Hinc Videndum

The Perfect Mistake

2012-01-23T09:34:00.000-08:00

The self-contradictory title of this piece is a reworking of a book title that's been floating around the house for the past few months, an important addition to Nicola's library of musical reference material: The Perfect Wrong Note (and subtitled, Learning to Trust Your Musical Self). Intrigued, I'd turned to the chapter entitled A Guide to Healthy Practicing -- and was not a little surprised to find cited an old favourite of mine, Fritz Perls. Perls, variously considered as the father of Gestalt psychology, had a great deal to say about awareness and attending to the present moment. One of his many contentions is that our direction 'from here' (that is, from where we happen to be right now! ) is best determined by what's going on, again, right now; that the 'best' pathway is a fluid, shifting, entity; and not something that remains fixed, once determined. Ignoring the most current information about our present position is done at our peril.

Confronted with a set of steps, we intuitively raise our leading foot to accommodate the change in topography -- a self-evident adjustment that, executed seconds earlier, while crossing a flat floor would, at the very least look pretty weird. Pouring a beverage from its container is always a more successful endeavour if we've first placed a glass under the spout. What's going on right now, determines, at these rudimentary levels the success or failure of our decisions. So why abandon these instinctive truths in more complicated circumstances? Good question!

This being 'awake' to the present moment is sometimes referred to as the continuum of awareness; and may be defined as 'a flowing, nonjudgmental openness to events, . . an acceptance of how things really are (regardless of prior intentions)' (p. 77, Westney, Perfect Wrong Note). Bears a striking resemblance to Kabat-Zinn's definition of mindfulness practice: paying attention (in a particular way), in the present moment, non-judgmentally.

So what happens when we 'make a mistake', depart from the expected, hoped-for path, or, in Perl's or K-Z's terms, stop paying attention? I suppose it depends on the situation. A minor slip or trip and we 'wake up' pretty quickly, hopefully correct our balance (maybe look around to see if anyone noticed) and carry on, likely a bit more mindful of the unevenness of the terrain. A little more serious (say, if the balance doesn't get restored and we actually hit the deck) and the 'awakening' may take a bit longer, the resolve a bit more lasting. (I still recall, years afterward, taking a flyer off the top step of a concrete flight of stairs, having slipped on ice, landing very heavily on my backside -- ever so grateful to have it my gluteus maximus that took the impact rather than the back of my skull.)

But these are the physical manifestations. What might our responses look like if this was a 'mental slip'? Regaining our 'balance' becomes a bit more complicated -- but no less reactive or automatic. What happens when we're trying to concentrate or perform a task in a particular, desired way -- and have a distracted thought intrude, lose our concentration, or 'make a mistake'? We might become frustrated, feel disappointment. Perhaps rationalize ('well I am tired') or blame the situation, the surroundings, even our companions. We might launch into interpretation (the why's of the mistake) or analysis (not always a bad thing when determining where to go from here -- but one that does take us pretty quickly away from the present moment!). We might evaluate, judge (too often ourselves -- sliding into self-derogation, -criticism); depending on the perceived pressures and importance attached to the task, we might even panic. In one way or another, these are all automatic, reflexive responses -- and all ones that distance us from the 'data', compelling us to stop paying attention to what just happened. How novel would it be to ask the question: 'what's that about?' To, as the old saying goes, learn from our mistake. And just maybe foregoing in the process, the anxiety, anger, avoidance, confusion, distraction, or personalizing that too often accompanies unwelcome events, accidents -- mistakes!

Trusting the process, the maxim of Human Potentialists, a school of thought closely aligned with Gestalt, maintains that not only are these events, these mistakes, needing to be noticed -- but that they frequently represent the 'most important unfinished business' of the moment, surfacing to give us the opportunity to deal with them. And moreover, that failure to address this 'data' merely adds to our baggage, the thousands of unfinished, unresolved, unaddressed things that will re-visit until appropriately attended to. So why not now? 'Gitter done', in bumper sticker lingo! While we're engaged in any of the bolded responses (above) -- the 'that was so stupid' or the 'what's wrong with me, I know better' -- this internalized chatter moves us out of the present, into past rumination, future anxiety, freely associating our way right out of the here and now.

So the 'things happen for a reason' needlepoint on the wall is not necessarily an invitation to embark on a journey to find that reason. Finding the source of the Nile may have been an exciting and illuminating adventure -- but it didn't change the water as it flowed into Mediterranean. It may just be a cue to stay here, accepting and allowing what is . . . paying attention to the data, the 'perfect (and timely) mistake'.

Sitting in a Group. . .in Silence

2012-01-19T08:01:00.000-08:00

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the centre hole
that makes the wagon move.

We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we value.
Tao te Ching, 11.

Pay attention to the silence.
What's happening when nothing is happening in a group?
This is the group field.

Thirteen (or 30) people sit in a circle,
but it is the climate, the spirit in the centre of the circle where nothing is happening
that determines the nature of the group field.

People's speech determines the content.
But it is the silence, the empty space
that reveals the group's essential energy.
Tao of Leadership, 11.

The second of these quotes was written twenty-five years ago by my longtime friend, John Heider. The first, by Lao Tzu, 2500 years ago! Truths endure. For twenty years I would happily make the trek to meet with my friend, once, occasionally twice a year, to participate in his ongoing groups. These travels took me to California, Florida, and more recently and enduringly, Kansas. And the question occurred more than once (even to me!): what's the magic that would take me thousand's of kilometers to sit for three, sometimes five or even seven days, in a circle of a dozen or so folks -- mostly in silence, just listening?

During our short feedback session, wrapping up Saturday's silent retreat of a few weeks ago, and hearing about the experiences of many of the participants, I was reminded once again that, indeed there is something very special about the group space. One can sit, eyes closed, breathing -- anywhere. One can walk slowly back and forth or round in circles -- anywhere. Or stretch. . . or balance. But something is different in the circle.

'Alone . . . but not alone' was the way in which one of us described her experience. Sitting in one's own, 'protected' space -- but surrounded by like-mindedness, experiencing a shared purpose, focus. Coming into a group, particularly a large and unfamiliar gathering, it's typically the uncertainties, the anxieties that dominate. One often feels alone . . . and most distinctly cut off from the other people. Perhaps this is projection -- but I don't think so. I frequently find myself, 'taking the temperature' of the assemblage, seeing where I fit in, wondering how I measure up, if I'll be accepted (or, in the catastrophic, ignored, even shunned). All distractions, usually contrived in my own apprehension; and certainly detracting from the experience. Being welcomed merely for walking into the room and sitting down is a unique experience.

Close beside this observation were various comments on the shift in the 'social climate' that many noticed. The ease of not talking leveled the playing field for some. Coming into a group, knowing few if any, often applies a particular and peculiar social pressure, amplifying one's natural style, temperament. The shy may become more withdrawn, awkward, uncomfortable; the gregarious, more ebullient, engaging, launching into hyper-social mode. We, in short become caricatures of ourselves, displaying only those extremes of our personality that, in more familiar conditions, have the 'corners rounded off' a bit. When 'small talk' becomes 'no talk', these extremes too are muted; the need, compulsion, reflex to participate thru' speech -- be it witty, sage, self-conscious, or forced (or, God forbid, boring!) -- is removed. And we can let go of the 'dance' that preoccupies and steals our attention.

Many commented on the 'life lessons' -- more life reminders -- arising from walking the labyrinth. Even the luxury that walking in silence affords, of noticing one's thoughts, feelings, sensations (good and bad -- if I'm allowed an evaluative comment) around the simplest of experience, proved to be something of a revelation for some. Impatience, frustration, a (social) sensitivity to 'holding things up' (and the ever in the wings, ever so Canadian apology for same); the urgency to finish, the delay in start, the 'should I pass or slow down' -- all were noticed. . . and quietly resolved or considered or just allowed. Action becomes reflection. 'Fixing', addressing becomes tolerance (maybe!). And we 'sit with' (or in this instance, walk with) a situation, waiting for it to evolve and change (as it most certainly will), released from the compulsion to act on it or even against it.

Metaphors presented to some. Observing the 'illusion' of being behind -- or ahead -- of another, as the labyrinth's track circled back on itself, changed direction, became more central or more peripheral. And applying that observation to the often 'competitive' value we take into life situations; the measuring of how I'm doing in a comparative way ("if I'm ahead of so and so, I must be OK, right?"); instead of the intra-individual (the within self) perspective. The luxury of going at one's own pace.

And finally, trust. Consider the last time you sat in a group of twenty-nine other people, awake and alert -- with your eyes closed, no need or expectation to explain or account for one's behaviour or choices.

I think I know why I found John's groups so compelling, such a pull. These values and others all lived in the 'hole at the centre', in the group field.

ADD? Just Maybe

2012-01-09T06:26:00.000-08:00

So aren't we all just a little ADD (Attention Deficit Disordered)? Don't we all get distracted a little too easily and too often?

Let's just have a quick look at what the big, burgundy book (aka, the psychiatric, diagnostic manual, the DSM-IV, in polite professional company) has to say:

1. fails to pay close attention to details.
2. has difficulty sustaining attention in tasks.
3. doesn't seem to listen when spoken to.
4. doesn't follow thru' on instructions / fails to finish chores.
5. has difficulty organizing activities.
6. avoids or is reluctant to undertake tasks that require sustained effort.
7. often loses things necessary for tasks or activities.
8. is easily distracted by extraneous stimuli.
9. is often forgetful in daily activities.

Now, according to the Book, six or more of the above and you make the cut -- as it were. Let me just think back (if I could only remember) to my last meditation session. Planned a workshop for tomorrow, thought about when the timer was going to sound, ignored the dog barking (then was irritated by the dog barking), reminded self to remind self to take back the soup pot before I went to pick up granola at the Slow Food Market -- now was it this week they move to, oh, where was that new location . . . Hmm. Oh yeah -- breathe! I just may qualify!

The aforementioned workshop turns out to be a short chat about the benefits of a mindfulness practice with a group of teachers on their first day back after Christmas (is that OK to say?) break. As I began tossing around educator-relevant takes on my theme, a few things floated up during this morning's sit (in between returning to the breath, of course). Likely they're mostly new to the practice. So I needed a framework to orient my audience to this vast, varied, and largely misunderstood body of material. Glimmers of early creative writing tuition began to coalesce: Who, what, where, when, and why -- the critical elements of any good story.

What is mindfulness? Well my old standby, Jon Kabat-Zinn says it most succinctly: Paying attention, in a particular way, on purpose, in the present moment, non-judgmentally. Almost sounds like the flip side, the polar opposite of the 'accident waiting to happen' (aka, our ADD-afflicted candidate; namely, ME). To dissect Jon's definition a bit, the paying attention references the breath, the home base of most mindfulness practices. Something that's always with us, always available. All we need do is attend to it, notice it.

In a particular way: through a regular, mindfulness practice. The cultivation of the 'meditative habit' -- building in, as part of our daily routine, the room to sit quietly with the sole purpose of holding a focus -- and, as will happen time after time after time, gently ushering ourselves back to that focus once we wandered away. Each time we're distracted by some 'extraneous stimulus' (lest we forget number 8), noticing, observing that we've slipped away into some historic regret or some future fret, heard the dog bark, relived the emotional encounter with the 'goof tailgating us', felt the twinge in the lower back; and returning to our anchor, the breath. On purpose refers to the intention that we bring to a practice. Developing, enhancing our awareness of just how 'automatically' we typically go through our day -- reacting rather than choosing. Learning to relegate the automatic pilot to Air Canada and taking explicit hold of the controls. More the purposeful traveller, less the 'accidental tourist'.

And finally, in the present moment, without judgment. How much of our time is spent 'somewhere else' than where we are right now. And how eager we are to evaluate every experience, every encounter, to apply value label (good / bad, desirable / repugnant, appropriate / unsuitable).

Where, When. Largely your choice. In a quiet room, waiting at a traffic light, pulling weeds, doing the dishes; as a way to start your day or a contemplative period at the end of day's 'sentence'. In a group (lovely energy) or enjoying the solitude of time to oneself. No one right way, time, or place!

How (that would be the acronymic form of Who -- a little creative license). In a more formal practice, adopting a relaxed and alert posture; sitting on a straight-backed chair, a zafu (don't you just love that word: aka, a meditation cushion), cross-legged in a full lotus (long gone for this ADD soul!) Head, neck, back aligned to open the chest and facilitate breathing. Generally eyes closed (just less 'distracting'), adopting a mindset of acceptance and allowing of whatever is going on around us and in us -- physical sensation, emotional content, thoughts -- and taking our attention to the breath and where we most notice it.

And then the Why. The (hopelessly) glib response is 'just because'. One often begins with a 'reason for meditating' -- stress, poor sleep, mood or anxiety issues, nagging or chronic pain, a scattered mind, addiction -- but soon discovers that mindfulness is less a 'tool' and more a process, a habit. Meditating with a purpose, an identified end in mind is rather like exercising only to lose weight. Only when the means (sitting regularly) becomes the end, does the end become accessible -- more a side effect, a consequence of the practice than a goal to be attained.

But I've gotten off track -- distracted, one might say. It occurred to me, as I sat this morning, that there just might be some benefits to the charges of the teachers with whom I was going to be chatting. That just maybe, with ADD being identified with alarming frequency (not to mention the plethora of other challenging childhood issues in need of addressing before one can actually get down to the business of teaching -- the bullying, the poor self-esteem, the flagging self-discipline, the stress of being a child, to name a few), there may be some benefit in having 'my students' do what they are naturally trained to do: teach. No better way to develop one's own skill set than by passing the knowledge along. 'Learning by doing' an old mentor of mine used to call it -- and doing is what mindfulness is all about!

At risk of providing yet another catalogue, the benefits of mindfulness in a young population (as they are for adults as well) are legion:

- Physical relaxation
- Improved concentration
- Increased control over thoughts. Observing and letting go vs. participating and being caught up in.
- Acceptance and tolerance of unpopular, distressing emotions vs. being victimized, 'directed' by them
- Increased compassion, tolerance, patience
- Improved self-understanding, self-awareness, self-acceptance
- Increased creativity
- Improved memory function
- Cultivation of the spirit (not limiting the education process to 'mind' and 'body')

These are not goals, parts of a curriculum to be taught and completed. These are the side effects of a mindfulness practice -- regardless of age.

So indeed we all might be just a little ADD -- and a little angry, a little fragmented, a little stressed, a little sore, a little depressed. This is a description, in one way or another, of a 'normal day' for most of us -- including our kids. It is the life condition. It is what is. A regular practice doesn't take away these naturally occurring states. What it does do is provide us the means to address them -- not through avoidance, opposition, attachment, obsession. But through peaceful co-existence with the 'full catastrophe'.

Full Catastrophe Living

2012-01-02T17:38:00.000-08:00

At this time of year (aka, the Holiday Season -- and we are still in it 'til Jan. 6, aside trees at the curb and 'festive lights' a-dimmed), there's precious little acknowledgment of -- I might even say, tolerance for -- anything but 'good cheer'. Why then is it that, for some, almost nothing could be farther from what is being experienced? The season's professed zeitgeist is one of celebration, bon vivant, eager anticipation, hand-shaking, and smiling, merry this and happy that. The politically incorrect stance is, sadly (and I use the word advisedly) one of mounting stress, urgency, and, perhaps most tellingly, exclusion.

I had occasion to be chatting with my stepson recently as he was preparing his music for the upcoming advent / Christmas services. He made casual mention of the Blue Christmas mass and the challenge of finding music that he felt would reflect the intention of the gathering Although anyone can (and perhaps, should) attend, it's held for those folk who, for a variety of very good reasons, feel less than engaged in the season (somewhat reminiscent, if I allow a jaundiced thought, of those colonies of pariahs, outcasts, if you will) and finding some comfort in an assemblage of like minds and moods. Ultimately, he was careful to choose music that he felt set a quiet, contemplative tone. As we talked, I couldn't avoid recalling (probably because the lyrics are etched into my unconscious by sheer volume of exposure) the maudlin lyrics of 'Blue Christmas' that serve to underscore the very 'us and them' polarizing that happens around this time of year:

"You'll be doin all right, with your Christmas of white...
But I'll have a blue, blue, blue Christmas."
(Thanks, Elvis!)

My personal grump seems to have been a little more contained this year than in the few decades immediately past -- but still around (sufficient to invite the query from Nicola: 'did they beat you or something on Christmas Eve?'). No specific triggers (well, the Boxing Week feeding frenzy doesn't help, hard on the heels of mountains of now emptied boxes and bows cast aside, their sometime contents barely remembered these few days after) -- but surfacing nonetheless. Reduced daylight coincident with the season -- perhaps. The shortage of cash coupled with the 'need' to spend -- possibly. The excess, be it food, drink, or loot -- good candidates. The loss of the spiritual connection, the meaning of the celebration -- we've all heard that one to death.

But I think not sufficient perpetrators. What appears to be hugely amplified and accentuated is the gap, the disconnect between the surface demands of, expectations for the season (conviviality, hale-fellow well-met demeanour) and the logical, near-unavoidable consequences of the stressors that inevitably attend it (urgency, deadlines, hyper-socializing) -- a collision of what 'needs to be' and 'what is' -- underscored with each 'are you ready for Christmas yet?' before the date; the 'did you have a good Christmas?' for the week or so following. Welcome to Hotel California (such a lovely place, where you can check out anytime you like -- but you can never leave!) from which there is no apparent escape.

I'd encountered this Christmas card many years ago (back in the days when I still had a Rotty and just one West Highland Terrier) and it spoke to me. The rest of the card included a cat, sitting on the inside of the window, warm, content, and comfortable beside a fully-laden Christmas tree -- probably significant that I'd cropped that part out! How better to allegorically capture the poignant sense of separation, alienation than one species gazing at another, with a glass wall between; one on the outside looking in, the other caught up in, embraced by the 'prescribed surroundings', oblivious to its fellow creatures.

So what to do? Withdraw into anger, sadness, further isolating. Hunker down and wait it out. Alternately, suit up with the majority and participate -- authentically or not. The personal search has been for a less polarized place, less a 'hold my nose and jump' versus a pull back into sullen reticence. In the context of mindfulness practice, Jon Kabat-Zinn, in his introduction to his seminal book, offers a clue to what this spot might look like: Full Catastrophe Living. He describes seeking a concise title that would capture the unique approach that living mindfully represents, borrowing a line ultimately from the film Zorba the Greek. Asked if he'd ever been married, Zorba responds that of course he had, then adds: 'wife, kids, house, everything. . .the full catastrophe'. The reference, as Kabat-Zinn explains, is not that life had been so awful -- but that it embodies a full range of experience, the good with the ill, -- and most particularly that we don't get to cherry pick. The 'dance' is with the fullness of it all -- not just leap-frogging from one 'happy time' to the next.

Where this season is concerned, the dance unquestionably involves the individual's adoption of this more equanimous posture. Not necessarily 'selling out' to the pervasive (and just possibly contrived and forced) 'good cheer'; but allowing oneself into it, as possible and authentic. More than this, however, the culture itself is in need of an attitude adjustment. Inclusiveness requires that we embrace the 'other pole' -- not just the North, with all its presents, elves, and sugar plums; but the South, with its, just possibly sadness, sense of loss, alienation, and quiet reflection on what's been. The full catastrophe.

