction continuing even at this hour, I'm disoriented by the simultaneous presence of stillness and pulsing flow.

We move, cellphone cameras in hand, past signs for the newly opened 9/11 Memorial, past a church, past subway stations and folks heading home from what I imagine to be long workdays. They look tired. Tourists and construction laborers activate the scene as we continue to walk. A large hotel seems strangely out of place.

Two weeks earlier, riding a BART train from Berkeley to San Francisco, I'm heading to to an exhibit at SFMOMA, a collection of drawings by sculptor Richard Serra. En route, around 10am, I decide to stop in Oakland to see the "Occupy Oakland" encampment in Frank Ogawa Plaza. Exiting the BART station, I'm looking around in an attempt to orient myself.

A tall middle-aged man, African American, says to me, "you don't want to go over there." I ask why. He says, "the cops are there. They shut it down early this morning." He tells me of moving to Oakland from Louisiana years ago and that, "things are different here." Not inclined to join the "Occupy" scene, he tells me, "It's complicated. The Black market, the drugs, they're controlling the underground economy. It's killing our young people. No one's talking about it and that's where the problem is." As we're speaking, I'm aware of his skin color and mine, of his experience and mine, what distinguishes us, and what brings us together.

I ask him why he stopped me. He smiles and says, "you look like a traveller." I say, "takes one to spot one." We laugh. I assure him, "I'll be careful," and add, "though need to see for myself." He says, "ok, just keep your distance." Walking one block further, I cross the street to the plaza and am stunned to see a line of police wearing helmets with plastic face shields.

My body flinches to a moment a decade earlier when I see a line of police in so-called "riot gear." Standing in a plaza in Seattle during the "summit" meeting of the World Trade Organization, I suddenly begin to choke as tear gas floods my sense s and sends me running for a way out. I am here to witness and explore the possibility of dialogue.

Today in Oakland, I arrive with a similar intention and am encouraged to see several police officers talking calmly with "civilians," people standing at a distance of perhaps 30 feet, mostly young people. This is striking particularly because of the volume of voice needed to be heard across that distance. Some of the conversation revolves around boundaries in place following the dismantling of the encampment. I attune, mostly to tone of voice. The sharings are sincere while the "positions" of those standing here are very different.

In the distance, I see a wire fence and what appear to be remnants of the "occupation" piled up. The place is clearly off limits. At the same time, what remains is a sense of people occupying space while not knowing what to do next. A surprising quality of spaciousness offers an opportunity for connection. For me, the line of police shifts from a perception (based in part on past experience) of what it represents to simply attuning to the posture of bodies and tone of voices. The "civilian" people hanging out seem equally caught off guard. I see glimpses of individuals interacting in community, each with a story bringing them here now. Including myself.

I turn and head for BART. An hour later, standing in the museum, I'm with a group in the Serra exhibition as the guide shows us several abstract pieces, huge white canvases with layers of thick, black, tar-like paint caked over the surface. Serra uses a "paintstick," which is like a crayon.

Emerging from two (slightly different sized) black rectangles is a triangular sliver of blank canvas, which reveals white space. It feels like a crack of light piercing through. I glance at the small card below to see what Serra names this. I am shocked to read, "The United States Government Destroys Art, 1989."

Our guide tells us that Serra made several pieces as a response to the U.S. government's decision to remove his outdoor sculpture, "Tilted Arc," that same year. Ten years earlier, the government commissions the sculpture as a permanent work for the its Federal Plaza. Ten years later, officials say Tilted Arc obstructs the flow of foot traffic in a busy section of town.

In an article entitled, Controversy in Public Art, Vera van der Meij writes,

"Tilted Arc", a massive, wall-like steel sculpture that responded to the commercialization of art by grounding the sculptural object irrevocably in the center of a geography of a rich, diverse, and busy area of lower New York City, was removed after years of trial and public debate. It was due to be moved, but as Serra claimed to have made it specifically for that site, relating to architecture and the size and other aspects of the Federal Plaza in lower Manhattan, on which it was placed, "to move it was destroying it."

Curious to read more from the artist, I locate Serra's "On Art and Censorship":

"I am interested in a behavioral space in which the viewer interacts with the sculpture in its context. . . Space becomes the sum of successive perceptions of the place. The viewer becomes the subject."

and in Notes on Drawings, he writes:

"The preoccupation with site and context was paralleled in drawing, in that my drawings began to take on a place within the space of the wall. I did not want to accept architectural space as a limiting container. I wanted it understood as a site in which to establish and structure disjunctive, contradictory spaces."

A week or so after returning to New York City, I pause from a busy day and go on Facebook. A friend, Brock Brereton, posts a link concerning financial instability in Greece, with this to say about it, "Greece is about to blow!" to which multiple friends "comment." The conversation includes people who seem highly informed about the details of economic policy making and issues. They make connections, revealing a bigger picture, bringing in Italy's and Spain's economic difficulties.

It's the first comment though, that captures my attention. A friend of this friend writes, "my give a damn broke."

This guy's statement is not simplistic apathy. He is speaking to something more complex. As he continues, I relate to how honest and direct he is in naming his experience. I notice that to stay open, I have to attune to what his feelings might be, maybe overwhelmed. I can feel this in my body as I read more of what he shares. "Who cares? just be thankful we live where we do and keep on keepin on." At this point, a friend, Mike Mathog (who holds a Masters in Public Policy from Georgetown U.), posts, "a euro collapse will have huge effects...you "care" because there's a chance of loss of real wealth and real living standards."

I am drawn to this conversation. It is thoughtful. These guys are not agreeing. They are challenging one another. At the same time, it's a compassionate conversation, which does not shy away from complexity. Brock responds, "nobody is talking about it because few are aware of the threat because 'nobody cares' ".

These words and the way he strings them together stop me. Two words reverberate: "aware" and "care." I post about this, then ask, "What is preoccupying attention? And how might that shift?" to which Brock responds, "J, your question is all important. What will it take to make anyone aware, not to mention care..."

Mike responds, calling attention to tangible issues, "people on the right tend to see 'free market capitalism' as an end in itself. (I use the scare quotes because such a thing doesn't exist. capitalism has many forms, the right is just referring to one form.) me? I love (a certain type of regulated, taxed, publicly invested) capitalism. however, I love it because I see it as one excellent means to building a super decent, high living standard society. It's not a moral imperative to me, it's just a mechanical system."

Brock responds, "Yes, I like that vision!"

I suddenly get why I like this exchange. There's a flow, a spark of imagination, which invites visioning. It emerges from partnership in process rooted in a strong commitment to be both "aware" and to "care." Even the fellow who on the surface asks, "who cares?" elaborates that his concerns are focussed on local action. The interaction is unspokenly dignified. The issues being intricately interwoven, each brings his own expertise while taking time to consider and respond to the other's point of view. "Moral imperative" drives this dialogue without stifling diversity in its expression.

It feels like an answer to an unspoken question that's been gnawing at me since the whole "Occupy" movement begins. That question centers on "how?" How do I respond authentically? How do I respond to the stuckness in me, a mix of confusion and angst? Now it's happening, it's shifting into something I can only name as "possibility." I'm encouraged and open while not knowing how to respond next. Yet what has shifted is my capacity to trust this flow of "not knowing." For me, trust is the moral imperative.

A few days later, I meet Naomi Namba, an artist friend in SensingWonder, for dinner. We are considering when to visit OWS when she asks with a sparkle in her eyes, "want to go down there tonight?" Trusting the moment, I say, "yes!" Within minutes, we're on a train heading to the last stop, "World Trade Center."

As we arrive at Zucotti Park on election night, moving along the sidewalk beside the encampment, I see a sign attributed to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. It says, "Capitalism forgets life is social." This is my first time here since a month earlier when I visit the park during daytime. The scene at night is markedly different. We wander by a food vendor. Coffee seems to be a popular item. As we round the corner, I spot a table with a sign saying, "Nobody 2012." Nearby I spot a familiar face.

"Jeff!" I exclaim, delighted to see a friend whom haven't seen in over a year. He responds with equal delight, "Hey Judy!" We hug and catch up. Jeff tells me he's on the night shift here 2x/week. Jeff Thompson is a Caucasian-American NYPD detective in the "Community Affairs Bureau." He also is a professional mediator who "practices" in the tradition of Zen teacher and humanitarian Thich Nhat Hahn.

Jeff's face lights up as he tells me about playing soccer with his 6 year old son. Then the conversation shifts. I ask him about the night scene at OWS. Jeff says, "actually, there are a lot of scenes within the scene here, as you might have noticed walking around. Over here it's the quietist, people talking casually." He points towards the interior of the park, "you can enter there, Main St." I notice what appears to be an entryway and path. He says, "the NVC ['Non-Violent Communication'] people have a table in there, teaching people."

Just then, I see a man walking nearby, African American, middle aged, and stocky build. He stops and looks out towards the park like he's surveying the scene. I walk over and introduce myself and SensingWonder's purpose in coming here tonight. He shakes my hand and smiles with a mix of surprise and relief for a moment of genuine acceptance and connection. He says, "this is my first time here." He continues, "I feel for these young people. I used to work down here as a dispatcher, then got laid off. Now I work in telecommunications." I ask him about his new job. He says in a less than enthusiastic tone, "it's alright." I wish him well as he continues on his way.

Just then, I turn and see Jeff talking with a man. I walk over and learn the man is Murdock, a Caucasian-American "occupier." He and Jeff are talking football as I join them. I ask how they met. Murdock says with gusto, "I'm with the sanitation dept." I surmise he means he's with the cleanup crew of OWS. He continues with a twinkle in his eye and a big smile, "You know, we can't change the world if we can't keep it clean."

Naomi snaps a photo of the three of us. Here we are, people with different perspectives, different roles, positions within the "system," and each one drawn to serve, following an inner compass, a "moral imperative." I feel inspired and grateful to be here now, open to the possibility of continuing dialogue.

As Naomi and I continue to move beside and through the park, I'm drawn to the quality of this night scene with news cameras mostly gone and signs by and large resting on the ground. People are gathered in small numbers. And yet, there is tension and a palpable sense of a "matter of time" until something must shift. I snap many photos. A few days later, I add them to an ongoing Facebook album called, "Occupying." Each photo is accompanied by a caption telling a story.

Curious about the quote on a sign attributed to The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., I search for it online and find the complete quote:

"Communism forgets that life is individual. Capitalism forgets that life is social, and the kingdom of brotherhood is found neither in the thesis of communism nor the antithesis of capitalism but in a higher synthesis. It is found in a higher synthesis that combines the truths of both."

One week later, I wake up to a headline, Police Oust Occupy Wall Street Protesters in Zuccotti Park. The reporter writes,

“New York City is the city where you can come and express yourself,” the mayor said. “What was happening in Zuccotti Park was not that.” He said the protesters had taken over the park, “making it unavailable to anyone else.” Mr. Bloomberg said the city had planned to reopen the park on Tuesday morning after the protesters’ tents and tarps had been removed and the stone steps had been cleaned.

I close the browser, pause with a deep breath, then get up from where I'm sitting and head to work. Getting off at 72nd St. and Central Park West, I cross the street and enter the park at Strawberry Fields to begin my brisk walk crosstown. I stop at the Imagine Circle as a group of Italians snaps photos. Soon I'm walking on a paved path beside a large field with lots of fallen leaves all over the path and field. I hear a loud whhrrr sound and smell what makes me begin to cough. I look up and see a man holding a leaf blower. Dozens of leaves in a cloud of dusty dirt are being blown onto the field. I shiver in the chill of the morning, and something else. I stop.

I stand still listening to the rustle of remaining leaves on nearby tree branches. I look out across the field and drink in an awesome array of colors, varying shades of yellow, coppery-orange, and brown. My feet follow impulse and step off the path. The crunch of autumn leaves underfoot is as soothing as it is energizing.

I arrive to work a few minutes late. Nobody including me cares. As I enter the office, a colleague says cheerfully, "Good morning. How are you?" I tell her I'm not sure. She senses the mix of emotion in me. We spend the next several minutes talking about what's going on. We share our feelings. I get a cup of tea, she a cup of coffee. A few more colleagues arrive in our small office. Soon we're all talking about what's going on. The conversation is enlivening. I feel the easing of tension in my body and suddenly find myself laughing. Someone just said something hilarious. And without anyone voicing it, somehow we shift into the next thing.

Weathering the Storm

2011-09-07T07:32:00.019-04:00

I venture outside for the first time in many hours. I follow the stream of Hudson Heights neighbors heading mid-morning towards the park, many with young kids, some with dogs, all breathing a collective sigh of relief while exploring the aftermath of "Tropical Storm Irene," now downgraded from a hurricane.

At first, it's a trickle of brave adventurers. Shortly after waking up, I open the window and look out onto the sidewalk one flight below. A woman and two toddlers in yellow raincoats are standing along with their dog. I hear her say to another woman who approaches, "we had to get out. It's so stuffy and hot inside." Then she turns to her kids and says, "well, I don't know. Let's wait until your dad gets up." They move on. I'm left wondering what was the question?

Now, arriving at the corner, I turn to go down stairs, which enter Ft. Tryon Park. I stop. A fallen tree covers the stairs and blocks entry. Suddenly, a man in a bright yellow jacket emerges through the fallen branches and undaunted, continues up the steps and walks past me out onto the street. Amazed, I stand still considering options. Just then, I see a man and a young girl, who I imagine is his daughter turn towards the stairs. They stop in front of me looking down at the debris below. I hear him say, "I guess we won't go that way." They turn around. The three of us make eye contact to acknowledge mutual assessment of the situation. Then they turn towards the street and keep going. I follow.

The previous evening, I call George, our co-op's board president, and propose to offer an indoor Potluck Tea Party in the building's lobby the next day. "We might be feeling cooped-up by tomorrow," I say, "and I have all the supplies to do this." I invite him to visit sensingwonder.com to get a taste of the party. George asks, "how much notice do you need?" I say, "oh, I don't know, a couple of hours?" He says, "ok, I'll call you in the morning. Let's see what happens with the storm." "Sounds good," I reply.

The previous night at TenRen Tea in Manhattan's chinatown, I am making smiley heartflower cards with a little girl age 4. Her dad Derrick, who manages the shop, stops by and says that at home, "she calls you auntie." I smile, feeling a surge of warmth in my chest, and looking up, see her mom smiling from across the room.

After giving away our cards to Derrick's coworkers and some customers, she and her parents head home. Now only three people remain. Anna, who is closing the shop, another customer, and myself. I sit and sip. Before long, with minutes to go until closing time, I pick up my bag, say goodbye to Anna, and head for the door. Then, I suddenly get a spark of inspiration. I ask her, "is there time to buy some tea?" She smiles and nods her head, "yes, of course." We head over to the other side of the store. "Jasmine, please."

She brings down a huge tin of loose leaf tea and pulls off the cover. "How much?" she asks. Unsure, I say, "I want to make tea for my neighbors." She suggests, "half a pound?" I reply, "perfect." This kind of intuitive connection between us is one of the many marvels of being "tea friends." Within minutes, I say goodbye as we wish one another safety through the hurricane, and head for home.

Earlier that day, I call the shop from work. I ask to speak with Cindy. Hong Kong transplant and mother of five, Cindy and her family live near Coney Island. This is a part of town designated for evacuation. She and her husband walk nightly on the beach. We promise each other that "one day soon" we will walk together over the Brooklyn bridge. An avid gardener, she often brings flowers to the teashop, even placing a delicate arrangement in the bathroom using a tiny paper cup and a moistened paper towel as a vase. Today, I ask Cindy if her family needs somewhere to stay. She thanks me, then says they'll be staying with her daughter.

I'm relieved to hear this. It's been quite a week.

Three days earlier, I step into my primary care doctor's waiting room to get checked out for mild chest congestion and a sore throat, which I've been nursing for a few days. I check in with the receptionist. She seems a bit distracted. I notice a woman next to me rapidly pushing buttons on her cellphone. She looks distressed. I say hello. She says, "I just heard we had an earthquake. The center is in Richmond, Virginia. My aunt lives there. I'm trying to reach her." I say, "I hope she's ok." She says, "thanks" and puts the phone to her ear. I turn to the receptionist, asking if she felt the quake. She nods yes like she's in shock. I pull out my Blackberry and go online. One site reports, "Quake registers as 5.8 at 1:51pm."

I post on my Facebook wall:

"an earthquake?... was on subway, didn't feel it. heard epicenter in Richmond, VA"

My friend Vivian, an eco-lawyer and consultant, replies within minutes:

"Yep...epicenter less than 50 miles from us here in VA." She adds, "we're ok. got a bit of a mess to cleanup and the dog is freaked out."

She states the time it happens being shortly before 2pm.

Less than an hour earlier, I check the red light display indicating the time as the #6 train pulls into the 23rd street station. 1:53pm. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don't want to be late for my 2:15 appointment. I step onto the platform, then walk upstairs to the street. From there, I head to the doctor's office.

Now in his reception room, I feel a resonance in my body, a subtle inner quake, that connects to another day approaching. 9/11. The tenth anniversary.

After my check-up, just before leaving the doctor's office, I check my phone for email and see a message from my friend Nic in Portland, OR. He writes, "we sent Classon on her way. I buried her."

Fifteen years earlier, Nic and a wandering puppy find each other on a street in Brooklyn named Classon. She barks. He responds. Now, he shares a poem. I read the first few lines:

Tears of love, for Classon,
soft, brown eyes
gazing gently
across the bedroom floor
rapt with mine
held together
by the warm embrace of love.

I feel tears in my eyes and on my cheek. Three months back, visiting Nic and Annie, his wife and also my close friend, I kneel down to hold Classon. I am leaving for the airport. This is goodbye. I gaze into her eyes. I feel her heartbeat. I'm aware that this is likely the last time we'll breathe together. The warmth we share comforts as tears moisten my face and hers.

Now, arriving at the Subway, I get on the train. I pause for a few mindful breaths, reconnecting with our last day together. I pull out my cell. By the time I get to my stop, I have written a poem, the first lines being:

Eyes filled with tears
and gratitude
for your life
passing

All during that ride, I sense a subtle shift in kindness among fellow riders. Maybe we're all shaken up a bit, each in a different way, each reconnecting with what matters most.

The next day, I go on Facebook and see a post about the quake by Brock, a new Facebook "friend" who lives in San Jose. We meet through a mutual friend. I post a comment, sharing that a Boston pal reports feeling the quake, saying that the fault line is less broken-up on the east coast so it can be felt over greater distances. Brock responds, "Yes. . . was listening to several experts from UC Davis and UC Berkeley discuss this last night...Check this out:" and shares a link to a Scientific American article on the earthquake.

The article quotes Peggy Hellweg, a research seismologist at the Berkeley Seismological Laboratory in California. She says that in the Eastern United States,

"what you've got there is gorgeous bedrock and ... the waves propagate beautifully."

Brock later responds to my comment on her remarks, "I know, completely consumed by their area of concentration with little regard to peoples actual fears. Kinda' funny to me too."

That Friday, with Hurricane Irene projected to arrive the following night, I finish up at work, and just before shutting down the computer, I go on Facebook. The same friend encourages,

"This weekend may remind us as to how short life is and how little we actually do control. Live well and love deep!"

I'm overwhelmed with a mix of awe, nervous anticipation, and gratitude. Tears blur my view of the screen. I shut down the computer, turn off the lights in the office, and head for the elevator.

The following night, at home with all mass transit shutdown, I look out the window awaiting with everyone the arrival of a hurricane. The streets are empty of people. I step outside for a last breath in the open air as rain falls lightly. Just as I'm heading back inside, the rain falls substantially heavier, making the dark sky seem ominous. Suddenly, I spot something small, white, and furry swaying low down on the sidewalk and heading towards the curb. Before thinking, I am simply aware. I now make out the small critter's black body and sizeable white-streaked tail. "Skunk," my thinking self registers.

Then thinking stops. Unafraid, my sole inclination is to join in a delicate dance of creatures in the night. I hear the rain falling as we both get increasingly drenched. Quickly enough, the skunk slides under a parked car as I keep going and soon re-enter the building. Our instincts similiar. Shelter from the storm.

Silence saturates the humid night as rain keeps falling and the wind begins to pick up. I sit at what seems a safe distance from the window and listen. A serenely vibrant flow washes over me.

Two days prior, in the early morning just before dawn, I'm meditating in a room within earshot of the cracked-open window. I hear one woman calling to another outside. She speaks with a Carribean accent. "What's that?" With agitation and urgency, another woman says, "stay away from that skunk." (Pause) "it's a dangerous animal and you don't want to get close." "Oh, ok," responds the first woman. The second one then cautions, "Go around it. Here." They move on. I sit in silence. Within minutes, my nose registers an unmistakable scent. With no label for it, I'm captivated by its familiarity. Then a thought, "skunk. . ."

That Sunday morning, after storm Irene blows through, I hear the phone ring. It's George, "looks like the storm has passed so I don't see a strong need for this party. But if you want to, go ahead. And thanks. It's nice of you to offer."

I say, "Thanks. It's my pleasure." then hang up the phone and head outside. Locating a suitable entrance to the park, I venture in and walk downhill and towards neighboring Inwood Park. Afterwards, heading back uphill, I stop for a moment and pull out my cell to call a friend, Paul, who lives in Inwood. I tell him about the party possibility and ask if he wants to help. He is eager to join in the fun and happy to hike uphill through the park. "Great!" I say and hang up. Arriving back home, I head for the kitchen and turn on the gas as a blue flame goes to work on a big pot of water. It has been sitting here since last night as a recommended reserve of potable drinking water.

Later that afternoon, Paul and I are standing in the lobby. The elevator door opens and a mess o' kids spill out. Minutes earlier, as we're setting up, a neighbor comes down and asks, "hey, is it ok if I bring ten kids down? And cheese and crackers?" We smile. I say, "Sure!"

As the kids dig in to the munchies, she shows us a special treat: dinosaur-shaped brownies. Soon, another neighbor arrives with more treats.

Offering everyone small cups of iced jasmine tea, and with colorful markers and paper nearby, we ask:

"How do you say 'whew!' in . . .?"

The responses are colorfully chaotic, contributed mostly by the kids. One toddler is having a good time tossing markers into the shopping cart used to transport the tea. Paul plays along, retrieving the markers and encouraging him, gesturing as if to say, "Score!"

More neighbors arrive, through the front door, through the side door by the mailroom, and also the stairs and elevator. The party is in full swing. Sitting beside a toddler who's drawing, I look up to check out who's here. "Wanna give her a hug?" one mom asks two young girls beside her. One must be her daughter, I register. They laugh and embrace with a natural ease. Their moms smile. I notice their eyes, which convey a shared understanding of the preciousness of the moment. I feel a warmth in my chest spreading out. The sensation is simultaneously calming and vibrant.

Hours later, walking alone in the park as sunset arrives, I walk across a large grassy field to a lookout point over the Hudson. The wind has picked up speed and intensity. I see leaves and branches swaying wildly in nearby Maple and Oak trees as a flood of sound fills my ears and spills out. The sky is awash in a deep reddish-orange glow. I snap a photo with my cell and post it on Facebook, adding these words,

"She sings a skysong. . ."

Then I turn and walk back across the grassy field onto the open road beside it. I move at a brisk pace, heading home.

Constructing Courage

2011-07-21T10:09:00.007-04:00

Heading east at a brisk pace along E. 71st Street en-route to work, I see a line of fireman behind a bright red truck. Looks like they're deploying a huge firehose. I look around to gauge the situation. My head is saying, "keep moving." No time to stop and ask.

Even so, their presence stops my feet, calling attention. These guys are ready to respond. Present to the changing circumstances, present to each other, and to everyone in the vicinity; their subdued clothing is accented by bright strips of yellow-green fabric sewn on in various locations. They must be visible to function. At the same time, their understated presence communicates an admirable quality: courage.

Minutes earlier, zipping through Central Park, I hear a woman say assertively, "Come here!" I stop as a fluffy, black-white terrier runs towards her and haltingly comes to a stop. The woman bends down and attaches the dog's leash. She says in a lower-pitched tone, "That's the end of your freedom."