Christmas Letter 2011

2011-12-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

As is often the case, for our household(s), polarities and paradox seem to be the 'themes' that best characterize the year that's been and is now drawing to a close: mobility set against permanence, milestones passed engendering a return to familiar touchstones, simplicity facilitated by increasing sophistication and complexity.

Perhaps the appropriate starting point is the 'mind map', stuck up on the wall in front of me, serving to guide and constrain (to something under a book) the annual update -- and, again appropriately enough, driven by a little 'app' called Simple Mind. The researcher-in-residence (aka, Nicola) had established as 2011 affirmations a return to mental, physical, and spiritual fitness -- not that the first had ever wandered far from the path; nor had the last, although always evolving, lapsed in any significant way. For the middle -- well let's just say for both of us, it had become a little more substantial than we would have wished (that would be 'the middle'). Enter the Pomodoro Technique -- with mind maps to follow close behind. For the household accountant, discipline (read time management via Mr. Pomodoro and its 25-minute 'chunking') and organization (mind-mapping, at first glance, looks like a flow chart gone postal -- but it works!) are figural in whipping the old brain back into shape. And the happy vehicle for all this structure is a return for Nicola to a long-lapsed piano passion. Touching base with musical muses sees her regularly shuttling between Stratford and Toronto. Oh dear, how does one bear the restaurants, the city's vitality and energy, and contemplative time to and fro on the train? Practice has taken on a multiplicity of expressions from daily twenty-minute meditations and work-outs in the basement 'fitness lab' (more of that later), against a background of double flats, scales, and regular viewings of Piano Anne's You Tube postings. How could one not lose weight?

2011 saw both Jill and Andrew move households -- their respective 'better halves' initially and energetically fulfilling the role of fiscal devil's advocate -- to digs that are both charming and well-situated. Jill and Brant find themselves mere minutes from work in downtown London, on the edge of 'old North' having cheerfully escaped the 'is that police cruiser for this complex or the next?' angst of the east end. Simon and Andrew can fall out their flat's front door and end in the Distillery District, a treed, ten-minute stroll from the Cathedral and spitting distance (hmm, should work on that descriptor) from St. Lawrence Market.

As for the permanence bit, Jill saw another boogie man (oops, boogie person) fall off the radar -- the persistent worry around renewal that haunts the contract worker. LoL (that would be London Life -- although it could equally be the other tagline, I suppose) saw fit to 'make her permanent'. One of those, careful what you wish for situations, of being 'legit' in a structure that is not exactly one's ideal -- but when is it otherwise? And so 'I can see clearly now' not only describes the immediate vocational future; but also the actual eyesight following some recent surgery to correct persistent double vision (seeing one boogie person is bad enough, but two!).

Permanence found its way into the Toronto household as well with Simon securing permanent residency status, after a long and varied roller coaster of an application process. Never hurts to be too careful with those Yorkshire-men seeking to set up Lord knows what kind of covert, organist cells in our unsullied landscape. Working pro bono really was getting a bit old. St Mary Magdalene's is the big winner with Simon now able to take on the assistant's role in their storied music program (move over Healey Willan). And Andrew continues to be a 'one man band' at St. James Cathedral, more than capably filling the role of interim director of music for another year. No mean feat between ducking office manager tantrums and balancing a music budget, with weekly recitals and a good bite out of a goal of playing his way thru' Bach's organ repertoire.

And mobility wasn't limited to bag and baggage. Well guess that's not technically true as David chose, for his cycling adventure of 2011, to drag just that from sea to sea across the north of England. Two weeks on two wheels with two panniers (and several thousand pounds of camera gadgetry) was just enough to make some 25% climbs thru' the Yorkshire Dales, let's say more than challenging. Lots of opportunity to see the countryside in infinite detail with pedal, pedal interspersed with puff, puff (and not just the occasional pause and push). Morecambe to Whitby (been there, done that, bought the t-shirt -- no really!). And there's absolutely no correlation between turning 65 (I've got Stephen Harper's letter explaining the OAS clawback to prove it!) and undertaking challenges more suited to a twenty-something, than a sixty-something. Taking no chances on back-sliding in the winter of our (cycling) discontent, Kurt Kinetic (the cutest little lime-green trainer -- think training wheels with a lot of carefully calculated drag) has joined the indoor stable of treadmill and exer-cycle.

From man in motion to gal with a goal -- more on the mobility front. Jill realized a (very hard fought) target this year breaking four hours for her marathon time with a 3:56 at Detroit this Fall (absolute 'days' to spare). Way to go (and go and go. . . as she closes in on another target: a 3,500 km. year -- 3,431 as I write -- looks like a couple of stacked workouts in the final days of 2011). And a lot of those post-wall moments could have ended less satisfyingly without the one-man support crew, photographer, whipping boy, sport's psychologist, and all around cheer leader: Brant. This man gets the 2011 family award for biggest heart and thickest skin by a country mile! Little wonder that in his 'off-duty' (when is that anyway, Jill?) moments, he finds restorative comfort staring contemplatively into the depths of aquaria; and can be heard polishing his ichthyological communication skills -- no grief or back-talk from these little buggers (and besides, they're on the other side of a glass wall!)

Even houses have their neurotic sides (or, in this case, sidings). As word of all the household moves filtered down to Chez Neal, we noticed distinct signs of an identity crisis beginning to surface. Naught for it, but a long-overdue facelift -- with new chapeau (aka roof) and togs (board and batten siding) to fend off any further, incipient security issues. And to put a period at the end of this sentence, Nicola reworked the 'back 40' (alias the 'potting plot'), creating a Provencal, micro-climated, kitchen garden. One could almost feel the tension ease in Neal's shoulders as the aubergine and pomodoro (that would be eggplant and tomatoes to us locals) proliferated!

And finally, just to ease the UK to colonies transition, a very significant British contingent found its way for visits to our fair shores, with Simon's parents, Debbie and Brian, grandmother, Jean, and cousin, Marj sampling the fare at Chez Neal amongst other destinations. No arm-twisting required at all to ensure our return visit in the upcoming year -- not a day passes that I don't moon over the Dales of England's north.

Blessings from us all,

Nicola, David, Jill, Brant, Andrew, and Simon -- with Morag, (the UPPERCASE -- for anyone whose heard her bark), Obie, the exclamation point (! -- for anyone whose pulled burrs from his fur), and Martha, the editor (for anyone who asks).

The Beginner's Mind

2011-11-28T09:53:00.000-08:00

"In the beginner's mind (sh0sin), there are many possibilities; in the expert's there are few"

Shunryu Suzuki

Perhaps twenty years ago, I had the opportunity to hear the convocation address delivered by Thomas Moore (Care of the Soul, Soulmates) to the new crop of University of Toronto graduates. His message was succinct, clear, and, I'm sure to the freshly minted BA's, just a bit paradoxical. 'You've spent four years learning, cramming your heads with information. Now, just before you step into the world, empty it all out!' He was not diminishing their efforts; nor impugning the importance of knowledge. He was merely pointing out that information, in and of itself, can be as limiting as it is useful and instructive. Suzuki's pithy opening to his book Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, captures this same sentiment: when approaching any subject, maintain an openness and suspend preconceptions to reach the 'correct truth' (an alternate translation of the Buddhist term, shosin).

A few weeks ago, the Globe and Mail reported on the 'brightest community in the world' -- and here we all thought it was Stratford -- Shanghai!! Evaluated on standardized, high school-aged tests (evidently creating a basis for comparing academic performances across cultures), this mid-sized city out-stripped a host of other Western and Eastern candidates. What I found telling was that the educators even in this city were quick to point out that their educational policies have as top priorities test-taking skills and acquisition of content-heavy, broad information bases -- evidently at the cost of fostering creative thought (and generally necessitating significantly extended 'school days'). Great for high marks; not so sure about opening minds.

It seems that these priorities are not restricted to the Tiger Moms of China. Our culture too, protestations to the contrary, appears to validate the former of these two approaches (acquisition of knowledge), granting the designation of 'expert' to he/she who knows the most about a subject versus to those who choose to think outside the box, with the emphasis on understanding and the 'how' of a particular subject of interest. My wife has recently chosen to 'redo' her musical education, having completed grade 5 (in piano) in her mid-adolescence. Her approach this time round, I found a little confusing at first: integrating the physics of kinesiology and posture, mindfulness, mathematics, and the 'psychology of practice', as well as studying the theoretical rudiments (aka 'theory') of which I expect most accomplished musicians are intuitively aware (but to the casual player are a collection of rote, boring, and near random associations). Result: a very motivated student who now struggles to find the time in her day to fit in another practice. And all commenced at the preparatory level -- a true beginner's mind approach.

I had occasion to be chatting recently with a young man, currently enrolled in 3rd year university, only to hear this same theme echoed once again. Though the conversation was far-reaching, it seemed to return to the same thematic point of origin -- whatever the content. A history major, he noted that he had little difficulty cranking out papers that were well-received by his faculty (and accordingly rewarded with good grades). But he was bored, lamenting that taking an 'unpopular' point of view -- in his description, being less 'conforming', formulaic, or compliant with expectations -- often failed to be endorsed with the hoped for 'A'. Taking the 'party line' was the way to advance. He went on to say that, during a trip to Europe he found himself having to make a choice between 'charging his camera' (with which to document the reams of ruins they visited) and his iPod (source of much loved music and the portal into a more receptive, immediate state) -- opting for the music over the camera. His rationale was that, in 'shooting the sites', he had become increasingly preoccupied with the right light, image composition, sun placement; losing his very present awareness / direct connection with the building, statue, etc. before him. Listening to his music, he became more immediately engaged, less distracted -- and less obsessed with 'keeping a record', but risking missing the experience. As with information accumulation, interpolating, in this case, the photographic device between his 'beginner's mind' and the site changed and constrained his experience -- and was therefore, much to the dismay of his peers, eschewed.

Poets and educators, Robert Bly and Joseph Campbell (Power of Myth) in particular, underscore Suzuki's 'subversive' stance as well. In a marvelous little essay, Bly characterizes the human shadow (that oft mis-named 'dark side') as the 'long bag we drag behind us' and, coincidentally, the repository of much of our creative potential. The 'bag' begins to grow (and become less accessible to us) as we move from childhood ('that perfect globe of energy and curiosity' -- what a wonderful definition of the beginner's mind), into adulthood, learning in the process what's acceptable and what isn't -- to parents, teachers, peers, employers, friends; and stowing all those 'not's' in our bag and generally losing touch with the content. And, one day, we look at our 'globe' only to find that it's a mere 'shadow' of its former self, a slice instead of an orb -- and we realize we have been 'socialized' out of our naive, ingenuous, receptive and curious selves. Campbell identifies a similar process as we discover and construct our personal lists of thou shalts and thou shalt not's -- building our formula for acceptance; but losing our (beginner's) mind.

When we sit, when we meditate the task before us is to regain that lost capacity in the simplest possible way -- by suspending our compulsion to think; even to think about thinking. To suspend the preconceptions, the judgments, the compulsions to evaluate -- and to approach each experience 'again for the very first time', the true beginner's mind with eyes (and mind) wide open with surprise and wonder.

Ethics and Happiness

2011-11-10T09:30:00.000-08:00

If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife . . . Or so goes Jimmy Soul's recipe for marital contentment. Sort of a re-visioning of Proverbs 31, I suppose -- and just about as popular nowadays (talk about a sexist stance!) Perhaps a bit more substance is required in cooking up a formula for this sometimes elusive state -- happiness, not marital contentment (although they do somehow seem to be related).

A few months ago, I'd had a look at the benefits of 'being happy' (The Glass Is . . .) with a quick overview of The Happiness Advantage (Shawn Achor) and Authentic Happiness (Martin Seligman), the latter author/researcher offering a whack of variables that he feels might underpin this golden fleece of mindsets. Both feel optimism is an important element.

And now, from that hotbed of happiness (Missouri) comes some research from Harvey James, an academic economist (now there's an optimistic group!) that might expand our formula a bit: Ethical people are satisfied people, or to quote Plato, 'the just man is happy, the unjust man, miserable'. Harvey's findings are summed up: 'happiness is derived from doing well (ed note: not sure if he doesn't also mean 'doing good', in the grammatically correct sense) and from meeting psychological rather than material or hedonistic needs. While income, personal characteristics, and societal values play a role in affecting happiness, so do personal ethics. If the goal of public policy is to improve subjective well-being, and if subjective well-being increases when people are just, the efforts to improve the moral behavior of people will also improve overall societal well-being'.

James, true to his researcher's roots, is not about to say that the relationship between ethical behaviour and life satisfaction is a causal one; that is, that doing good / behaving justly causes one to be happier (any more than being happy causes one to do good!) What he is saying is that these two are related, possibly thru' a collection of 'third factors', and that higher levels of intolerance for unethical situations is generally found in people with greater measures of satisfaction with their life states.

A bit of reflection on this relationship suggests that it makes good, intuitive sense. If I notice that the cashier has given me back change for a $20, when it should have been a $10 and I draw her attention to the oversight, we both leave the situation with a sense of well-being (although I'm $10 less well off for the trouble!). If I do a 'cash only' transaction in my work, I'm 'saving' the government's bite; but might find myself checking the mail for months after I file that return, just waiting for the notice of audit. Not a very good use of time or focus -- and easily avoided.

Seligman, in his taxonomy of (happiness-inducing) signature strengths, identifies a very similar element, which he labels integrity, grouping it together under the rubric of courage, along with bravery, perseverance and diligence, and in particular, honesty and genuineness. He defines integrity in his use of the word as 'more than just telling the truth to others; (it means) representing yourself -- your intentions and commitments -- to others and to yourself -- in a sincere fashion, in word and deed'.

Mindfulness teachings may just have scooped Dr. James (sorry, Harvey) on this one by a few millennia. These are couched in the Eight-fold Path (essentially Buddhist guidelines for living life) and more broadly as they address the three Liberating Trainings. These would be meditation / mindfulness practice itself, cultivation of wisdom, and ethical behaviour. The latter, in turn, is comprised of Right Speech, Right Action, and Right Livelihood. And perhaps therein lies the core -- when practicing, amongst all the other benefits that seem to accrue, we feel freed. James speculates that the illusive 'third factor' (relating satisfaction and ethics) may be a 'freedom from guilt or shame'.

As we move from the daily sit back into the world, mindfulness practice then is more than carrying that sense of calm, ground, and centre into the rest of our day. It is choosing the way in which we engage that day: the relationships it brings us in contact with (and how we respect or value those exchanges), the choice points that are often subtly fraught with decisions pitting altruism against personal gain, bringing empathy and compassion into our dealings -- and being mindful in all these choices. All this, secure in the knowledge (now that Harvey's done his math) that we will be more content at the end of that day.

Buddha in the Dugout

2011-10-30T12:15:00.000-07:00

Now here's an original thought: 'baseball as a metaphor for life'! Having spent too many hours to count in front of games six and seven of the World Series, it was hard not to absorb some of the wisdom (no groans, please) of the seasoned manager, Tony LaRussa, that pulled the Cards from the brink of elimination likely a few dozen times between mid-August and the finale of the 'October classic'. For those of you who spent great chunks of Thursday and Friday night listening to the attached commentary, it was quite impossible (evidently almost as impossible as St. Louis winning this year's version) not to hear of the unlikely story of overcoming a 10.5 game deficit to catch the Braves on the season's final day; for the 'Carps' (aka Chris Carpenter) beating the Phillies' best (Roy Halliday for those of you who were never a Blue Jay fan!) -- only to face the remaining National League favourites, Milwaukee. Not to be awed by, down to their final strike -- not once, but twice -- this model of resilience and tenacity forcing a game seven. . . and then to win it all (as the cliche goes).

Buried in the blizzard of commentator hyperbole and expressed disbelief was a little gem that just may have some relevance to mindfulness practice. And attributed not to the fickle gods of baseball (be they human or heavenly), nor to the various and sundry candidates for this year's version of 'Mr. October' (turned out to be David Freese clothed in all his mid-western humility). But in fact to the sometime disgraced hitting coach of the Cardinals: Mark McGwire. His advice to his hitters: don't try to hit the ball to a particular spot on the field.

Perhaps a bit of connective linkage between this folksy intelligence and mindfulness may help. The expanded version of his counsel is first, you need to see the ball. (Stay with me here -- we are navigating our way thru' baseball cliche after all.) In baseball parlance, 'seeing' means attending to all the nuances of what's coming down the tube toward you, as batter, at something between 140 and 150 KPH: ball rotation, pitch plane, pitcher release point, etc., etc. That also means resisting the urge to 'predict' what you think might be about to happen -- generally leading to a swing that, in the exaggerated baseball babble of the colour commentator, has you 'coming out of your shoes' (overswinging), 'being late' (thought you'd get a curve and were greeted by 'high heat' -- a fastball), or frankly being embarrassed in some other way. In meditative terminology: being very present.

Once you've 'seen' the ball, concentrate on hitting it to the same spot on the field each time -- according to Mr. McGwire's wisdom, if possible, the middle of the park. Conjures up visions of seven fielders lined up and spaced out (as it were) behind the pitcher, just waiting for the highly predictable, middle of the field smack. Again advice that sounds very counter-intuitive, not to mention counter-productive. Implies that, if the hitter is successful, he will dump the ball to the shortstop or centre fielder each time he makes contact (which, for most of the spear carriers in the game will be about one time in four). Baseball lore demands, given the myriad of different scenarios possible when a batter comes to the plate, that you might 'pull the ball', or perhaps 'hit it the other way', keep in on the ground, slap it, bunt it, knock its cover off, and on and on. Mr. McGwire would have none of this. He rebuts all the naysayers with another truth: the pitch will determine where you hit it; your job is to just hit it. Again, in translation: the universe will provide the scenario -- we don't get to say; our job is to take that circumstance and greet it consistently, bringing to it that same non-judging, fully aware, acceptance of 'what is'. Attempting to control an outcome, wishing the situation to be otherwise (being prepared for a fastball and getting something off-speed) is not part of the deal. The slider down and out over the plate will go the other way; the fastball, squarely meeting a bat swung with every bit as much speed as the ball contacting it, will find its way over the fence.

Not to say that Tony didn't have a piece in all this as well. Following a hugely entertaining, albeit keystone-coppish game six (outfielders tripping over each other, MVP's dropping 'routine fly balls', catchers throwing to the fan behind the centre field fence instead of the second baseman) capped with the dramatic triple, then home run of Mr. Freese, the team's manager had the wisdom to remind his players that yesterday is yesterday -- and it has absolutely nothing to do with today beyond allowing us to show up for one more day of work. Now is now. Then is then -- and ne'er will the twain meet, except for losers. In the words of Jon Kabat-Zinn's catchy book title: wherever you go, there you are.

The Mindfulness Habit

2011-09-26T11:18:00.000-07:00

The reward for trailing along behind my mother as she surveyed the wares of Hens and Kelly's, Kleinhan’s, and the myriad other department stores along Main St. in Buffalo, was our visit to the Mayflower. The little donut shop, wildly predating Timmy’s and the ilk, offered more than just Saturday afternoon treats. Lettered below its distinctive schooner of a logo were the wise and cautionary words: “As you ramble on through life, brother (bear in mind this was 1955!), whatever be your goal, keep your eye upon the donut -- and not upon the hole!” Would that goal attainment and the rocky road to building sustainable habits was that easy. (Frankly, if the goal is effective weight control -- we may have a serious problem with that advice in any event.)

Nevertheless, as I dissected this little aphorism, more and more it seemed to contain the elements necessary to navigating this path – just in need of a little ‘fleshing out’, as it were. So, in search of a better mouse trap, I first thumbed through The Habit Factor -- maybe not as tasty, but with a bit more substance than our little shop of delights. Martin Grunburg's recent offering, is a (painstakingly thorough) analysis of the relationship between goals and habits, unorthodoxly (but not originally*) placing the emphasis on habit being the roadway to goal attainment; the latter often being left more to happenstance than a planned and carefully executed, gradual process. And I began to consider applications for establishing and maintaining a regular, meditative practice that eludes many us.

Grunburg maps out a six-step process beginning with the identification of a goal, in specific terms, written out, and having some inherent value to us. While this might sound like an obvious starting point, he notes that ‘you can’t achieve what you can’t see’; rather the equivalent of knowing you want to go on a holiday – need to go on a holiday! – then setting off on the trip without much of an idea of your destination; or for that matter, what route you plan to follow. (All very adventurous and 1970’s to just ‘hit the road’ – but decidedly vulnerable to getting side-tracked and never really arriving anywhere.) In addition to setting start and end dates, he underscores the importance of ‘capturing the ‘why’’ of the goal, then visualizing what it will look like once achieved. Again perhaps a self-evident step, but one that such common ‘goals’ as quitting smoking, losing weight, etc. might fail to quantify or specify. (I would question whether achieving such ‘negative states’ even constitutes a goal – and perhaps need to be reframed in positive, identifiable increases in behaviour – than the absence of same; again, somewhat like planning the vacation around where you don’t want to go!) The ‘why’ is as much associated with the goal’s value to you, the emotional energy (aka ‘investment’) that it embodies, as the act or achievement itself. He suggests identifying the various dimensions of one’s life (sometimes summarized as the body-mind-spirit triad) that might be reasonably included in specifying the personal importance of a goal; the logic being that the broader the connection or impact, the more likely it will be achieved.

As an example, our son Andrew identified as a three-year goal – commencing March 2011 – the public performance in recital of Bach’s complete organ oeuvre. Anyone who has known this young man for any length of time is well-acquainted with his ‘spiritual connection’ to his music: most certainly his passion and quite possibly the main vehicle through which he has explored his spirituality. Learning this body of composition is a challenge to any ‘mind’ -- most certain to change and expand the ‘mental’ elements of his being. And to watch an organist perform is to marvel at the coordination, the physical ‘inclusiveness’ of having hands and feet flying over two (or more commonly, three or even four) separated manuals (keyboards) – pushing and pulling stops (as in ‘pulling out all the . . .’) as they play. Body…mind…spirit.

To carry Grunburg’s ‘formula’ further, he underscores the importance of setting milestones, breaking the meta goal into smaller, more quickly achievable, interim stages – again, not a new strategy, but one that is often given short shrift. And finally, and this is perhaps the most useful contribution of the author’s approach, engaging in what he calls ‘habit alignment’, identifying the regular, measurable parts of your day that, when performed will lead you to your goal. What I believe he is describing is process whereby, once having identified the above elements of the goal itself, we essentially let go of that ‘target’ – not forgetting about it – but equally resisting the urge to chronically measure the size of the gap between our present position and our desired destination. Instead to put our energy into daily routines, a practice if you will, that, when engaged regularly will produce, almost as a side effect, our goal. (Consider how undermining and emotionally charged the act of climbing on the scales to ‘measure our success’ might be; when the habit structure is that of tracking and shaping food intake when attempting to reach a weight goal.) Running a race of significant distance or in a shorter time is far more constructively approached by focusing on the daily regimen of proper hydration, supportive diet, appropriate sleep, regular exercise periods with a particular focus or intent, receiving the helpful guidance of a coach or trainer – than calculating the difference between a goal and present capability. Trusting the preparatory process (the ‘alignment of habits’) is a far more sustainable practice. Participating in the regimen for its own sake – than for what it may (or may not) produce down the road.

The habit alignment phase suggests picking three to five ‘core’ habits that support and relate to the goal; identifying minimum criteria for the daily practice of each; writing down the contributory importance of each; and then tracking attainment.

Applications for this approach abound – one of the most intriguing for me is cultivation of a mindfulness practice. The goal: regular daily meditation. Instead of simply stating this laudible (albeit vague and poor defined) objective, then crossing my fingers (or legs in a lotus more likely) and hoping that things maintain, how much more useful to apply Grunburg’s little formula to the supportive habit structure that attaches to this goal. Why is it important to me? How does it relate to the triadic dimensions of my life? What are the habits, the behaviours, I need to incorporate into my day to support the goal? What are the intermediate goals? Where do I find a community that supports this goal? What do I track?

And so back to the Mayflower and its sage advice: a lifetime process, focusing on something you value (at nine years of age, donuts certainly filled that bill!), that has ‘substance’ (not the ‘hole’, the ‘negative goal’), in a supportive community (brother, sister, whomever!). Not bad for a little shop at the corner of Mohawk and Main.

*Two of the founding principals of Esalen, an alternate teaching community in California, Michael Murphy and George Leonard, explore very similar territory in their book, The Life We Are Given (Establishing an Integrated, Transformative, Practice): beginning with written affirmations, establishing time lines, defining a daily ‘Kata’ (a 40-minute routine that incorporates a balancing and centering activity, a yoga series, a period of visulaizaiton, and a 10-minute meditation; within a context of – think body, mind, spirit – mindfulness of both diet and physical exercise), and engaging in a community of like-interested individuals on a weekly basis.

The Rhythm

2011-09-03T19:52:00.000-07:00

The dog just kept barking. Not a distressed or desperate or frustrated bark -- those of us with intimate knowledge of all the nuances of canine communication are able to make such fine distinctions. Just a WOOF woof, WOOF woof . . . nearly musical in its cadence and accent. Aware that I'd planned on riffing on dealing with distractions while meditating, I'd almost welcomed the unplanned teaching point as we worked our way through our 25' sit. As the bell sounded to signal the sit's finish, I polled our group members as to their response to our four-legged participant's contribution. "I found it irritating and intrusive; thought about slipping outside and putting a bark collar on it!" "Noticed it -- but then it just seemed to fade." "Constructed a complete scenario around it: selecting the dog food, filling the bowl, presenting it to our friend. . . then launched off on some other related thoughts -- quite a little trip!" "Found it had a regular 'beat', almost rhythmic, like a metronome". "Did it really go on for 25 minutes?" In short, as varied a range of responses, my own included, as there were folks in the circle.

Striking as well was the relationship between the 'tone' of reaction and the degree to which the distraction persisted in the consciousness of the meditator. Along with a sense of intrusiveness, irritation, a need to 'fix', or banish the sound, came the 'hooks' that buried themselves in the awareness of the sitter; alternately, building the 'bridge' to the next thought. The distraction had, in some sense taken on a life of its own, becoming the focus of the sit; developing its own texture and dimensionality, becoming progressively 'bigger'.

Reliably, for others, experiencing the cycle of barks as a rhythm, allowing versus resisting, developing an 'interested observer' posture -- even briefly -- enabled the meditator to hear the sound as it recurred, to apply a (perhaps wordless) label to the distraction, then return to the breath. As the pattern repeated -- as it certainly did -- the sound became decreasingly intrusive, to the point where, although it continued to be heard, its potency diminished to the point where its impact was little more than the sound a ticking clock, traffic sounds, birds chirping -- part of the surround and little more.

Bhante Gunaratana, in Mindfulness in Plain English, offers some succinct thoughts on tactics for addressing distractions (of all types, not just dog barks). He suggests allowing ones awareness to briefly migrate to the intrusion; then identify the 'what it is', the 'how strong, intense it is', and finally the 'how long it's been present'. He contends that this 'objectifying' of the intrusion facilitates one's ability to observe it, rather than participating in it, sufficiently distancing one from the emotional valence that might form almost instantly along with the attachment (resentment) or avoidance (anticipating the next yelp -- and perhaps actually 'holding one's breath while waiting!) that will develop; or to have it operate as a launching pad for the thought sequence that might pull one progressively further away from the breath.

And then there's the rhythm itself, the 'flow' of the sit. At the root of a mindfulness practice is the cycle, the regular pattern of the breath. And equally, the ebb and flow of having one's awareness 'float away from the dock', feeling the 'rope' connecting us to the breath become 'taut' (as a distraction takes brief hold of our consciousness), gently tugging at our awareness and reminding us to return to the anchoring breath. Our response to this rhythm -- just as it seemed to be in dealing with the distraction of the barking -- is critical to the integrity of the sit. There are myriad ways in which we can oppose the cycle, disrupting the pattern of 'naming' (the intrusion) and 'returning' (to the breath), and thereby empowering the interruption -- be it thought, sound, or sensation. We can resist the distraction, judging it (as bad or undesirable in some fashion). We can 'do our best' (ironically, becoming 'our worst' in terms of the sit) to push it out of our consciousness, empowering it all the more. We can engage it, holding hands with it and toddling off down the path of associative thoughts. We can berate ourselves for yet another disrupted sit.

The 'rhythmic' option accepts the distraction (be it drowsiness, boredom, restlessness, self-doubt, etc.), welcoming it as yet another wave breaking on the beach -- to be noticed (not resisted or becoming enamoured of) as a unique event; then allowed to recede, only to be followed by another. . . and another as the sit proceeds. The pattern, the cycling puts us closer in touch with our anchor, the breath. And each repetition deepens our intimacy with and capacity for utilizing this valuable tool of mindfulness through the rest of the day. The reality that we will be pulled from our centre; and our task, perhaps our only task, is to ground ourselves (noticing the desire, the aversion) and to gently return to our 'dock'.

What Were They Thinking??

2011-08-15T12:24:00.000-07:00

Mindless! This, the opening to a homily at Toronto’s St. James’ Cathedral, in reference to the days of violent rioting in London, England this past week. As is often the case, the making of some sense of catastrophic events, particularly those authored by other human beings (but even natural events get those evangelicals’ tongues a-wagging and fingers a-pointing!) becomes paramount – and with this (pseudo) understanding, just as often comes the offering of a ‘cure’. In the case of the homily, it appears that the roots of this mindless behaviour are traceable to a loss of one’s religious bearings; and, by extension, the cure lies in ‘getting the good word out’ to those lost souls (sounds like evangelizing to me). I’m not sure it’s just quite that simple (on counts of either cause or cure).

Saturday morning greeted Nicola and I with a tableau wildly less ruinous, mercifully, than the one pictured above – but nonetheless very disturbing. And reminding us, yet again, of that very fine line that sometimes blurs sufficient to allow us residents of comfortable Canada in secure Stratford to be touched by events, if not of scale and devastation, at least of similar etiological seed. Mindless behaviour.

I’ll not quibble with the Dean’s (homilist at St. James’) points. In my experience of him, he is a courageous and articulate speaker, a tolerant, inclusive, and socially sensitive observer, and a deep thinker. But he has a job to do and a context within which to do it. Nevertheless, seven additional considerations – which, together with God (or more properly, the loss of touch with same), bring our tally to eight, possibly causal, almost definitely contributing elements underpinning this mindlessness.

As with England, so with Stratford: age, stage and content of values acquisition, a sense of (pseudo) power (however transitory and pointless) against an abiding backdrop of felt powerlessness, an alienation and separation from (and with it, a marginalization), frank numbers (of bodies), impulsivity (and its primary catalyst, substance), and finally the capability to communicate (one’s actions) in word and picture to widespread numbers of like-minded, like-situated, but perhaps geographically remote peers.

The analysis of England’s riots (principally taking place in London and Manchester) seemed all the more challenging in the absence of any ‘reason’. Flashpoints were identified – but seemed quite insufficient to explain the devastation that followed. Large numbers of mainly teenaged rioters seemed intent on trashing the neighbourhoods in which they lived, with no particular motivation (political, social, racial, etc.) other than ‘everybody’s doin’ it (doin’ it, doin’ it) – so let’s go! It seems just a little precious to compare the UK’s widespread destruction with objectively trivial vandalism. But perhaps easier to understand on the smaller, local scale.

We happen to live on a well-trodden block, midway between point ‘B’ (that would be probable destination of said vandals) and point ‘A’ (the bars). Over the day on Saturday, one or both of us had opportunity to ‘retrace’ the path: the destroyed flowers of our neighbours (above), the smashed urn of a resident along the river (at right), and finally the vandalized garden of another homeowner, living at the corner, as one staggers off the bridge at the base of the downhill stumble from the bars. Without too fully indulging (the very short step to) stereotype, I would venture, like the UK, that the above examples were the handy work of a youthful group (remembering that a group is more than a single individual, for present purposes) of alienated, substance-altered (and thereby, disinhibited), ‘in the moment’ (read, uncalculating, unplanned) folk who quite possibly photographed and posted the proceeds of their stroll home on a pleasant Friday night.

Like the Dean (and countless other analysts), troubling as the behaviours themselves might have been, the task is first to understand and secondly to craft a ‘cure’, owning that riot and rebellion is as old as community itself. As is vandalism, almost by definition, an impulsive act in the presence of (disinhibited) opportunity. Much as the desire for vengeance and retaliation surges in the immediate discovery, I’m equally certain that the answer does not lie in secreting oneself in the bushes for countless nights thereafter, waiting to jump out and confront the perpetrators. (For one thing a sleep-deprived, sixty-four year old is not exactly a match for drunk teenagers!) Where our esteemed homilist and I diverge is not in the ‘spirit’ (if you will) of what we say – but in the vehicle. Mindless acts are exactly that. Mindless acts require a mindful solution.

Walk a Mile in My Shoes: Empathy & Evil

2011-08-06T11:18:00.000-07:00

Humanistic psychology has been around for a long time. As good luck (certainly not good management on my part) would have it, I was entering graduate school just about the time that the particular university I was attending was implementing a relatively new emphasis in training clinical psychologists. In fact our ‘branch’ even got a new label: counselling psychology. Nothing wrong with the long-established psychoanalytic approaches of Freud and Jung or, indeed with the ‘new’ behavioural techniques that had grown up over the preceding three or four decades, under the watchful eye of B. F. Skinner. The former with its emphasis on the unconscious, presenting concerns generally being seen as surface ‘symptoms’ of long-buried neuroses; and the latter with its mechanistic, push button ‘A’ and observe response ‘B’ explanations of human behaviour were being supplanted with what one of the leading theorists in the area chose to call ‘client centered therapy’. A cornerstone of Carl Rogers’ approach was that of demonstrating ‘unconditional positive regard’ for the client. In place of ‘interpreting’ one’s complaints, making ‘conscious’ the hidden villains or alternately, manipulating one’s environment to promote superficially altered behaviour (in the hope that it would attach to deeper, sustainable change), Rogers chose to listen to his clients, endeavouring to develop a sense of what it was like to experience the world as they did, validating their experience – not interpreting it, pathologizing it, or manipulating it. Empathy had entered the realm of psychotherapy – as an ‘intervention’, a therapeutic tool.

I and my fellow classmates spent endless hours dissecting, deconstructing this vague, marvelous concept; cultivating ‘verbal attends’, open-ended queries, reflections, and summarizations as feedback to our ‘clients’ (happily not live bodies – well I guess other grad students were technically live bodies!), conveying that ‘I feel your pain’ and that ‘I hear what you’re saying’ – all in the name of empathizing. Rating scales were developed to track our progress in the acquisition of ‘core skills’; budding careers turned on one’s ability to draw out the client; and the ‘cherry on top’ was the client exclamation: ‘that’s exactly how I feel’ – proof positive that therapist and client were indeed, on the same page! Two underlying assumptions: empathy does not reside, in equal measure, in all of us, needing in some cases to be learned; and more critically, that empathy can indeed be taught.

Somewhere along the line, since those heady school days, I became interested in, let’s call it the ‘flip side’ of empathy – academically and professionally, of course! Not to put too fine a point on it, that would be evil. Robert Hare, a Canadian psychologist with a truly international reputation, has fashioned a very productive and hugely valuable career around the study of evil; or more properly, the study of individuals who do evil. His Hare Psychopathy Checklist, since its conception in the early 1980’s, stands now as the central point of reference and primary assessment instrument used in the quantifying of evil (doers). Simple in construction – consisting of twenty defining aspects of psychopathy* – it produces a ‘number’, somewhere between 0 and 40, that, if we can play a bit fast and loose with current acronyms, represents an individual’s ‘EQ’ – Evil Quotient (forgive me, Bob). Right there, nestled comfortably between ‘Parasitic Lifestyle’ and ‘Shallowness of Emotion’ is ‘Lack of Empathy’ on Hare’s top 20 list of beahviours of the evil ones amongst us. While happily it occupies a relatively small part of my practice, I am able to indulge my ‘two-sided’ interest (that would be empathy and its ‘evil’ twin) in the assessment of a tiny population of individuals who are, by court or related agency, under scrutiny for their past behaviour and are deemed at risk of repeating said behaviours in the future. And Hare’s Checklist is right there on the top shelf of my tool box.

So when a review appeared of a new book by Cambridge researcher, Simon Baron-Cohen, The Science of Evil: On Empathy and the Origins of Cruelty, it definitely caught my attention. Baron-Cohen contends, and I think correctly so, that evil, as an explanatory concept in accounting for horrific acts of cruelty, is somewhat limited. Not to say that Hitler or Norway’s Breivik are not aptly described as ‘evil’ – but, in helping us understand (to the extent that that is even possible) the individual, or indeed ‘what’s wrong with them’, it’s not very enlightening. Baron-Cohen finds, as does Hare, a ‘lack of empathy’ a more useful avenue, as it focuses more on the individual, his personality, history, style, and interpersonal relations; and less on the acts of the individual – which, may in fact be mitigated or aggravated by any number of external influences.

While Baron-Cohen is most interested in elucidating the brain-based contributors to empathy, he notes that they are only a part of the story. Genetic and social variables occupy central roles as well. The ‘hard-wired’ view, the brain or physiologically-based origins of empathy (or a shortage of same), suggests that evil-doers are born, not made; and by extension, are therefore open to little in the way of change, rehabilitation (short of a lobotomy!). The genetic contribution, the ‘bred in the bone’ part, suggests a similar, cast-in-stone immutability. Hare’s research and portions cited by Baron-Cohen would seem to support the view that certain individuals definitely respond in ways that indicate (without hugely oversimplifying) they are less ‘moved’ by emotionally-charged material (both negative and positive). In short, that they lack the ability (read, wiring) to process information that should influence their choices, should trigger sympathy, understanding, compassion. They are lacking empathy, in some cases, utterly so.

But then there’s the social piece and a very complicated one it is. Consider not the commandant of a concentration camp, but the guard, the foot-soldier assigned to duties at an Auschwitz or a Buchenwald. Or indeed consider the behaviour of any soldier whose tour takes him/her into a war zone. It is unlikely that all such individuals have self-selected for placement in situations that endorse ‘evil’, inhuman behaviour; indeed unfair, to see all such individuals as empathy-challenged, psychopathic – but who are nonetheless the perpetrators of such acts. Baron-Cohen is quick to point out that, under such circumstances, it is more likely ‘group membership’ (acting in concert with a group of ‘like-minded’ individuals, perhaps under orders and at personal risk of disciplinary action) that somehow ‘switches off’ or mutes their more ‘human’ wiring. It is in that conflicted moment where acting on one’s instincts, in accord with one’s values, morality collides with simply acting, that we lose our way.