Days later, I enter a darkened movie theater in Battery Park City to see Green Lantern in Real3D. I sit down, gaze up, and follow the instructions on the screen, "Put on your 3D glasses." The hero's journey quickly commences. Hal, the hero or as he's identified early on, the "chosen one," must grapple with two juxtaposed energies: fear and "will." A green-hued alien tells him that green light, being the "color of will," transforms energy into "constructs" that serve. The stronger one's will, the more effective the construct, presumably in serving the greater good. Contrarily, the color of fear is yellow. Its constructs point in another direction entirely.

Hal arrives on the scene as a rather irresponsible daredevil who learns to face his fears and appreciate the power entrusted to him. This is classic superhero storyline. Yet something in the construct of "will" grabs me. Hal lives in his dad's shadow. Actually, the shadow is half fantasy, revealed in a memory-moment when Hal's dad, a test-pilot, says to his tween son, "it's my job not to be afraid." As the film progresses, his dad's espoused fearlessness is questioned, posing it perhaps as a strategy to cope with a fear of powerlessness.

Days earlier, my weekend journey begins by boarding a 2am bus to Boston. The bus is packed, this being close to July 4th. We arrive shortly after sunrise. Bleary-eyed, I walk through chinatown to the Public Garden. I enter the gate, and am captivated by the full-spectrum presence of green from every direction. I instinctively follow the path as it curves towards the pond. As birds chirp and ducks waddle by on the pond, I plop my tired body down on a bench in the shade, lean onto my backpack with a camping pillow in hand, and drink in the calming loveliness. Sunshine sparkles off the water and a light breeze welcomes.

After a much-needed nap, I awaken to bright sunshine on my face. Time to move on. I slowly make my way to the T (trolley) and from there to my mom's house in the suburbs. I'm here with a purpose. My mom and stepfather are moving to a smaller house. I'm planning to sort through the last of my boxes stored in their basement. Their nest is emptying. Years earlier, after my mom remarries, she and my stepfather adopt two babies: my younger sister, now age 23, who lives out of state, and my younger brother, now age 19, who is heading to college in August. My older sisters and I are more like aunts than sisters to them.

I am determined to reduce twelve boxes to a max of two by the end of the day. These boxes are a diverse collection of sizes and content. Coming here to do this is yet another step in deepening my relationship with my family and particularly my mother. Visiting with her is not always easy. We continue to move through communication barriers and heal injuries from the past. Our relationship is complex. Today we are joined in purpose. She encourages me by phone and email, declaring her confidence that I'll be able to get through these boxes in the one day set aside to do so. Our plan is to have some holiday fun the following day.

Getting off the T, I stop en-route for a matcha milkshake. The frosty green hue is a fitting match for the lightly sweet grassy taste. It tastes of summer. By the time I arrive at the house, I'm awake and ready for action.

I begin with what's difficult first and thus pro-actively engage my propensity to procrastinate.

I revisit boxes of photos and slides, many of which have rotted due to water damage from flooding. This offers no option but to let go. This quickens the pace and offers an opportunity to let go of the next batch in "good shape." Gazing at the images, I see stories, and experience these as chapters in a larger story. Each of these moments, each relationship, now appears as a complete step in an ongoing life path. I notice a quality of release, a easing of tension and slowing of breath. I am not grieving. I am appreciating flow.

I save one photo from a batch of 36. One photo. One "roll" of film. One is sufficient. One tells the whole story. This feels great.

Then I see a box labelled "daddy 1". Immediately my chest tightens. Eighteen years earlier, my father lies dying in a Pulmonary Care Unit. No longer able to speak or sing, he smiles when I enters the room. A complex man who during his life alienates at least as many people as he inspires, this action reveals movement in intention and realization. It's his way of connecting. It draws me to sit beside him and do nothing. Just sit, just be close. Many questions unanswered, many feelings surfacing in me but I can't go there. Too painful, too confusing. Even so, sitting there beside him, with nothing to do but breathe, something in me shifts enough to feel an embracing presence connecting us. I close my eyes and rest.

Sitting now beside a box of his belongings, I locate my father's high school yearbook and his photo in it. Age 16 and a senior, I notice that hardly anyone signs his yearbook. Beside his photo, I recognize his handwriting. The words are few and poignantly piercing, "To myself with love." His facial expression is anything but smiling. That same year, he draws a self-portrait, entitled "myself," which I now hold in my hands. A fragile pencil-sketch, it is stunning in its reflection of sadness and longing in his eyes. He seems terribly alone.

Many years after sketching it, he is diagnosed as bipolar and soon after, with multiple sclerosis.
I feel the tightening in my chest more keenly. I put the book and sketch back in the box. I pause for a single breath and then continue sorting.

The tightness increases and within minutes I have to stop. I'm seeing a flurry of images from different times all jumbled in mind. This boy in the yearbook is a different person from the dad who, when I'm 7, swaggers quickly across our kitchen, doing his hilarious impersonation of Groucho Marx. Or the one who a few years later, disappears for weeks on end. Or the one who, soon after re-appearing, explains Einstein's theory of special relativity to me with voracious simplicity at my grandmother's kitchen table and with no other tools than a sharpened #2 pencil and a large lined, yellow pad of paper.

Moments surface and recede as I sit here sorting. Like my dad who disappears and resurfaces in my life until his body begins to collapse and his mind tightens its grasp on constructs. Looking through this collection of artifacts, I'm sliding through time with more questions than answers.

At the age of 12, sitting at that kitchen table, my dad tells me, "Einstein invented C, the speed of light, to explain his new theory. Just as Newton invented calculus to be the language of his new physics." I'm enthralled and listening attentively.

Now, sitting beside a box of belongings, I wonder about that conversation, about those constructs of necessity. Do they construct reality or describe it? Which brings to mind a more fundamental question: what is real?

Peter Bergmann, a colleague of Einstein's and author of the classic textbook, "Introduction to the Theory of Relativity" (being the book my father references in teaching me, though omitting many of the complicated details), as Dennis Overbye writes in Bergmann's obituary:

"collaborated with Einstein on attempts to construct a so-called unified field theory to explain all the forces of nature. Among the attempts was a 1938 paper, building on a notion ... that suggested that space-time was not four-dimensional [time being the fourth dimension], but had a fifth dimension that was not ordinarily perceived because it was very small. Although Einstein and his collaborators subsequently turned to other ideas, the notion is now at the center of modern attempts to create a theory of everything."

He adds,

"Bergmann and Einstein were the first to explain how the fifth dimension could be real and on a par with the others but just smaller, said Dr. Witten of Princeton's Institute for Advanced Study. "It is a very modern idea."

In the same box, I pull out my father's Ph.D. thesis, which connects with this theory.

At the age of 12, sitting beside my dad, I am utterly drawn into that reality. Later that same year, I construct what I call a "spaceatarium" out of a huge cardboard box for my eighth grade science project. Painted black with a door cut out, dozens of tiny holes are lit up from outside so they shine like stars on the inside. Kids cut class to get in the queue as a long line forms of those wanting to sit inside and listen to the audio track I compose telling the dramatic story of the birth and death of stars. My goal is for the person inside to experience deep space directly, to experience the stars' lifecycle intimately, to feel themselves as these stars, to be there.

As these moments resurface, the tension in my chest and shoulders is calling attention. I stop what I'm doing and breathe into these spaces. Then, I return to another time, also when I'm age 12, though later that same year. Walking home in the Bronx from school by myself, I stop to help a stranger. I am footsteps from my family's apartment home and one block from my grandmother's. The hood of the stranger's car is up. He asks me to get in and gently step on the gas so he can test the engine. I get in.

Suddenly, I feel a knifepoint at my throat. He tells me to get in. I slide over to the passenger side. Minutes later, after driving through this neighborhood and sexually molesting me, he stops the car. As he lets me out he says, "I know where you live. If you tell anyone, I'll kill you." Until we move to Manhattan the following year, I live in a constant state of terror, always looking over my shoulder while walking to and from school. I walk quickly.

Now, sitting in my mother's home now beside a box of belongings, the flood of images slowly ceases as I continue to breathe into the stuck spaces. Slowly, the light in the room softens. The tightness loosens its grip and I feel the wet flow of tears. I instinctively wrap my arms around my torso. I hold myself, that part of me, that girl who dreams of outer space and terrified and terribly alone, longs to be close to her distant father.

I sit in the silent flow of being with him in moments, then of being alone with no idea of where he is or when he'll return. I embrace that girl in me who doesn't understand, who sits confused, afraid, and alone in the dark.

Slowly, I sense a shift and am able to continue with the work at hand.

Hours later, as sunset approaches, I have accomplished my goal. All these belongings are now held in two medium-sized boxes. One contains my belongings, a mix of photos, papers, and other memorabelia. The other contains my dad's belongings.

My mom and I decide to celebrate by going to Woody Allen's new film, "Midnight in Paris." First, I go for a walk. Realizing the next showtime is around when my mom usually goes to bed, I call her to check in about plans. I ask her, "is it too late?" She replies, "no, it's not too late. I really want to share this with you."

A couple of weeks earlier, she calls after seeing the movie, and recommends I see it, saying "I think you'll really enjoy it."

Now, back at the house, we head for the car and arrive around 9pm in Brookline. We park by the newly renovated, historic landmark, the Coolidge Corner Theatre. Sitting beside my mom in that darkened space, I gaze over at her as the film plays on the big screen. She's smiling with such delight, drinking in the nuances and wonderment of the story and its characters.

The movie's lead character, Gil, an aspiring novelist, obsessed with a "golden age" of 1920's Paris, enters it one night. Eventually he discovers in a pivotal moment of recognition that everyone is to some degree dissatisfied with their present because the very fact that it's real makes it dissatisfying. Gil says that even so, we want to escape what's real because it can be painful.

Ultimately, he chooses reality over fantasy.

As I watch, savoring a locally crafted mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, I feel another cooling presence. My mom and I are in flow. Years of difficult interactions melt away.

I leave the theater fully present. I remember something Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hahn writes in No Death, No Fear, referring to his retreats with veterans of war. He says one can be "reborn in the past" by relating differently to the construct called "past." This centers on feeling remorse for past harmful actions and (even if imagined) from those who have harmed you. Then, what he calls, "the ultimate dimension" is experienced where past and present are co-existent. This experience is distinct from a notion of linear progression or "historical time." He describes this as freedom and writes:

Freedom is the basic condition for you to touch life, to touch the blue sky, the trees, the birds, the tea, and the other person.

As we exit the theater, my mom and I take our time walking to the car and then driving home. I slowly press on the brakes and stop as a traffic light shifts from yellow to red. In contented silence, we breathe beside each other. The light turns green. I gently step on the gas. We continue on.

That night, I sleep out on the deck. I experience the night the way Walt Whitman refers to it in his poem, entitled, A Clear Midnight:

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, and the stars.

I wake up to birds chirping and sunshine warming my face. I get up, pillow in hand, and open the back door. I step into the kitchen. A familiar voice, asking if I slept well, welcomes me home.

Pursuing Possibility

2011-06-12T18:54:00.018-04:00

Walking on a sparkling Sunday afternoon through Manhattan's East Village, I stumble on what looks to be a community treasure, the First Street Garden. Through the fence, I see a poem painted on a wall:

"In the name of the Bee, and of the Butterfly, and of the Breeze. . ."

I read a nearby sign, which says the poem, by Emily Dickinson, is painted by children in the neighborhood as a poetry outreach project.

Two weeks later, I'm chatting with a middle-aged woman who calls herself Megalicious. We're sitting at a relatively new tea joint in Soho called In Pursuit of Tea. It is nearly literally a "hole in the wall," beautifully rustic by design, with just enough space for essentials: a counter to prepare tea and display a few homemade treats. Seating consists of two wooden planks atop short, rough-timbered logs. Outside a bare wooden sign hangs high. It says, "TEA." First appearing as a "popup shop" a year ago, I can still count on one hand the number of times I've been here.

The name "Pursuit" seems fitting. One has to be paying attention to notice the sign. It's easy to walk right by this treasure of a teahouse without ever seeing it. On this Saturday afternoon, an eclectic mix of patrons wanders in and out of the open door as I sip "Wood Dragon," a tea steeped from roasted Oolong twigs with a sprinkling of leaves. The fragrance is sweet without being cloyingly floral. I'm enjoying the cool breeze and amber hue of the brew when this woman arrives and orders the very same tea.

Seeing me pour from a large paper cup into a tiny porcelain one, she asks about it. And so begins our conversation. She picks up a tiny cup from a nearby tray, pours tea into it, then sips and smiles, lingering with the beauty and aroma. Introducing herself with a chuckle, she says, "call me Megalicious," adding that her first name is Meg. She hands me a flyer for a gathering in the neighborhood. She says it's to talk about changing regulations, which prevent many people from living here legally. It's organized by "Soho/Noho Action Committee."

She speaks of local history, mentioning painters including Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollock, who flock to this area in the 50's seeking studios, which can fit their large canvases. Now, she says, "you can only legally live here if you are a 'certified artist'." She says even this categorization applies to certain types of artists and excludes many forms of expressive arts. She goes on to advocate that anyone who wants to live here ought to be able to do so.

Just then, I gaze out the window across the street, noting the reflection from the large-paned industrial windows that speak of a bygone era, aware of its interior now re-purposed. I overhear the woman serving at the counter tell a customer that if they need a restroom, to go across and down the street to Bloomingdale's. This store is also relatively new to the neighborhood, having arrived a few years ago. The complexity of this context leaves me grateful for the simplicity of the tiny cup in my hands. I place it down and pour. I offer Megalicious the new Potluck Tea Party card. The design includes a stunning background of blue sky with various shapes of white clouds. She smiles. We continue sipping in silence.

A few days earlier, I'm sitting at Baja Fresh, a chain eatery, in Times Square. I'm enjoying a hefty serving of black beans and rice on a compostable plate. The price is right at $2.99, especially considering the fixins bar is free. Sitting on a tall barstool at a small-ish round table, I'm facing a bigscreen TV. A baseball game is on. I note the uniforms and recognize a name, then a face. Ortiz. David Ortiz of the Boston Red Sox. The other team? The NY Yankees, playing with "home advantage." As Ortiz steps up, bat in hand, I notice two guys, maybe late 20's, at a table to my right. They're also munching and watching the game.

One man on base. Then, after a swing goes nowhere, he tries again. He takes his time. We all pause for a breath. Then, I watch as ball meets bat meets sky. It soars and is quickly gone. Ortiz rounds the bases as the Sox score two runs. I sense a resonance though it takes a moment to register. Then it comes like an electric surge through my body. Seven years ago, I'm watching the twelfth inning of Game 4 of the World Series. David Ortiz hits a two-run homerun and the Sox come back from a 3-0 loss to the Yankees. Watching in a friend's livingroom, we jump to our feet from the couch. "Yeah, go Sox!" The Red Sox go on to win the Series. Both moments coincide for an instant, which brings out the juice of now being a whole new ballgame. Different context. Different connection. Yet something remains the same. What is it?

I turn to the two guys watching the game and ask, "are you routing for one of these teams?" One answers in a hushed tone, "the Red Sox." I ask if he's from Massachusetts. He says, "I'm from Rhode Island" and asks, "how about you?" I say, "not from there but lived there a long time." We all nod our heads to acknowledge this connection, unrecognized until now. Something in this exchange satisfies. Naturally, we return to eating and the game.

Three days earlier, I board BoltBus to Boston. Arriving just in time at 7am, I'm the last passenger to get on. I hadn't planned for the A-train to go local, delaying my carefully planned arrival time. Stepping up, my eyes register that there are no empty seats. And not all are filled with people. The seat beside every person riding solo is occupied. Scanning the bus, I see bags, laptops, knapsacks, and other such items scattered among these seats. I ask a woman sitting in the one directly behind the driver, who looks to be in her 60's, if I might join her. She quickly moves her pocketbook from the seat. I take off my shoes, place my knapsack on top of my shoes and my sock-covered feet on top of the knapsack.

The driver gets on. A fellow who seems like he's also a driver for this company sits in the other front seat. They chat, then as the bus pulls away from the curb, the driver announces, "This is the bus to Boston. If you're not going to Boston, come to the front row. Otherwise, we'll be in Boston in four and a half hours if no traffic or construction. So relax and enjoy the ride."

My ears scan the bus. A sea of voices is speaking louder than is comfortable for me and louder than I recall on past rides. This includes the driver and his buddy who resume their conversation after he makes the announcement. A young couple behind me are speaking loudly enough to be heard more than several rows back. The woman beside me, reading The New Yorker, astounds me in her capacity to focus amidst the myriad streams of conversation around her. I do my best for a few minutes. Then I put on sound "protection" headphones, which I use on daily subway rides. The difficulty is that wearing them for long periods of time hurts my ears. Imagining over four hours of this is agonizing. I notice myself growing increasingly agitated.

I close my eyes and attune to the flow and rhythm of my breathing. I check in with where I'm feeling tension, my shoulders and neck. I breathe into the sensations while maintaining awareness of my body as a whole. Feeling centered, I take off the headphones, turn to face the young man and woman behind me, and introduce myself. As I speak to share my concern while affirming their freedom and our mutual partnership in riding together, my body feels the resonance of this same dynamic many months ago on another bus at another time. Same and yet different.

This time I notice the tension is nearly gone, and I'm able to speak more comfortably. Sharing that the volume at which they're speaking is, for me, distracting and uncomfortable; I ask if they might be willing to adjust their volume. The woman looks annoyed while the young man responds with genuine empathy and understanding, "I'll give it a shot." His tone indicates willingness even as it registers mild irritation. This mix of emotion is subtle and encouraging to register. I sense this as a visceral tingling sensation, one of shared presence. It's enlivening. Not necessarily seeing eye to eye yet able to hear and respond authentically and with care. I smile and, say, "hey, thanks alot. I'm glad we're finding a way together." He nods his head with a hint of a smile to acknowledge this shift in connection.

I turn back and sit back down, facing the front of the bus. I check in again with my breath and sit silently for a few minutes. Then, leaning in towards the driver, who's still chatting with his buddy, I interject, "Hi." He stops speaking. I continue, "I'm kinda uneasy right now because it seems a bit loud on the bus, at least for me, especially because would like to rest. Would you consider asking passengers to be mindful of volume during the ride when comes to conversations and using electronic devices?" He responds, "I usually don't do that." Then he says to his buddy, "is she talking about us talking?" Then he asks me, "are you noticing something being a problem?" I reply, "yes."

He says, "I don't like to tell people what to do." I say, "I understand that. I wouldn't want to do that either. I see it more as working together." I affirm his authority, and the importance of freely choosing. I also mention the importance of safe and respectful, adding, "I've noticed on previous rides that when a driver states this precaution, asking people to be mindful, it's pre-emptive, preventing problems down the road." At this point, the driver's buddy says to him, matter-of-factly, "hey, just announce it. She's right."

The driver picks up the overhead mike without delay and says, "hey everybody. I usually don't make this announcement." He pauses then continues, "when using your cellphones or listening to music, be . . ." He pauses again, then adds, "be mindful of your fellow passengers and keep it down. You can still use your phone and whatever. Everybody have a pleasant ride." I thank him, and sit back, closing my eyes and soon falling asleep. As I'm dozing off, I'm aware of the woman beside me continuing to read. I wonder what she's reading. And what she's feeling.

When we arrive in Boston, I thank the driver and he says with a friendly grin, "hey, no problem!" I laugh and move on.

A week earlier, I'm watching a new movie called, "The First Grader" at the Village East Cinema. I heard of the movie from Sam Feuer, its producer, when he stops by on Mother's Day for Potluck Tea Party in Central Park. "Enthused" is an understatement for how he feels about his first production. He encourages me to see it and "spread the word." Days later, I post an announcement of this on Sensing Wonder's new Facebook page.

Weeks later, tired of editing in IMovie, I go online and read that the film's director, Justin Chadwick, says in an interview with CBS News that online word of mouth "is completely vital. The only way that interesting films that haven't got a big studio behind them survive is because of people spreading the word."

I make a mental note as I return to the task, putting final touches on "Growing, In Brooklyn," a musical slideshow of a recent Potluck Tea Party, which is also the first one held in Brooklyn. I'm planning to upload it to youtube and then share it through various social media along with the now "old school" method of an email "distribution list." I don't know precisely how any of this works. The Web seems inconceivably complex. And yet, staring at a single frame, it's clear what is the next thing to do. This frame. How many seconds? This transition. How long does it last

Learning as I go. Diving in. Trying it out.

Now, watching, "The First Grader," I'm drinking in the arid setting in rural Kenya, and the increasingly multi-layered unfolding of its lead character, 84-year old Maruge. He has survived brutal torture in colonial days decades earlier at the hands of the British. He is learning to read for the first time beside fifty kids in a ramshackle schoolhouse in the countryside. Conflict ensues as educating a man his age is not the intention of the government when it announces, "Free education for all."

Later, advocating for the teacher of this class with government officials, he states,

“We have to learn from our past because we must not forget and because we must be better.”

He adds,

"We reap what we sow with our children."

Back in Boston, heading on foot to the bus station in the late afternoon, I'm walking through a Greenspace, which has grown as part of the aftermath of the urban renovation project known as The Big Dig. I walk by a slew of kids and adults moving very strangely. As I get closer, I see what's happening. A whole lotta hoola hoops are twirling around hips and torsos of all shapes and sizes. I see a sign that says, "FIGMENT Boston - Free Participatory Arts Festival."

I keep walking along the footpath, noticing all kinds of unexpected displays of human creativity. Lots of kids are lying on the ground with adults joining them. They're all staring up at the sky, and looks like they're watching clouds float by. Since I'm on the move, no time to ask. I keep walking, soon passing by a big metal geodesic dome. Someone's draped inside a long blue cloth hanging from the dome's frame and twisting about as if preparing for a circus act. Nearby, three women are powering what look to be music amps with a bicycle-like contraption. Across the way, a fellow in a tent is drawing on what looks to be an IPad, projecting the screen image of a colorful animated-on-the-fly fish on the tent wall. Back outside, five sailors walk by in crisp white uniforms and stop, posing on request for a photo.

Later, I read on FIGMENT's website, that it is happening in three cities (Boston, New York City, and Jackson, MI) and that

"FIGMENT intends for everyone who comes to the event to be a participant, so that FIGMENT itself can be seen as one large collaborative art project. No one is a spectator. We are all connected and we are all creators. . . FIGMENT is completely free. It's a grassroots effort, organized and run entirely by volunteers as a gift to our cities."

I keep going and soon arrive at South Station for the bus ride back to NYC. This time travelling on Peter Pan Bus Line, I arrive with plenty of time and boarding, sit beside a passenger towards the middle of the bus. Conversations are happening all over the bus. Amazingly, everyone is speaking at a volume, which feels comfortable all around. I sense a calm humming throughout my body. The driver gets on, welcomes everyone and announces precautions for the trip including being aware of fellow passengers. As we pull out and move along, the rhythm of the road and the changing scenery is all it takes to settle in.

I close my eyes, content to go along for the ride.

Sheltering Beauty

2011-04-30T19:34:00.066-04:00

A softly bright hazy sky comes into view as I climb up a narrow flight of stairs and exit the Subway station at 72nd Street and Central Park West. I wait as the light turns green then cross the street.

Before setting out for a brisk romp through the park en-route to work, I scan my phone for "personal" email to see if any need immediate responses. All these movements are carefully choreographed, a schedule neatly planned to get me to work refreshed, focussed, and on time. I can't afford to be distracted.

Standing beside a fresh bed of pastel pink tulips, I pause to breathe in their gorgeous scent and attune to the chirping of nearby sparrows flitting among budding branches of a young tree.

I pick up my Blackberry and open a message from a friend living in Oregon. It says, "Saw Alex Rudinsky yesterday. He's within a week or two of dying."

The words hit me like a bolt of lightning. I stand frozen for a few seconds, unable to absorb what's happening. My mind goes blank. My feet take over and phone in hand, I walk towards the tree-shelter canopy that marks the entrance into Strawberry Fields. I put the phone away and walk the short distance to the Imagine Circle. Eyes register "Imagine" set in gray mosaic tiling.

I slowly step back then turn, facing east and keep going. Within minutes, I feel the air moisten as first drops begin to fall.

A year earlier, Alex and I reconnect at a Memorial Day buffet. It's offered by Zen Community of Oregon at its residential training Center called Great Vow Zen Monastery. The place is anything but cloistered. People are a'plenty. Alex is telling me with great enthusiasm about his daughter Anna now in her early 20's and living in New York. He and I go back over a decade, having shared many moments of "spiritual practice" as members of this Community. I have been visiting twice a year since moving.