Back to the assumptions underpinning my grad school training: that empathy, in some cases may not be present in the individual in any great measure; and secondly, that it may be taught. I would now add a third and fourth consideration: that empathy needs room in which to manifest and that it must be an intentional, considered option, not necessarily available on some automatic, intuitive basis. And that is where mindfulness becomes a necessary element in the equation. Mindfulness practice invites a slowing down (hitting the pause button rather than acting impulsively), an acting with awareness and intention (not relying on a quite possibly deficient store of ‘pre-wired’ empathy), a consideration (right speech, right action), a compassion (Metta). I do not consider myself an instinctively empathic individual, not evil, just not spontaneously empathic. I have learned to listen, to attend to cues, verbal and non-verbal, from those in front of me, to provide feedback and response to those cues enabling a deeper consideration of presenting issues. I would like to think that I’ve ‘learned’ – and perhaps more importantly, am able to provide the necessary room and to make the choice that puts me in someone else’s shoes – for the moment.

*Psychopathy: characterized by the inability to form human attachment and an abnormal lack of empathy, masked by an ability to appear outwardly normal (online definition).

Our Best Teachers (& the square foot rule)

2011-07-24T19:11:00.000-07:00

There’s an oft-repeated story, attributed to Thich Nhat Hanh, the founder of Plum Village, a Buddhist retreat centre near Paris:

Each year, as applications for continued participation in this community were being reviewed, the question would arise as to why one particular individual would be invited to return. This man was notoriously challenging, difficult to get along with, and generally undermining to the values and teachings of the centre. Each year Thich Nhat Hanh would patiently listen to the near universal entreaties to bar this individual from membership; and each year he would approve his continued association. When pressed to explain his reasons, his answer was simple. This man provides a focus for the centre. His actions are so outrageous that he cannot help but be noticed by all. And none of you has yet learned to be in his presence without having him distract you from your own reflections and study. Only when you have learned his lesson, will we consider your request to bar him (and then we won't need to). He is your ‘best teacher’.

The community members were merely acting out the very human response to a situation or individual that made them uncomfortable, angry, frustrated: avoidance – or at least a request that the community’s leader would ‘remove’ the challenge and restore order and peace. The belief, of course is that by excising the problem, the issue is resolved. Thich Nhat Hanh was underscoring the reality – ‘until the next time’. Better, even necessary, to cultivate a capacity to deal with these emotions within ourselves than to spend our days trying to remove the external source of them.

With Karmic predictability and relentlessness, these ‘opportunities’ enter and re-enter our personal theatre – until we get it right. (Maybe it’s time to watch Groundhog Day – yet again!) The range of response is also predictable (although somewhat specific to the individual). For me, the sequence usually starts with a rant, typically rationalized and washed through the lens of feeling betrayed or disappointed. (I’m entitled to rant because I’ve been . . . or so the opening act generally goes). Truth be told, it’s usually more about the order of things, my order of things, being disturbed (often unexpectedly). Then the parent appears – usually daddy – and his need (delusion?) that order can and must be restored – whether through civilized negotiation, gentle correction, or arbitrary mandate. This stage of course is heavily reliant on my having sufficient control of outcomes to be conciliatory, didactic, or arbitrary. Either way, the operative term is ‘control’; and its flip side, ‘helplessness’. And then we move to angst – what if. . ? If the tantrum doesn’t do it, dickering and/or pronouncement doesn’t do it. . . then what? Concern, anxiety about the future. Quite a lot to learn from one ‘teacher’!

So what’s to be done? In an earlier blog (May 9, 2011) on projection and how to address it mindfully, I’d recounted Zindel Segal’s suggested protocol: developing an awareness of the present experience – taking our attention away from the ‘trigger’ event or individual and shifting it to our own experience (what am I feeling?); identifying the way in which we’re relating to the event (attaching, avoiding, etc.); letting go of our need to make things different than they are (accepting, allowing); and finally, inviting the experience to remain, understanding that it will change, evolve – all things do and in their own fashion.

At lunch with a friend this week, we began to discuss the relationship between physical pain and levels of discomfort or, in many cases, literal suffering that result. As Shinzen Young, a widely respected meditation teacher, frames it, pain exists along one dimension of our experience; and our resistance to it (in simplistic terms, our effort to avoid it, deny it, medicate it, operate on it, etc. – in essence, the degree to which we push against it) along a second dimension. He describes the subjective experience of pain, our suffering, as the product of our ‘objective pain’ and our resistance – or the amount of the first multiplied by the amount of the second. So, as we experience greater levels of pain, our subjective experience of that pain is magnified exponentially by the level of resistance we bring into the equation as well. In the diagram, a six-fold increase in pain, accompanied by a similar increase in resistance, produces a subjective pain level, not of six, but of 36! His contention is that, a regular mindfulness practice, by bringing increased levels of clarity and acceptance to our physical experience, is able to address the dimension of resistance – in essence containing that part of the equation over which we have some control. While we can’t, in many cases, limit, reduce, and certainly not remove the pain, we can definitely impact our level of subjective suffering by lowering our resistance (increasing our acceptance).

Conversation turned to dealing with challenging people (teachers, as it were), and it occurred to me that a very similar model had application. Our Plum Village populace, courtesy of their ‘dictatorial’ leader, was not able to address their resident ‘pain’. He was there for the duration – suck it up, buttercup! What they were most certainly able to do was to limit the level of reactivity (resistance) to this man. The resultant distraction (i.e., suffering, in Shinzen Young’s model) was able to be contained, hopefully sufficient to allow them to carry on with their own lives without having this man continuing to be the ‘tail that wagged their dogs’. Similarly, if I examine my personal response to ‘teachers’, my anger (the initial tantrum), my efforts to restore ‘equilibrium’ (my equilibrium) / control / order, and ultimately my anxiety over where things will head from here, all represent resistance in various guises to accepting what is, to sitting with an individual over whose decisions I have (and probably shouldn’t have) much say, much as I’d like to. A pain, perhaps. My choice as to whether I want a 6 or a 36!

Diagnosis: Unusual; Prescription: Meditation

2011-07-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

A pleasant, earnest, and persistent young man telephoned last week intent on ‘helping’ us with a problem that we were about to encounter with the Windows operating system that populates our various computers. His message was clear: he had been instructed by Microsoft to contact us and assist us with the removal of a viral program, origin suspected to be Thailand. While he (helpfully) remained on the phone, we were to go directly to our computer (do not pass ‘Go’; and certainly do not collect the usual $200 swag – that evidently would be his job!), log on to the website he would designate, and presto, we would have dodged another digital bullet. Fortunately, my wife received the call, together with all its urgent instructions – and accordingly informed our obliging young caller that her experience with Microsoft (and it is ample) was that contact is not typically made by telephone. She thanked him for his time (more or less) and ended the call. A few days later, she had occasion to take her computer in for servicing, discovering in conversation with the technician that we were not alone in receiving this uninvited assist. Another less cautious customer had reportedly followed the directives; only to find that, in doing so, he himself installed corrupted code – which then cost him a few hundred dollars to have removed, evidently with the now ‘necessary’ intervention of said helpful and anonymous caller.

I was reminded of the above scenario as I read, with some interest, Ian Brown’s weekend editorial about the soon to be published DSM-V (see our ‘Of Interest’ website, for the full text – of Ian’s article, not the DSM!). The lingo may be a bit unfamiliar to some – the DSM’s are the manuals utilized in making diagnoses of mental disorders, syndromes, etc. Evolving thru’ three previous editions in the past 60 years, the DSM-IV, its current incarnation, is an imposing checklist cataloguing criteria for everything from depression to dementia, psychosis to personality disorders, anxiety to Asperger’s. Ian chooses to highlight the contentiousness that has pretty much preceded the release of each successive edition; largely driven by what some see as a rather arbitrary and scientifically ‘unsupported’ inclusion (and exclusion) of ‘conditions’ that might be better viewed as ‘extremes of normal behaviour’. (PMS, in; homosexuality, out.) He also raises the concern that, with every good (or maybe not so good) diagnosis, comes the need to develop ways of treating said condition. His contention is that, since this is primarily a medical/psychiatric volume (although the ‘protected privilege’ of pronouncing diagnosis is extended to psychologists in Ontario), ‘treatment’ has increasingly come to mean ‘medication’. In short, not to be too inclined to see a suspicious character behind every tree – that would be frankly paranoid, the editorial considers the possibility that the DSM’s have gradually become something of a self-perpetuating marriage between psychiatry (‘we invent the pathology’) and the drug companies (‘we invent the cure’). Hence, my little resonance with the scenario in the first paragraph: first I’ll help you inject a problem into your computer; then I’ll ride in to the rescue (for my $300 fee!). Hmmm, seems a bit circular (and scary).

I also had occasion a few weeks back to catch the end of an interview between Steve Paikin (The Agenda) and an octogenarian, Don Weitz who is a self-described ‘psychiatric survivor’ and ‘anti-psychiatry activist’. (The podcast is viewable at: http://www.tvo.org/cfmx/tvoorg/theagenda/index.cfm?page_id=7&bpn=109191&ts=2011-06-28%2020:00:00.0 ). Weitz, an arrival in Canada some 50 years ago as a student in U of T‘s graduate psychology program, became progressively disenchanted with the whole concept of mental illness, partly a reaction to treatment interventions observed during a stint working at CAM-H (formerly Queen St. Mental Health Centre) as a psychologist; and partly responsive to his own earlier experiences on the ‘other side of the window’ as a patient in late adolescence. He has been a vocal critic of all things psychiatric ever since.

As a practitioner, two observations. As a culture, we seem to be getting ‘sicker’, judging from the upsurge in numbers of certain categories of identified dysfunction (depression, attention deficit, anxiety, to name a few). A statistic cited in Brown’s column (NIH survey) notes that presently nearly half of American adults satisfy the criteria for at least one DSM mental illness! I’ve often wondered just what these sorts of reported trends actually reflect. Are there more depressed people in 2011 than in, say, 1990? Are little boys becoming progressively less manageable, more chaotic? My own (perhaps overly optimistic) suspicion is that this increased ‘mental malaise’ may in part be artifactual; that the ‘statistical evidence’ is in part predicated on two sources of somewhat suspect data (not the accuracy of the numbers, but the interpretation thereof): more prescriptions written for conditions typically seen as psychiatric (depression, anxiety); and more lost time work absences, reported as having a ‘psychiatric / psychological origin’. This trend, if my view has any credence at all, is disturbing in and of itself, in that it reflects as much an increased readiness to diagnose a condition – but quite possibly not an actual increase in the base rate of the condition(s) itself. More disturbing still is the reactivity that it seems to engender against taxonomic systems such as the DSM (as typified by Ian Brown’s column), and treatment of psychiatric disorder in general (as portrayed in the Weitz interview). The equivalent of throwing out the baby with the bath water. Certainly there are villains that will attempt to corrupt your computer. And certainly there may be a tendency in some quarters to pathologize eccentric, atypical, unpopular, or extreme behaviours. But it does not mean that we should stop answering the phone or throw out the computer. Nor is taxonomy the problem. What’s that hopelessly overused cliché: guns don’t shoot people; people shoot people. The tools are not the problem. Their application might be.

Oh yeah, the second observation. Restoring my faith on a regular basis is the appearance of clients in my practice, adamant that they wish to implement alternative strategies in addition to and on some occasions in place of medication in management of their presenting symptoms. The capacity for regular mindfulness practice, linked with other cognitive interventions, to sustain gains in a host of areas (anxiety, chronic pain, depression, anger/impulse control) is testament that perhaps we’re not going (straight) to Hell in a psychiatric hand basket. And that we, as a culture are not the uncritical, unquestioning collection of buffoons that the alarmists might suggest.

Endings

2011-07-07T13:18:00.000-07:00

Being and non-being create each other.
Difficult and easy support each other.
Long and short define each other.
High and low depend on each other.
Before and after follow each other.
(Tao Te Ching, 2)

Natural events are cyclical, always changing from one extreme toward an opposite. . .That is the way of nature: to relax what is tense, to fill what is empty, to reduce what is overflowing. . . The wise person follows this natural order of events (and) by remaining disinterested (in outcome) becomes potent and successful.
(Tao of Leadership, 77)

One year ago this week, I attended a memorial service in Lawrence, Kansas for my friend and principal mentor, John Heider, the author of the second of these two quotes – and it put me in mind of endings and how we deal with them, what they represent to us. For the past two decades, I had, more or less annually, joined at least one of John’s trainings as he taught group process, body work, gestalt technique, and meditation. Our final group was held in October 2008, (barely a year and a half before John’s death in May, 2010), prompting me, at the time, to reflect on this bittersweet event:

Without fear of exaggeration, it is this man’s guidance and gentle suggestion, teachings and wisdom, provision of opportunity to explore the truly difficult, conflicted and challenging issues that plague us all, insights, encouragement to cultivate a contemplative and meditative practice, that has sculpted the spiritual framework that has occupied for me mid-life to ‘young’ old age. And this is his last group. This year’s trip is tinged with the sadness and uncertainty that must always accompany a transition, indeed a closing – especially one that will be hard pressed to find equal; and certainly never be replaced.

We sit around the group circle, ‘old style’ – pillows on the floor (no mean trick for a group with an average age of somewhere in the low 60’s). All bound by a few simple rules: tell one’s truth (or as much of it as feels safe); remain present; and above all, ‘trust the process’. This last bit, cryptic and succinct as it may seem, to my mind is the essence of personal and ultimately spiritual growth. It presumes a community that may be relied upon to place each other’s respective interests in a non-judgmental, supportive, receptive, and respectful light. It presumes a set of expectations that does not include ‘getting answers’ – only being granted a full opportunity to ask one’s questions, a forum to be fully heard (not judged, corrected, or advised). And it presumes that speaking aloud one’s dilemmas and enthusiasms, regrets and successes, witnessed in such a community, will advance and clarify, will provide direction, and, most importantly, be listened to – a rare occurrence in today’s world where many speak and few hear. Neither is talk the only medium. Equally important is the silence. If I may appropriate: ‘Be still and know . . ; be still; be’ is something of a maxim easily adopted by this group.

As expected, the sub-text, the ‘elephant in the room’ of this final group is a sense of loss, dislocation, anxiety around ‘where to from here’ – as we say our goodbyes to a group of friends, to a community that has, without exaggeration, been the touchstone, the anchor, the home that this incredibly diverse group of sometime strangers has come to rely upon for all of the above gifts. Equally evident, and somewhat less expectedly is a profound sense of gratitude for having had the opportunity to live in this community – however, briefly.

I believe my personal ‘work’ has ever orbited around endings – as it may for many of us – or perhaps more properly transitions, even evolutions. In this regard, I had occasion to look back at some writing I’d done in the mid-1990’s, at that time centering on frustrations associated with our local bicycle club. A few of us had invested heavily in interest, energy, and time to consolidate and promote the growth of a group of ‘hobbyists’ (hardly!) in a sport paradoxically populated by individualists – despite the superficial identification of a team structure. Adding members, structuring regular group rides that would conform to (supportive) ‘guidelines’ that wouldn’t see loose cannons charging off the front or lame ducks falling off the back, ride schedules, club jerseys, sponsorship – you name it – all became central focuses; and in turn, confirmations of ‘success’. The awareness finding its way into print fifteen years ago was much less about the effort imbued to make something work; and much more about the, at first subtle disappointments forming around something when it starts to stop working. At the time, coming to recognize – and accept – the natural course of things, in John’s language.

Were I a student being graded in a more conventional context, I would likely be scored an ‘NI’ (needs improvement) or, at best, perhaps an ‘S’ (satisfactory). I’m still evidently a work in progress. As if to highlight my forward movement (or lack thereof), this week too saw an email arrive in the in-box from a colleague in our group practice announcing that, after ten-years of affiliation with our collective, it was time for her to establish an independent, unique, and separate identity. The (at least for me) instinctive response to yet another ending was immediate: disappointment, anxiety (over filling the void), a dab of doubt (something I/we did?) – and even a little anger, sense of betrayal (where’s all that loyalty and gratitude when you need it?). Out of sight, but hopefully around the corner, were the celebration of the new venture and the capacity to actually read the words that thanked us for a great decade and a positive association. Still a little stuck in the ending, the ‘what was’; and a little hesitant to embrace what will be – the new beginnings.

Mindfulness practice, with its emphasis on balance, equanimity, acceptance of ‘the full catastrophe’ (the ‘natural course’ of change and impermanence), letting go, and developing an awareness around the paired distractions of avoidance (in this case, of change) and attachment (in this instance, to what was) seems the ideal tonic with which to deal with endings. Quoting John once again, the point of any practice is to ‘shed the light of consciousness on an issue, a concern, a decision’; not to solve the problem or provide an answer in a conventional sense, but to sit in the presence of the question. Evidently, some of our ‘aging’ group from Lawrence still has this work to do. The consensus was to carry on meeting, ‘leaderless’. Perhaps it’s time to embrace a new beginning, letting John go. And 'trust the process' that each ending (as Lau-tzu suggests in the opening quote, 2500 years ago) holds within it a beginning.

The Community of Self

2011-06-27T12:21:00.000-07:00

We seem to be social critters. Affiliation becomes us. A few experiences, however, in the past month or so, while not openly challenging this view, at least have given me pause to reflect on some ‘guidelines’ that might be worth considering before memorizing the secret handshake of our next club initiation rite. Most recently, a lovely little film, Another Year, had found its way into our DVD player. Featuring Jim Broadbent, Leslie Manville and Ruth Sheen, it explores four seasons in the contented lives of Tom and Gerri (no relation, as far as I know. . .) as they host in their home various friends and family members (all with some measure of dysfunction and neediness attached); and tend their ‘allotment’, a plot of land subdivided into parcels and made available to individuals and families to be worked side by side but, and here’s the critical piece in my mind, independent of one another.

A second moment of awareness arrived shortly after my return from a bicycle trip in the UK. A neighbourhood friend paused on his dog walk to chat with me while I fussed over the reassembly of my bike, safely (and happily) arriving in the same time zone and universe as its owner on the inbound flight. After the generic inquiries, he asked if I’d enjoyed the group this time as much as last (reference to a similar venture in France last Autumn). Without a moment’s hesitation I replied that “yes, the company had been extraordinary – convivial, cooperative, interesting, timely, and cycling at just the pace I could manage!” My friend, a fellow skeptic by training and preference, raised an eyebrow and scanned my face for the signature irony he has long associated with our conversations. “I was by myself”, completing my reply. I thanked John for drawing my attention to this particular aspect of the trip – with the quite surprising awareness that it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d quite contentedly spent the bulk of each day in the two-week journey with no other company than my own.

What links these two accounts for me is that community forms an intimate part of both experiences. Tom and Gerri are painted as generous, social beings – Gerri working as a National Health counsellor, Tom as a successful, company-based geologist – connected with their extended family, but content to allow them (an adult son and a sadly disconnected brother) to work out their own issues in their own time. Equally, however, boundaries within and between these relationships are the critical elements that makes their community involvement sustainable and healthy. A somewhat pathetic co-worker is included in the couple’s weekly rhythm of entertaining; to the point where the demands cross a boundary that makes her company intrusive and unhealthy; that point where friendship and support become enabling. The couple is acutely aware and protective of this point and take good care to defend against further encroachment. This is the point where we see them, once again, contentedly working in their allotment garden and regenerating their independence. And what a beautiful metaphor for this balance between community (the parcel within the plot) and individuality. And what a healthy distinction between community and communal.

The solitude and time for reflection, offered by the solo bicycle tour, I now see as fostered and driven by a similar balance. This was not some kind of Into the Wild, ill-construed adventure in self-sufficiency and abandonment of social contact. Rather, day’s end would see me check into a (usually highly restorative) B & B, connect with the hosts, even share tales of each other’s lives (Mick’s story will no doubt find its way into a future riff as testament to resilience and coping). More so, the daily phone call back to Canada, partly to ease my wife’s anxious mind (the constructions her imagination could place on the troubles an aging husband, alone in the Dales could contrive were well worth defusing!) but as much to share the day’s adventures, was a pivotal piece as well; the point where community meets solitude. Without one to define the other, both go wanting.

Larke Turnbull, a journalist and regular participant in one of our weekly mindfulness meditation groups, had chatted with me recently with a principal query being the increasing popularity of meditation; and in particular, meditation in a group setting. It is not difficult to see how sitting, with one’s eyes closed, focusing on the rhythm of one’s own breathing might be construed as a solitary activity – but exercised in the greater presence of a group with similar intentions and, most importantly, with great respect for the other individuals in that group.

One additional comment on this perhaps paradoxical concept of individuality within the group, the community. Alone in a crowd is the sometimes negatively construed description of a person who finds themselves surrounded by people – but still feeling isolated and disconnected. What I’m attempting to describe is essentially the opposite: one who feels at peace with his/her self, content with solitude; but intimately connected in a very healthy and salutary way to those around them. Thomas Moore (Care of the Soul; and Soul Mates) has described what I see as an important starting point for the latter of these two relationships. He references ‘the community of self’, alluding to the multiple aspects of self that we all contain. Gestalt psychology pays great heed to the same idea; as does psychosynthesis theory. The essence is that of cultivating an awareness of and taking ownership for all ‘sub-personalities’ – the good, the bad, and the ugly, as it were – and thereby getting quite comfortable in one’s own skin, with one’s own self. (This is contrasted with rejecting aspects that we find discomforting or know to be unpopular – ‘that’s not the real me’ – and embracing those pieces that we feel will endear us to our community, or relationships.) The ‘alone time’, the keeping our boundaries in place in our community connections, the ‘working of our own allotments’ provides us the space and opportunity to get to know ourselves. Then (and perhaps only then) do we have the perspective, the assurance, the self-knowledge, self-acceptance to develop and maintain healthy membership in our communities.

The Glass Is. . . Well, The Glass Is.

2011-06-20T06:57:00.001-07:00

I can still recall my reflexive annoyance at seeing the cute little smiley face appended to the signature of a former colleague’s written communications – and the momentary pleasure I’d take in blacking it out. The implied ‘have a nice day’ seemed to invite an ‘I’ll have whatever kind of day I choose, thank you very much’ accompanied by thoughts of pathetic Pollyanna’s and irrepressible Ricky’s (for those of us old enough to have watched Ozzie and Harriet). Give me a good, solid cynic anytime: grounded realists all. In short, I’d always harbored a view (a suspicion) that optimism lacked gravitas, smacked to some extent of self-delusion – or, at best, naïveté; pessimism, while ‘harder to look at’, was the real deal, the unvarnished truth.

Mellowing somewhat, as I expect we must, in the past few decades – and I suppose fortunate, professionally, that psychology as a discipline has gravitated toward the middle ground – I’ve found myself a little less dark and now quite accepting of ‘balanced thinking’. Cognitive behavioural techniques, with their emphasis on rational thought and a ‘just stick to the facts, m’am’ methodology, have displaced, for the most part Freud’s sinister interpretations of our hidden compulsions as the intervention of choice. My personal pendulum had begun its inevitable return trip to the midpoint. Nevertheless I was not about to turn in my cynic’s club membership just yet and become a card-carrying optimist.

So it was with some skepticism (of course!) that I read Sarah Hampson’s piece in the Globe last weekend highlighting the findings of a recent book entitled The Happiness Advantage (Shawn Achor) associating, among other things, a performance edge going to the happy camper. Identifying a range of potential within the individual, research reviewed by Achor reportedly suggests that we operate more toward the upper reaches of that range when we are ‘happy’. In fairness (to us former cynics), he is quick to differentiate between that chronically effervescent, resilient state that so reminds me of those inflatable ‘bobo’ dolls with sand in their feet that pop right back up each time you’d whack the bejeezus out of them – a condition he calls ‘irrational optimism’ – and its more grounded sibling: rational optimism. (We didn’t all buy into The Secret and its questionable, though wildly popular contention that ‘if you put it out to the universe, it will happen’ – and if it doesn’t, it’s because you had a little doubt sneak in the side door – and neither, it seems, did Mr. Achor.)

His rational optimist is not just somebody who thinks happy thoughts (think Chicken Soup for the Soul author tacking his cheque for $1 million on the ceiling above his bed – until it showed up. Oh really!!). Rather, he/she is someone who exhibits three characteristics that Achor claims are responsible for 75% of our performance in any given situation (intelligence, skill set, etc. accounting, in his view for the other 25%): optimism (of course), a positive and supportive social network, and a positive response to stress. The last of the three is the one I found most compelling – and, in some ways, most relevant to and accessible through mindfulness practice. The author identifies, as part of the rational optimist’s tool kit, post-traumatic growth as key. He defines this as the individual’s capacity to respond to crisis, hurt, disappointment, tragedy with a readiness to incorporate these difficult, even tragic circumstances into their ongoing psychological growth – as he puts it, ‘growing because of trauma, not despite it’. I contrast this with what an acquaintance of mine calls ‘victim mode’ – the adoption of one’s tragedies as a defining element in their identity going forward. A wonderful exploration of these two polarities is contained in Rohinton Mistry’s, A Fine Balance, chronicling the undeniably tragic lives of two, poverty stricken tailors from the north of India and their infallible and personally innocent ‘instinct’ for participating in one disaster after another buoyed only by their resilience; and a spoiled relative afforded every opportunity who ultimately suicides, a ‘victim’ of his own ‘thoughts’.

In mindfulness practice, attachment represents a considerable impediment. Among its other ‘roles’, becoming attached to or entrenched in a particular state or event fails to allow us to move on. We become ‘stuck’, in the present context, ‘in victim’ – which then begins to define who we are, how we see ourselves, and even what our expectations for the future might be. (In clinical terms, we may become depressed or overly preoccupied with the past; even making ‘predictions’ about the probable negative direction we’re headed in – the ‘nothing ever changes’ or ‘without bad luck, I’d have no luck at all’ outlook.) Regular mindfulness practice, with its attendant emphasis on the basics of letting go, allowing what is, accepting that change and evolution is inevitable, can be figural in our adoption of a more fluid, tolerant (of all experiences) mindset – living with the ‘full catastrophe’, in Jon Kabat Zinn’s description. In Mr. Achor’s view, this becomes important as we sort out how we’re going to address the inevitable ‘downturns’ in our lives (he claims something of the order of 10% of what we face is externally determined and therefore unavoidable) – do we treat them as ‘confirmations’ of our ‘traumatized’ state; or adaptively, with rational optimism.

This thinking is not new. I can still recall seeing Norman Vincent Peale sitting prominently on my parents’ bookshelf (well, his book, anyway). Much more recently, and for the hard-headed scientist in me, more palatably is the work of Martin Seligman, a prominent psychologist, whose earlier research centered on learned optimism, leading to his very readable book, Authentic Happiness in 2002. In it he provides compelling evidence and manageable formulae for (in language very similar to Achor’s) ‘fulfilling one’s potential’. His listing of ‘signature strengths’ (vs. defining pathologies) – what’s right, rather than what’s wrong – reads like an index to mindfulness practice: openness to experience, objective consideration, social intelligence, perspective, integrity, genuineness, honesty, (loving)kindness, generosity, self-control, humility. . .the list goes on to twenty-four such dimensions. (Just a tad more ‘optimistic’ than reading the DSM-IV, the catalogue of psychiatric mental health disorders, prominent on our current bookshelves.)

For a full, working example of what Achor’s formula might look like in action, have a look at this morning Globe’s lead story at:
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/toronto/from-a-child-with-cancer-a-lesson-in-living/article2067054/

Optimism, supportive social network, positive response to stress – indeed! Maybe there’s hope for this aging cynic after all.

Cheers.

Once You Learn, You Never Forget

2011-06-05T14:32:00.000-07:00

I have the sense that bicycle metaphors may hold preeminence for a bit. Sleek and streamlined, narrow-tired, aero-rimmed, the touring bike with which I was about to spend more of my time than with any human being for the next two weeks leaned casually against a corridor wall in Manchester Airport – ready for action. Unencumbered, it was a thing of beauty. Then the ‘encumbering’ began. First the rack that would hold panniers away from the spokes of the rear wheel – and hopefully contain all the ‘stuff’ I would require for this fortnight. Then the brackets for the ‘hungry-man’ sized handlebar bag. Followed by the mount for what some, less well-prepared acquaintances have dismissed as David’s wide screen TV; aka, my GPS that would guide me to those remote B & B’s in the Yorkshire Dales (missing a turn in a car is one thing; 10 kilometers out of one’s way on a bicycle can be, shall we say, a little more frustrating). Frame pump, under-saddle tool bag, water bottle, waterproof pannier covers, front and rear lights – and the kitting out was complete. I gingerly mounted, deluding myself that I could cycle my way out of the bowels of the airport, only to find that my responsive, light-weight, and ‘balanced’ bike had metamorphosed into an awkward, unpredictable, finicky, and decidedly burdened semblance of its former self; mirroring even the most insignificant departures from a perfect perpendicular with the front wheel twisting sideways on itself and the whole unit ready to collapse in a heap with any lapse in the rider’s attention. I was immediately reminded of accounts of Arthurian knights’ steeds caving under the weight of their own ‘protective’ armour.

A second image, also cycle-based but from a much earlier stage, is that of my first two-wheeler presented me by parents as a birthday gift on one of those rare early November days when southern Ontario was blessed with a significant snow fall. Unable to engage the usual father-son ritual of having the former run along clutching the underside of saddle to support and maintain the upright latter unit of son on wobbly bike, I had to content myself using the fridge as father-surrogate as I rocked to and fro in our kitchen, making first attempts at balancing this creature that seemed (not unlike the loaded unit in the airport) more intent on falling over than on remaining vertical. (I really do need to stop biking indoors!)

Either way, balance is a tricky, elusive thing. For the perhaps six-year old David, there was not yet the intuitive ‘once you learn it, you never forget it’ skill that allows dad to let go the seat, the training wheels to come off – or, in this auspicious beginning, the fridge to be abandoned for more free-wheeling days. Six decades later, the intuition might well be in place, but the compulsion to sabotage it with ‘stuff’ – all very essential, but clutter nonetheless – had crept in to undermine. Trust (that inner instinct that is just there – very hard to ‘tell’ someone how to ride a bike) and simplicity: the casualties that are often reflected in an ‘unbalanced’ life. In the case of the former, the more we attend to our ‘riding’ (“how am I doing, Dad?”), the more wobbly we become; in the latter, the more we surround ourselves with the ‘reassuring encumbrances’, the less we are free to attend to the ease and effortlessness of moving through our space.

A few thoughts on what we might do to restore balance. If we consider our subtle ‘vertical’ as some hypothetical mid-point between attachment (those aspects of our life without which we would surely perish) and avoidance (the other end of this continuum wherein reside all those things that, to which were we to be exposed, we would surely perish), then we might be getting a little closer to riding that unencumbered beauty, uphill and down with equal joy. This allows us to position ourselves along the horizontal dimension somewhere between our two ‘extremes’. I had read an instructive midrash (a Hebrew ‘teaching story’) that characterizes these end-points as two cliffs between which one is sailing; perched atop one cliff is one of a pair of characteristics and atop the other, its opposite. Examples might be generosity and stinginess, patience and impatience, impulsivity and procrastination. The task, in retaining / regaining our balance is to first be mindful of what sits on our ‘right’ and ‘left’; secondly, to steer a course between – taking care not to pass too closely to one rocky wall or the other; and thirdly, to resist judging either as inherently good (becoming too attached to it) or bad (avoiding it). A fourth aspect is that of ‘subtlety’ – taking care that our ‘course corrections’ do not represent overly aggressive, ‘over-compensations’ (recall what happens when riding that ‘balanced bike’ when one jerks the handlebars too radically; better to subtly lean in one direction or another – if one is to stay uprigtht!)

Mindfulness practice introduces an additional element that ‘elevates’ us above that horizontal: equanimity; essentially allows us to hover above, rather than simply bouncing back and forth between. Equanimity is seen as a state of mental or emotional stability or composure arising from a deep awareness and acceptance of the present moment. I like a few aspects of this definition. First, stability (in keeping with our mindful cyclist) – keeping upright, balanced and to the middle road, as it were. Secondly, composure; avoiding radical ‘corrections’, pausing and considering a situation before reacting (although that child on the bike path coming into York on that sunny, dog- and child-filled Sunday afternoon did require a tad of ‘act first, think later’ intervention!) And finally, acceptance of. . . beyond an awareness of our ‘two walls’, an allowing of what sits atop them.

Both my bike and I came to accept the ‘middle ground’ between the unburdened ‘lightness of being’ (envied in those that, on occasion passed me peddling up some quite unbelievable hills – as I pushed mine to the top) and the prospects of wearing the same pair of shorts for two weeks as I wandered, totally lost across the North Yorkshire moors. I still had that tail wind and the privilege of sailing down the other side.

Mirror, Mirror. . .Refletions & Projections

2011-05-09T11:54:00.000-07:00

Two folks with punk hair-do’s, face-to-face, playing patty-cake. Perhaps engaging in something a little racier! Two sultans high-fiving. Bug ‘blood’ on the windshield. The whole idea is that the picture be sufficiently vague as to allow one to project onto it (hence the naming of Rorschach’s famous ink blot series as a ‘projective test’); but sufficiently suggestive as to not simply elicit blank stares. Maybe as a meaningful pipeline into one’s psychological soul, this and other projective techniques left a bit to be desired – after all, are not the interpretations of one’s responses just as subject to the practitioner’s own projections? (Rather like looking into the mirror on the box of Pot o’ Gold chocolates as the woman’s image is reflected in the reflection. . . to infinity). But the concept of projection itself remains as a most useful awareness for one to ‘reflect’ upon.

My weekly source of inspiration seems to be narrowing – once again from Larkrise. Alf’s ballad, composed as a thank you to the community that has supported him, on the surface appears to be little more than a catchy tune about a wandering gypsy stealing the heart of a land owner’s daughter, with things ending badly for the latter as her wild thing moves on, leaving her with a collection of burned bridges and few prospects. The intention is innocent and well-meant; the meanings attached as varied and unanticipated as the individuals who hear it. An endorsement to risk breaking out of the mold of ‘service’; an invitation to breach boundaries and orchestrate (or try) the future of others; permission to challenge one’s parent; literal instructions in the niceties of catching a man. The tune becomes a template, a screen upon which one is able to project one’s current situation, to which to assign meaning, and in which to read direction and ‘truth’.

The trick of all this is to recognize the process as it happens. Freudian in its origin, projection is defined as a ‘defense mechanism’ – an (unconscious) strategy for dealing with emotions, experiences, etc. that are perhaps a bit too potent for the individual themselves to manage; more comfortably and less disturbingly dealt with at a ‘safe distance’ – perhaps happily assigned to someone else. The pitfall is in seeing this projected image as universally singular – the only ‘interpretation’ – and losing sight of its point of origin: ourselves. The person upon whom we project is generally only that – the screen.

The recognition process should be simple – and obvious. But what’s that expression: ‘simple, not easy’. In many cases, being the ‘projectee’ (i.e., the ‘screen’) is the simpler role. Oftentimes, in (heated or deep) conversation, one is left with the distinct impression that this exchange is just not making sense. That which is being ‘assigned’ to us simply ‘doesn’t fit’. Good chance we’ve just been projected upon. For the ‘projector’, the task can be a little more challenging, the ‘truth’ a little more elusive. A clue can be the goodness of fit between the intensity with which one finds oneself engaging in an exchange and the actual ‘facts’ of the case. OTT (over the top) is typically a good indicator of some measure of projection. Our old friend, attachment, accompanied by our other, by now familiar neighbour, ego, both (and for a change) may be helpful in identifying the projection process. Our ‘need’ to have our interpretation accepted, bought into by our ‘screen’ (often accompanied by little catch phrases as ‘don’t you see’) suggests this is more our issue than that of our ‘target’. Once we’ve become ‘suspicious’ of our intensity, motives, interpretations, a useful question to ask of oneself is ‘what’s being touched or triggered – in me?’ This is quite a different perspective than staying focused on the ‘screen’ and continuing to react to (real or imagined) elements we’re convinced we see in the ‘other’. In one sense, we’re reversing our vision – to that of self-examination and from that of fault-finding, etc. outside of self.

Mindfulness practice is able to provide tools both for ‘catching’ projection and for dealing with our awarenesses, once identified. Zindel Segal outlines a four-step sequence in aid of this process:

Awareness of present experience. “What’s the pull?” Once we’ve ‘reversed’ our vision, take a gentle awareness to the spot, thought, feeling, or place which predominates in our immediate attention. Gently shift the attention away from the stimulus (the ‘screen, as it were) . . . and back to self: “What am I feeling, experiencing; what’s arising in me?”

Notice how one is relating to that spot, thought, or feeling. Am I attaching to it? Becoming entrenched in it? Hanging on to it? OR are you avoiding it, judging it, resenting it?

Stop trying to make things different. Let it be. Notice and observe what is there. Practicing non-reaction, acceptance. A little visual trick at this point: Set a chair immediately in front of and facing you. On that chair, sit the person or issue that is triggering you and gently observe him / her / it. Develop a benign tolerance of its presence – without engaging. As with any strong feeling, we humans are programmed to maintain maximum intensity for a finite time – with that feeling’s strength diminishing gradually as we allow it to be in our presence.
Process: Bring a gentle attention to the spot, thought, or feeling. Breathing into it; and out from it. Accepting what is there (“It’s OK”). Inviting the experience (“Let me feel it”) – using breath in and breath out to ‘soften’ and ‘open to’ the spot, thought, or feeling.

Critical to this sequence is the recognition that we are, in fact projecting.

OK, OK, so it was Mother’s Day last Sunday!