Alex's eyes exude kindness. His smile is gentle and direct. He's the kind of guy who when he's smiling, you just find yourself going along for the ride. You feel better just standing there with him.

Now moving through Central Park, the rain connects me to a terrain 3000 miles away whose touch is familiar as it is comforting. When I finally arrive at work, sitting down and just before emailing our mutual friend; I notice my agitation. Attuning, I sense below the surface, through what feel like bubbles of rage bursting and rippling out to diffuse their energy. As this happens, I begin to feel pain, sometimes sharp and as this spreads out, the tightness in my chest feels more achy. It hits me, first the recognition of having been completely unaware until today of Alex being sick. And I'm just beginning to feel his presence in that state and realize my helplessness. A queasy hollow-like sensation courses through me. I stay there for some time attuning to its rhythm as my pulse and breath settle.

Days later, I'm standing at the post office, finally finding words to write in a card. I feel Alex's presence. A moment of being with him feels like it's happening now all over again. He is standing, painting in the Jizo Garden at Great Vow (as it's affectionately known).

This garden is actually set in a forest. It is a place to rest and reflect and be with loved ones who have passed on. Everywhere are tokens of remembrance, slowly disintegrating, hanging from whatever is within reach. Poems and artwork, small toys, and bits of fabric sewn together, accented by beads or whatever strikes the fancy of the one remembering. Throughout this place are a sprinkling of old growth trees among younger varieties, Some are evergreens, Doug Fir being the most common. These form a sheltering canopy while still welcoming in sunlight or rain in soft streaming ripples.

As I walk along the newly shaped path through these woods, I see a figure wearing a moderately broad brim hat, paintbrush in hand, facing an easel. He is standing in a wild mess of tall ferns. The canvas is filled with varying shades of green, each one reflecting a quality of light, which draws me closer.

Just then, my feet step onto a dry branch, which crackles loudly enough to draw the painter's gaze. He turns and seeing me, breaks into a broad albeit subtle grin. I'm smiling too. We meet in a moment as ordinary as it is intimate, perfectly at home in this forest garden.

Back at the post office, I place the card, crafted of handmade paper with a light green hue, in an Express Mail envelope. I bring it to the counter. The woman helping me asks, "Oregon. How many hours difference?" "Three," I reply. She says, "Oh, same as Nevada." I ask, "Do you know someone in Nevada?" She replies, "No, I'm from Hong Kong originally. I was just visiting Death Valley." I feel my legs go soft and place my hands on the counter for support. I say, "It must've been amazing." She says, "Oh, yes. The name sounds scary but it's not. It's very beautiful."

I look at her in wonderment and say nothing.

The next day just before leaving work, I call the residence where Alex has been living and say, "I'm a friend of Alex Rudinsky." The woman answering the phone says, "he died this morning." My stomach sinks into something deeper and the queasiness returns. I immediately call one of his daughters to offer condolences. I get off the phone. I leave the building and do what comes naturally. I walk. I feel the air on my face.

When I get home, even though it's late, I can't sleep. I light a candle and place Alex's photo beside it. I sit there a long time.

The next morning I go to Village Zendo for a day-long retreat. Being with friends in a mostly silent container of time and space allows me to flow with a shifting interior landscape. That forest garden becomes a stronger presence and in moments I feel myself sitting there. Afterwards, I walk to Ten Ren Tea. I pour from a large cup into a small one a rich dark brew of an earthy tea called PuEr. Over and over again I pour and sip. The woodsy aroma and taste take me back to days at Great Vow and other gardens among friends. Our hands dig into moist soil mixed together with fresh compost. This is fertile ground for new seedlings we are transplanting from the greenhouse where they've germinated.

All at once, almost before I realize it's happening, tea in hand, tears spill out. I can't hide them though feel awkward crying openly in this teahouse. Cindy and Anna, friends who work here, offer space and gentle care, bringing over a small cup of Oolong, placing a light hand on my shoulder then stepping back to their work. When ready, I tell them what's happened. Each offers comforting words and a brief, heartfelt hug. Something in me shifts as I'm held. I feel safe. I sense that this moment too is precious and these people dear to me. And it all seems so incredibly ordinary. The lack of seeming drama in the midst of a multitude of emotion allows me to relax. Able to integrate the hurt and sadness, the confusion and regret, I return to appreciating who is here now. An inner warmth moved out as quiet joy arises in me unexpectedly.

As preparations begin to close the teahouse for the night, I head out and wander through the side streets of Chinatown as the sun sets. Stumbling on a prayerful scene, I see Pakistani or perhaps Afghani workers pulling out pieces of cardboard and prostrating together. My mind flashes to Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center and walking by its renovated chapel. A friend and colleague, Imam Yussuf Hassan, joins with staff, patients, and their family members in prayer. They spread out small colorful rugs and prostrate, facing east towards Mecca.

Days later, I call Sybil, a 70-something friend and writer whose compassionate way is subtle as it is imaginative. I mention Alex being "only 54" yet having lived fully. She says, "sometimes I think it's like people are all kinds of carpets. Some are meant to be prayer rugs instead of wall-to-wall." This hits home and I feel the relief of a few tears running down my cheek.

Back in Chinatown, I turn towards the river, heading west. I hear voices singing. Following the sound, I enter a Catholic church and see an Easter vigil. Holding white candles, Chinese parishioners stand as the choir sings. The candlelight resonates with the end of Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, on this, the fifth day of Passover. It is a time, which marks the transition from rest to activity. I stay briefly then keep moving.

Nearly a week earlier, I sit at a long table in Soho for a lively Seder with friends and their family. They get the power of togetherness. Deena is founder of Communal Table and Musho is an artist whose whimsical creations include a colorful cast of characters. The haggadah storybook we use is called, “A Night of Questions.” When it's time for the ten plagues, each of us dips a pinky in our wineglass and removes a drop, one for each plague. Opinions vary on why this is done. A popular explanation is to acknowledge that we do not rejoice at the suffering of the oppressor. Rather, we celebrate being freed from the yoke of oppression. "What's the difference?" remains a question debated at many a table.

Now, standing on the edge of Tribeca, I wait for the traffic light to change. The sky has darkened considerably. The light turns green. I keep going. When I get to the Hudson river, the flow of water soothes and the streetlamps' glow washing over its shifting surface comforts as it refreshes.

The next morning, I reset my makeshift music studio and toss whatever does not seem to be essential. Later, as evening comes, I head downtown to Bluestockings Bookstore to hear Nina Revoyr read from her new novel, Wingshooters. I hear about Nina from my friend Tomomi. Nina is her daughter.

A group of thirty or so eager listeners gather. Homemade cookies sit on a nearby table.

Nina's novel deals with complexity of character and relationships, engaging difficult themes including racism, and is being compared to To Kill a Mockingbird. Nina comes up to the mike. She reads a passage, which beautifully captures a moment where the story's nine-year-old protagonist heads out to the baseball field with her grandfather:

"Something about stepping out onto a baseball field that always gave me a thrill, as if some energy source, some element in the grass, entered my feet and moved up through my body and set off an extra charge in my heart. . . Batting is about muscle memory and repetitive motion, and you have to get to the point where you're moving perfectly and acting without thought. . . When players get into a slump, it's often because they're thinking too much, breaking down the various parts of their swing until it becomes a series of separate, fallible mechanical actions instead of a unified expression of grace."

She adds, "When I did connect, when the ball hit the center of the barrel of the bat and flew out into the field, I felt a sense of joy and freedom as powerful and true as anything I've ever experienced. . . Hitting a ball is like catching a piece of the sky and sending it back up to itself. It's like creating your own crack of thunder. And stopping a ball-especially a grounder you have to reach for, or a line drive that should have flown past your glove-is like catching a bolt of lightning."

As she reads, the sky explodes with a bright flash and soon the crackle of thunder, quickly followed by a downpour. We feel it through the bookstore's open door as a rush of moist wind. During the Q&A, which follows her reading, Nina responds (as best I'm able to hear) to a question:

"Much like a good parent, I give characters enough structure (foundation) then trust. Characters lead you and become the story. Sure, I want people to think about complexity, about racism, but if I wanted to write an opinion I would have written non-fiction. Fiction has to have real characters. What's it like for someone to be neither all good or all evil?"

Her words reverberate throughout my body as I briefly mingle, then head out the door. Time to go home.

It's late. I pick up my electric guitar, already plugged into an effects box, and put on the attached headphones. I step on the pedal to shift sound effects. My fingers start strumming, then slow down to pluck single strings. Hearing the delay of the signal, it sounds like rain falling through that broad forest canopy. I adjust the delay and attune. My body loosens its taughtness and falls in with what's flowing.

The flickering candle light casts dancing shadows across the wall, magnifying the silhoetted shape of flowers nearby. I feel my breath and pulse. Over and over fingers pluck away. I get up and move through the room as far as the cord will allow. Slowly lyrics come. I sing them softly given the hour:

"I'm standing with you. I'm standing with you in a forest garden. And the rain's comin' down. the rain's comin' down. It'll turn you around. It'll turn you around."

I feel the wet warmth of tears streaming down my cheeks in the night glow, choking through the refrain of "rain's comin' down."

My fingers strum harder now and faster. I step on the peddle and the effect, the grit of the sound building. I feel that forest floor squishing beneath me and the sheltering embrace of that forest canopy. It feels so good to play. I feel free, freer than I've felt in months. I play until my fingers shake and eventually settle. The last thing I do is record the snippet of song using my phone. No time yet to setup the recording part of this studio. I finally release into a restful exhaustion.

The next day I send the recording to my friend Naomi. She texts me within minutes, "Wow. . .it's beautiful. You should play in the public. Seriously."

My immediate and visceral response on reading this is palpable, a new interplay of joy, relief, and all of it most intimate. Not so much the being seen for who I am (an ongoing storyline). Rather the ability to express and have this connect for another. Meeting in the moment.

Days later, I check my email. Another friend in Oregon and resident at Great Vow, writes, "We'll have Alex's memorial ceremony here today. I visited Alex the week before his passing. He had big, bright eyes."

I go onto Facebook. I visit Alex's photo albums and am drawn to one of his colorful landcape oil painting of a forest scene, entitled, "Shelter." I then return to the previous page and scroll down to see his comment to friends. He's talking about the relationship between "posting" and "sharing":

"I guess I have no idea how this works. I thought anyone could look at these photos just by going to my fb page and clicking on which photo album they wanted at any time. So the difference is when I edit it, then they are "posted" and go out to everyone as when I "share" something?"

He then writes,

"And so the advantage is people don't have to think. It just visually appears in front of them, and they are happy."

Nearness

2011-03-31T20:05:00.029-04:00

A sunny Sunday afternoon. I'm standing on Broadway in Manhattan's Soho, just south of Prince Street, carrying a large colorful poster, which reads, "Help Japan with Love." Beside me is Naomi Namba, Japanese immigrant, artist and fellow server at the Potluck Tea Party in Central Park's Strawberry Fields. Today we're joining a large Taiwanese Humanitarian Relief organization named, Tzu Chi, in fundraising efforts.

A week earlier, the world shifts. An earthquake, then a tsunami, then nuclear disaster. Something shifts in me and I need to do something. I don't know what so I do what a lot of us do. I go online to connect with my "Social Network." I'm looking for what five decades earlier, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., calls, "the Beloved Community." What I find are many news stories and blogs, which vary wildly in what they report. The people and communities affected directly tend to put a different spin on events than those at greater distance.

I also locate lots of ways to donate online. It's confusing. Who can be trusted to get the funds directly to those in need? Do I go with familiar organizations or others, which offer matching funds, or which espouse ideologies more aligned with my own? After an hour of surfing, I am overwhelmed. My shoulders are hunched and tense. My face has moved alarmingly close to the screen. All at once, I stop. I feel my feet on the floor and come back to my breath. I get out of the chair and step back from the screen.

I leave the room and sit in a quiet place. I follow my breath until it settles as does the rest of my body. Then, it comes to me. Whom to call. Within minutes, I'm speaking with Chuck, a new friend and volunteer with Tzu Chi's office in Manhattan's Chinatown. Weeks earlier, I meet him by phone while planning an upcoming retreat at Village Zendo whose theme is immigration. The plan, as a later video I'mMigration shows, is to explore our inter-relatedness by engaging the urban environment including visits to neighbors such as Tzu Chi.

Speaking now about Japan, Chuck tells me to meet at their office on Sunday. Those of us volunteering are dispatched in groups of three or four to the streets of Soho. he tells me that days earlier in Chinatown, volunteers meet with resistance from some locals, who say emphatically, "hey, don't you know your history? Don't you know what the Japanese did to us?"

Today, I cross Broadway as the Chinese-American woman, herself an immigrant, heading up our group of four urges us on, saying, "more people will be on the sunny side of the street." Walking beside her is a young man, a high school student. She's carrying a makeshift cardboard box with a big slot cut on top and lovely artwork pasted on the front. The rest of us carry signs or flyers stating our intention, "Help Japan with Love."

My resistance starts from the outset. The scene feels like the Salvation Army. It is not exactly my cuppa tea. We are asking out loud for people to contribute. The young fellow says, "come on, show some love. Give a dollar. Help Japan."

Each time someone puts money in the box, the woman bows and says, "thank you." So does the young fellow and soon enough, so do Naomi and I. We catch on. Still, I don't know what to say. I watch as most people walk by. Quickly, I'm getting seriously annoyed. Why aren't they stopping? Why aren't they offering something?

My impulse is to say something. But what? A man walks by, late 20's, seemingly "Caucasian," and well-dressed. He's carrying what I imagine to be a $5 latte from Dean&Deluca, an expensive gourmet market at the corner. I hear myself say, "for the price of that coffee, you could help someone who has no water to drink. Give $5. Save a life." My tone is anything but inviting. He quickly walks by. Next I see a woman in her mid-30's wheeling her toddler son in one of those fancy strollers that can do everything but fly. I say as she goes by, "what if it was your child?" She gives me a look, rightly so, indicating her displeasure and confirming that this strategy is not gonna fly.

Increasingly desperate, I start a refrain, "think of the children, think of the children. please help." Folks keep walking by. Now I'm really angry and it shows. I say as a new refrain, "do you really need that dollar in your pocket?" As I'm saying it, a homeless man looking pretty dishevelled and down on his luck, walks by. He walks slower than others and his eyes are downcast. He keeps moving.

All at once it hits me. Here I am. Passive aggressive. Judgemental. Trying to connect. Not a great recipe for success. I check in with my body. Tense. Tired. Migraine tinges surging. Hungry. Cold.

Pissed off.

I stop.

Because I am suffering.

Why am I suffering? I don't know.

A Zen koan (dialogue) from The Book of Serenity, speaks to this. It's an exchange between two Chinese men and is called,

Case 20: Dizhang's Nearness:

Dizhang asks Fayan, "Where are you going?"

Fayan says, "Around on Pilgrimage."

Dizhang says, "What is the purpose of Pilgrimage?"

Fayan says, "I don't know."

Dizhang says, "Not knowing is nearest."

Why are people here? Who are these people? What's their purpose?

I don't know.

The woman with the stroller. Maybe she's overwhelmed, trying to manage her full-time career with the responsibilities of motherhood. If she's fortunate to be in a loving partnership, maybe she's in a hurry, on her way to meet that person, maybe more kids, and have some precious family time together?

Or how about the latte guy? Maybe he donated online. Maybe he's been working his tail off all week and this is his one chance to relax. Maybe he's been savoring this moment of enjoying a latte all day. Maybe it's what he needs to keep going.

Finally, the homeless guy. He might be unaware. He might need to keep his focus very narrow, focussed on survival. He moves slowly through the terrain. He takes his time. Maybe he is offering something just as significant as money. Maybe a reminder.

Stopping to consider all this, my body relaxes.

I stop judging. I stop suffering.

All because of practice. The simple so-to-speak practice of coming back to the breath, the body, and my intention.

In that moment of stopping, of inner silence, a song comes to me, a refrain. I start to sing what I hear internally. It's a familiar melody, written by John Lennon, and sung by The Beatles.

"Love, love, love"

As soon as I begin, Naomi turns to me and smiles. She starts singing. We start a soft dance shuffle, holding our signs.

"Love, love, love. . . it's easy"

People around us slow down as they walk by. They're smiling. I sing at a volume I didn't realize I'm capable of. It is heard even with lots of mid-afternoon auto traffic:

"All you need is love"

The next line comes out so loud seems like folks on the other side of the street can hear.

"Everybody now!"

Naomi's singing louder too.

"All you need is love"

Then a new line comes out of my mouth. I make it up:

"We need your help and how."

I laugh. So do people walking by. They start to put money in the box, in our hands. Bows and "thank you"s keep a steady rhythm for the tune.

We connect.

A few days later, during the Urban retreat, visiting the offices of Tzu Chi, our host tells us that street-based fundraising efforts are intended to be grassroots efforts. She says, "On the street, it's great if people give a dollar. Frankly, we raise more money online. It's not about the money. It's to awaken the heart of compassion."

Back on Broadway, I feel compassion for the people around me. They feel it.

Compassion and dollar bills flow freely. We continue to sing, to laugh, to dance, and bow.

A man who operates the nearby food-vending truck wants to contribute. The woman with the box gladly walks over and lifts up the box as he puts in a dollar. She asks him where he's from. Smiling with great pride and dignity, he says, "Bangladesh." They bow.

I snap photos and hand Naomi the camera, she snaps a few. I ask a stranger passing by. Another volunteer from Tzu Chi arrives. He snaps a few. We're having a grand time. We return to Tzu Chi headquarters and warm up. Chuck offers me and Naomi sweet red bean soup along with the rest of the volunteers.

I go home. I feel compassion for myself. I want to share it. I make a Flickr slideshow and post the link and a photo album on Facebook. I tag a few people in the photos. Within hours, Naomi posts on my wall, saying, "It was fun. People gave us a lot. Thank you!" She emails me hours later and says that her friends in Japan saw the slideshow because I tagged her in a few photos. She writes, "they were deeply moved."

I'm reminded of a verse from a long, meandering Taoist poem, entitled, "Shodoka" or "Song Verifying the Way":

I have had no reason for joy or sorrow

at any honor or disgrace.

I have entered the deep mountains to silence and beauty.

Consumed

2011-02-28T07:04:00.029-05:00

Three squirrels are zooming around a tree as I enter Ft. Tryon park in northern Manhattan. Their tireless pace captivates me and a whole lot of folks passing through. The temperature outside is markedly warmer than it's been. Everybody's coming out it seems.

Two weeks earlier, and footsteps from here, my cellphone is stolen by two teenage boys, could be age 14 or maybe 16. Coming out of the subway, I ride up an elevator to street level. The teenagers and a middle-aged woman are also riding. I see the boys glancing at my Blackberry but am consumed, typing an email message to a guy who lives 3000 miles away. He and I meet one year earlier and are now in some kind of ambiguous intimate relationship. I am planning to visit him in a few days.

I type with a heightened sense of urgency due to confusion and impatience in wanting a response. I think I'm checking in but actually the impulse is more like checking out, not taking in what's really going on. I'm exhausted with my head painfully pounding. Another day of too much activity, too much outflow, and not enough of what nourishes.

Over a year earlier, I sustain physical injuries from such active inattentiveness, which connects with similar fixations. Some part of me is irritated and compulsively thinking that someone else is not responding as I want them to. I don't feel heard. That night, I trip and take a nasty tumble, breaking a tooth on impact with the pavement. Tonight, under different circumstances, my unconscious body registers a resonance but can't stop.

As the elevator doors open, the boys walk ahead of me as does the woman. Alone, having completed the email text, I step out into the night air, holding the phone in one hand. I am about to go up the two flights of stairs, which lead to the sidewalk. Suddenly, the youngsters come back and towards me. One says, "hey, I dropped something back there, think I lost something. Did you see anything?" I reply, "no, you might want to check back there."

They do not move. That's when I sense danger. I turn back towards the elevators, cellphone still in hand. One of them quickly grabs the phone. Then, both of them bolt up the stairs and turn, heading towards the park. I yell, "hey, stop, give me back my phone. stop, thief, someone stop them!" and race up the stairs. Up on the sidewalk, seeing them far away now, I realize the futility of my effort and also the potential for escalation of the situation. Someone at the top of the stairs, holding a cane, asks what happened. I tell him briefly. He says, "oh, that's too bad." I'm enraged, not knowing what to say so nod my head, turn and move quickly down the street. All I want to do is get home.

Minutes later, I enter my building, and a neighbor, Carlos, who happens also to be a clinical chaplain, greets me, heading out to walk his dogs. He offers empathy and tells me there has been a surge in this sort of crime in our neighborhood recently. I tell him what is most of concern to me is confidential info on the phone, contacts and such. He assures me that the young men likely will toss away the SIM card and wipe the phone of other info.

Then I tell him that I'm upset about the conditions contributing to this, and my outreach efforts. He tells me about working with incarcerated youth at Rykers prison, gang initiations, and various issues affecting "our kids" in the inner city. Then, as I'm about to move on, he says, "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you." I see his eyes filled with compassion and care. I feel tears in my eyes. He's struck a chord. I'm hurting. We hug for a few breaths and then I go upstairs.

By now, fifteen minutes go by.

I take a quick shower and swallow two Advil capsules. "Quick acting pain relief." That's what I need. Only then do I call the local precinct and report the crime. Then my cell provider. Shortly thereafter, two officers arrive at my door. One of them is annoyed that I didn't call sooner and that I didn't call 911. "We might have caught them," he says. I offer empathy but recognize that am still in shock and don't have a simple response.

The next day, I get a call from a detective. He asks me a slew of questions including a request to describe the young men. Among these details, I say they are "hispanic." Even as I say it, I question if this is accurate, and what I mean by the word. He wants me to come down to the precinct and look at photos. I go the following night after work.

The scene is very urban, and the many TV shows I've seen of such places accurately render the scene. He says more as a statement than a question, "you know how to use a computer." I say, "yes." He gets up from his chair facing the screen and has me sit there. He says, "you'll see six photos at a time. There are about 600 in this batch, all that fit your description." He continues, "you're gonna see a lot of buttons. I just want you to click on 'next'." I nod in acknowledgement. I put my hand on the mouse and am about to begin, when he adds, "listen, people look at these and go, 'he had this feature or that, his eyes, his nose, maybe looks like this...' Don't do that. Just take in the whole face and see if you recognize it."

I look him in the eye. He looks tired. I don't know what to say. I turn back to the screen. The air is musty and cloying. Stacks of papers and folders are piled all around. I focus. As face after face appears, I scan them and press, "next." I don't see anyone who looks like the young man who grabbed the phone. What I do see are facial expressions, a wide range of bewildered, numb, scared, sad, and angry. I also see a wide range of facial features, all apparently designated as "hispanic american."

My mind flashes to a moment two months earlier, at the Brain Resource Center. Then, participating in a depression study as a "healthy subject," I am asked to view many facial expressions in quick succession on a computer screen. Like that moment, right now I shift to an awareness of flow and presence with all the emotions I'm seeing. How are these affecting me? What is my response?

The detective asks if I want to widen the search and view more photos. I agree to view one more batch. After another 600 photos come and go, he says that it's different for everybody. Some people can ID and some can't. "It all depends," he finishes. I leave the station with many questions. I'm tired and sad.

I go home and read an email message, "I am glad you weren't hurt physically. Phones can be replaced. Judys can't."

The next day I fly to Oakland, CA. After a day's silent retreat at Berkeley Zen Center, I'm heading to visit with this guy I really like even as our relationship continues to be troubling in its ambiguity. En-route on the BART train, and running late, I text him with my new phone and he responds, "No problem take your time." I smile with relief. How did he know?...

After I get there, he shares how relieved he is that "nothing worse" happened to me. I tell him it's important to me to write about it, to write stories of things that often go unseen. Then I say would like to write for various media except television. His look in that instant stops me. I sense arrogance in my tone. Where is that coming from? What do I really know about television? I've hardly seen any TV shows recently.

As the discussion becomes more heated, he says, "you are consumed by the world." These words stop me as a zen koan (dialogue) fragment comes to mind. I feel a resonance and hear my teacher speaking them, "what do you call the world?"