Of Boundaries and Brown Shirts

2011-05-02T08:47:00.000-07:00

Growing up in Fort Erie, I and my little coterie of friends would walk the 1 ½ miles to high school (uphill both ways, generally into the teeth of a blinding snowstorm!). Our preferred route took us over a lengthy, vehicular bridge, spanning the several sets of rail tracks which found their Canadian terminus in our small border town. A walkway on one margin of the bridge was ‘protected’ from motorized traffic by a low barrier better suited to buffering pedestrians from the water splashed up by cars as they zipped past – than providing any real safety. Any weekday morning would see long ribbons of students streaming along over the Central Avenue Bridge at one speed: trudge. A common distraction for us was observing the progress of Sammy, the adolescent son of a local restaurateur, as he bobbed and wove past the other students in his attempts to escape his mother, quite possibly at that hour the only person on the bridge older than eighteen, and fixedly intent on ‘walking her son to school’. Loyalties being what were, misplaced and otherwise, we would part to allow Sammy free passage, then reform to block mother’s desperate and frustrated attempts to keep pace with son. The source of mother’s angst was two-fold (my own mother would later inform me): she had lost her elder son to a childhood illness; and two years earlier a student had been struck by a car on this bridge in his own attempts to jump the queue of students by hopping over the inside barrier onto the travelled portion of the bridge. She was going to keep Sammy safe – even if her efforts put him at greatly increased risk, as he struggled to distance himself from the embarrassment of mother’s ‘protection’.

Jungian analyst Robert Johnson, in his pithy little book He, provides a framework for understanding this anxious mother’s plight and purpose, explored through the story of Parsifal, in the Arthurian legend, as the young knight-to-be sets off from his humble beginnings to challenge the world – clad in mother’s homespun singlet concealed beneath his armour. Mother’s caution: ‘take off that sweater at your own peril; as it will magically protect you from harm’. And so the seeds of the prototypic and paradoxical struggle are sewn: as the child, to grow and develop our own identity requires that we defy our parent and shed the very source of our protection; as the mother (why do mom’s always get the rap?), concern and duty require that that ‘brown shirt’ be kept in place – or risk losing our child. And so it would seem young Sammy and his mother were merely acting out another version of the tale.

My memory for both of the above was twigged this week first by a Globe and Mail article, evidently anticipating Mother’s Day in a rather sinister way. Entitled Happy S’Mother’s Day, it reviewed a new memoir by Adam Chester (The Story of a Man, His Mom, and the Thousands of Altogether Insane Letters She Mailed to Him). Illustrated cartoonishly with a young man glancing over his shoulder only to see mom, portrayed as helicopter, fast approaching, the column describes the seminal event for Mr. Chester of mother bursting into his junior high school gym change room, full of other adolescent boys, with the pronouncement that Adam had forgotten his sweater (echoes of Johnson!) and that it was going to rain.

Perhaps a bit more substantial was an episode of a BBC favourite of ours, Larkrise to Candleford, examining a similar theme and detailing the unhappy albeit completely unintentional sequence that unfolds as we attempt to ‘protect’ those we care for and about from the slings and arrows of becoming fully individuated adults. (The ‘hat tip’ to Hamlet – and another very interesting mother-son relationship – flows from a viewing over the weekend of the Kenneth Branagh’s amazing and amazingly long film version of same.) The 19th Century drama explores the well-intentioned ‘keeping of secrets’, all in the name of ‘protecting’ a daughter, a sister, a Bishop, and a community from various ‘truths’ that, in the view of the respective protectors, the individual(s) would be better served being kept insulated from – in the dark, as it were. This laudable (albeit questionable) motive of course contains the protector’s own dark side of being overly attached to a particular outcome: be it a visiting Bishop’s not discovering the ‘pagan rituals’ that still continue in his parish, a spinster sister/business partner’s secret relationship or failing retail enterprise, an adult daughter’s attachment to a self-serving journalist, or proof of Darwinian theory in fossilized remains locked inside the partially carved stone of a baptismal font.

The theme is constant: in the making of decisions for and ‘in the best interests of’ others, predicated on our own attachments and fears of dire outcome, we first cross the individual’s boundaries and breech our own; and secondly, ‘protect’ them from experiences that form an essential part of individual growth and learning – at whatever age that may be occurring. A cornerstone of mindfulness practice is the cultivation of awareness of just where those ‘invisible fences’ reside; where my ‘property’ (my entitlement, in a very literal sense) ends and where your turf begins. Only with that awareness fully developed are we able to make intentional choices around our (well-intentioned) interventions. What’s that expression: ‘the road to some place or other (I can’t quite remember the name of the community) is paved with good intentions’.

Perhaps one of the most abiding gifts from my own mother was her relentless effort to stay out of my way and allow me to experience – despite her worst fears of the consequences of same. What she also told me (but not before I was well into adulthood and far removed from our little town – which was also bordered by the Niagara River) was that she herself had very nearly drowned in that river as a young woman; and to watch me disappear down the street with my friends, towels in hand, nearly every summer’s day to swim in that river was, at times almost more than she could bear. My other mindfulness mentor!

Now Where Did I Put That Truth?

2011-04-18T10:01:00.000-07:00

When we hold to our opinions with aggression, no matter how valid our cause, we are simply adding more aggression to the planet – and violence and pain increase. (Pima Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart).

Robert Bly, the American poet, in his Little Book on the Human Shadow presents a compelling image of the impact of the opinions of others on our growth from child through adolescent, to adult. He describes the child as a globe of energy, fully him/herself, freely expressing what he/she feels and experiences. As the child grows and is exposed to commentary from parent, teacher, acquaintance, and other conventional custodians of what passes for morality and correctness (“It’s not nice to try to kill your brother”), Bly maintains that we ‘stuff’ those publically disapproved of parts of ourselves into the ‘long bag we drag behind us’ (his rather vivid description of our shadow side). By adulthood this ‘bag’ has come to contain most of what we have truly felt in our more ‘natural’ period as a child, is now largely inaccessible to us (without considerable reflection and introspection), and leaves only a ‘a thin slice of that globe’ from which to consciously operate. More concerning, that which remains has come to reflect little more than the aggregation, the collection of opinions of others as we become progressively ‘socialized’. We essentially lose track of our truth; have, in the words of a friend, ‘wandered from our path’; and perhaps worse, don’t know it. That collection of opinion has begun to feel like our own.

This has been a challenging week for my globe. Perhaps channeling my father’s private sector mentality (not to mention, his Protestant work ethic), I am instinctively triggered by ‘spin’ – whatever its source. With an election staring us in the face, it’s difficult to avoid the rhetoric (unless, of course one is attending to royal weddings or consolidations of sports’ seasons). These two polarities, private enterprise and public ‘party line’, collided early week for me in a conversation with a representative from the latter (me representing the former). Our practice had just come off a highly satisfying year reflecting what I had viewed as a ‘happy marriage’ between publically funded services in our practice and private sector supplements that had seen one of our major programs arrive at year-end within budget. I was somewhat surprised when the commentary appeared to veer away from things like being lauded for efficiency, value for dollars, volume of service provided into the muddy world of ‘liability’. What ‘truth’ is this’, I mused. But then I squinted, and saw that I was speaking to a very thin slice indeed. This was not a truth at all – but a carefully cultivated ‘opinion’ that likely flowed freely from a collective political unconscious. And I felt compassion (eventually, after I cooled off) for this little lamb that had lost her way – and in the bargain, contact with what she likely once believed.

Bly extends his treatise with thoughts on what lengths are needed for ‘socialized adults’ to go to access aspects of our essential truths. Again the poet, he notes that we often find it necessary to retain the services of ‘hired guns’ – artists, poets, authors, filmmakers – to express that for which we can no longer ourselves find the words. He laments this state of affairs; and challenges each of us to become our own ‘poet’, to reflect on the contents of ‘our bag’, and once again become conversant with our core truths, our core values – versus those we have adopted. He maintains that art, theatre, film, literature have ever been the repositories of our truths; and that there is genuine value in personally reclaiming that which we have ‘contracted out’.

Inveterate addicts of BBC entertainment we were presented a lovely little restatement of Bly’s contention (about the role of art in truth) in an early episode of Upstairs Downstairs – determined to plow through all 60+ hours of the original before getting into the ‘sequel’. Lady Bellamy is having her portrait painted and engages the artist in conversation around the likely ‘finished product’. He confesses that he doesn’t know if she will ‘like’ the result, that it will mirror her own experience of herself – it can only be an expression of how he sees her, his ‘truth’. She is at once intrigued by the possibility of multiple ‘truths’ – and anxious that she will not ‘come out’ as she expected. Her husband struggles even more with the prospects of a ‘libertarian’ being entrusted with representing something as personal as a family ‘image’, fearing that it will not conform to the narrow standards of the day and may convey something of his family other than the carefully constructed ‘spin’ associated with London society. As indeed it does, ultimately hung adjacent in a gallery to the artist’s impression of maids from this same house (in rather ‘revealing’ circumstances). The ‘truth’ of the scenario ebbs and flows, evolving through outrage, indignation, shame, political and social opportunism, tolerance – all to the end of ‘each seeing what each needs to see’, their personal and unique truths.

Back to Pima Chödrön for the moment. She makes a compelling argument that our opinions are as much expressions of our history, our ego, our thoughts. She notes that, with a mindful approach to opinion, we are able to suspend the compulsion to vet what we think we believe through all manner of filters, accept them as momentary (and evolving) postures that, in the next moment will, if allowed, morph into something else. To predicate our actions on opinion, as if they were somehow absolute truths, is folly.

And a few final lines from the bard himself on the importance of trusting one’s core self, core feelings, resisting the urge to ‘bend or alter’ one’s ‘opinion’ as the (transient) situation seems to demand.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
(Sonnet 116, Shakespeare)

The How and Now of It All

2011-04-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

I am a dog. No more no less.
I eat when I’m hungry. I sleep when I’m tired.
I know how to sit. I know how to wait.
When I must, I walk on a leash.
When I can, I race through the fields.
When I am hurt, I lick my wounds.
When I die, I will wander alone into the woods.
I love my people faithfully. Especially the child.
I am the child’s teacher. I teach by example.
I am a canine Zen Buddhist master.
I am absolutely me.
(Dog, John Heider)

In grad school, once per semester, we clinicians-in-training were ‘compelled’ to take ancillary courses from parallel areas of psychology (always arcane, in our practical, young minds and invariably taught by the ‘rat-runners’) that would ensure that we popped out the other end well rounded practitioners. Cognitive Processes was one such course. As the title might imply, the course’s emphasis was more on how our thinking process worked; than on what we might use our wonderful brain for. Our professor, an eccentric and seasoned field researcher, had before him the formidable task of convincing this cynical and cocky group that something else in the study of human behaviour mattered besides diagnosing and treating the aberrations of our species. His opening gambit was the telling of his time spent with a remote Inuit community in his early research of linguistics and the influences that affect the development of language. He describes handing a sophisticated, but broken camera (obviously from the era of mechanical, not digital technology) to a few of the elders conveying only that it wasn’t working properly. Without benefit of having seen such a device previously or indeed even sure what its purpose might be, the men carefully proceeded to dismantle the camera and eventually identified the malfunctioning components. The story, truth or urban legend (how else was he to get and hold our attention?) has remained with me a wonderful illustration of the importance of process over purpose. In the cliché, the value of the journey over the destination.

As a gentle reminder of this long-ago learned lesson, I had lunch this week with a friend with a passion for ‘creating something unique’ and hence charged with the sole choice of ‘doing things from scratch (think Martha Stewart with an accounting degree – want eggs over easy for breakfast; buy a chicken ranch). Conversation turned to a canoe-building project, now several months in, and its most recent ‘phase’ – the seat and cross-member structure and design. Greg described in detail the sketching out of various colour combinations for the seat webbing (‘just to see what the visuals would be’); then carefully measuring (and re-measuring) the lengths to order. He recounted his attendant frustration when, the seats partly woven, he discovered ‘too much of one; not enough of the other’ – and his awareness that he’d inadvertently reversed his order and would ‘now have to live with the inverted pattern’. He detailed the steps involved in shaping the yolk so that it would conform to his own shoulders, ground and ultimately carved and sanded smooth from laminated blocks of wood. And finally, his plan to create a unique ‘pin-striping’ motif running the length of the canoe’s outer surface; and consisting of inlaid contrasting cedar and ebony woods configured as an elongated sine wave. Throughout his account, there seemed to be a subtext of what I could only interpret as sadness, despite the obvious satisfaction and enthusiasm associated with the project itself. Its source – a comment from his wife (who incidentally is awaiting the completion of a ‘from scratch’ bathroom): “Not sure why all the effort – you probably won’t even use it when it’s done; too afraid of getting a scratch on it!” And the clincher: “What do you think we could sell it for?”

Represented in the above exchange are two polarities: one invested in the process, the creation of a unique piece of art, the acts of conceiving, designing, and constructing becoming ends in themselves. The second, and sadly the dominant perspective in our culture: the product; focusing on the functional item that ‘pops out the other end’ – a vessel, useful only to the extent that it floats, is capable of carrying us from point A to point B, and, in this case, possesses ‘value’ – the intervening time and care between project’s inception and product’s emergence measured with impatience, time to be minimized and care to be cost-effective.

Insight meditation has as one of its essential parameters a repeated return to ‘the present moment’ – in essence, an engaging of process and what’s going on right now! This is not to say that goal setting, having a destination in mind, or planning one’s day are activities to be discouraged. They do, however, contain the seeds of distraction and ought not to displace our investment in the immediate, the now. Inevitably questions that are framed in terms of ‘what’ and ‘why’ tend to be associated with a product / outcome approach. What is this thing (a camera); why waste so much time building (a canoe) when Canadian Tire has a perfectly good aluminium one that will float and is cheaper and can be had today. Our dog, our Inuit elders, our canoe builder are not particularly concerned with purpose. What something is for, what it will get us, why we’re engaged in something are of secondary importance to the activity itself – even if it’s sitting around with one’s eyes closed and focusing on one’s breath. Right down to building a better tea cozy – but that’s another story.

What Good Little Boys (and Girls) Are Made Of

2011-04-04T11:00:00.000-07:00

The thought manifests as the word; The word manifests as the deed; The deed develops into habit; And habit hardens into character. As the shadow follows the body, As we think, so we become.(Buddha)

We had occasion to watch a newish documentary, Inside Job, within the past week. It examines (a la Michael Moore) the shifts in fiscal policy that are seen as contributing, at an immediate level, to the financial crisis which began to surface in late 2008 in the US and reverberated through most of the western world over the next few years – recovery from which continues currently. What emerged first as a failure of sub-prime mortgages (money borrowed with very little collateral, virtually no applicant approval process, and no immediate risk to the lender, should these, on balance, poor prospects for repayment, default) reverberated through several storied and previously substantial investment houses (Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch among them) and triggered senate subcommittee hearings to ‘get to the bottom of it’.

The film paints a conspiratorial picture commencing in early 1980’s with the progressive removal of regulations governing many aspects at many levels of lending, investing, insuring – essentially, as it turns out, turning the keys to the hen house over to Br’re Fox for safekeeping. What had been, since the Great Depression, a tightly regulated structure, with built-in accountability and checks, became, in a most literal sense a ‘money for nuthin’ and yer chicks for free’ system. Government ‘consultants’ turned out to be, in many cases, individuals who would themselves profit from deregulation, recommending changes in policy, with the assurances of academics (traditionally the independent voices who were ‘above crass realities’—but not this time!) that would see the house of cards rise ever higher – until the John and Mary Joneses, who had bought that $500,000 house on an income that would support 1/5th of that grandeur, became unable to meet their monthly obligations; and stopped paying. And what had seemed like a ‘get rich quick’ sure thing, became anything but. Definitely the former (the get rich part); definitely not the latter.

Charles Ferguson, the film’s director, makes a compelling case for a Watergate-style review and exercise in accountability that would see many of the perpetrators charged and hopefully jailed. His post-film interview underscores that a ‘fix’ would require the principals from Alan Greenspan on down, many whose consultancy roles has spanned a number of political administrations and in some cases were ongoing, be replaced; and secondly, that regulatory bodies be reinstituted – in essence asking for keys back from the furtive Mr. Fox. Laudable – but perhaps missing a deeper truth: the next guy in line, whether politically, financially, or academically borne, is every bit as likely to lack the personal integrity that, once the lid is off, will see him/her just as poorly equipped to resist dipping into the cookie jar as his/her predecessor. Rather the equivalent of thinking that an election will bring with it an ethically renewed representative to replace the outgoing shyster.

So, if pulling out that ‘new broom’ and giving things a good sweep isn’t likely to fix things , then where to look? I think, in part, we might benefit from revisiting our little toxic trio of last week – attachment (greed), aversion (avoidance of, in this case, truth) and this week’s candidate: ignorance of the truth. This ‘poison’ goes beyond simply ‘not knowing what’s right’. This is, in the Buddhist tradition, an actual inability to ‘see clearly’, sort of the equivalent of moral cataracts, if you will; and, as a result, tending to see things as we would like them to be, believing our own BS (without putting too fine a point on it).

Always having a bit (in some folks' view, a very small bit) of the Pollyanna in me, I believe that very few of us are essentially ‘bad people’. Most of us don’t get up in the morning with the conscious intent of doing ill. That being said, I ran out of fingers and toes on which to count this past week attempting to tally the number of encounters wherein I sensed a distinct lack of authenticity in this particular dealing or that. A constituency office more bent on handing out lectures, rationalizations, and defensiveness than cultivating that all-important vote. An instance of litigation wherein the ‘big picture’ got clouded by ill-preparedness and cronyism. A service club more attuned to defending warring egos than on acknowledging a ‘good idea’. The experience even invaded our world of DVD viewing – if you haven’t seen Made in Dagenham, a lovely little film documenting the early days of pay equity in the UK, and all the supposed reasons for scuttling it, it’s worth a watch as 187 committed women turn Ford and Harold Wilson’s labour government on their heads thanks to ‘clear-eyed’ courage.

Back to the Buddha’s opening comments – and, with all due respect, inserting a couple of additional links to his ‘chain’. Kicking those few, truly evil individuals out of line, it may be safe to assume that most, perhaps all of the ‘players’ in any of the above scenarios, acted with some measure of ‘innocence’, likely believing to some extent that their actions would do no harm; they were merely ‘acting expeditiously’, taking advantage of available ‘opportunities’, doing their job – with all the required indignation, back-peddling, rationalizing, and avoidance (hmm, there it is again) to CYA (in polite terms, to minimize ‘exposure’), when that became necessary. But equally failing to inform their initial thoughts (before they became words, deeds, habits . . . and character) with a truth, an authenticity – a clear examination of their position predicated on individual integrity.