I'm seeing images flash by including those many faces on the screen. How do I respond?

He then tells me about issues with the police in San Francisco. He tells me about his friend in Brooklyn who was mugged violently. I feel myself shaking. I'm overwhelmed. My body flinches as it is catapulted through time.

Many years earlier, in Seattle, I'm choking, trapped in a fog of tear gas as protesters to the World Trade Organization meeting gather outside. I see broken windows of storefronts, notably Starbucks. Mostly I see non-violent protests. I am here to witness and dialogue with anyone I can. I know very little of the details of the situation, having driven with friends from Oregon, where I'm living. I see police in riot gear, all lined up, moving forward. I see protesters chained to a building. I see a lot of anger and a lot of fear. We run and run until at last, find a way out.

Now, two days after being in San Francisco, I am back in New York on a bus crossing over the George Washington bridge to New Jersey. I'm heading to the Brain Resource Center for my followup appointment. When I get there, a woman again asks me to put on a funky cap with lots of wires sticking out of it. As she puts conducting gel on my head and checks the connections, hearing some kind of European sounding accent, I ask where she's from. She shares that she's from Kosovo and moved to Brooklyn 20 years earlier. I ask about her family, having met her daughter on the last visit. Her face lights up as she tells me of her daughter's fascination with storytelling and her youngest boy's fascination with science. She tells me he said to her recently, "someday, mom, I'm going to work with you."

Then she tells me that this wiring is for an EEG (electroencephalogram), which will record my brain waves during the test. She reminds me not to move except my fingers, which will respond. We begin. Facing a computer screen, faces appear quickly on the screen, bearing many emotional expressions. It's the same test (or so it seems) as done months earlier. Again, I'm asked to identify emotions and also to choose which faces I've seen before. As face after face appears, I begin to feel overwhelmed. I activate awareness of my breath and the bottoms of my feet. I don't move. I breathe more deeply. Slowly, I feel a shift in my body as it seems to expand to encompass the room and beyond. I feel flow. The sensation is both calming and energizing.

On the ride back, I remember the story of a colleague at the hospital where I work. Brother TA as he's called, visits Catholic patients, having returned from serving for 33 years in Pakistan. He's telling me about why he finally left that country. He says, "we trained to make ourselves useless, have to let go, like being a parent, hard to cut the apron strings. We'd look around, seeing improvement in conditions. [when we arrived] they were like serfs, homeless, living in lean-tos against houses where they worked. We'd ask ourselves 25 years later, 'how did this happen?' We were busy just doing the work."

Then he adds, "[finally] They wanted us to be like grandparents sitting back... I'm an activist. That's not me. I can always do something. Wash dishes, make a dessert for the meal." Then he looks me in the eye and laughs, "But also, it's not what you do. It's who you are." I see the lines on his face. I see the glow in his gaze. I feel a powerful embrace and release.

Back on the bus, I look out the window. The sun is shining brilliantly. I sit back to enjoy the ride. Within minutes, my phone rings. Even as I answer the call, I want to get off. Something drives me to respond but I keep it short. Then, I hang up the phone and turn the ringer to "silent."

I take my time walking home.

Walking the Tao

2011-01-31T19:12:00.053-05:00

I am greeting folks in the early afternoon as they arrive at Village Zendo, set inauspiciously at the end of a long corridor on the 11th floor of a large loft building in Mahattan's Soho.

We are gathering as Chinese New Year approaches for a happening called, Walking the Tao - a leisurely tea outing. These words are inspired by a long Chinese poem entitled Shodoka - Cheng-Tao-Ko, whose opening verse reads:

"There is the leisurely one,
Walking the Tao,
beyond philosophy,
Not avoiding fantasy, not seeking truth. . ."

We are a mix of folks who have known each other for some time as well as those who have never met. Most heard about the happening online. Some, like my friend and former colleague at Housing Works, Inc., Diana, have brought their kids along. Juliette and Sebastian have been studying Mandarin in school and are in a play later in the week, in celebration of Chinese New Year.

Fifteen of us assemble. We introduce ourselves briefly and what inspired us to come on the outing today. I suggest we might call ourselves "tea tao-ttlers." This garners a few chuckles and a few raised eyebrows. As we gather our belongings, I am delighted for how resonant this outing feels with another happening, the ongoing Potluck Tea Party in NYC's Central Park. I am awed at how dots connect.

Joining in today are Musho, who painted the wondrous party poster and happens to be a longtime fan of tea, esp. Japanese greens. His wife and founder of Communal Table, Deena, is smiling brightly as we introduce ourtselves. Many of us are foodies in one way or another. Deborah, founder of the vegetarian bistro Counter, shares that tea is a passion. Heads nod with delight in shared recognition.

Mark and Vinny share that daily consumption of tea is a pleasure and how excited they are for this outing. Zak speaks of his wife, currently living in Beijing, and how while visiting her, he was introduced and soon become enthralled with the elegant "gung fu" ceremony, which we are soon to enjoy. Days earlier, in his email rsvp, he writes, "totally stoked!!!"

Our destination: Flushing, Queens and Fang Tea, which is hosting a "tea expo," culminating after a month on Chinese New Year. As the poster for the happening says, Fang Tea:

features wonderful, small-batch, family-farm and wild-grown teas from Taiwan and mainland China. Also featured are a wide array of tea ware crafted by local and international artisans.

We head down via the elevator (except for the kids, who zip down eleven flights of stairs) and stroll out along the joyful bustle that is Broadway. Hopping on the subway, we change trains at Times Square to get on the #7, for a leisurely ride into the heart of Queens. Juliette sits down and opens her book, The Garden of Eve. by K.L. Going.

Above her head is a poster that says in big print, "Be Aware."

I ask to see her book. The back cover reads,

Evie receives a mysterious seed as an eleventh-birthday gift and meets a boy who claims to be dead. When planted, the seed grows into a tree before their eyes, but only Evie and the boy can see it - or go where it leads.

As the train shifts to being above ground, I notice through the window stretches of open space, frozen over ponds and bare trees, as well as big lots holding city buses and subway trains. On the exterior of each is an American flag.

As we travel, some enjoy conversation and some read. Sebastian sits beside Juliette, engrossed in a book of manga. I glance at frames in his book, which blend with frames outside the window. The world is passing by and we with it. Soon enough, we arrive at the last stop, as the train goes again under ground.

Here we are. Main Street, Flushing.

As we come up the stairs, Musho says, "hey, we're in China! That didn't take long." I look up and see a mammoth billboard over the busy intersection. It reads, "Welcome to China 2011." We cross the street, whose upper traverses are decorated with red paper lanterns, and arrive at a cozy hole-in-the-wall, for a round of fresh steamed buns. This place serves what I've never experienced anywhere else, calling the filling, "salted vegetables." The bright salty greens make for a tasty counterpoint to the slightly-sweet white bun.

I greet a fellow who's slurping down some noodles. He looks like he's down on his luck, clothes unwashed in some time. Still, he's quite content because at a little over $1, these are affordable eats. We exchange notes on the relative merits of the various condiments as I pass out the buns to our crew. We step outside to munch and mingle.

The sun is shining and a steady stream of people pass by. This clearly is a main thoroughfare. We finish munching and continue down the street, then cross over through small mounds of snow to the other side.

Walking through the revolving door, we enter the Sheraton East Hotel. This is home to the tea expo. As we turn the corner, a statue of a benevolent looking figure resting in a grove of bamboo greets us. This we think is the image of Kwan Yin, which represents the feminine expression of compassion. So much so that a famous tea is named after her.

As soothing music plays over a speaker, I notice a captivating poster, which displays steam rising from a kettle. The caption reads,

Let tea be your guide, and take you into the wondrous realm of the Tao.

Below this, in smaller print, it says,

From the world of Zen, bring forth the essence of tea and let it guide the experience of the Truth within your mind.

I'm thinking, "OK, here we go . . ."

We soon are greeted by Judy Chen, interpreter and liaison for Fang Tea. She offers us a tour of the expo's displays and shares a brief history of Fang Tea. Wanting to preserve the unique art of growing, harvesting, and preparing a wide range of chinese teas; relationships have been cultivated with those specializing in this. Also, international artisans continue to explore the relationship between tea and teaware. The materials used as well as the process convey a craft that is at once steeped in tradition as it is unfolding, like the leaves themselves.

She shows us a series of small teacups. On each is painted an image of one of the many implements of Kwan Yin. She is said to have one thousand hands and in each a different tool. It seems that compassion comes in many forms and each is quite pragmatic.

Judy then walks us over to a mammoth wooden table, reserved for host and guests to enjoy tea. Behind it hang seven scrolls with calligraphy. She explains that these are a series of Zen tea poems. They can be experienced as a progression in the Tao being a "way" of life, as expressed through daily activities. The last one consists of four characters.

It says simply, "Zen and tea, one way."

We smile in unison as she invites us to split into two groups of eight. She prepares to serve as host at one and a new friend, Kyle, prepares to serve at an adjacent table. Each of them has studied the art of gung fu. Their radiant faces enliven the room. We sit down.

Another server of sorts joins us. It's Naomi, who has offered iced jasmine tea beside me for several years at our Potluck Tea Party. She lives nearby. She and Michelle, another member of our tea tao-ttling group, are familiar with japanese tea ceremony, or chado (also translates as "way of tea"). They, like the rest of us, are curious about and eager to experience the Chinese ceremony.

I move from one table to the other at a leisurely pace. Unsure of what exactly is my role, my heart leads. I want to ensure that everyone is comfortable.

Judy and Kyle have chosen a "light Oolong" to start. The dry leaves are appreciated by all as the small "pot" for steeping is heated with hot water poured from a nearby kettle. This "pot" looks more like a cup and is called "Gaiwan." It comes with a lid, which serves as a filter for the loose leaves.

Each Gaiwan is superby stunning. The glaze on the one Judy uses is an unsual and sensuous shade of red. Chinese New Year abounds in the color red as it generally connotes happiness in Chinese culture. A subtle while distinctive orchid is painted over this glaze. Kyle uses a Gaiwan with a soothingly bright shade of yellow overlaid with just a few delicate blossoms.

After the tea steeps briefly, it is poured into a serving cup with a spout. Judy explains that this is the "fairness cup." She says that it ensures that everyone receives the same strength brew. She pours the tea into tiny white porcelin cups, which at the same time, are quite wide when held to the lips. This helps one sip the tea and then enjoy sniffing its sublime aroma. We breathe it all in and enjoy the first sip. I look down the table and see transfixed guests.

I get up and move to Kyle's table. I whisper to Deena, "ask him why that is called the fairness cup." She smiles and within a few minutes I overhear her asking. He offers some words and then also explains that the name literally translates as "ocean of tea." This ocean receptacle is equally stunning, and appears to be a fired clay suffused with blue-brown speckles. The name seems fitting. He pours, filling everyone's cup. Smiles flowing down the table, guests and host drink together.

Multiple steepings follow. I lose count after seven. Finally, Judy and Kyle each show us the completely unfurled tea leaves, placing them on lovely square-shaped plates. These are whole leaves. They glisten, like our faces.

For a time, we browse the tearoom and some purchase tea and teaware. As we prepare to leave, Judy introduces us to her teacher, who invites us to return. Putting on my coat, then turning the corner, I notice the poster again. The first sentence stands out:

Let tea be your guide, and take you into the wondrous realm of the Tao.

Indeed . . .

click here for accompanying slideshow

Do Nothing

2010-12-21T06:59:00.016-05:00

Eager to go to bed after a very full day of activity, I pick up my cellphone and select from the menu, "Clock Options." I scroll down to an item, which reads, "When Charging:" I move the trackball to select one of three options from a sub-menu. I see the words, "Do Nothing." Amazed, I wonder, "how does it know?"

A week earlier, I am visiting with a friend who lives in Hyannis, MA. We go to the beach at high tide. Cold as it is, bright sunshine enlivens my whole body. Instinctively, I step up onto a rock, which is situated where low waves of water splash to meet the tiny sliver of exposed shoreline.

Smiling in shared delight, he joins me. Water splashes over my ankle-high hiking boots. The water seeps in. I say, "they're leaking. I haven't sealed them yet for winter." He asks, "do you have the stuff?" I nod my head, grinning, "yes." We keep walking.

A few days later, I'm strolling with my sister at dusk through colorfully sparkling Fourth street in Berkeley, CA. We are strolling at a slow pace, taking in the beautiful scene. She begins to photograph using my phone. We laugh. We explore.

A week later, I get on the #186 bus at the GW Bridge terminal and head to Edgewood Cliffs for an appointment at the Brain Resource Center.

I'm participating in a study on clinical depression. They include me as a "healthy subject." Three weeks earlier, surfing Craigslist for various "odd jobs" to supplement my per-diem chaplain's income, I see a listing for the study. A month goes by and then a woman calls me, saying they're finishing up the study and looking for someone meeting criteria for a healthy subject.

Finding myself on the bus, now in New Jersey, I'm watchful for where to get off. The driver alerts me. Stepping out, the streets are empty of people. The bite of cold air sets me in motion. Looking for signs to locate the place, I turn around. A young woman asks me, "Are you looking for the Brain Resource Center?" Surprised, I reply, "yes I am!" Together, we make our way.

She tells me she's freezing and hadn't thought it would take so long to get here. I ask how long she's been travelling. She says, "An hour and a half. This is a long way from Brooklyn." She then begins to tell me of how days earlier, her cellphone is stolen by a few teenagers in her neighborhood. She says, "when I reported it, the police told me this is happens a lot in the neighborhood. Now I'm thinking of moving." I say, "where do you live?" She says, "Bed Sty."

Months earlier, at July's Potluck Tea Party, I meet a young man from her neighborhood, short for the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. He tells me of how his grandfather, whom he refers to as, "my G" played a key role in enforcement of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 in this neighborhood. He tells me of many poor people still living in that area.

Back in Engelwood Cliffs, we are unsure what to do next. She suggests we call the Center. Naturally, my cellphone is the only choice. I enter the number and press the appropriate icon to place the call. A woman with an Eastern European accent answers. We explain our predicament. She says, "the entrance is around back." "Oh," I reply. The two of us standing there look at each other in amazement and then set out. We walk to the back entrance and enter.

When the study begins, I am asked to go to a computer, put on a headset and await instructions. Various tests commence, which involve hand/eye coordination, cognitive awareness, and responses to varying types of emotional stimuli. While stimulating, I am not particularly surprised.

Then, I am asked to enter another room. A research staff person tells me I'll be wearing a hat of sorts with all kind of wires interfused throughout the fabric. They will be studying my brain electronically. To do this, she says, "I'll need to put conductive gel on the ends of these and massage it into your head to make contact." I feel the cold touch of the gel. As she "massages," I feel pinching pain. I ask. She says, "It's normal." This process takes quite a while. Must be my head. She points to a video screen with a whole lot of yellow boxes. She says, "when these change color, we'll be able to begin." The process continues and I breathe into my lower belly, keeping my focus off obsession with pain.

I cannot do anything but sit there. Unless I decide to leave. Something in me says to remain, something here to explore, more compelling than a few dollars to pay bills. I'm intrigued. What's it like to do nothing like this?

Instructions are spoken to me over a headset. I am asked to view faces on the computer screen in front of me, each with one of four emotional expressions: angry, sad, neutral, or happy. For what seem like many minutes, I see one face after another, in what appears to be rapid succession. Then, just as I wonder how I'll be able to keep up given it bringing up emotional responses in me; the exercise stops. New instructions are spoken. I'm told I will be asked to identify which faces I have seen before.

As face after face appears, each with a markedly different expression, I stop focussing on these expressions or the emotional responses in me. Instead, I attune to the rhythm of them changing.

Face, face, face.

I hear myself thinking, "who is facing me?"

In that instant, my breath deepens and the room seems to enlarge. My body lightens. While aware of discomfort in my scalp, it too feels like a pulsing flow. There are no words for this.

When the images stop, words appear on the screen indicating the end of the exercise.

I feel a quiet sense of joy.

Then nothing.

Appetite to Connect

2010-10-31T18:40:00.052-04:00

Walking along a sidewalk on the outskirts of Boston, my eye is drawn to a shop window displaying two rows of pumpkins. I'm in town to visit family.

Atop each pumpkin is a distinct set of eyeglasses. While admiring the playfulness of the scene, something about it captivates my attention. Before long, the somewhat overcast sky brings a drizzle, which quickly turns into a downpour. No time to lose. I keep moving.

Two weeks later, sitting with friends on a sidewalk in San Francisco, we greet passersby while holding bright green signs, which read, "No on L: Sidewalks are for people." After the event, I assemble a musical slideshow.

A week earlier, in Manhattan's Strawberry Fields, I sit at night on the grass singing along with many people gathered to remember John Lennon. The occasion: his would-be 70th birthday. A large array of candles, photos, and peace messages adorn the paved path leading up to the Imagine Circle.

Trying to capture the scene with my camera proves to be unproductive given the light level. While attempting this, I hear a familiar voice standing beside me comment on the challenge of photographing at night. Looking up, I see Marjorie Markus. She's smiling, slightly mischievously, camera in hand.

Surprised, I smile, realizing we're right where Sensing Wonder's Potluck Tea Party happens. I'm filled with gratitude for her continuing generosity and good cheer in offering her nearby apartment as the place to brew the tea as well as for her many wonderful photos of these parties. We laugh as we hug, then wander up to the Imagine Circle as more people gather. We sit on a nearby bench as forty or more voices join in a recognizable refrain, "All you need is love."

A week later, I'm sitting on the sidewalk in a soft drizzle beneath a canopy of trees along the edge of San Francisco's Tenderloin district. A series of seeming coincidences have led to my being here, among them visiting my sister who lives across the Bay.

This Sunday morning street action emerges from a weekend gathering called, "Working for Liberation: Spiritually and Socially Engaged Communities." It is jointly organized by Faithful Fools, Buddhist Peace Fellowship, and The Clearview Project. The "Fools" host the gathering. Their mission is to:

learn and educate through engaging in relationships with people who are impoverished and without housing, as well as those with homes and economic wealth. Together we address the policies, attitudes and lack of knowledge that perpetuate injustice and poverty not just locally in San Francisco, but nationally and globally. Walking and working together people of privilege and people who are impoverished help one another bridge gaps and shift perceptions that inhibit personal and social change. We work to build community by breaking through boundaries that separate us, such as economic power, religious beliefs, class, race, gender, ethnicity, and together we discover what connects us.

Today's action is in harmony with this principle. Our group of sixteen is sitting to urge voters not to ratify Proposition L, which would ban sitting on the sidewalks of San Francisco. I notice a large sign on the side of a bus-stop, which displays a photo of a Civil Rights era sit-in at a 1960's lunch counter. The caption reads, "sitting is not a crime - Vote No on L."

As we sit, motorists passing by cheer us on as do many people walking by. Kay (Rev. Kay Jorgensen), co-founder of the "Fools," greets those walking by with, "Good morning!" This connects and sometimes invites conversation. Mostly, we are just sitting. Frequently, we look up and greet those passing by with a smile. The wet autumn chill calls attention to conditions of living on the street.

The previous day, I get a taste of this as we disperse after breakfast carrying nothing but bare essentials. As we check-in with one another before leaving, I share the poignancy for me of this week's Torah portion, Lekh lekha, in which Abraham is guided by that "still small voice" to go forth from his birthplace to the "land that I will show you."

Kay offers a hug before we go. She understands. I feel a few tears on my cheek.

I think of the circumstances leading me here. I think of friends in New York City, members of spiritual communities to which I belong. This very day, members of the Buddhist Council of New York are hosting an annual event, MeditateNYC, which brings together many communities offering meditation. Members of Village Zendo offer to coordinate and support the Zendo's participation in this event, a role I often play, so I can be here now. This also is the case with members of the NY Metro chapter of Buddhist Peace Fellowship. Tomorrow, members of the Zendo will be visiting Sing Sing, a maximum-security prison, to facilitate a weekly meditation group.

Meanwhile, Mitzvah Day, an annual event, approaches next Sunday at Congregation Rodeph Sholom. The action-packed day includes many community-outreach projects such as cleaning the park, visiting the elderly, and preparing food for those living on the street. The congregation operates an overnight shelter on-site through the generosity of congregants who spend at least one night each year.

Also in mind are friends from the Zen Community of Oregon, where twelve years earlier I begin Zen practice. They are finishing up construction of a peace pagoda, which flows from previous peace-themed projects such as Jizos for Peace. This week, many of them sit in silent retreat.

Each of these communities is remarkably distinct in its expression of kindness. Even so, a steady stream of continuity courses through. All are what I would call spiritually and socially engaged.

At the same time in San Francisco, sixteen of us set out with a plan to remain for the most part within the Tenderloin and to re-group mid-afternoon. Our outing is a condensed form of a so-called "street retreat" or "plunge" into the world of street people. With no money, cell phone, or other belongings, kindness literally nourishes.

The first order of business is to locate a shelter for lunch. The time is 10:30am. We're told that one needs to arrive early to get in line. Two shelters are nearby and one is at a distance. I decide to walk crosstown to the further one.

Themes from the previous night's conversation are slowly churning as I walk. That previous night, we ponder in small groups, "what is social change?" For me, this ties in with another question, "What do I mean by liberation?" The most compelling and challenging theme is encapsulated in a phrase, "nonviolent disruption."

Having never heard this term before, I google it later and locate Mark Engler, on salon.com, who notes:

A standard narrative of nonviolence as a modern political instrument -- especially in the United States -- might start around the time of Henry David Thoreau, who, sitting in jail for war tax resistance, first argued that civil disobedience could undermine the legitimacy of the state and provoke a crisis in governance. The story . . . would soon rush forward to figures like Gandhi, who pioneered the strategy of how to apply nonviolent disruption on a mass scale, and to Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi's most famous American importer.

During the small group in which I'm participating, Alan Senauke, Zen teacher, folk musician, and founder of The Clearview Project, refers to Martin Luther King Jr.'s character and approach in remarking, "he had a remarkable capacity to tolerate the intolerable and keep moving. He had an appetite to connect."

This phrase echoes throughout my body as I walk the next day along Polk Street, past the Tenderloin, along sparsely populated streets, which eventually course beneath the winding freeway leading to the Bay bridge. The rhythm of my footsteps sustains me during the thirty minutes it takes to get here.

My teacher's words, "include everything," inspire me to keep going.

Reflecting on a street retreat she co-leads in lower Manhattan last year, Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara speaks on the practice of "include everything" in the context of experiencing mealtime at various shelters operated by different religious institutions. She notes,

"During those four days, some things happened that directly faced me with my koan to "include everything," and I thought it might be useful to share them with you. The experiences concerned the places where we went to receive food"

After sharing impressions of what she appreciates and what she finds uncomfortable, she remarks,

"What is religion anyway? Most of us in this room have opinions about religion. I began to think of the root of the word religion. Its origins are disputed. . . great compassion, this is what motivates the volunteers of the spiritual groups, those who are out there serving food. . . Isn't that what we do, when we offer the gift of our attention and love, when we include everything?"

Moving under the freeway, I spot a street sign, "Potrero." I continue up a couple more blocks and wonder whether to ask someone. Then I see a nondescript sign across the street. It says, "Martin's."

Martin de Porres House of Hospitality or as their website states,

"Martin's as it is affectionately known, is a free restaurant, serving breakfast and lunch during the week and brunch on Sundays. Our mission is to serve in the spirit of compassion, understanding and love. We are a community of people with diverse spiritual practices although our roots are in, and we continue to be inspired by, the Catholic Worker Movement. Begun by Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin in 1933, the Catholic Worker phil-osophy and ideals are carried out by upwards of 200 houses worldwide in various works of mercy in the spirit of "gentle personalism."

They have been feeding people since 1971.

I arrive exhausted, shivering, hungry, and with a pounding dull ache in my head. I sleep little the night before and now feel emotions churning as much as thoughts. The place looks welcoming. Painted on the outer wall facing the street are colorful murals with words such as "peace" and "love" while not in any sort of cliched phrasing. They look like they were painted by kids.

I enter into an open-air courtyard, am cheerfully greeted by several volunteers and handed a ticket. Number 40. I'm oriented to how it works and how to make myself at home until lunch is served, about an hour later. I have been cautioned by the Fools to arrive at a shelter at least an hour before the meal as this is when folks get in line. At Martin's, there is no line. We gather in various places within the courtyard and an adjacent covered sort of picnic area.

I rest and drink in the scene. The vibe is welcoming and spacious. There seems to be room for everybody, not just physically but emotionally too. I sit on a bench and then noting some folks lying down on these, do the same. Sunshine pierces through and warms me. After a while, I get up and get a slice of fresh-baked bread from a big plastic bin. It's there to hold folks over until lunch is served. I breathe in the gorgeous aroma and take a bite - sourdough, wonderfully chewy. I smile with relief and gratitude.

I reflect on my own journey in the last year. During October of last year, my position as Staff Chaplain at Housing Works, the country's largest minority-led social service and advocacy agency for people living with HIV, is terminated due to a complex interplay of politics and funding. The majority of clients there have a history of living on the street and many are often actively in need of housing. I think about them now.

I think about how fortunate I have been in the last six months to be employed as a per-diem chaplain at two New York City hospitals. I think about waves of anxiety, which arise in me this month as this situation drastically shifts, and I apply for a second year's unemployment claim. I wonder how I will survive in the months ahead. I begin to shake as tears come in release and appreciation for the many friends and family without whose generosity, especially during the past year, I might have been facing desperate circumstances. While I don't know what is to come, I am finally able to rest.

Within minutes, someone announces that it's lunchtime. Eventually, my number is called. I get a tray and am served a bowl of spicy lentil soup, salad, and more fresh bread. It all looks amazing. I sit down at a table replete with a vase of pink carnations and bowls of freshly chopped jalapenos. An old woman with chipped pink nail polish and running mascara sits across from me. Wanting to connect, I say to her, "hey, your nail polish color matches the flowers." She smiles, looking up to the flowers, then back to her food, and says, "yup." We eat a few bites. Then she says, "how do you do your nails?"

I look down at my unpainted nails and say, "well, when I used to paint them, I'd use different colors." She looks at me and smiles. I get the sense that my response is not really connecting to what she means. I try again, "I guess I'd paint them like this," and gesture movement from the cuticle to the tip in overlapping swipes. She says, "Yeah, that's how I do it too. It lasts longer that way, doesn't chip as quick." I laugh and nod my head. Our eyes meet in a shared knowing smile.

Two men who look to be in their 60's join us. One of them asks me, "you been here long?" I reply, "not long." I remember more Fools' wisdom. Before we set out, Faithful Fools co-founder Carmen (Sr. Carmen Barsody) tells us that we might find ourselves in a situation where we'll be deciding whether to tell folks we're on retreat or whether to be, as she says, "ambiguous." I notice my inclination towards what my 11th grade English teacher Mr. Camerata called, "fruitful ambiguity." It seems authentic to the moment.

My new friend encourages me, "don't worry. It'll get better. We all make mistakes." He tells me in a tone tinged with hurt, rage, and disappointment, of being laid off by a large aerospace manufacturer after years of employment. He then goes on to tell me of his experience as a soldier in Vietnam. He says, "I told my men, if you just see women and children, hold your fire. We don't shoot women and children. But if you're carrying a MIG and you point it at me, well then I will aim right at you." Noting the incongruity of his statement (the MIG being a fighter aircraft not a firearm in ground-based combat), I still resonate with the quivering of his voice.

My mind flashes to the testimony of soldiers I have heard at the "Truth Commission on Conscience in War" earlier this year in New York City. I remember one of them speaking of the heartwrenching dilemma of children blocking a tank's forward motion. What to do?

What is truth in such a moment? What really matters? All I want to do is connect and relate. The longer I sit at the table, I realize how deeply nourished I feel. The exchange itself is kindness. Sitting here is genuine and refreshingly direct. The people eating this meal, serving this meal, the greeters, the cooks. They all offer kindness in a very matter of fact way.

This is a functional, caring community. As I get up from the table, they all wish me well. I thank them and feeling better at last, set out for the long walk back.

When I finally arrive near our meet-up place, a half hour remains until our meet-up time. I wander down the street and catch a glimpse of greenery. It's an alley between two buildings, SRO's (Single Residence Occupancies). The sign says, Tenderloin National Forest. I am captivated by its green charm and displays of artwork along the building walls and pathways.

A website for the space notes,

"Initiated by Sarah Lewison and her San Francisco State Art CityLab class on the Urban Laboratory, [it] continues to be created and implemented by the visions of a great many people in the neighborhood. . . The Forest is intended to be an inspiration and model for others to attempt gardening in the inner city."

Meandering through the forest, I bump into Tyson Casey, another participant in the retreat and Education and Outreach Coordinator for Buddhist Peace Fellowship. In silence, we smile in recognition and shared appreciation. Each facing a different direction, we part ways and keep moving.

A week later in New York City, I'm riding the subway during morning Rush hour. A man gets on and says loud enough for everyone to hear, "Good morning. My name is Craig Schley and I'm running for representative in the 15th district. I need your support." As two able assistants offer info flyers to passengers, he states his credentials and vision, among them being founder of an organization called, Voices of the Everyday People (VOTE People).

He then offers to shake hands with anyone who wants to. In greeting a man standing by a door near me, I hear them laugh. Craig turns to face the whole car and remarks, "Man says, 'you must not have a lot of money to ride the subway.' Well, I don't have a lot of money. And you know what Muhammed Ali said, 'You got to have skill but you need more will than skill!' "

At that, a whole lot of passengers laugh, some saying, "that's right!" He waves goodbye at the next stop, thanking everyone for their time, and gets off.

I look around. Nearly everyone is sitting now. I wonder who has money and who does not? Who is planning to vote and who is not? Tired of thinking, I listen to the rumble beneath my feet.

The train is moving.

Looking Up

2010-09-30T18:58:00.012-04:00

Two lights, sparking blue, shine up into the sky. The sight along Battery Park City Esplanade is breathtaking and at the same time, an eerie reminder of time passing.

The complexity of the legacy that has become a codeword points to what matters most. The code is simple: 9/11.

Gazing up, I see clouds drifting through. Along the riverbank, soft blue lights dot the wooden fencing where boats dock and people sit to enjoy the cool night air.

The nip of autumn is palpable.

I'm heading home after participating in an annual, "9/11 Memorial Floating Lantern Ceremony" on Pier 40 by Houston Street. Members of the New York Kayak Club launch hundreds of paper lanterns with messages inscribed and/or painted by those who have gathered. Each lantern's flicker contributes to a beautiful image. People walk in small groups, ten or so, holding their lanterns and the light wooden plank to which they are attached. Carefully, each group slowly walks down an inclined wooden platform to the water's edge.

The river is choppy and so they stumble as they walk. Standing slightly below them on a small floating platform, I greet them and say, "If we can hold onto one another like we're holding on to these lanterns, none of us is likely to fall." Several people smile. A woman holds her hand out to me for support.

Nearly two weeks later, autumnal equinox arrives, marking the official change of season with remarkably unseasonable warm (80 degrees) weather. As evening falls, I am captivated by the cheerfully fast-paced activity in Manhattan's Chinatown. This night is the Chinese Moon Festival as well as the first night of the Jewish festival of Sukkot.

Known as the "festival of booths" (or makeshift shelters), Sukkot commemorates a journey through desert wilderness in which fragility informs every action. It also marks a later time when during the fall harvest, people are living in the fields in booths with open thatched "roofs".

Passing by streams of people on the active streets, I am keenly aware of so many living all too close to this experience. The need to celebrate in the midst of complexity and uncertainty seems fitting.

Both holidays place emphasis on the importance of family and community.

The Chinese tradition is for family and friends to gather, gaze up at the full moon, and then enjoy "mooncakes" and tea.

I arrive for tea with my friend Cindy, a longtime transplant from Hong Kong and mother of four. She offers me lotus seed-filled mooncake, boiled peanuts, and steamed taro root. They pair well with my tea. She tells me the taro represents the many generations of family and points to two different kinds: one sliced from a very large root and the other being quite small. These tiny taros looks like a rougher version of a potato with a dark, scruffy outer skin.

She says, "many sizes, many people."

Then adds, "when you eat food, knowing the story is important."

Later that night, I read from The Jewish Vegetarian Year Cookbook by Roberta Kalechofsky and Rosa Rasiel:

"The sukkah is not intended as a permanent structure. Its beauty comes from the decorations inside, the company, the songs, and the food. . . we should try to eat some meals there and make them full of all the best of our local harvest. Stuffed foods, as symbols of abundance, are traditional."

Several days later, I am watching a film, The Mistress of Spices.

In one scene, a grandfather and recent immigrant from India, arrives at a magical spice shop, in distress. The young proprietress, dressed in a pale-colored Sari (traditional dress), listens attentively. He tells her the story of his family's conflict. New and old traditions clash as his grandaughter announces her choice in marriage.

The spice mistress crushes almonds and something called "keser" with repeated rolling of a heavy stone. She instructs the grandfather to boil the powder with milk, cautioning, "the whole family must drink it, to sweeten your words and remember the love buried underneath the anger."

Days later, I'm riding the A train and sitting next to a little girl wearing black-framed glasses and a wild, green-pink print dress. She is moving about in her seat and to my surprise, is diligently sucking her thumb. A nearby passenger begins to shift uncomfortably in her seat, then scolds, "Stop fidgeting. Sit still."

Instinctively drawn in, I say to the girl, "hey, I like your dress!" She flashes me a big broad grin and says, "Yeah, they're flowers" while pointing to several different kinds on the dress.

Then she asks, "want to play Rock, Paper, Scissors?"

The nearby woman seems relieved. The train is packed with passengers. 8am. I say, "Sure! but you might have to remind me how to play it."

She says loudly above the train's roar, "you have to sing, 'rock paper scissors, shoo." I laugh and pointing to my feet, a bit baffled, ask, "shoe?" She shrugs her shoulders, laughs, and says even louder, "shoo, shoo." I look around helplessly to fellow passengers standing above us. I catch a glimpse of a few folks giggling softly. Finally, someone takes pity on me.

"Shoot," she says, enunciating the "t". "Rock, paper, scissors - shoot!" She gestures with her hand the signal for putting out your choice.

"Oh. . .," I reply, nodding my head in thanks.

I turn back to my young friend and we begin. We both "shoot" rocks.

We then shoot each other curious looks. What to do? I turn my closed fist towards hers and say, "hey, know this?" and show her how to "bump" fists. She laughs. I say, "we're doing it like the presidents and. . ." (I pause to find the words) "mrs. president."

Somehow, "first lady" is not in mind.

At this point, a woman seated nearby calls to the girl by name. I say hello. She tells me the girl is her daughter. I wonder who is the woman previously scolding the girl. Before I'm able to turn to this woman, the girl's mom asks, "Are you a teacher? You're very good with her."

I smile. "Sometimes."

My little friend is eager to continue the game. She shoots rock and I scissors. She "breaks" my scissors with her fist. I ask, "where do all the broken scissors go?" She says, as if it were the most obvious fact, "on the floor. they go on the floor."

"Oh, I see," I remark, looking down. "Well, we'd better be careful where we step when we get up." She looks down and around, then back to her hand.

Rock (me)

Paper (her)

She wraps her hand around mine. Paper "takes" rock.

"Shoot!"

Scissors (kid)

Paper (yours truly)

I ask as she cuts my paper in two, "where does all the paper go?" She looks at me and points down, "there, on the floor."

"Wow, could get messy down there."

By this point, looking around, I notice several passengers chuckling quietly and imagine that a good number of these are parents.

As the train pulls into Columbus Circle, I give the girl's mom a smiley-hearted "Sensing Wonder" card. "Hey, you might enjoy the continuing story of our Potluck Tea Party where everybody's welcome."

Her mom thanks me and says they will. The girl waves goodbye.

As I head for the door, a whole lot of fellow passengers meet me in a smile.

That night, I scribble down a short poem:

The moon shines clear in a dark sky.

Friends gather with cakes and tea.

Smiles spread in ten directions,

following all who look up

and in that instant,

delight in what they see. . .

Joy Rising

2010-08-15T10:49:00.021-04:00

Saturday night in lower Manhattan, the Hudson river offers a marvelous, unexpected display: fireworks on the Jersey side.

I've just arrived. Not alone in amazement, a woman also standing beside the guardrail turns towards me and remarks, "what a surprise! I love fireworks. They're one of my favorite things."

She pulls out a camera to record the scene. I already have mine out. I notice a difference in how we approach what's happening. Her eye is focussed exclusively on the view through the camera. I am holding it a distance, and thanks to its video monitor, am aware of seeing through its lens and at the same time, not losing sight of what my whole body is experiencing.

It is a dance dynamic by nature and interactive by intention. I play with the settings on the camera, allowing "mistakes" in so-called "clarity" to reveal the next movement, next setting, next time to click the release button. This happens over and over again. Click, click. click. I don't know what I'm looking for.

Then it happens. The camera, slightly slow on the uptake and saturated with what it's seeing, discovers something new. I stop. I'm seeing a creature of light flying beneath a waxing moon. The buildings soften in that light. Distinction recedes in to the background. In that instant, something amazing happens. What the camera is seeing becomes what all "my" senses experience: expanding, body pulsating, heartbeat strong and at the same time breath softening. This quality of sensing with more than what eyes see shifts as swiftly as the colorful shapes and shadows.

The night whirling builds in intensity while the cool air and slow moving river steady the flow.

My body shakes as sound builds to crescendo. The reverberating crackle of the crisply breezy night is oddly calming. For a moment, we who gather here stand immobile in awestruck silence. Auspicious this moment, not a special occasion by cultural standards. Not a holiday. Was it even advertised? Many locals are out of town. The riverway is sparsely populated.

Attuning, I sense a shift. Without thinking, I let out an exuberant cheer. Others begin to clap. Soon, we're celebrating the moment at full volume. We look around at one another. There is a shared recognition. Soon enough, sound dissipates as we disperse and allow this flow to continue through us.

What is it about the unexpected? Why is sharing such a moment significant? My body senses the significance though words inevitably fall short. The Japanese tea master Sen no Rikyu describes the experiencing as "ichi-go ichi-e" ("one time, one meeting.")

Earlier that day, I am resting in the Cuxa garden of The Cloisters, a museum of medieval design in upper Manhattan. Pink-hued marble encloses the space and provides a softly cool place to sit and gaze out at the lovely plants and flying creatures enjoying them. The scent of lavendar soothes as does the sight of an occasional bumblebee. The scene is heavenly. People from all over the world pass through. I hear snippets of conversations.

My ears prick up in hearing a little girl begin to cry. Her father comforts as her mother asks, "which color?" pointing to a bandaid. "Pink," the girl says, stopping her crying instantly. He remarks to his wife in a near whisper, "I told her to be careful with that blue pin but she played with it and cut herself." I realize he's referring to the round clip-on pin we are all wearing as a sign of admission to this place. Cameras are in steady supply. People are snapping photos from every angle. I hear the buzz of multiple languages spoken at the same time. Clouds drift through blue sky overhead.

One week earlier, my friend and fellow chaplain passes from this life. Harriet Huber, a beacon of kindness and compassion, has been living with cancer for over a decade. Several years earlier, I meet Harriet in the Chaplaincy Services office at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. Her eyes sparkle as she shares the joy of volunteering one day a week to visit with patients and their loved ones. I share with her an idea, a vision of caring, creativity, and community. I say, "Sensing Wonder." Her eyes get big and she brings her face closer. With a full voice she says, "I love it!" We laugh. We talk about many things. Each and every moment with her sustains me through difficult moments, which follow. She offers cheerful confidence to continue to connect and envision what cannot always be seen.

Going home that night, I light a candle given to me earlier this year by the widow of a client whose memorial service I officiated. Feeling his presence and Harriet's, the space expands and my body seems light, like at any moment I could take flight. Standing there, tears come. Waves of sadness and gratitude interfuse. I breathe deeply and slowly sit down. Gazing into that light, I see her smile, bright-eyed and direct. I see that confident smile joining with that of others I've known who, preceeding in passing through this precious life, lift up what matters most. Amazed and comforted, I realize that I too am smiling.

Writing on the Ball

2010-07-08T07:44:00.001-04:00

Heading from the subway to work on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I see a woman carrying a big beach ball. She smiles as I snap her photo and stops to share that she has "big plans" for the ball. She is hosting a party and wants to invite guests to write on the ball. I walk with her to the corner. Then, she turns and disappears into a supermarket. The heat affords no time for lingering. I tuck away my camera and keep going.

Later, on my way home, I stop in Chelsea and browse at a small video store. Even though I could download films online, there's something about going into the store, and the conversations of fellow browsers and the folks who work there, that is joyfully intimate. Turning a corner, Breakfast at Tiffany's, the 1961 classic based on a Truman Capote novella, catches my eye. Watching it the next day, one scene tugs with renewed poignancy. Holly Golightly, the lead character adoringly animated by Audrey Hepburn, remarks as if sharing a revelation, "nothing bad can happen to you at Tiffany's." I feel her hopeful pulse in my body.

The next day, reading the NY Times, I learn of the passing of Elise Boulding, sociologist and Norwegian-born Quaker, age 89, whose writings (as Bruce Weber reports):

"[about] conflict resolution in both personal and global relations. . . helped establish the academic field known as peace studies."

Unaware of her until now, I am drawn to her story:

". . . nominated for the 1990 Nobel Peace Prize. . . She often said her path in life was determined by World War II. When she was a girl, she recalled her mother had been homesick for Norway and young Elise conceived of that country as a haven, a place to hold in reserve as a retreat, where she would always be safe. That vision was shattered in 1940 by the Nazi invasion of Norway."

Of this turning point in her life, Elise writes,

"And that was when I realized that there was no safe place on earth"

She continues,

"and I knew that I had found my life's mission."

Sitting with the paper in hand, I am fascinated by the interplay of hope and purpose in these women's lives, one fictional and one "real," and how they are shaped not so much by concepts of safety as experiences of peace activated by kindness.

Continuing to read the paper, a photo of a girl's face and specifically, her two big eyes, jump off the page. Having turned to the Fashion and Style section, I read about the latest trend among teenage girls: larger than life contact lenses known as "circle lenses." Available in a wide assortment of colors and patterns, these lenses cover not only the iris. They also extend into some of the white of the eye. Originating in Korea, and infamously worn by Lady Gaga in her "Bad Romance" video, the lenses are rapidly becoming popular in the U.S.

As reporter Catherine Saint Louis states,

"The lenses give wearers a childlike, doe-eyes appearance. The look is characteristic of Japanese anime and is also popular in Korea."

She writes that this anime (pronounced "a-nee-may") look is now popular with American high school and college students. Many young women integrate the lenses in their makeup ritual even as eye doctors continue to view them as unsafe.

Putting the article down, I wonder what drives someone to wear these lenses when they are considered unsafe. Do they offer a different kind of safety? How might playing with look, playing with identity and perceptions of beauty and "real"-ity meet an underlying need for authenticity and creative autonomy?

What troubles me is the bigger picture. When do I forget safety because of a driving impulse for self-expression? How does this impact those around me?

Thich Nhat Hahn in a book entitled, "no death, no fear - Comforting Wisdom for Life", offers a powerful image,

"You are just like a firework going off in every moment. The firework diffuses its beauty around itself. With your thoughts, words, and actions, you can diffuse your beauty. That beauty and goodness goes into your friends, your children and grandchildren, and into the world. It is not lost and you go into the future in that way."

He adds,

"You are present in the consciousness of everyone you have touched. This is real, not imagined."

A week earlier, as the sun begins to set, I head out into a stream of tourists and locals along Canal Street in Manhattan's Chinatown. My destination is the Hudson Riverway, a park beside the river.

Inclined to step back from the main traffic, I walk west along a different street. I'm surprised to hear a melody, which sounds like it's from a nearby piano. Indeed, crossing the street and entering Tribeca Park, I see two upright pianos. Both are colorfully decorated and painted on the side of one are the words, "Sing for Hope." I move closer and notice a man getting up from one of the piano benches. I approach and sit down. Along the front of the piano are more words, "Play me, I'm Yours."

This international public art project, conceived by artist Luke Jerram, brings 60 pianos outdoors all over New York City, from June 21 - July 5. Players and listeners alike are invited to post their impressions with words, photos, and videos uploaded to a central website.

I listen to what a woman is playing on the other piano. While I can't see her fingers moving on the keys, I hear and feel the notes. Attuned impulse guides my fingers. We're harmonizing. A few people listen attentively. Ten minutes later (the requested limit), she gets up and silently moves on. The time together seems complete. I get up and resume my river-bound trek.

I cross the West Side Highway at a point where the park turns into two lanes on which people travel by foot or bicycle. As I'm walking, I notice a man jogging by. His gait looks different so I turn my head. He is wearing a prosthetic leg from the knee down. His face looks filled with quiet determination. Is it a "real" leg? Is he expressing creative autonomy? Kindness? Hope? How is he impacting those around him? I can only speak for myself. I am inspired and greatly encouraged. I move at a brisker, livelier pace.

A week later, on July 5, I receive an email from friends in Berkeley, California who are engaged in Mindful Peacebuilding, about their July 4 "Mindful Holiday" gathering. They are preparing for what many say could be a riot.

This connects with the pending verdict in a controversial case in Oakland. Johannes Mehserle, formerly a San Francisco Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) police officer is accused of shooting and killing Oscar Grant, an unarmed black man who is said to have been lying face down on an Oakland train platform. Mehserle testifies on June 25, 2010 that he mistakenly pulled out his pistol instead of a stun gun when he shot and killed Grant.

Friends meet to strategize a non-violent response to escalating tensions. During the holiday gathering, they explore the use of Non-Violent Communication (NVC) to offer empathy to whomever might be on the scene and in need when the court decision is announced.

Drawing on the teachings of Thich Nhat Hahn, Joanna Macy, and Marshall Rosenberg, participants renew their commitment to train in various forms of peace practice. Their focus is far from conceptual. They often write to share and process peacebuilding experiences as they envision their purpose and ways to activate it.

The next day, I visit a woman being treated for stage-4 cancer. She's been asking to see a chaplain and as I sit down beside her, says with agitation, "I want answers." She wants to know if she's being punished. She says repeatedly, "I don't understand why this is happening, not just to me but at all. If only I could figure it out."

After listening attentively and empathetically sharing what I'm hearing her say, I ask, "what keeps you going?" This stops her thinking process. For a moment, she's speechless. I invite her to focus on her in-breath and silently consider, "what keeps me going?" After a few breaths, she says with vigor, "I'm alive." The statement emerges less as an answer to a question so much as an experience of call and response. This is direct. This is contemplative practice. The method is called Attuned Breath Centering.

Tears are in her eyes. I say, "to activate your deep question, your need to understand, what would it be like right now to breathe out while silently saying, 'Understanding'." To keep it simple, I say, "Breathing in, I'm alive. Breathing out, Understanding."

Her eyes widen as she looks me in the eye, nodding her head to indicate her willingness. As she attunes, I check in with her about her experience. She decides to drop, "I'm." Now we breathe together:

"Breathing in, Alive. Breathing out, Understanding."

We sit together in this active silence for several minutes. I sense a spaciously vibrant quality of presence connecting and flowing through us. Our eyes meet. I am here. So is she. At the same time, this open awareness does not distinguish one body from another. We smile.

In this moment, the word "safety" has no meaning. As for peace, that word is extra, unnecessary. Experience speaks for itself.

As I leave her room, the words of Omar Khayyam, the Persian philosopher and poet, spring to mind as if he is standing beside me speaking them:

"The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on."

Future gaga

2010-05-14T18:27:00.018-04:00

I'm hoofing it through Central Park, heading east from Columbus Circle. I pass by the colorful Carousel, its cheery music drawing me closer. Captivated by the swirl of horses, I suddenly notice a couple of kids laughing as they whirl by. The boy is grabbing on to a pole as it bobs up and down while the girl holds on to her horse's reigns. They look like they're having a grand time.

This cross-park jaunt is part of my mid-week routine, going from early morning math tutoring at Heschel High School to chaplaincy work at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. In both settings, optimism permeates and tends to translate into movement. Stepping onto one of the hospital floors a few days earlier, I smile towards a patient and his wife as he makes "the loop" of one time around the floor. He returns the smile, encouraged while wheeling a pole from which hangs a clear plastic bag of "meds," as he refers to it, connected to the I.V. in his hand.

Most folks here move with great determination into an uncertain future.