A closing thought. I heard Hassan Ghedi Santur, a Canadian novelist interviewed on Tapestry a few weeks ago (see link below). He was pondering the question of what it means to be ‘good’; whether it’s an innate quality, part of our temperament; or, something that can be ‘grown’, cultivated. He told the story of the man, confronted on his visit to the ocean, with thousands of beached starfish and, in the midst of trying to toss them all back to safety in the water, was challenged about the futility of his efforts by a passerby – he couldn’t possibly save them all. Santur relates the story to our definition of ‘being good’ – that perhaps “it’s just an irritating little voice that asks ‘are you doing good’ and speaks to us from that part of ourselves unsullied by cynicism and apathy; a voice that tells us to pick up at least one star fish and throw it back into the ocean and that act will make a difference – to that one starfish.” Perhaps that’s how we get in touch with the truth that should inform our thoughts and . . . ultimately our character – not just putting all the bad guys in jail.

http://www.cbc.ca/tapestry/episode/2011/03/27/tapestry-goes-to-hell-1/

The Toxicity Twins

2011-03-27T08:12:00.000-07:00

Letting go is an invitation to cease clinging to anything: be it an idea, a possession, an experience, a time in our lives, a point of view, a desire. It is a conscious decision to give up coercing, resisting, struggling. In exchange, we are granted the gift of wholesome acceptance, free of attraction to or rejection of; free of the stickiness of wanting, liking or disliking. Letting go is the allowing of things to be as they are. (from Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are)

The ‘stickiness’, to which Kabat-Zinn refers, can (ironically) be a very ‘slippery’ creature, creeping into our thoughts and desires when we least expect; contriving all manner of justifications, rationalizations to support our choices; setting its hooks in ways that make it very difficult to shake loose. When we meditate, when we still the mind and open ourselves to a period of silence without ‘benefit’ of distraction or busyness, we are very often fertile ground for this little critter to nest in – let’s just call him attachment (or his equally dark twin, avoidance). Christening them two of the three poisons, Buddhist teachings feel sufficiently strongly about these two to assign them (together with ‘ignorance of the truth’ – i.e., self-delusion or confusion) primary responsibility for the dissatisfaction and unhappiness we experience in life. (And here I thought it was the Leaf’s not winning a cup since 1967.) Attachment (aka: addiction, obsession, codependence, control, greed, jealousy, conditionality – to name but a few aliases) and avoidance (aversion, phobic anxiety, hatred and resentment) are evidently a potent pair indeed.

Mindfulness practice is, at core, a bringing of awareness to a situation (or, in the words of a dear friend, ‘shedding the light of consciousness on. . .’) so that one is less ‘unconsciously’ controlled by it and becomes more an observer of it – and accordingly is better equipped to move past it (or to ‘let it go’ in Kabat-Zinn’s terms). Addressing the above two ‘poisons’ is yet another instance of this practice. Typically mindfulness practice suggests some variation on the ‘name and return’ protocol: when we become aware that we’ve been distracted away from the breath, we identify or label in some succinct way the source of the distraction (‘thought’, ‘sensation’, etc.); and return to the cycle of our breathing. In situations where the distraction is a little more stubborn, relentless, it is sometimes helpful to ‘address it’ directly. It’s sometimes useful to ask ‘what’s the pull?’ Not in the usual sense of attempting to ‘figure out’ the ‘why’ we keep returning to a particular image or situation (and only serving to get more caught up in the ‘intellectual’ aspect of the distraction); but rather taking the observer’s awareness to the spot, thought, or feeling that insists on ‘pulling us away’. This might involve shifting one’s attention away from the ‘stimulus’ – the object of our distraction – and back to the observer’s response to it: “what is arising in me as I sit in the presence of ________?”; “what do I experience?”

Notice too how you are relating to this image, thought, sensation. (Getting back to our two poisons), Am I attached to it – obsessing about it, ‘needing’ it? Fearful of its going, leaving, of losing it? Am I needing to control it; having it be a particular way, turning out in a particular fashion – to ensure my happiness (the conditionality of I’ll be content if and only if. . .)? Alternately, do I just need it to ‘go away’ – am I averse to or avoiding of this image, thought, or sensation? Do I resent its presence, perhaps rejecting it, even ‘hating’ it? These are not ‘analyses’ of what you are experiencing; they are simply suggested questions that may help identify the nature of your ‘relationship with’ the experience. Once established as attachment or rejection/avoidance, the work is done – no need to get caught up in the why.

Letting go of the need to have or make things be different than they are (in this moment) – or its flip side, lamenting that things are as they are right now – is an important element of this process as well. This is the letting be of what is, trusting that change is inevitable; circumstance will evolve in its own time; and equally we cannot hurry or force that process. Skills that come into play here are non-reaction and acceptance, the latter seen as one’s ‘agreement to experience a situation, to follow a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it, protest, or exit’ (online definition). During meditation, a helpful exercise in this regard is to metaphorically place the person or image of a ‘triggering’ (preoccupying) situation on a chair – directly in front of and facing you, as you sit. (This is the metaphoric opposite of trying to avoid it.) Gently observe him/her/it. Develop a benign tolerance of his/her/it’s presence. No need to engage or respond – just observe, ‘sit with’. Being human, the investment we have in the object before us will change, usually diminish, as we remain, non-reactive and accepting of its presence. Again, back to the toxic tandem, the aspects of our relationship that ‘keep alive’ the intensity of this unholy bond with the overly desired or the intensely shunned is the degree to which we are attached or averse – not something inherent in the object itself.

A lovely poem (The Guest House) by the 13th century Sufi mystic, Rumi, captures the essence of this unconditional ‘welcoming’ of circumstance – and the accompanying capacity to let go of our attachments and aversions:

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

One final thought about letting go. Perhaps the most profound example of this process is that of grieving a loss. In his very helpful little volume (Grieving Mindfully), Sameet Kumar makes reference to a five-step, sequenced protocol facilitating closure, one that is equally applicable to much less weighty circumstances:

Examining our regrets around. . . (the apology)

Cultivating compassion toward. . . (the forgiveness)

Cultivating empathy / understanding of. . .(the loving)

Thanking for the gifts from. . .(the learning)

Letting go of . . . (the goodbye)

PP (post-post, as it were): We watched Inside Job last evening, a film that chronicles the 2008 financial crisis triggered by (of all things) greed and unaccountability in the US money market system. Great example of the extreme (world-wide) impact of attachment (and the later avoidance of responsibility) of some very selfish folks. Talk about your 'Money for nothing (and your chicks for free!)

Rules of Engagement

2011-03-20T14:55:00.000-07:00

In military operations, the rules of engagement determine when, where, and how force shall be used. The rules, while they may be made public, are typically only fully known to the force that intends to use them. (Online definition)

For better or worse, the same ‘rules’ increasingly appear to apply to verbal communication – or what we used to call dialogue. A number of elements, most of which are not particularly new to this arena (that of conversing with each other), have begun to dominate it. Not only that, but have also become highly celebrated in the bargain. Lead story in the Arts section of the Globe this past Tuesday featured an interview with Kelly Oxford, ‘Calgary blogger and Twitter queen’. Her daily ‘tweets’ are reportedly followed on a regular basis by those bastions of compassion and right speech, Howard Stern and Jimmy Kimmel (together with 100,000 other lesser lights) and are infused with her ‘snarky sense of humour’ as she posts ‘straight-up’ observations on motherhood, pop culture, and the media. I was particularly struck by the working title of a memoir-in-progress: Whenever I feel intimidated by someone, I imagine them drinking out of a hamster water bottle. I expect Charlie Sheen can’t be too far behind in the growing legion of Kelly ‘followers’, as he spews his ‘Violent Torpedo of Truth. . .’ to anyone who’ll listen (and lots appear ready to do just that).

Dialogue: generally seen as a conversation with two or more participants, typically involving an open exchange of opinions, and often representing differing points of view. 100,000 would seem to qualify. Posting remarks on the internet would meet criteria as open expression. And I’m guessing that observations as “Julianne Moore probably took the role of Sarah Palin because actors win awards for playing handicapped people” likely represent a point of view that might differ both from that of Ms. Moore and Ms. Palin. So what’s the problem? Possibly none, if the throngs of disciples are taken as validation.

I suppose it comes down to intention. I intend to hold this person or that, this opinion or that up to public scrutiny, having determined that such is deserved and wanting. I intend to convey these comments in language that is sufficiently challenging and caustic to seize the attention of others – but, of course, just short of being libelous. I intend to persuade. I intend to correct. I intend to instruct. I intend to demonstrate how much I know -- and how little you know. I intend to remain sufficiently remote / inaccessible – so as to both have time to consider and craft my responses and to remain insulated from the face-to-face, the immediate. I intend to be witty, notorious, dominant, and popular. I intend to entertain at this person’s or that opinion’s expense. I intend to do the ‘right thing’ – for just possibly the wrong reasons.

A very few days before reading of Ms. Oxford’s rise in the realm of the social network, I had occasion and the great good fortune to hear Karen Armstrong interviewed on CBC’s Tapestry. Ms. Armstrong, is a widely published religious scholar (or typist, if wishing to avoid all the usual, unsolicited commentary reserved for ‘religious scholars’) who has most recently come to the fore with her newest book, Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, chronicling the commissioning and writing of a ‘charter of compassion’ following her receipt of a TED (Technology Entertainment and Design) award in 2008. The core message of both interview and book is to explore alternatives in how we manage relationship; in particular how we communicate / dialogue in relationship. And by extension, how our highly entertained and entertaining, validated (if by no other measure than our attention paid to. . .), imitated, and promoted style of dialoguing just may be achieving little more than self-aggrandizement moving us away from the very ‘goals’ we seek (or at least put out that we are seeking) to achieve through witty repartee.

A number of abiding ‘ethics’ are raised and examined. Armstrong is invited to comment on the widely embraced practice of ‘hurting’ one’s partner in dialogue (unfortunately often one with whom we have significant differences of opinion), insulting, humiliating, denigrating to make one’s point – with the somewhat ironic expectation that this will move the ‘conversation’ forward. Seeking to dominate one’s ‘partner’, treating the engagement as a competition (to be won or lost – generally by ‘proving’ one’s opponent to be an idiot). Operating from ill-informed (but confident in our ‘complete knowledge of . . ‘), stereotypic postures – making the generalized verbal swipes ‘easier’. Seeking to convince, persuade.

Drawing on sources as far flung as the teachings of Confucius, Gandhi, Buddha, and Socrates, Armstrong provides a compelling alternative to the above, all rooted in the principles of compassion as she defines them; and all essentially built around a core principle that she views as common to all religions: Never do to others what you would not want them to do to you. As for methodology, she suggests a model based on Socratic dialogue – much simpler than it sounds at first blush: the goal of any discussion is to ‘learn how little we know’; entering conversation with gentleness and the intention, expectation of ourselves being changed; seeking a resolution versus a domination – and, if a win-lose, demonstrating compassion for the vanquished, seeking to improve not punish; demonstrating respect for the other.

Armstrong identifies Mindfulness as the 5th step in the charter’s 12-step process, incorporating many of the elements common to this practice: self-examination (holding up a mirror to one’s own opinions, behaviours, prejudices, stereotypes); cultivating a ‘first practice’ of self-compassion (forgiving oneself); metta (extending compassion to others); and letting go of one’s ego-investment (in dialogue) – detaching from oneself by becoming more an observer and less a participant. I suppose the approach won’t sell many tabloids or rack up a bunch of views on YouTube – but then I’m not sure that’s the goal.

FYI: http://www.cbc.ca/tapestry/episode/2011/03/13/a-call-for-compassion/

Got Change for a . . . Personality?

2011-03-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

“I’m home – just going upstairs to change”, my usual greeting coming in the door at the end of the day. “Into whom?”, my wife’s typical and wry response as we share our little chuckle. Indeed. But it does beg the question . . .

Usually ones to do our homework and heading off to St. James’ Cathedral this week for Evensong, we’d wanted to be well-prepared for the start of a series of homilies on T.S. Eliot’s poetry. Having somehow ‘skipped over’ Murder in the Cathedral – must have been in one of the many books my dog ate during college days – Nicola and I re-watched Becket (the 1964 film with Richard Burton and Peter O’Toole) and listened to a dramatic reading of Eliot’s 1935 work. And found myself musing over the same question: can, do people change – really?

The film and poem examine any number of conflicted relationships, most particularly that between King Henry II and Thomas Becket, culminating in the latter’s murder in December 1170 in Canterbury Cathedral as the now Archbishop prepared for evening prayer. Becket, a Saxon ‘survivor’ of the Normans’ conquest of England a century earlier, had become a close companion and ‘playmate’ of the young Norman king, as the pair drank and womanized their way through these turbulent times. Henry marveled at and envied Becket’s wisdom and cool, non-reactive demeanor, recognizing (and exploiting) these characteristics for what they were – elements of wit and temperament that set Becket apart from not only the boorish barons (who would eventually murder Becket) – but from Henry himself as he blustered and railed his way through the early part of his reign; alienating even as he secured what he thought would satisfy himself. Henry’s coup de grace, ill-conceived as it turned out, was to have been his appointment of his friend to the role of Archbishop, already having named him Chancellor of the Exchequer (essentially, minister of finance). Then watching as his bawdy buddy appeared to take his new job entirely too seriously, attempting to enforce the Church’s position and, in the bargain, cramping Henry’s authoritarian and largely arbitrary style.

Henry of course, viewing this as the clerical equivalent of biting the hand that fed, became enraged, eventually ordering Becket’s murder; but never reconciling himself to his awareness that the very elements of his friend that had so enthralled him in their early days, were the self-same ones that would frustrate him at the end: compassion, honour and integrity, planfulness and calculation, loyalty and homage to a ‘higher power’ – be it secular (king) or spiritual (God), and the relegation of ego to secondary status. Had Becket changed? Not at all. He’d simply found a vehicle more in consonance with his pre-existing value system – and Henry knew it! Henry too, for his part, remained what he ever was – expedient, opportunistic, self-serving, and political – having Becket canonized, establishing churches, as ‘penance’, etc. – essentially trading on his former friend’s death. And hating Becket’s infernal holding up of the mirror to his own twisted visage.

I had occasion to meet with a friend recently who had endured a number of significant losses in the past few years. She described her hard-fought resolve to come to terms with elements in her temperament and style that she felt had mired her in her sadness and had both hindered her healing and tainted her outlook for the future. The principle ‘villain’ it seems was a co-dependency, sometimes seen as a self-defeating predilection toward inadvertently supporting the very circumstances in one’s relationships against which one most struggles. The vehicle that often mediates this process is the act of enabling – wherein one becomes overly invested in particular outcomes, develops porous interpersonal boundaries, makes oneself responsible for the behaviours of others; and is, of course, ultimately angered, frustrated and disappointed when ‘nothing changes’. My friend had worked long and hard at eradicating this trait, when she was emailed a ‘personality test’ that purported to evaluate an individual’s ‘type’ amongst a choice of nine. “Damn! I’m still the ‘caregiver’”, her disheartened awareness.

So whether Becket (or Henry), my acquaintance, or even Popeye (“I yam what I yam” – with apologies to God and Moses), my answer to my wife’s query must be: “Just the clothes – the rest of me stays the same”. And having fessed up to that truth, just what is our work, how do we address those pieces of ourselves that (karmically) continue showing up at our door – until we get it right. (Think Bill Murray in Groundhog Day!) What do we do with those predispositions that continue to direct us, explicitly or worse, in background?

I believe we do have some options, generally focusing, in one way or another, on two elements: increased self-knowledge (to coat-tail on last week’s posting) and increased self-acceptance. Becket, if we’re to acknowledge Burton’s interpretation of the man, was acutely aware of his earlier limitations and lack of fulfillment, experienced repeatedly as an inability to return love, no matter how deserving the person or persons might be on the other side. He struggled chronically with the ‘too easy’ solution (remaining a carousing pal to Henry, a ‘sheltered’ monk in France, or a token primate). Eliot’s poem so eloquently examines Becket’s awareness that, until fully accepting of his role as martyr, he would be destined to repeat his past ‘experiments’. Infuriating to Henry was Becket’s clarity (and readiness to speak it) on this point.

Mindfulness practice is but one of many vehicles facilitating this two-fold process. Regular practice promotes an opening to (self-knowledge) and an allowing of (self-acceptance). It lobbies against a compulsive need to be someone else, somewhere else. Clarity of thought is more available as one hones the practice of letting go of attachments (those controlling, obsessive preoccupations that consume us; or those much-desired outcomes which, when left unrealized, leave us sadly disappointed); and avoidances, the need to defend against an inevitable. We are who we are. Get used to it. Better yet, work with it.

Let There Be Dark

2011-03-06T19:14:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately there can be no doubt that man is, on the whole, less good than he imagines himself or wants to be. Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is. If an inferiority is conscious, one always has a chance to correct it. Furthermore, it is constantly in contact with other interests, so that it is continually subjected to modifications. But if it is repressed and isolated from consciousness, it never gets corrected. (Carl Jung, Psychology and Religion (1938). In CW 11: Psychology and Religion: West and East. P.131)

Jung was not the first to articulate the importance, indeed the sine qua non of (in Robert Johnson’s words) ‘owning your shadow’. Lao Tzu, some 2500 years ago, in four-score or so succinct reflections (Tao Te Ching) captured the essence of polarities and the essential role these extremes play in maintaining our balance, reworked in the following:

All behaviors contain their opposites. . . learn to see things backwards, inside out, upside down. (John Heider, Tao of Leadership, 1985 p. 36),

There can be no light – without the dark.

A few years ago, I had the pleasure of first hearing, then meeting, Canon Philip Lambert (Truro Cathedral, UK) as he homilized on the ‘north side of the church’. Speaking first literally, he offered a description of that wall of a little parish church he’d visited recently: damp seemingly perpetually, moss-covered, avoided and thus neglected. Then metaphorically (and surprisingly), he spoke not about those segments of humanity from whom we avert our eyes – as one might expect, as the priest slides into a gentle castigation of our self-absorbed, superior ways, etc., etc. But speaking to encourage us to spend time in those ‘nether regions’, exploring those aspects of self and, in the process (as Jung would suggest), shedding healing (‘correcting’) light on same. I was sufficiently struck by his message to inquire about his psychological background – “nothing formal – just interested”.

Fast forward: Holy Week, 2010. A longtime wish of Nicola’s and mine had been to spend this special time of year within the walls of an English cathedral, finding ourselves this time in Chester for just that occasion. We’d come expecting a full palate of sung Evensongs supplementing all traditional service elements of the ‘season’. We were not disappointed. The ‘bonus’, as it were, however, followed Good Friday morning’s service: a three-hour devotional, somewhat enigmatically entitled Let There Be Dark. Canon Trevor Denis, a teacher, writer, and performer – in addition to his role as clergy, had assembled a selection of readings from his (several) collections of poems and stories, mingled with periods of contemplative silence, organ music, and hymns. The readings were delivered, depending on their particular ‘spin’, from the pulpit (the ‘right’ side as one faces the congregation) or the lectern (the left / sinister side) – the ‘light side’, upbeat stories being explored from the former, the ‘dark side’ from the latter. A plea for understanding from a Jew of the day, recounting the potential for chaos visited on him and his confreres by Jesus’ radical ideas, asking for a bit of patience and time to adjust. A diatribe against chocolate and ‘spring colours’, appropriately ending with ‘let there be dark’. Job’s wife given a voice; along with Eve’s feeling that it was ‘safe to go back in the water’ – only to find her long-awaited celebration shrouded in black. It came as no great surprise that, in the silence following each reading, the nave was absolutely still. This was not a man advocating dark thoughts, depressing views of the world, the consummate ‘glass half empty’ type. Only that each side serves to define the other; to inform, clarify and give meaning to the other – and both require exploration.