Earlier this morning, working with a student in the high school library, I remind him to "use the three column method," an approach I developed though there might be many versions of the basic principle. He pulls out a sheet of paper and writes "Known" then with some space writes "Unknown." He then draws an arrow from the first to the second. I say to him, "remember what goes under the arrow?" Sliding his finger across the page, he says, "what it takes to get from here to there." We grin in mutual acknowledgement. He turns back to the page and starts to write.

Days earlier, Saturday night, to be precise, I'm riding on the #1 train, heading north from its first stop at South Ferry. As the train moves uptown, it becomes increasingly filled with activity. Around 14th Street, a bunch of college students get on, mostly women, dressed in fanciful costumes. A young man about the same age, wearing a Fedora-style hat, looks eager to make contact. He introduces himself to one of the women and asks about the group's plans. I sense his nervously excited vibe even as he tries to play it cool. He asks, "hey, where are you all going?" The woman, delighted for this attention, says, "we're going to a party where the theme is the future." She pauses, gauging his response. He is silent yet his face indicates curiosity as if to say, "tell me more." She continues, "We took future to mean gaga rave" and points to her audacious outfit, a mix of silver and black satin. She lifts her eyes to meets his. He gazes towards her with a mix of longing and curiosity.

They stand there a bit awkwardly, tension building, each holding the pole loosely as the train keeps moving.

I think to myself, "when to make a move?. . ."

Soon enough, the train pulls to a stop and the group quickly heads for the door. The young fellow still smiling towards the young lady , shifts his stance. She glances in his direction. He hesitates. She keeps going. She passes through the door. He watches, frozen. The doors close.

In the minutes that follow, standing by the pole, he looks a bit lost. He slowly sits down, across from me, clutching his knapsack, and looks down.

The subway train continues uptown. I settle into my seat as the thunderous roar of the wheels meeting the tracks reminds me to put in my earplugs. By the time I get home, all I want to do is go to sleep.

A week earlier, on May 2, friends converge east of Times Square as they complete their 700-mile, two-month duration "Walk for a Nuclear-Free Future" and join a larger peace walk to call attention to the United Nations' five-year review of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. The longer walk is sponsored by Grafton Peace Pagoda community in upstate NY. I remember walking with them the previous September through Harlem (see "Walk the Line" blog posting). This time around, their walk begins in the territories of the Six Nations near Buffalo, NY, where nuclear waste and nuclear weapons have been important concerns. The poster for the walk states, "think outside the bomb."

This same May evening in Times Square, a car containing a bomb is discovered, causing the evacuation of streets surrounding the area and thousands of tourists. The NYPD Bomb Squad is called in and is able to break into the smoke-filled Pathfinder and defuse the bomb without any injuries. They respond swiftly and without hesitation. It is their job.

I'm reminded of a scene from the novel by Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, in which the devil comes to Moscow and wreaks havoc. The novel challenges notions of good and evil and lifts up the power of redemption amidst a suffocatingly bureaucratic social order.

One of the final scenes, presented with apocalyptic allusions, has the devil, named Woland, a "foreigner," as he's described in the first chapter, announcing:

"Then like the blast of a trumpet the terrible voice of Woland rang out over the hills :

'It is time!'

As an echo came a piercing laugh and a whistle from Behemoth. The horses leaped into the air and the riders rose with them as they galloped upwards. Margarita could feel her fierce horse biting and tugging at the bit. Woland's cloak billowed out over the heads of the cavalcade and as evening drew on, his cloak began to cover the whole vault of the sky. When the black veil blew aside for a moment, Margarita turned round in flight and saw that not only the many-coloured towers but the whole city had long vanished from sight, swallowed by the earth, leaving only mist and smoke where it had been."

Earlier in the novel, the devil states his position,

"But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light?

My thoughts swirl with no easy answers. Then, I remember something Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said,

"Wonder rather than doubt is the root of all knowledge."

Days later, I'm riding the train to work. A Subway preacher gets on. With fierceness in his voice, he puts out his message, asking in a loud tone so everyone can hear:

"Do you know who you are?"

"Do you know where you're going?"

Most folks are looking down, doing their best to cope with such questions while still waking up. He continues,

"I say to all the women: You are the gateway of life. Set up a good standard for all of us to follow. And you men, remember: A woman made you so treat her with sensitivity."

He pauses, then adds:

"Open up your heart.

May you be blessed."

As the train pulls into the station and begins to jerk to a stop, he approaches the door, then turns around and adds:

"I hope somebody heard something."

He gets off. The train keeps going, I reflect on what's been said but my heart feels filled beyond capacity. When I finally get out into the air and soft sunshine, I am relieved just to walk. Walking soothes me.

Days later, I bump into a friend from high school, David. We're both on our way to work, reconnecting as we head down to the Subway. He tells me about his family, happy to share that their twin girls are now age four. Then he says that he and a friend have started a new "green" business, Urban Prairie NY.

Their website states,

"We represent those products that support living plants in our environment. These products are intended to improve and beautify the urban environment and ultimately better the health of our cities and the quality of life for its inhabitants."

As David and I chat on the train, his passionate commitment to this vision and good cheer inspire me. We exchange ideas and contact info. Before you know it, the train arrives at Columbus Circle. He gets off. The train keeps going. The conductor announces, "Times Square." The doors open. Now it's my turn.

I head for the open door.

Crystallization of Conscience

2010-03-26T07:32:00.016-04:00

I approach the colossal complex known as The Riverside Church, which covers two city blocks and is situated in one of the highest points in New York City. Sound spills out from its bell-tower located some twenty stories up.

My body resonates with its pronouncement of the hour mark. I enter through heavy revolving doors into a long hall of stone, which helps to shape the soundscape and reflects history made here. Everything feels big and at the same time small. Intimate nooks and crannies suffuse the many rooms and corridors. This intimacy permeates the space, made famous and to some, infamous, as a springboard for spiritually-attuned, social activism.

Walking down the main corridor, one room stops me. Its name, "the nave." In this room in April, 1967, The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivers a speech, "Beyond Vietnam," in which he calls for an end to the Vietnam War, saying,

"The time has come for America to hear the truth about this tragic war . . . There comes a time when silence is betrayal . . . Millions have chosen to move beyond the prophesying of smooth patriotism to the high grounds of firm dissent based upon the mandates of conscience and the reading of history. There are those who are seeking to equate dissent with disloyalty. It's a dark day in our nation when high level authorities will seek to use every method to silence dissent. Something is happening and people are not going to be silenced. The truth must be told. "

Standing here, a great stillness of silence washes over me. I am here by invitation, asked to serve as a commissioner along with dozens of others. The gathering is called a Public Hearing of the "Truth Commission on Conscience in War." Considering the invitation weeks earlier, I hesitate, not sure if this type of gathering rings true for me. I speak with Ian, one of the organizers by phone. Our conversation relieves my concerns as he describes an event, whose format invites dialogue.

We are meeting on the second day of Spring. Following directions, I round the corner and together with several people board an elevator. We ascend to the ninth floor for an orientation (meet, munch, and mingle) for commissioners. Before the mid-afternoon meal is served, we hear about plans for the evening's four-hour program. We briefly introduce ourselves. I scan the printed program. The primary speakers are veterans who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. They will be "testifiers" this evening, reflecting on their experiences with war and conscience.

The program also lists other speakers, who will reflect on several themes including that of "Just War." While attuning to the underlying intention of this phrase, the words confuse me. I ponder them as pointers to truth and so, question the meaning of each word in the context of its relationship with the other. I scan my body. My chest begins to tighten.

Our host for the orientation invites us to eat. After getting some food, I sit at a table next to a woman who asks if anyone at the table has heard of the term, "Just Peace." No, a commissioner from Texas and I reply. She tells us that "Just Peace" refers to situations when use of force serves like a police force rather than a military force.

Now I'm really confused. My chest hurts but as I breathe into it, the muscles relax.

I'm thinking of a book by Vietnamese Zen teacher and peace activist Thich Nhat Hahn, entitled, "Keeping the Peace - Mindfulness and Public Service, and of what he says in an interview titled, This is What War Looks Like,

"When we hold retreats for war veterans I tell them they are the flame at the tip of the candle. They are the ones who feel the heat, but the whole candle is burning, not only the flame. All of us are responsible."

Thay (or "teacher" as he's known to many) also spoke at Riverside Church, on September 25, 2001, urging non-violence and reconciliation. In 1966, he encouraged Dr. King to speak out concerning the war in Vietnam. Dr. King, in 1967, nominated Thay for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Someone once asked Thay in an outburst of rage,

"What are you doing here? Why don't you just go back to Vietnam?"

He shares that,

"I had to breathe in and out many times before I could respond to such a question. . . After feeling calmer, I said, "if the roots of a tree are sick, it will not do any good to water the leaves. You need to water the roots. It's the same with Vietnam. The roots of the suffering in Vietnam are here in the West. That is why we are here."

I leave the room and catch the elevator down. I sit in the balcony above the nave and reflect in silence. Then I head outdoors. It's 3:30. The program begins at 4. I head towards Riverside Park, several blocks away. I hear sparrows chirping. I sit down on a park bench. I let go of all the thoughts and listen. My shoulders release and my breath deepens. The air feels fresh. I check my watch. Time. I walk back to the church and head back up to the ninth floor. We head down as a group and slowly assemble to enter the nave.

As we enter, many people are already seated. My eyes meet theirs in mutual acknowledgement of the importance of showing up today.

The program begins. A former soldier tells us that when he applied for Conscientious Objector (CO) status, he was asked, "when was the moment of your crystalization of conscience?" He says that this was a pivotal moment for him as he realized that "crystalization" did not fit his experience of conscience continually evolving, being a fluid process. Listening, I imagine this visually. What happens to a fluid crystal? It grows. I remember this from high school.

At the time, I'm working in a lab at City College assisting a physics professor in charge of a crystal research experiment. He shows me how to grow crystals. Dipping the crystal over and over again in a solvent, it changes. The process requires great patience and attention to detail.

As one researcher describes it,

"All crystallization methods change the physical state of a material by transforming the system from some non-equilibrium state toward an equilibrium state."

Back in the church nave, the next testifier, also a veteran, speaks of not being able to reconcile Jesus' charge to "Love one's enemy," and "Turn the other Cheek" with his assignment to interrogate prisoners of war in Iraq. He speaks of being with a prisoner, who challenges his beliefs, caught between a rock and a hard place.

The next veteran speaks of the inconsistency between military recruitment films and his experience in Afghanistan. He speaks of the unspeakable, relating a heartwrenching scene in which children move in front of his tank. The soldiers have been told not to let anyone block their path. Anyone could be carrying a weapon. And yet. . . here he is. Here they are.

As I listen, I am there, there in that moment of not knowing what to do, when instinct and conscience become meaningless words and the only reality is now now now. I feel my chest tighten. He goes on. He says that his story really begins after he completes his military term of four years. In 2005, he starts to encounter memory. He goes to college and begins to learn other perspectives on Afghanistan and Iraq, on war.

Needing inspiration, I recall something Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said,

"A religious man is a person who holds God and man in one thought at one time, at all times, who suffers harm done to others, whose greatest passion is compassion, whose greatest strength is love and defiance of despair."

The next young man tells his story. He writes after coming home, on and on, a novel, then an analysis. Anything, he says, "to keep me in the action" of Iraq. His body is home but he is not embodied, he tells us. Finally, thanks to feedback from several friends, he realizes that his stories do not connect for those reading them because he is not embodied when he writes them. That's when he shifts and begins to feel the pain and confusion. His writing shifts. He speaks in public, unscripted, filled with emotional turmoil. His authentic voice emerges at last. That's how he truly comes home. As he speaks now, I see his fellow testifiers shaking their heads in silent acknowledgement.

The evening goes on but my head and heart are full. I need to digest what I've heard.

Just then, I notice an older woman approaching the microphone. Her tone is soft-spoken yet firm with conviction. Her voice quivers, like solid ground shifting. Her son, she says, was a national guardsman. He died in Iraq. He enlists before 2001, assuring his mother that his unit will likely never be deployed. "No national guardsman has died since WWII," he tells her while also voicing his committment to serve his country beside his fellow guardsmen should the need arise. Then Sept. 11, 2001 happens. The towers collapse. His unit is deployed in March. In April, he becomes the first national guardsman to die since WWII.

Her story is a complex tapestry of contradiction. Born to pacifist parents, their son enlists. What was his truth, I ask myself? As his mother goes on, I feel the son's presence, his torn-ness, and his family's agony and anguish.

It's in the small details that I join their story. My chest is aching.

The evening goes on. Other speakers follow the testifiers. Music intersperses, a man bellows out, "Stand by me."

After the closing words of the event host, we begin to move from the room, many approaching the testifiers. I sit for a few breaths and then, move towards the mother who spoke earlier. I thank her, our eyes meeting. I say, "what I appreciate about what you said and how you said it is that you told what happened without taking away, without simplifying the complexity." She chokes out in a near-muted voice, "it is so complex." Tears are in her eyes. I say, "that's how I could feel your son, his torn-ness, his confusion, the love you shared and which continues. It makes it real. Not easy but real." Feeling the heat of tears running down my face, I continue, "That's why I'm crying." We stand there and hold hands, tears meeting tears. We embrace.

I turn and slowly walk back down the long aisle. I hear the dissonance of many voices reverberating in the room. At the same time, listening attentively, I feel a quality of vast space permeating the vibration in my body, resonating as silence.

Becoming free

2010-02-25T21:32:00.013-05:00

Finally, some paying work. I exit the subway train at Columbus Circle and enter Central Park. This is my way of getting in "nature time" en route. The last vestiges of Winter continue with snow on the ground even as birds return and chirp in the crisp morning air.

I quickly move on, making my way east and hop on a downtown 6 train. I'm headed to a midtown hospital, where I'll be providing "coverage" as a "per-diem" clinical chaplain. Today, I'm going to a required training about caring for patients who are deaf or hard of hearing. Our instructor tells us that there is a difference between "deaf" and Deaf," in that the latter word defines a culture of identity in which sign language speaks to the present tense and a particular way of storytelling becomes the foundation for all interactions.

As I listen, I'm wondering, "how much of this is generalizing?" Even so, I'm fascinated enough to stay open. She tells us that if you ask, "so, when did you first notice the pain in your shoulder?" a Deaf person might sign, "Well, three days ago, Joe calls me up." Then the person becomes Joe and signs, "Hey, want to meet at the gym and lift some weights?" and so on. Only after the story is told this way, does the moment of "pain in your shoulder" get communicated.

Then she adds, "You have to be patient. Also, know that an interpreter's job is to as precisely as possible become the person telling the story." She tells us that a translator is someone who works with written words, bridging one written language to another. An interpreter works with spoken language or sign language. This means also expressing the nuances and expressiveness of body language. If a patient is angry, the interpreter's job is to voice that anger, in the first person. A patient might be saying, I'm furious that I've been pushing this call button for an hour and no one's responded!"

Just then, a nurse in our training class asks the instructor, "you mean if a patient's screaming, you'd scream?" Our teacher responds, "no, though you can communicate the urgency and tone at a lower volume."

As I listen, I begin to wonder about how this might differ from acting. What I'm really asking is, "what does it mean to become another?" and below this, "what do I mean by becoming?"

My mind shifts to a moment a few years ago. I'm visiting a man dying in a hospital room. His friends and mother are sitting nearby. One friend suddenly gets up and walks quickly out of the room, her face filled with agitation. I slowly follow her out and offer support. She tells me, "I can't stand this anymore." I say, "looks like you want to scream." Her eyes widen and she says, "I really do." I invite her to join me in a nearby empty room and ask, "how about a silent scream?"

She looks at me, intrigued. I continue, "Picture where you want to be right now, about to scream." She immediately replies, "Oh I know exactly where that'd be." I ask, "where's that?" She says, "right in the middle of the road!" I'm aware of the nearby city streets being filled with cars, busses, and trucks whizzing by. I say, "OK, now watch me." I close my eyes, clench every muscle in my face and then release, my whole body focussed in this one action of open mouth shaking itself outwards. My face is flushed by the effort." I stop and turn to her, "now you." She closes her eyes and screams, soundlessly, her whole body shaking. After a minute or so, she stops and opens her eyes. She smiles. I meet her in that smile. Then she turns and opens the door.

Riding home lately, I encounter a lot of screaming. Sometimes it's a homeless man reeking of urine and booze, pleading for "anything you can spare." Sometimes it's the woman whose refrain is forever etched in the minds of fellow travellers, "It ain't no joke. I'm broke." She shouts this out to the monotonous beat of her makeshift drum, a round plastic container.

Every few minutes, the conductor's voice reverberates at a deafening volume, announcing, "if you see something, say something," followed soon by, "Passengers, please be advised. Backpacks and other large containers are subject to random search by the police."

Riding to work, it's somewhat different. Fellow passengers find ways to cope. Orthodox Jewish men and women read from Psalms (Tehillim) in Hebrew. A woman holds a rosary while across from her another reads from a small Bible. Kids turn up their mp3 players, some playing games on small screens of cellphones. A man pulls out his macbook and types away.

Then there are the ones reading books and newspapers. Hard to tell fiction from non-fiction.

A few carry on conversations. A few eat their breakfasts, sip or slurp from plastic and paper cups. Occasionally, someone's carrying a mug or a sandwich from home. I notice the little kids. They're the ones who don't know the rules. They're the ones twirling around poles or turning around in their seats to watch the underworld whizzing by.

At night, it shifts. At night, the rules are known and ignored. Rules become meaningless. Survival is the basic instinct. Freedom is the undercurrent. Creativity becomes its driving pulse.

I'm tired. I notice those who are too. Tonight, two men get on. They're carrying big drums. They begin to play. At first, I'm irritated, my shoulders tense up. As the beat builds and sounds fill the space, my shoulders release. One of the drummers says, "we're here to bring joy." The other adds, "it's time to smile."

They finish with a strong crescendo. They stand up and move around, holding out an upturned hat. I check my wallet. I just gave away my last dollar bill. All I've got is a bit of change. I look up. I hear one man thank a woman saying, "God bless you." He sees me. He smiles. I smile. I give him some change.

Tired as I am, I say the only thing that seems to matter, "Thank you." He nods his head, acknowledging this simple heartfelt gesture. He gathers his drums and joins his friend as they quickly find their way out.

The doors close. The train moves on.

I glance around the car. For an instant, our eyes meet. We see one another. The train picks up speed. The train arrives at the next station. The doors open. Some people get out. Some people get on.

I close my eyes and listen. The rumble shakes me loose. I still feel tired. Only now feeling tired feels free.

Feeling for the Organism

2010-01-08T12:40:00.067-05:00

The freezing wind blows fiercely on Chambers Street in lower Manhattan. I climb the stairs and follow the directions from hopstop.com. My destination: Battery Park Regal Cinema. The day before, I'm talking with my buddy Edward at Ten Ren Tea and he tells me about a new movie called Avatar. The word sounds remotely familiar.

(Cosmic Dancer by Judy Seicho Fleischman)

I surf to Wikipedia and read:

In Hinduism, Avatar or Avatāra (Devanagari अवतार, Sanskrit for "descent" [viz., from heaven to earth]) refers to a deliberate descent of a deity from heaven to earth, and is mostly translated into English as "incarnation", but more accurately as "appearance" or "manifestation".

The free online dictionary offers:

2. An embodiment, as of a quality or concept; an archetype

3. a movable image that represents a person in a virtual reality environment or in cyberspace

Intrigued, the next day, I make my way downtown. Exiting the subway in the vicinity of Wall Street, I hear loud hammering sounds in the distance. As wind and bright sunlight flood between canyon walls shaped by skyscrapers, I feel revived. Everything seems big and small at the same time. Everyone is moving, all of us absorbed in the pulse of activity.

Barbara McClintock, the famed geneticist who discovered that genes are transposable (can move around) and thus play a critical role in the development of an organism; described a quality, which resonates with my experience today. She spoke of this quality as "a feeling for the organism."

She wrote:

"It never occurred to me that there was going to be any stumbling block. Not that I had the answer, but [I had] the joy of going at it. When you have that joy, you do the right experiments. You let the material tell you where to go, and it tells you at every step what the next has to be because you're integrating with an overall brand new pattern in mind."

What comes to mind right now is very simple. Keep moving. Stay warm. Walking by a flurry of construction in the vicinity of Ground Zero, I hear a man bundled in sweats call out to one of the workers: "Hey, what's this one gonna be?" I can't hear the response as the wind picks up. I see the thumbs-up from the curious passerby as he rebundles and hurries on.

The cold brings my attention to bare essentials. I wrap my scarf tightly around my nose and mouth and keep going. I check for street signs. Finally, thinking I'm close yet still not seeing the goal, I ask for help. Entering a Bagel store, I ask the person behind the counter. She replies in a tone, which indicates she's heard this request before. She says, "it's the next door down."

I thank her, exit and walk over as she directed. Now I see it.

The place is empty. I'm the only one in line. Monday matinee. I head up the escalator into an expansive atrium. I sit on a comfy bench covered in leatherette beside a sleek subtle pool of water, which softly gurgles as water spills over its edge. Beside it stands a small grove of bamboo extending 10 feet high and climbing, imperceptible though this might be to human eyes. Huge as this atrium is, the ceiling is nowhere in sight.

Through the gigantic windows, I see the Irish Hunger Memorial, which is dedicated to raising awareness of the Great Irish Famine and as the Parks Conservancy describes, "a reminder that hunger today is often due to lack of access to land." Someone is walking out there along an uphill path by what looks to be ruins of a stone cottage. Gazing out, I wonder, "What is it about a place that draws you to it? What is native habitat to a traveler?"

Seeing folks heading towards the theater snaps me out of mind musing. A sequence of escalators leads us to our destination. I enter and sit down. The lights darken. The film begins inauspiciously without credits. I only realize this is the film and not a trailer when I see fellow travelers putting on their 3D glasses. I put on mine. The vivid images and expansive sound quickly draw me into the story, or more accurately, into the world presented.

I enter that world. I feel my breath shifting, my eyes widening, my heart beating in sync with those of characters and the environment, which they inhabit. This is like no film I have experienced before.

When the film ends, my body feels the sensation of travelling without having physically moved from the seat. It's not just technology. The experience of sensing motion and stillness simultaneously continues when the movie ends. It reflects a shift in me. I feel happy, vibrantly calm, and connected. I feel the stirring of thoughts, questions arising. These I notice with a curious alert openness, which doesn't need to pursue them. I'm drawn instead to walk briskly outdoors, which I do for some time.

Later that day, my sister tells me about controversy surrounding the film, notably its portrayal of indigenous people. As we talk, I realize the openness remains as I attune with no need to defend a position. I feel free.

Days after this, I am visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see an exhibit, closing soon, entitled, Art of the Samurai. The description speaks of the distinction between the outer tools of the warriors, such as their armor and weaponry, and the inner tools, so to speak, expressed through their practice of tea ceremony and meditation. Walking and hearing people's impressions, I am troubled by what appears to be contradiction. For me, making peace with the warrior and more precisely, with war, is not easy.

Three days earlier, sitting in a class entitled, "Be the Change," I'm practicing a method called, "Non-Violent Communication," developed by Marshall Rosenburg, Ph.D. It is offered jointly by Thom Bond, trainer with The New York Center for Non-Violent Communication and Rick Ulfick, Founder of We the World. We are gathered in small groups called "empathy circles" practicing how to identify feelings and needs. Thom tells us that with practice, "what changes is the depth of relationship to feelings and needs. You can just care for them without needing to fill in the blanks. We can start acting based on that consciousness, in congruence with our values."

I share a moment of great difficulty, which keeps troubling me. Friends in circle offer empathy. They're not caught in the story. They're naming feelings and needs. While helpful, nothing truly resonates. Then, a man sitting beside me asks as he meets my gaze, "Are you feeling overwhelmed because you're needing compassion?" My eyes widen. "Yes," I reply. The tension in my chest, suddenly pierced, now loosens as the sensation of tears arises. Amazingly, crying is not necessary. The sensation expands into open awareness which holds all the people who had been locked in a story of mind including "me." The release is spontaneous. Now able to experience compassion for everyone, "they" and "I" seem like a dream. All that's real is the sensation of breathing as vast space itself.

After class, I head downstairs, joined by friends. The night is cold. We say goodnight. I bundle up and head where my feet are leading. Entering the video store, I browse and on an impulse, rent a film I've never heard of before, drawn to its title, The Snow Walker, and the photo of a man running with a herd of caribou.

Days later, after seeing the Samurai Exhibit, I go home and watch this film, which is based on a short story by Farley Mowat, entitled, "Walk Well, my Brother." Two strangers, a man and woman, walk together, struggling to survive in Canada's vast tundra after his plane crashes in the early 1950's. The man, a WWII veteran fighter pilot, is transporting a very young Inuit woman who is ill with Tuberculosis after her family pays him with two treasured Walrus tusks. He is haunted in a recurring nightmare of the moment he dropped bombs on a city. In a pivotal scene, portrayed poignantly in the movie, they are trying to communicate, knowing only fragments of one another's language. She tells him that night, "all things..." and gestures, exhaling. He responds, "breathe? Everything breathes?" also exhaling. She nods yes and continues, "when you die," and says a word, gesturing. Based on events earlier that day, he guesses, "you need your tools" as she gestures to indicate the same thing.

Much later in the journey, he finds himself again in the dream. This time, a hand reaches out to hold his just as he's about to push the bomb-release button. He drops the mechanism. His eyes meet hers. She is sitting beside him as co-pilot. He wakes up. Out on the chilly tundra, she's shaking him and handing him a makeshift spear. Together, they run towards a herd of caribou. She falls, too weak to hunt, and urges him on, shouting and pointing. He runs with the pack and kills one, then another, three in all. The meat and hide provide the food and garments needed for the rest of the journey.

I sense no hatred, no confusion, no distance. He's right there and so am I.

After the film ends, I sit in the darkness and open to stillness.

No questions remain. I am home.

Free Fall

2009-11-28T18:34:00.013-05:00

Sitting in Dr. Zachary Bregman's office for the first time, I am intrigued by the focused intensity of his gaze, which seems to be saying, "I care deeply. Let's not waste time."

This message is punctuated by the unusual items in the reception room. Minutes earlier, wondering what time it is, I look up at the circular-shaped clock. There are no numbers visible, only the two stick "hands" to mark the minute and hour. One word appears repeatedly around the clock face: "Now. Now. Now."

This is a man who realizes time is precious.

As we meet, he asks about my profession and employer. I tell him I recently became unemployed. He asks where I worked. When I tell him, his eyes light up. He tells me of his long-standing relationship with the organization, Housing Works, the nation's largest minority-run social service and advocacy agency for people living with HIV. He says with great enthusiasm, "I want to show you something," begins to search online, then turns and asks, "have you got time for this?" I smile and say, "sure."

He tells me he was doctor to one of the organization's founders, Keith Cylar, who "passed away" five years earlier. He is trying to locate the tribute he wrote for the man, which had been on the website. As the conversation shifts, he begins to share his perspective on spirituality. He then turns his chair towards the computer, brings up a web browser, and begins to type. Then he turns back towards me and says he wants to send me a book and, "you have to promise you'll read it." I ask, "how long is it?" When he tells me and sees my expression, he adjusts his request to what he sees as key sections. I agree to check it out. The title, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. The author: Julian Jaynes. At home later, I go to Wikipedia and read:

"In psychology, bicameralism is a hypothesis which argues that the human brain once assumed a state known as a bicameral mind in which cognitive functions are divided between one part of the brain which appears to be "speaking", and a second part which listens and obeys. The term was coined by psychologist Julian Jaynes [who] theorized that a shift from bicameralism marked the beginning of introspection and consciousness as we know it today. . . A rash of unexpected situations and stresses required ancient minds to become more flexible and creative. Self-awareness, or consciousness, was the solution to this problem. This necessity of communicating commonly observed phenomena among individuals who shared no common language or cultural upbringing encouraged those communities to become self-aware to survive in a new environment. Thus consciousness, like bicamerality, emerged as a neurological adaptation to social complexity in a changing world. Jaynes further argues that prayer arose during this breakdown period in an attempt to summon instructions from the "gods" whose voices could no longer be heard. Jaynes's hypothesis remains controversial."

Back in the doctor's office, we re-focus on the reason for my visit. First, I am a new patient referred to him by a friend, and here for a check-up. More immediately, I am here because I am recuperating from a fall in late October.

On that difficult Saturday night, through a light drizzle of rain, I head at a brisk pace towards the subway. Driven by a surge of urgency while walking, I check my cell phone for email. I am anxious to hear from a friend regarding plans for the next day's Potluck Tea Party. Suddenly, I feel my legs slip out from under me as I trip over some low lying object, which rips through my pants clear to the knee. I fall forward. I feel a sharp force on my front teeth as they make contact with the pavement. Stunned, I stay on the ground as my tongue surveys the interior scene. I can feel the broken tooth, just left of center.

In that moment, all words disappear. The voices are silenced. No one to admonish, "pay attention!" No one to lament or cry out in anger about the injustice of it. The only relevant word for what is happening is completely devoid of personality. That word resounds though I don't hear it as a word. I experience it as my whole body shaking.

"Now."

Lying beside the tree, I also feel my body tensing with recognition of its fragility.

Just then, I hear two male voices, quickly followed by their arms reaching towards me to assist. "Are you ok?" I slowly scan my body and decide to sit up. I look around. I'm sitting beside a large tree. Surrounding it is a foot-high mesh fence, painted black. One man sees me gazing at the fence and pointing to it, says, "that was an accident waiting to happen. Who can see that?"

I look up, keenly aware of the large tree, which minutes earlier, I did not see it at all.

The man locates my cell phone and hands it to me. It is undamaged, thanks to its protective shell. I call my friend Marjorie, who amazingly, helps me locate an "emergency dentist," Dr. Isaac Dakitashvili. A few hours later, he provides immediate care and helps me plan next steps for dental treatment.

The next day, my chest feels as if someone is standing on it. Fortunately, at a walk-in clinic, I learn that I have only sustained minor cuts and bruises along with what that doctor refers to as inflammation from the impact. This is causing the pain. Days later, I still feel woozy and achy. Everything I do is slowed down.

I stay close to home and inquire about possible jobs. On a friend's recommendation, I make an appointment to see Dr. Bregman the following week. A few days later, I go to Harlem for the NY State Department of Labor orientation for the newly unemployed. I fill out forms along with everybody else. We sit in a room for some time, waiting. No one seems to know what's happening next. Many folks click away on their cell phones.

Now in Dr. Bregman's office, he confirms that other than dental damage (the treatment of which is a story in itself), I am recuperating quickly. He says, "Look, you had a minor accident. You just lost your job. You had a lot going on. You were distracted. You can't afford to be distracted."

The words shake me. My mind shifts to the day when I had just heard the news of my termination. I ask Cesar, my psychotherapist colleague, to walk outdoors with me. We move at a brisk pace. Strong waves of reactivity keep surfacing. I suddenly stop and face him saying, "I need to focus. I feel anger and hurt. I hear the stories, but right now, I need to focus on what's important. I want to connect. I don't want to label anyone as a villian or as a victim. I want to say goodbye in a meaningful way." He says to me, "that's right. You can't afford to be distracted." We smile and head back.

Around mid-November, I contact Diana, Director of Creative Arts Therapy at the Center, and offer to visit on Thanksgiving. She texts me in response to my asking if they have hired a chaplain, "no, we just have your ideas." I arrive at 11:45am. The place is decorated manificently. At the entrance, pasted to a transparent glass wall is a painted cut-out of a broad-branched tree. Small white lights glow around it, inviting in everyone who walks by.

As I enter, many clients and staff approach. We exchange hugs and well wishes. Susan, the Executive Director, greets me warmly. She asks if I'd be willing to offer a meal blessing before we begin the feast. I say I'd be happy to. She introduces me as a "special guest." I notice a quality of energetic ease in my body. I begin, then stop, not sure what to say next. Then I hear myself say, "We pause for a moment to appreciate all the effort that brought us this food, to appreciate this precious life, to appreciate our efforts, that we show up, that we participate in this healing community." Many people are holding hands. There is a palpable stillness in the room.

Hours later, leaving the building, my body feels free. Making sure that my cell phone is carefully tucked away, I walk towards the river. An image flashes into my mind.

Days earlier, in Queens, I am tutoring a young woman in physics. The subject is gravity. Staring at equations in the textbook, she tells me how confusing the problems are. She asks me to explain free fall. I paint her a picture in words. "Imagine what it might be like to stand at the open doorway of a plane flying thousands of feet above the ground." She looks towards me with newfound excitement. I continue, "Now, with your parachute strapped on tightly, you move one step forward and let go." I add with a mischievous smile, "or maybe you jump out." She laughs. "Before the chute opens," I say, "what do you suppose happens?" Her eyes light up. She says with full attention, "free fall." I get that she gets it, feels it in her body. The details soon fall into place. She checks the back of the book. She got the right answer.

Moving On

2009-10-19T14:32:00.033-04:00

I am drawing smiley hearts on the back of small wallet-sized cards. On the flip side of these cards, typed over a background pattern of blue sky and white clouds read the words, "Healing Ourselves, Healing Community."

I am giving these cards to clients and colleagues as a parting gift. Today is my last day serving as clinical chaplain at a large, adult day "harm reduction" treatment center in New York City for people living with HIV. Many clients are "triply diagnosed," with mental illness, substance "use" (addiction), and/or trauma history. They are largely people of color, including a growing contingent of women, with long histories of homelessness or at-risk housing.

Multiple factors contribute to the approaching termination. Understanding how and why this is happening no longer seems important.

I am focussed on saying farewell. This is not easy. I am filled with emotion. For nearly four years, we have travelled together through some of the most moving and difficult moments of our lives. We built a healthcare program, which engages clients and staff in what could be called broadly-framed spirituality, as the foundation for healing. We offered opportunities for everyone to keep returning to essential questions:

What keeps me going? What's important right now?

These questions then become the frame through which to focus.

I pause with a cup of tea, and draw hearts on the remaining cards. Most clients have left.

A week earlier, on a Friday, shortly before hearing the news regarding termination, I venture outdoors with fifteen clients and James, a new social worker, for a group entitled, "Be the Change." It connects with the theme of a program offered on September 11. In bright sunshine, we walk to the recently opened Highline Park. The park used to be a long stretch of abandoned railroad tracks. Now it brings people together to relax and connect while offering a poignant reminder of possibility.

We have a grand time doing just that.

As we walk, clients share their experiences of transformation. One client tells me of his aspiration to serve others now that he is in recovery.

Arriving back at the Center, I soon learn of the termination and that my next work day, scheduled to be a Tuesday, would be my last. I advocate for an extension to that Friday, which given this half-time position, means three days to terminate with over one hundred clients as well as many colleagues. Susan, our executive director, says she'll see what she can do.

Over the weekend, not knowing if my next day at work will be my last, I ponder how to transition. After mindfully riding stormy waves of emotional reactivity, I realize that caring for myself is of utmost importance. I ride the breath and slowly focus.

I remember how each week, in a group entitled, "Moving On," I ask each client to contemplate, "How am I moving on?"

I begin to draft a letter to staff expressing what our time together means to me. I stop. I cannot write. My mind goes visual. I start making Healing Community cards. I think of an image accompanied by words, which has become a logo expressing the vision of our program. This logo evolved over time during countless "spiritual groups" with titles including, "Moving On," "Spirituality and Addictions," "Ancient Wisdom and Well-Being," "TranSpirit," and "Keeping Your Cool." I would draw a circle in the middle of a blackboard. Around the edge of the circle I'd write three words: safety, trust, respect.

As folks told their stories, I would list in the middle of the circle core human values, which they named in responding to breath-centered contemplations:

Breathing in, What keeps me going?

Breathing out, What's important right now?

I call this method Attuned Breath Centering.

If someone names an addictive substance or behavior, I ask, "what's important about that?" Soon enough, somebody would say, "it helps me relax," and this might lead to deeper exploration. Someone might mention "money" or "get a job." As we go deeper, they might say, "Then I'd know my life serves a purpose" or "Then, I'd feel connected," "I'd be happy."

We learned in those groups to speak the language of Non-Violent Communication, which expresses intimacy as the experience of meeting everybody's needs.

Sitting at home, it is my turn to consider all those words and put the ones that matter on this card. Sitting in front of the laptop with a "business card" template file open, I am staring at many circles with nothing typed in their centers. In the silence of breathing in and breathing out, the words come. I type,

Healing Ourselves, Healing Community

After printing these cards, I want to add a personal touch, something handwritten or hand drawn. I turn a card over and draw a smiley heart in the center of the circle. I turn it over again, seeing the blue sky and clouds. I hold it up to the light. There, shining through is the smile.

I sit for over an hour drawing smiles on card after card. I feel a calm joy settling in.

Next, I print a poem written in the last year entitled, Prayer for the Journey. The next day, I make copies of the poem and buy heart-shaped paper clips in various colors. Back home, I begin to prepare packages of the poem and card connected with the heart clip.

When I return to to the Center on Tuesday, Susan tells me my request has been granted and my last day will be Friday. The poignant announcement and sharings during morning staff meeting are punctuated by Susan expressing her appreciation and me expressing mine, then letting colleagues know my plans to offer a parting gift to clients, which I also plan to give to each of them. I hand one to Susan and say, "I'll need to make more for staff. For now, I would like to entrust this one to Susan and thank her for leadership during very difficult times." She is moved and we all meet in a tender space, which holds very different emotional responses to the news. It feels most intimate.

After the meeting, I stop by Susan's office to check in. Referring to the upcoming community meeting scheduled for 11am, she says, "I'm not looking forward to this. The clients will be upset." I reply, "I'll stand with you." Our eyes meet. She says, "thank you. I really appreciate that."

I walk slowly down the corridor towards our dining area where the meeting is to take place.

I see the pillar in the center. During our fourth annual A Day of Unity, held in July, we covered the pillar with paper cutouts in the shape of hands. On each hand is a message connecting with that day's theme. On the table in front of this pillar stands the poster we placed there on September 11, entitled, "Keep the Ball Rolling: Be the Change."

I think of another pillar, which stands at the opposite end of the facility. It is composed of tiny ceramic tiles in a gorgeous mosaic, which express themes of hope and peace. Towards the center of that pillar is the image of the famous red ribbon marking the journey of living and dying with HIV. This project, which took one year to complete, was the inspiration of Diana, the Director of Creative Arts Therapies.

I realize what we all have accomplished together. We have come full circle. My chest feels warm and expansive. My hands tremble slightly.

I place the farewell gifts in a medium-sized wicker basket. Just before the community gathers for announcements including that of my imminent departure, I walk over to the "Be the Change" table in the center of the room. I place the basket there.

The meeting, called, "Living Well" group, begins. After Susan briefly shares the news, I address everyone. I explain the circumstances as best I understand them, which contributed to this termination. I mention succinctly the complex interplay of changing government and agency guidelines compounded by economic challenges for the agency. I say, "I am aware that this decision was made with sadness and careful consideration."

As I speak, I am mindful of my intention not to separate from anyone and not to cast anyone as victim or villian. I focus on healing. I focus on connecting.

I mention Dr. King's vision of the Beloved Community, which inspired our program of Healing Community and continues as each of us moves on and expresses this vision. In closing, I ask a client sitting in the back of the room to sing with me what is practically an anthem in many parts of Latin America, "Gracias a la Vida." Thanks to Life. As I speak, Mercedes de la Sosa , the Argentinian folksinger, who made the song famous and was dubbed, "the voice of the silent majority," is herself dying.

Completely willing, this gentle man, a long-term client in this program, sings loudly and with a dignified passion. The room comes alive. We close with an affirmation of living and growing together.

Soon after, clients come over to share hugs and say whatever they need to say. One client pats me on the back and says energetically, "that was the best goodbye I ever heard!"

As clients form a line for lunch, I go from one to the next, the basket in hand, offering this gift and showing them the heart saying, "you can only see it if you hold it up to the light." Their eyes open with a playful glint. We smile. I move on, greeting the next person.

Later that day, I write an email to colleagues. I thank them for the journey we have shared, saying:

"Journeys are endless and gardens need water to grow. Organizations need funds. People need to be sustained in mind/body/spirit. Thank you for continuing to engage creatively, for gathering this precious water and offering it freely. May our garden of Healing Community continue to grow, even as leaves turn. May we always remember that at its center is the tree of life, whose graceful branches and deep roots reach everywhere."

Throughout the next few days, I approach clients, making sure they're aware of the change. Sometimes they approach me. I tell them of changes I have witnessed in them, while affirming their wholehearted determination to keep going simply by showing up in the program. I listen as they voice a range of emotions connecting with stories of regret and disappointment, of no chance to say goodbye, and for many, of connection and gratitude. Most challenging of all, I listen attentively as they tell me how they appreciate what I have offered.

On Friday, I venture outdoors one last time with clients, twenty or so, and James, the new social worker, with whom I set out a week earlier.

Again we walk to the new Highline Park. At the top of the stairs, we look out. I look up and see blue sky and white clouds. Minutes earlier it was overcast and some predicted rain. I pull out a Healing Community card. I say, "Now we are all card-carrying members of Healing Community." I offer cards to anyone who doesn't yet have one. We hold them up to the light.

For a moment I feel choked up. There are tears in my eyes.

I look out again. I see those smiles. Some are disguised as sadness and longing. Even so, as one client after another comes over to embrace, as our tears intermingle, I hear "thank you," "you changed my life," "God bless you." I recognize the smile that is always present. I feel it. This is love, true love.

By 3pm, I am beginning to feel overwhelmed. I pause for a cup of tea. Sitting at my desk, I turn over a card and draw a smiley heart, then another. I place these cards in a basket.

Colleagues surprise me with a brief sendoff with cookies and flowers. Then, I offer the final TranSpirit group for participants in a transgender outreach program.

An hour later, walking out of my office for the last time, I hear the sounds of folks arriving. It's time for a weekly meeting of Narcotics Anonymous, hosted here "after hours."

I place the basket on a counter beside the entrance. I walk one last time to our Healing Community board, which is situated near the entrance and lists this month's theme, "Transitioning." A man walking by says, "hey, how's it going?" With tears in my eyes, I meet his gaze and almost with surprise, find myself smiling. Seeing him seeing me, I feel completely transparent. He smiles, nodding his head as if to say, "I understand." I nod, responding freely in that silence, and move on.

Walk the Line

2009-09-21T09:52:00.016-04:00

September 11. I'm riding the subway into work, an adult day treatment center for folks living with HIV. We have coordinated an interdisciplinary program entitled, "Healing Ourselves, Healing Community."

These words invite an experience of connecting with two significant questions: "what keeps me going?" and "what's important right now?"

I often return to these questions and ask them with clients and colleagues alike. They are useful questions when considering another: How does one structure a healing program that has the potential to reach everyone and include everything?

Preparing for this day, some folks tell me they would prefer to forget. Some need to grieve. Many want to look ahead while finding meaning and purpose.

I serve in this setting as a clinical chaplain . Today, I'm working closely with Diana, the Director of Creative Arts Therapies. We consider our resources. With very limited funds, we focus on the resources of creativity, connection, and community. As a cook might look in the cupboard for ingredients, we play with what and who is available.

We set up a poster with the words, "Keep the ball rolling: Be the Change." It shows a soccer ball with an image of world continents superimposed. "Be the Change," Gandhi's call to action, seems fitting in a location just north of what became Ground Zero eight years earlier.

We place a basket filled with short pieces of white ribbon. beside it is an invitation to "add your spark" along with guidelines:

"Make a healing wish, then place your ribbon, adding your spark, on the board."

Within an hour, the board is shining with white ribbons.

Later that evening, I join hundreds of folks in a floating lantern ceremony on the Hudson River.

It is offered by the NY Buddhist Church in partnership with Families for Peaceful Tomorrows, the Interfaith Center of NY, and the Buddhist Council of NY. As clouds drift over the moon, lanterns with heartfelt messages are set afloat on the river by the NY Kayak Club.

I sing softly into a microphone as Rev. Nakagaki rings a big bell. The melody and words float out into the night:

"A star at dawn. A bubble in a stream. A flash of lightening in a summer cloud.

A flickering lamp. . . so is this fleeting world."

This verse from the the Diamond Sutra, a Buddhist teaching, is one of many offered, along with comforting words and music from diverse spiritual and cultural traditions. Sikh friends prepare a vegetarian dinner for everyone. Waiting in line, I meet strangers and become friends. I place my bowl over the largest soup pot I've ever seen. Looking up, a new friend meets me in a smile. We sit together and eat.

The next day, I join with friends from the Grafton Peace Pagoda in walking through Harlem. Since 2002, they walk nearly 200 miles in ten days, beginning on September 11 in New York City with a peace vigil. Theirs is a peacewalk open to anyone who wants to join, be it for an hour, a day, or the entire journey. I join for an afternoon.

As we walk, people smile. Sometimes, we bow our heads in acknowledgement. Occasionally, we playfully gesture with little kids along the way. We're a strange sight in the neighborhood. Some view us with suspicion. The process invites focus and commitment to intention. What is "peace" in this moment? How am I walking?

A song pops into my head, Johnny Cash singing, "I walk the line." He wrote that song facing addiction and its impact on those he loved. During the process, he slowly learned to love himself and turn his life around. He became deeply committed to walking his talk, visiting Folsom Prison and relating to their experience as his own. He sang his heart out.

Johnny wore black. He discovered light intermingled with darkness and met people there. Continuing to walk, I feel that sense of complete transparency, that willingness to be vulnerable to whatever and whoever shows up.

On these Harlem streets, sounds call attention. The boom bass connects with a stream of syncopated words, latest hip hop. These sounds rise and fall as we walk into other rhythms, those of salsa and merengue.

Time change. Neighborhoods shift. What's important right now?

No time for weighty considerations. A kid maybe five years old waves to me. I wave back. The light turns green. He stays beside his mom. We move on. As we get closer to the George Washington bridge, we stop on a street corner, saying goodbye. No need for words. We all feel the pulse. The smiles come naturally. Some bow gently.

The light changes. I turn and pause for a moment. My feet remember another way to go. I cross the street and head towards the river.

Ancient Wisdom

2009-08-12T07:30:00.049-04:00

Wandering through DIA museum in Beacon, NY, I'm aware of the rain continuing to fall outside. It offers a layer of sound, which complements the wide open space. Long corridors, red brick walls, and incredibly high ceilings remind of its origins as a Nabisco box-printing facility before it was re-purposed to hold unusually large pieces of art. Skylights and big windows contribute to the sense of spaciousness. Walking through, it's easy to follow an impulse without knowing what's around the corner.

Today I'm drawn toward an immense, curved metal structure shaped and colored like the rusting hull of a small ship. It's a sculpture by Richard Serra entitled, Elevational Wedge. Moving beside it as I circle the full shape, the sensation of flowing feels like dancing with a partner who knows how to lead and follow at the same time. Coming full circle, my body feels a slingshot effect.

Inner space opens into outer space as I'm pulled, like a spaceship as gravity swings it into a different trajectory. Finding myself going downstairs, this dance flows into a universe of Serra's expansive vision of space being time. Next thing I notice is the cooling comfort of the gigantic sculptures, which transport me to the Canyonlands of southern Utah, a region I explored with a dear friend years ago.

A week earlier, I'm co-facilitating a group entitled, Ancient Wisdom and Well Being at an Adult Day Treatment Center for clients living with HIV. Many of these folks report history of homelessness, violence, addiction, and mental illness. I serve as a clinical chaplain. My colleague Cesar, a psychotherapist, is co-facilitating. His specialization is Mindful Recovery.

Framing this session in terms of body wisdom, I guide clients in experiential exercises to pay attention to body posture while sitting and standing. Inviting reflections afterwards on this process, Cesar remarks, "I'm realizing my long standing relationship with gravity." For clients grappling with fears of abandonment, these words comfort as they educate.

One man who identifies as "spiritual" responds, "When I'm running, I feel His presence. The rhythm, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth." A woman who at the outset of the group asks, "What should I do to know ancient wisdom?" now declares confidently, "Where my feet lead, my head will follow." We all agree to practice with paying attention to posture during the week ahead.

Back in metal canyonville, sounds feel like echoes. The room, while lighted, also exhibits a dark hue. I enter one massive sculpture, moving through it as if in a maze in near darkness. I hear laughter and the soft patter of approaching footsteps. Then, two kids, brother and sister, maybe 7 or 8 years old, round the bend and stream by, seemingly out of nowhere. They run past me, giggling. Soon, more youngsters appear as I glide through new sculptures.

Each kid explores the curves, some running hands along the walls, some with hands held out as if flying. They instinctively get whatever it is that feels captivatingly natural here. Their parents, watchful mostly, seem less enthralled and more attuned to observing the scene. I feel a tinge of sadness. Then, I see a boy and girl, also quite young, listening attentively as their dad tells them stories. He invites them to touch, to feel their way. The kids ask questions. They reflect the glint in their father's eyes as his enthusiasm ignites their own.

Richard Serra writes,
"What interests me is the opportunity for all of us to become something different from what we are by constructing spaces that contribute something to the experience of who we are."

A week later, I'm back in Manhattan, curving the island's southern tip, once more hugging the riverside. The place feels different. My sense of space is shifting. Again, feet lead the head. I emerge from the Esplanade, looking for the subway station, which has been an interim structure just north of South Ferry. This evening, the temporary entrance is locked up. A man and woman walking by offer assistance. "They finally opened the new station," he tells me, "We're walking there now."

The three of us walk together for several minutes, our feet's rhythm adjusting to one another's movements. We part ways at the entrance. I head downstairs and through the turnstile. A mural on the wall draws me closer. It's part of a new installation by Doug and Mike Starn entitled, See it Split, See it Change.

Images of silhouetted trees call attention. The bare branches strip the moment down to its essence. Deep silence ripples out like water behind the wake of a slowly moving ship.

This silence remains as a rumbling sound builds and fills the space. Hearing the train approaching, I head down to meet it.

We are the children

2009-07-01T16:18:00.074-04:00

Standing in a small grocery store, I hear a man say, "now he has peace." I ask him if someone died. He says, "Michael Jackson." "No," I hear myself say out loud. A moment of disbelief quickly shifts to piercing sadness.

I step outside. The news is spreading. I hear it first as a driving beat from passing cars. The melodies are as familiar as apple pie. And the words:

ABC. Don't Stop Till You Get Enough. Thriller.

I feel a wave of recognition moving through these city streets, acknowledging what cannot yet be embraced.

Needing a new name for this man who became such an enigmatic figure over the years, he is dubbed the King of Pop. Paul McCartney affectionately calls him a boy-man. Father of three who lived on a ranch called Neverland.

Minutes earlier, while visiting friends at Ten Ren tea in chinatown, I meet a young white man. He tells me that when he lived in Japan, "you're celebrated. It's great but no matter how fluent you are, how much you know, you'll never be normal. You'll always be a foreigner."

I drink in his words while sipping King's Tea. The earthy tone of this blend of green Oolong and ginseng soothes as it energizes. He says, "We have a lot of problems but what I love about this country is that we don't take things at face value. We investigate. We question." His posture straightens and his tone brightens. "We are such innovators. We produce so much."

Walking later that evening, digesting the news, an image comes to mind. It's from the second Star Trek movie, Wrath of Khan. Spock is dying of radiation exposure in a sealed chamber as he saves the lives of everyone on the ship. Kirk places his hand against the glass separating them. Spock reaches out to meet him in the famous split hand gesture.

"Live long and prosper," no longer being appropriate, Spock chokes out, "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few." Kirk adds in painful recognition and devotion to his friend, "or the one."

Just then, I walk by a club blasting,

Want to be startin' somethin'. Got to be startin' somethin'. . .

You're stuck in the middle and the pain is thunder.

Choked up, I hear myself thinking, "this is real. It's not a movie. This is really happening." I start crying and don't know why. I walk to where my feet instinctively need to go, towards the river.

Arriving there, the sky sounds a low bass note as storm clouds linger. It starts to drizzle. In the distance, a large boat passes by with that same melody, same beat streaming out. The path turns and opens into a large grassy field. I lie down. After a few minutes, I notice kids tossing a ball around, undaunted by a few raindrops. I get up, re-energized, and make my way home.

Days later, speaking with a friend, we're talking about how living with intention differs from having an agenda. He asks me, "what's your intention?" I say, "connecting." I ask him, "what's yours?" "Saying yes," he replies.

John Lennon said that he was drawn to Yoko Ono after seeing one piece in her interactive art show. You had to climb a ladder, pick up a magnifying class tied to it, and use it to read a tiny word written on the ceiling. The word was, "yes."

This past Sunday, a number of us gathered for a Potluck Tea Party in New York City's Central Park. We offered iced Jasmine tea beside a path leading to a landmark called the Imagine Circle. It is situated at the center of Strawberry Fields, a park within a park, which was dedicated after John Lennon's death. A mosaic of tiles forms the circle. In the middle is one word: Imagine.

Standing, holding a tray of iced tea, I watch as one person after another smiles. We are meeting in yes.

Fifty feet away in the Imagine Circle, a few guys with guitars start to play Beatles tunes interspersed with Lennon's later songs. They are playing yes.

As people notice the tea party, some smile and keep going. Some stop just long enough to overcome hesitancy as they "grab and go." Others stay to share what brings them to NYC, to the park, to the circle. Some ask for directions to wherever they're headed next.

Everybody has something to contribute:

Wow, this is free? That's really nice of you.

This is a great idea. God bless you for doing it.

Hey, this is really good tea. What is it?

Could I have one for my friend?

As we pack up for the day and begin to walk out along the path, a friend whispers, "did you hear that?" I say, "no, what?" He laughs and remarks, "just as we passed by, I heard somebody say,

There goes the tea party!

Riding home that evening, I sit across from three boys playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. I ask if they're Ok with me taking their picture and sharing it online.

They smile. I instantly understand the meaning of their gesture. I snap their photo and thank them. They go back to the game. I close my eyes as the train moves on.

I see a huge stage in an immense open field. King Michael raises his white-gloved hand high as scruffy John leans in to the mike beside him. All the years of struggle and confusion, of harm endured and harm done, come together as they sing out a familiar refrain:

We are the world.

We are the children.

We are the ones who make a brighter day so let's start giving.

As new voices from across the field keep the song going, another one is taken up:

Imagine all the people living lives in peace.

The two refrains become one as the wave of sound builds and spreads out. The sky brightens. The king and the dreamer embrace.

Our tea party continues. We'll gather one Sunday afternoon each month to celebrate community with a cup of tea.

As the flyer says, this event is free.

Through the Looking Glass

2009-05-25T14:20:00.030-04:00

Walking along Battery Park Esplanade in lower Manhattan on a recent Saturday night, I turn to head back to "civilization" of city streets and elusive (in these parts) subway stops. Perhaps that's why I am drawn to such places as the Hudson River. I feel a clean and safe vibe, which helps me open and experience space as incomprehensibly vast. The transition "back" fascinates me. Signs of urban planning elicit their share of criticism. What I experience as "safe and clean," others might call "exclusive" and "antiseptic." This tension of views encourages me to explore. I head east towards the West Side Highway, a stretch of road one crosses as if traversing a mighty river. I have learned to proceed with caution.

I approach the highway, following a flurry of headlights and tail-lights. With few people in sight and unsure of how to cross over, I see a tall figure approaching. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I ask, "Do you know where's the closest subway stop?" "Come with me," he replies in a confident tone as his tall frame resumes moving at lightning-fast pace. I match his stride, struggling to keep up with my much shorter legs, thankful to be wearing hiking boots. As light spills out briefly from a tower of apartments, I notice the red/blue striped shirt draped over his shoulders. Crisp, neat, and with an understated elegance; he glides along, his cropped brown hair bobbing just so below his ears.

He asks if I'm new to the area. I reply, "no, though I am new to this part of town." What I mean is that in one sense I am very familiar with the terrain AND there's always something new to discover. These subtleties are swept away as we move. I ask him, "Have you been here a while?" figuring the question is sufficiently open-ended. I hear an accent, European though not quite familiar. He says, "I'm from Bulgaria," and has been here less than a year. "I live down here and work down here. I like it."

As we get to the highway, the "Walk" light flashing red, he says with emphasis, "Let's make that, quickly." I feel comforted and keep stride, thinking here's someone who knows where he's going, or at least where he's heading. "Bowling Green," he interjects as we get to the other side. My mind scans for a reference. Context informs. This must be the name of the subway stop. His cell phone lights flash. In the swirl of night traffic, I don't hear the phone ring as we continue to move and he speaks, "yes, you're in the Honda. I'm 100 yards from you." He listens, then updates his report, "Yes, yes, now 80 yards." He hangs up and continues, "Bowling Green - it's where they tore down the statue of George III." He notes my quizzical look as I sift through memory banks for a clue.

He clarifies, "In Bulgaria, we learned American history. During the American Revolution, Bowling Green and the Boston Tea Party. . ." "Tea," I think to myself encouragingly, now you're speaking my language. My mind flashes to that harbor, imagining the rebellious taste of that bitter brew. His pace leaves little space for musings. "There used to be a wall." Again I'm confused. "Wall Street. It's named for that wall. They used it to keep the animals in, also for protection but they didn't really have to worry about that." Noting our location, blocks south of Ground Zero, I pause even as our pace quickens. "What animals?" I wonder, picturing something akin to Noah's ark arriving at these shores. Dutch accents. Two by two. How did they navigate the cobblestones? Or did that come later?

My newfound friend stops as we arrive at a street corner noticeably quieter and darker than where we've been. He points east, "There. Go straight 100 yards. Don't go left. Don't go right. Remember." I promise I will, nodding yes. "Bowling Green," he says one final time. "Thanks," I reply hurriedly. "OK," he says then turns and is gone as quickly as he arrived, leaving what feels like a wake moving through me. There, in a moment where wilderness and civilization meet and time resonates with itself as history, I stand still in awe. Then much slower now, I make my way to the station and get on a train heading north.

The next evening, I return to that river, following an instinctual impulse to catch the final rays of a spectacular sunset on the walkway slightly uptown of Battery Park. Soon after, I notice a man finishing up construction work and ask if he knows where's the closest subway stop. He points to a man standing beside the highway who's waiting for the light to change. "Go with him. He's going there." When I get to the light and share my request, this man smiles and introduces himself, "My name is Joseph," in an accent, which I place as West African.

He says he's from Ghana has been here nearly five years. When I respond, "that's a long time," he replies, "not so long" and remarks, "When I get here, I see on the train, everybody looks up. I look up too. Nothing there. In Ghana, people look at each other, look when they see something they like, what's beautiful. Here nobody looks." "People read, listen to music," I add, "or look down." Joseph affirms, "yes, or look down." He turns to face me as we walk at a brisk pace. I remark, "it's cold here," guessing this is a factor in his pace. "Yes," he responds, "it's the wind from the river." He asks if I'm a tourist. I tell him, "I'm a traveler." He laughs.

I ask, "How long does it take you to get home?" "An hour," he tells me, clarifying that he lives in the Bronx. He asks what country I'm from. when I tell him which states I've lived in the U.S., he says, "Oh, you're American." He asks me about Oregon, a state I lived in for seven years. "Is it mostly white people?" "Yes, it is," I admit. "And in Ghana?" Right on cue, he says, "It's mostly black." We smile again with wry recognition and fill in details. I ask him about the terrain and seasons. "It's tropical. We have Harmattan December, January, and a little of February." I comment, "not long like winter here." "No," he agrees. I feel his sigh.

When we get to the subway at Chambers Street, the train is right there. He flashes a smile once more and gets on the #3 train. I return that smile, "Goodbye, Joseph." "OK!" he exclaims as the doors close. I stand still. The train pulls away. Within minutes, the #1 train arrives. I get on. Riding home, a flurry of images and sensations tumble through one another. Somewhere in the midst of that collage, I feel myself settling into the rhythm. I wonder, "Whatever happened to that wall?"

A week later, I get on a train and head to the burbs for an outdoor "camping" birthday party. It's for an 8-year old friend. As evening comes and we light a campfire, a girl her age shows me some bugs she's collected in a small glass jar. There are holes in the screw-on top. She asks, "will they live in there overnight?" I hesitate, unsure.

Sitting by the fire as she shows me the creatures she's gathered, I think again of that wall. I smile and answer her as best I can, "I think so. I don't know for sure. What do you think?" I invite her to explore.

She sits beside me studying their movements and starts telling me what she sees. I realize she's seeing it from her side of the glass. I'm thinking about how it might be on the other side. I start playing with her, imagining what it's like for them. She laughs.

The next morning, I find the jar. It's empty.

Seeing Continuation

2009-04-26T07:09:00.020-04:00

The signs are everywhere. Something to celebrate. The air feels fresh. The ground is moist from frequent showers.

Wandering a week ago in lower Manhattan, I notice an open gate leading into a community garden: the Liz Christy Bowery Houston Community Garden to be precise.

A light breeze sets the trees in motion. White and pink blossoms sway, drawing me closer. I enter. One winding path leads to another. Passing by gorgeous vignettes of Spring in full bloom, I wonder, "Where did Winter go?"

I.I. Rabi, a Nobel prize winning physicist, was once asked something along the lines of, "How did you get to be who you are today?" Rabi grew up in a Yiddish-speaking neighborhood in NYC. His father was a grocer. He shared this story. "When I was growing up, my mother would never ask me, "Izzy, what did you learn today?" Instead, she'd say, "Did you ask good questions?"

Back in the garden, my questions dissolve as a brilliant collage of color stops me. Daffodils and tulips rise up amidst an array of flowers I cannot name. Just then, a man passing through also stops. Together, we stand, silently transfixed.

In Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles, he describes an "impossible meeting." Two strangers meet in the "middle of nowhere" and trying to shake hands, one man's hand slips like a shadow through the other's. The reader cannot tell, though each character has a solid opinion, of who is in the past and who is in the future.

It's a lot like this in my work as a clinical chaplain . The only measure of healing is in relationship. Conditions and responses are interwoven. As a healthcare provider and before that as an astronomer, I ask questions, which help to identify and record measurable outcomes. At the same time, healing is experiential. Try to grasp or explain it and the healing opportunity slips away.

Visiting a client last week who is living with HIV and preparing for discharge from the hospital, I attune to the surroundings. He is recovering from surgery on his arm. The shunt placed there years back for thrice weekly (3x/week) dialysis treatments is no longer usable. His arm, bandaged in white gauze, puffs out like an eerily illuminated cloud. Seeing me and surprised, he smiles broadly.

He shows me the Get Well balloon his grown niece brought with an image of two band-aids overlapping one another at a slight angle. He tells me with fire in his eyes, "It's a sign! It's the cross."

I look up at the balloon slowly losing air.

He says that he sees what is hidden even as his eyesight slowly diminishes. He shares stories from earlier in his life. He says that in "my country" (in South America), he welcomed strangers into his home and that this made him very happy. He pauses. His eyes widen. He asserts, "I'm not afraid to die." Unspoken between us is a silent truth. We smile. I extend my hand. He offers his. We talk more. I direct him to his primary doctor and his case manager, respectively, to further explore specific concerns regarding treatment. I make notes after leaving, which help me to coordinate next steps with the team of care providers.

That evening, I light a candle to mark the anniversary of my grandmother's passing, a woman my sisters and I called Bubby. She spoke six languages. What spoke to me most was how she'd lean out the window of her sixth floor apartment and wave to us as we came or went.

In my apartment the next morning, I wake up to find the candle flame nearly extinguished. Later in the day, I head to Inwood Park in Northern Manhattan, famous for its stand of "old growth" native trees. Walking among them, I see a fallen log. I kneel down and scoop a handful of the reddened wood, which is slowly decomposing. It crumbles in my hand as I lift it to my nose and breathe in the lush earthy scent.

I feel a drop of water. Soon, what begins as a light sprinkle shifts to a stronger flow.

Following the winding path, I find my way back to city streets. Just as I arrive home, the skies now completely darkened, lightning flashes across the sky and a thunderous roar startles me. I hurry inside.

Alone in the dark, I sit beside the window until tiredness overcomes curiosity. I curl up on the couch and close my eyes, then open them as a few tears spill out.

It's the first time I've cried in weeks.

Feels good.

Silent Illumination

2009-03-30T17:22:00.050-04:00

As I prepare to sort through the piles of paper and other sundry items collecting in the alleys and byways of my apartment, I wonder how they piled up. How did they get here? Not a big stretch to grasp the bigger question, How did I get here?

A line from a Chinese Zen text, Guidepost for Silent Illumination, comes to mind:

From the beginning to end the changing appearances

and ten thousand differences share one pattern.

Like a lot of folks, I get caught sometimes in anxiety and confusion, usually coming from a sense of overwhelm by details and lack of clarity about what to do next. I notice it as constriction, specifically my chest tightening and my field of vision narrowing. It could be hours or days until I realize having lost touch with the bigger picture.

Then something shifts.

Like earlier this week, walking down the street thinking about how to begin a talk I was scheduled to give that day, I passed by fifteen or so teenagers heading into an adjoining community garden, rakes and shovels in hand. I heard a neighbor say loudly, "we can start here." I smiled, then heard these youngsters laughing, poking fun at each other's clumsiness with the tools. I laughed at my clumsiness. Here they were, city kids clearing out broken branches and other accumulated debris to make way for new plantings. Here I was, doing the same.

The day before, during a group I facilitate as a clinical chaplain for folks living with HIV, called, Moving On, a client shared his experience in prison. Newly diagnosed with HIV, he wondered how he got there. He said, "That was me crying out like Jesus, Why have You forsaken me?" Right after this, another participant stated fervently, "I don't believe in God. I'm responsible for what happens to me. And those pyramids weren't built by slave labor. They were built in gratitude to Pharaoh, who was a god to the Egyptian people."

What is the pattern in such a moment?

For me, coming back to the breath and intention helps.

Like five days earlier when a patient for whom I was caring at a nearby hospital died. Standing at the funeral home days later, greeting her loved ones, I wondered how to provide a healing and widely accessible container. She identified as Buddhist. Her family and friends were a mix of secularly and religiously identified people. Some Catholic, some Muslim, a few Buddhist, and many "unaffiliated" (as I often hear this category of people labelled). Some described themselves as "lapsed" or "non-practicing." One elderly woman held a rosary.

I attuned, then spoke about how during her final days and hours, the woman they called daughter, sister, niece, aunt, or friend affirmed what mattered to her most. She had said, "to feel cared for." I spoke about how she had shifted during those days to recognizing that caring for and cared for are inter-connected. Breathing in, caring. Breathing out, caring. This became her focus. She died peacefully surrounded by family and friends.

During the funeral, I offered a song with a simple melody that expressed a form of loving-kindness meditation, which she practiced:

May all beings be free from suffering.
May all being be free from fear.
May all beings be happy.

I was surprised and thankful as most everyone began to sing along. As we sang, I felt something shift in the room. I felt her presence. People cried, then smiled. It was a moment of deep caring.

Days later, Friday evening with sunset approaching, I joined friends at a teashop in Chinatown. We celebrated a young friend's birthday and another friend's visit, a former employee who now lives in the midwest. The birthday girl blew out the candle and made a wish. We took photos and guessed ingredients in the cake. Everybody laughed.

Today at the supermarket, I saw boxes of chocolate-covered matza and chocolate easter eggs. It's in these details that I see our shared journey. Expressed in different forms, posing different questions, all of them point to what matters most.

Sitting now beside the window, questions fall away. Coming back to the breath, I listen to the hum of cars passing, kids playing, and a few birds chirping. I feel my body relaxing and expanding. The afternoon light begins to sparkle.

Who can say what this is?

Girls' Day

2009-03-04T21:36:00.013-05:00

Yesterday was my birthday. It also was a day of celebration in Japan called Hina-Matsuri or Girls' Day.

I knew where I wanted to be to celebrate both occasions - a beautiful teahouse called, "Cha An" in Manhattan's East Village. Cha An is tucked away along a street affectionately known as "Japan row."

I had not been there in many months. Thanks to my sister Evelyn's generosity, I had funds for the occasion. Evelyn lives in California. She sent me a card saying, "do what makes you happy" enclosed with a check.

Talking on the phone that day, she told me a story that poignantly brought that point home.

Once, as Evelyn was talking with a friend and struggling to authentically express herself, this friend put out crayons and paper. Evelyn began to draw. She discovered (as she said to me) that, "I needed to be served those crayons." She needed this because she couldn't serve herself, offer herself the time and space to follow a free-flowing impulse.

She encouraged me to play. Heeding her wisdom, I followed that impulse and walked. Bright sunshine and a cold wind kept me moving along the Hudson River Park on through Soho and Chinatown. Then, I hopped on a subway train as daylight faded. Within minutes, I landed in the East Village at Cha An.

When I arrived after the afternoon of joyful wandering, the women working there greeted me as a long gone sister, happy and relieved to see me. I felt an impulse to share with them that it was my birthday. These dear friends showered me with affection. We exchanged bows and in some cases, gentle hugs.

The joy in this space is palpable on any day. Even so, on Girls' Day, there was a touch of playfulness and warmth that felt fresh. On each table lay a gorgeous and understatedly elegant flyer describing the day. The origins and traditions fascinate me. One of the customs is to place straw dolls out on a flowing body of water such as a river or ocean to free oneself of hindrances and particularly with focus on protecting children. Families receive gifts of these dolls in honor of their young daughters.

On each table in the teahouse, there were two origami "dolls" reflecting another theme of the day - partnership. I watched my friends serve, these women gliding through the cozy room clothed in earth-toned uniforms, which reminded me of those dolls and of partnership. I felt an earth-meets-water pulse accompanied by a graceful, quiet dignity flowing through me. I thought about family and about community. I contemplated sisterhood and how marvelous it feels to instinctively care for and be cared for. A gift that keeps on giving.

Sipping Genmai cha, a mix of green tea and toasted rice, the texture of time and space softened. My breath deepened and the room brightened even as the light outside continued to dim.

Simplicity and attention to intention opened a door. I wondered how to keep opening, keep flowing. How to recognize home as this body, this boundless body?

Just then, the crayon moment arrived. I reached for a napkin and wrote these words:

I open my eyes and smile.

Love is this moment,

dancing with sisters on Girls' Day.

Time for tea

2009-02-26T07:20:00.007-05:00

I woke up this morning greeted by the smell of brownies lingering from last night's baking. We're having a tea gathering tonight. I'm pondering the tea selection. Lavender flowers might suit the occasion. There's something about warm treats and tea that soothes on these windy, wintery nights.

While "tea" has come to include all kinds of beverages, the vibe of "tea time" or in Japanese tea ceremony "tea mind" continues. Traditions change and new ones emerge. Take Bubble tea for instance. I discovered this a few years ago at a lovely, no-nonsense teahouse in New York's chinatown called Ten Ren. At first I was skeptical of this Taiwanese concoction. Then the little girl in me got a taste and there's been no going back. Those goofy tapioca bubbles or "pearls" transport like Alice through the looking glass.

You can try this too. As your eye focuses through a wide neon-hued straw, imagine diving for pearls. One slurp and you're there. Here. How many doorways open when we let them?

In so many cultures, the experience of preparing and drinking tea is a time to enjoy time itself. Whether it's with a tea bag or loose leaf, hands know what to do. Their skill and presence is a marvel if we give ourselves time to notice, to appreciate. Ears attune and the heart opens. Amazing how something so ordinary inspires and connects.

I hear the birds singing. Spring is in the air. Or is it just this cup of tea?

2009-02-09T14:33:00.002-05:00

The sap is rising and the sun is shining in New York City.

I decided to launch this blog today because this day for me is all about wonder. It is Tu B'shvat, a Jewish holiday, which celebrates the New Year for Trees. With agricultural roots and mystical branches, it brings together intention and action. It's a great day for new beginnings. Some plant trees, some plant seeds of intention.

There is a beautiful phrase (Exodus 3:14), which encapsulates the intention to flow anew and tap into what is unseen while deeply felt: "Eheye asher eheye: I am what I am becoming."

Who am I? A question that challenges me to reflect.

Being this koan, embracing who as what and when as where, reveals what is so often unseen, especially when I get stuck in the mud of labels.

Why this blog?

Because healing in relationship to me is an experience of being mud and roots and branches. Moment by moment, this process helps me to tap into what truly matters - you. Me and you.

And right now, me needs to eat. I hear a raw chocolate smoothie calling. . . and then a stroll through the park. . . and then, I really don't know.