I am in the business of therapy. This process starts and ends with one’s capacity, indeed willingness, to self-examine, to ask one critical question: what am I to learn from any experience? It tracks one’s gradual shift from fault-finding in the world outside oneself to examination of one’s own inevitable role in, contribution to the circumstance in which one finds oneself. Its success turns on the courage to implement the answer(s) one is able to find on this introspective journey – and to steadfastly resist thereafter the temptation to place responsibility outside one’s own skin. For this to be a fully meaningful experience, it demands that we first accept, as Jung would have it, that there are those quirky, socially less-than-desirable, ‘private’ elements in each of us. Secondly, as Lambert and Dennis suggest, that we explore these aspects, not from a shame-faced or denying posture; but from a stance that is eager for understanding, candour, and objectivity (free of rationalization). And finally, to welcome these ‘exiled’ parts of self and grant them equal status. A charmingly, disarmingly simple examination of this process forms the core of a favourite film of mine – Enchanted April – and worth a look.

And so for those to whom it may apply, as we approach yet another Lenten season and are casting around for something to challenge ourselves over the next six weeks, perhaps taking on a little ‘shadow boxing’. Having a look at that elusive, shifty thing that only shows itself when some bright light sneaks up behind and illuminates us. That dark, distorted representation of self that mimics one's every move — but in sometimes perverse, sometimes scary, sometimes barely recognizable form; that we know to be present — but is out of sight, just for now. That paradox that we know we're responsible for — I mean who else could it belong to? — but seems somehow foreign, autonomous, not a part of us at all, as we gaze at its ragged form on the ground.

Pause It!

2011-02-28T08:08:00.000-08:00

Noon time run just commenced, I trot easily along a little-used stretch of road beside the river. An easy hello from an acquaintance heading home for lunch. Heaving into sight behind and approaching, four adolescent boys strung loosely abreast, across the road, Chicago Bulls hats twisted brim-to-rear, Raiders jackets unzipped, and soggy runners on foot in lieu of discarded winter boots. Familiar as I am with the verbal jibes tossed my way by members of this set, I discount the too-loud remarks about the “string bean”, and carry on running, hard against the left shoulder of the street.

Five feet separates us now. Adjacent-most lad, apparently not yet fully exorcised of his feelings toward approaching runner, jumps sideways into my path, menaces briefly, and then back — but sufficient only to allow the narrowest of passage between his bulk and the snow bank. . .

TIME OUT FOR CONSIDERATION OF ETHICAL DILEMMA: My socialized, therapist side would dictate, slowing, drawing the lad aside — perhaps offering a seat on the nearest available park bench. Reflect to him my awareness that his behaviour confirmed a need to act out against adult authority, to challenge a symbol of the world he wished to define himself as distinct from, and to elevate his status amongst his peers. To point out my feelings and the impact of his actions on another human being. To suggest alternate ways of connecting with me, should we meet again under similar circumstances. (This would be method # 1: six, beautifully orchestrated steps to resolving conflict between the adult and adolescent sphere.)

OR. . . It was so easy. Good forward momentum; accessible target; exaggerate that arm swing just a bit and BAM — right fist planted in solar plexus without even breaking stride. From behind, I pick up the reaction: "The ______ hit me!" Carry on running. Some fifty feet apart and perceived as a safe distance away, the expletives begin to float my way. I turn and begin to trot after the group. Two break for cover. A third, turns toward me — to challenge; to delay so his friends might escape. No. As it turns out he merely wanted confirmation that his friend hadn't hallucinated the whole encounter.

"You ain't gonna hit me are ya?" "No", I reassured, placing my hands on his shoulders; "I'll just show you what your buddy did." "Oh, he said you punched him." "Well, if his running into my hand as we passed constitutes a punch, I suppose he's right. See ya." Sometimes, to enhance personal growth and awareness — you just gotta use Method # 2!
Excerpt from an anonymous runner’s journal, Winter, 1994

I’ve pretty much passed the torch to my daughter – at least where Mercury’s winged feet are concerned. I must say, I don’t really miss suiting up for a 25 kilometer run on a cold and windy Sunday morning in February (or the adolescent confrontations). But while the obsessive commitment and discipline may have downshifted a generation, some of the sidebars continue to linger. In particular, as I look back, what seems to have stuck around is the (obstinate) arrogance and entitlement that comes with facing the elements (human or meteorological) equipped with little more than a pair of running shoes and the flimsiest of clothing – while all those slugs, bundled to the nine’s, insist on driving down ‘my road’ and pushing aside this hero of winter. And with it, the ludicrous ‘mouse that roared’ standoffs between a near-naked, 135 pound runner and a significantly better equipped automobile, complete with pissed off driver at the wheel. Many’s the time where the mouse’s roar consisted of the first few letters of the ‘Jersey alphabet’ – effin A, effin B, and effin C – phonetically speaking, complete with the Canadian sign language equivalents. Age seems not to have diminished some things – good old fashioned, knee-jerk reactivity to the challenge. ‘Road rage’ to be sure.

So what’s to be done? Another excerpt, in a more somber vein, this time from a letter to the Beacon Herald from some friends and responsive to the ‘calls for his head’ following the killing of one of Stratford’s swans; the public need for extreme consequation:

We wonder if it might be timely and helpful for all of us to take a few, slow, deep breaths and reflect on our reactions to swan Angela's death. It is appropriate and natural for us to feel profound grief over the horrific death of a beautiful mother, and our accompanying anger at the "sad cruelty" that was directed at her is also normal. It is further reasonable that we would hope that the perpetrator(s) would be found and held accountable for what happened. However, we are concerned about the vindictiveness that is being expressed against those responsible. Calls for public humiliation and ruthless punishment only serve to place us all in a similar role of inflicting cruelty — that which we claim to be denouncing.

On reading, I was reminded of the little ‘pause button’ so much a part of our ubiquitous, electronic gadgetry. The symbol, of course, is that of two, short, vertical, parallel lines – with a convenient and appropriate space between. Quite unlike the ‘play’ or the ‘fast forward’ buttons – that compel us to ‘get on with it’ – it seems to suggest a space to ‘pause’ and reflect; to pause and reconsider; not unlike the writers’ plea above.

They continue:
Further, might we gain a different perspective if we asked ourselves: what if the perpetrator were my child? My brother? My friend? What would best serve him in learning and moving on from this event? We wonder what suggestions we would come up with then.

Several possibilities are offered as to how we might conduct ourselves – as we spend that brief moment ‘between the lines’:

Take some time to develop a different perspective (the child, brother, friend vs. faceless villain view). Karen Armstrong, in the opening chapter of her Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, comments on the universality of the ‘Golden Rule’, common to all faith structures and attributed in its origin to Confucius as the constant guide that informs one’s daily conduct: ‘All day, every day, never do to others what you would not like them to do to you’ (aka, empathy).

Or we could collect data, understanding of the circumstance, the individual before acting. Further, Zindel Segal (The Mindful Way Through Depression) encourages us to consider alternatives: “Acceptance or allowing (vs. action), as a vital first step, lets us become fully aware of issues, and then, if appropriate, to respond in a skillful way of addressing these issues -- rather than to react in knee-jerk fashion, by automatically running off some of our old (often unhelpful) strategies” – what an acquaintance calls ‘sitting with. . .’ versus ‘acting on’. Resisting the view that, when one is ‘inactive’, one is condoning, endorsing a situation; rather than simply reflecting on it.

And finally, Breathing. As the letter suggests, ‘let’s take a few, slow, deep breaths. . . ‘ Again, Segal offers a variant on this common ‘pause button’. He calls it the ‘three-minute breathing space’; the A, B, C’s (not from New Jersey this time!):

A - Awareness. Observe – bring the focus of awareness to your inner experience and notice what is happening in your thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations. Describe, acknowledge, identify – put experiences into words; for example, say in your mind: “A feeling of anger is arising” or “Self-critical thoughts are here.”

B – Breathe. Redirecting your Attention. Gently redirect your full attention to the breath. Follow the breath all the way in and all the way out. Try noticing, at the back of your mind, “Breathing in . . . Breathing out”; or counting, “Inhaling, one . . . exhaling, one. . . inhaling, two. . .exhaling, two. . .etc.”.

C – Connect, in a Considered way. Allow your attention to expand to the whole body – especially to any sense of discomfort, tension, or resistance. If these sensations are there, then take your awareness there by ‘breathing into them’ on the in-breath. Then, breathe out from those sensations, softening and opening with the out-breath. Say to yourself on the out-breath, “It’s OK. Whatever it is, it’s OK. Let me feel it”. Become aware of and adjust your posture and facial expression. As best you can, bring this expanded awareness to the next moments of your day.

So the space between the lines is as much about bringing intention to our behaviour; informing our actions before doing, versus the automatic ‘knee jerk’ (hmmm, jerk?) I suppose there is a time for Method #2 – at least that anonymous runner considered his choices. . . I suppose.

The Conundrum of Silence

2011-02-21T09:43:00.000-08:00

Music and silence – how I detest them both! How thankful we should be that ever since Our Father entered Hell. . . no square inch of infernal space and no moment of infernal time has been surrendered to either of those abominable forces, but all has been occupied with Noise. . .the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile. . .We will make the whole universe a noise in the end. (C.S. Lewis, Screwtape Letters, 1942).

So ‘senior demon’ Screwtape enthuses to his trainee, Wormwood as he counsels the latter in the finer points of corrupting humanity.

And Paul Simon, a little more recently from the Sounds of Silence, as he once again acquaints himself with ‘darkness, his old friend’: "Fools", said I, "You do not know, Silence like a cancer grows. . .”

Silence, it would seem then has accumulated something of a bad rep – that state, the very presence of which we seemingly struggle to displace; that which we instinctively associate with emptiness, isolation, being ‘out of touch’. To fend it off, we whistle in the dark – any sound, even of our own contrivance, is better than the alternative (no sound) – lest we fall victim to the ‘demons in the dark’, apparently, hopefully kept temporarily at bay by our hollow, atonal efforts; the unwatched TV, elevator music, white noise generators all providing (reassuring?) background sound. Even our own brain is programmed to generate some sound, any sound, to fill the void, if one accepts current explanations of the psychological bases of tinnitus (that irritating, sometimes crazy-making whine we ‘hear’ inside our heads, when our surround quiets down).

Perhaps in keeping with the envelope-pushing of the 1970’s, ‘altered states’ were of sufficient ‘scientific’ interest to prompt researchers to experiment with any number of means of inducing same. Timothy Leary and his ‘acid trips’ aside, immersion tanks, essentially ‘sensory deprivation pods’ (not all that different from claustrophobic, sound-proof tanning beds), surfaced as vehicles to explore our response to the absence of . . .everything. Suspended in body-temperature saline solution, in the dark and silence, no surprise that, left very alone with one’s thoughts, the therapeutic intent would sometimes slip off the rails and skate pretty darn close to hallucination, psychosis.

Be we graduate psychology students, struggling to ‘sit in silence and listen’ (vs. filling the quiet times in sessions with compulsive chatter) or bored adolescents tweeting and instant-messaging (r u thr? – and what do I do if you’re not!), the apparent aversion to silence is near universal.

And so summoning the courage to actually invite silence into our space, to embrace it – if only for the 30 minutes we carve out to sit mindfully each day – must seem like a nearly counter-intuitive act, working against what the culture and the individual would advocate and encourage as acceptable behaviour. But the potency of quiet – particularly quiet in the presence of others – is undeniable. Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury, in a BBC interview recently referenced an anecdote following the 9-11 tragedies. He recounts the meeting of a priest, a rabbi, and an imam, sharing neither a common language nor essentially a common belief, as the three contemplate the enormity of what’s just happened and struggle to define what their respective roles might be – as they minister to their damaged and damaging flocks. Acutely aware that words cannot begin to capture the task before them, they sit in silence – and, in that wordless space, the healing began.

Consider the paradox that the very capacity to speak, not merely ‘communicate’ (as, obviously some ‘sub-human’ species are able), at once contains perhaps the single most defining aspect of our ‘humanness’ and the particular seeds of our undoing. Although the point of Babel was to highlight the folly of human achievement for its own sake, an interesting sidebar is the mechanism by which the endeavor was ultimately quashed – failed communication. How many times have we heard variations on the theme of being ‘misunderstood’, when our meaning fails to match the intention of our spoken word; heard email pilloried because it lacks the nuance, the face-to-face quality and cues, the inflection in the voice – and is ‘mis-read’. How, when we sense we are being misinterpreted, our compulsion is to throw more words at the issue – and succeed in only making things worse.

If words sometimes unnecessarily complicate our lives, silence might just enhance its quality. Sara Maitland, a British author, in her memoir A Book of Silence, charts her extended personal experiment as she flees the ‘noisy world’ in which she spent her childhood and adolescence and moves increasingly to ‘silent places’. She chronicles the good and the bad – but generally concludes that, it is only in silence and solitude that she began to hear and see what is around her. How close is that to a working definition of mindfulness?

And so to coattail on last week’s focus on ‘right speech’ – and its implication for less talk – I might encourage a little personal experiment. Finding opportunities to cultivate formal quiet times in one’s day when the household agrees to be in each other’s presence – but not speak. Or, at a slightly more ambitious level, consider a ‘silent retreat’ for a day or two, either structured or self-directed – and see what ‘floats up’. Just as a regular mindfulness practice affords you the (quiet) opportunity to ‘see what’s of interest’ to you, carrying this directive out into your day can be surprising instructive.

What Jeeves Didn't Say

2011-02-13T18:56:00.000-08:00

Intrigued by the giggles, I began, ineffectively, to try to read over my wife’s shoulder as she plowed her way through The World of Jeeves. Ultimately I asked that she read passages aloud that she felt might be of mutual interest and entertainment; and happily, she complied. Fans of both Wodehouse and Stephen Fry, we were both soon Googling (and giggling) YouTube for clips of Wooster and Jeeves, Fry and Hugh Laurie’s (aka, House) wonderful adaptation of Wodehouse’s extended lampooning of this ‘English gentleman’ – and with him, the British aristocracy. One of the ‘idle rich’, Bertie Wooster is regularly in need of rescuing by Jeeves, his capable and attentive valet. The only cost it would seem is the latter’s quietly understated, but acerbic commentary on his employer’s naïve, self-absorbed, and often witless behaviour – to which Bertie is typically quite oblivious.

Having settled on ‘Minnie the Moocher’, we listened as Bertie plunked out a piano rendition of the Cab Calloway tune, all the while soliciting comment – and the occasional assist or explanation – from Jeeves. The skit includes Bertie’s observation on the wittiness of the lyric, inviting Jeeves’ opinion. “Now that is clever, Jeeves!” “What is, sir?” “Well, don’t you see: ‘Sweden’ rhyming with ‘needin’”; and Jeeves’ terse but very complete retort: “Almost, sir”. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwgS1ctxglw for those who might want to see the original.)

Now Jeeves in his self-effacing style would hardly have considered himself a model of the Buddhist way. But contained in variations of that oft repeated dialogue between Bertie and Jeeves, are all the essential elements of a simple and effective means of transferring Metta mindfulness, Loving-kindness into the rest of our day as we struggle to find ways to extend our 30-minute sit to the other 23 ½ hours: Right Speech.

One the rudiments of the ‘eight-fold path’, right speech is variously seen as communicating according to three or four simple ‘rules’ or principles. Is what I am about to say truthful? Is it helpful? And is it timely? After listening to the Fry-Laurie skit, I was tempted to add a fourth: is it succinct? (On doing a bit of research, I later found a quote attributed to the Buddha that seems to support the latter’s inclusion: “Better than a meaningless story of 1000 words, is a single word of deep meaning which, when heard, produces peace”.)

Jack Kornfield tells the story of attempting to act strictly by the parameters of right speech for a day in his life: not speaking unless what he was about to say met all the criteria listed above. If one or more ‘tests’ were failed, he didn’t speak – or at least reworded with more thought / compassion what he was about to say. Remarkably, although perhaps not so surprising after all, the volume of communication dropped by some two-thirds. He was simply more quiet.

Truthfulness is a particularly tricky one. I suspect most of us, under ‘normal’ circumstances, don’t likely lie all that much. But what about sarcasm / irony: “The expression of one's meaning using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous effect”. Right speech doesn’t preclude expressing the thought – only asks that it be spoken in a direct and clear (versus inverted, ‘backwards’) fashion. Gossip anyone – ‘second hand stories’, the provenance of which is much less important to us than the juicy details. Try, for a day – or an hour – avoiding commenting on anyone not present in the room with you. Joe Goldstein maintains that this simple exercise compels you, ever so briefly, to abstain from analyzing, judging, evaluating; and to raise your awareness of how much of our communication is devoted to ‘absentee subjects’ (targets?). Much easier to talk about the person not present. Or the exaggerated tale, embellished just that little bit for effect, emphasis – no harm in that, right?

Washing our comments through the filter of helpfulness can be equally challenging. I’ve always wondered about the vaguely oxymoronic feel to ‘constructive criticism’. (Who hasn’t heard the old knock: ‘military intelligence’?) If I’m being constructive, being critical must be somehow OK. If it’s for ‘someone’s own good’, it’s quite acceptable to be both ‘truthful’ and (oh yeah) just a bit nasty in the bargain. Right speech would compel us to vet our communication not only through the ‘is it good for them’ criterion; but equally through the empathic, compassionate, positive ‘sieve’ as well. Get all those spiteful lumps out, before the thought flows trippingly off one’s tongue.

And timeliness. When a ‘gem’ is shared may be the difference between a thought heard and a thought ignored or even resented. Perhaps pointing out that the weather is finally warming to one’s neighbour, thrilled with the deal that he’s just made for a snow blower, is an observation a bit badly timed.

And so, as Jeeves moves gracefully about the flat, fluffing pillows and shifting floral arrangements, he speaks when invited to do so, with clarity and frankness (“You know Jeeves, I could do better justice to this song – if I knew what the words meant”, opines Bertie; “Oh, I doubt that sir”, from Jeeves); with every intention of easing his employer’s confusion, frustration, and ignorance – without ever once disturbing a self-satisfied feather. Right speech to be sure.

The Heart of Darkness

2011-02-07T08:16:00.000-08:00

Joseph Conrad presents us with dire and compelling images of ‘what evil lurks in the hearts of men1’, exploring in his turn of the century novel, Heart of Darkness, geographic, political, and very personal levels of malevolence. His setting, the ‘dark continent’ (as Africa continued to be called) and Western human rights atrocities are examined through the eyes of Conrad’s naïve, but increasingly questioning narrator as he seeks out the shadowy Kurtz, the anti-hero of Heart of Darkness, a rogue ivory trader consumed by his self-aggrandizing needs, greed, and lack of compassion – ego, in the context of last week’s posting. (Think Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.)

Gandhi describes having ‘only three enemies’: the British Empire, the Indian people, and himself. He ranks these three adversaries, in order of the challenge they represent to him and, counter-intuitively, places himself at the top of this list, pleading little or no influence over ‘him’.

Shared in the above is the, again perhaps counter-instinctive view that the ‘heart of the matter’ lies not outside of ourselves, but within. And our challenge is less in identifying and cataloguing our ‘enemies’ transgressions, strategizing means of, at best protecting ourselves, at worst revenging the insult / attack; and more in cultivating means of self-examination and compassion. Rather lofty goals!

My mentor and friend, John Heider, in his re-working of the Tao Te Ching, offers a simple, first response to ‘encounters’ – a 1970’s euphemism for an attack. He suggests reacting to criticism or challenge in a manner that will shed light on the event; remaining centered and viewing the encounter as a ‘dance’, not a threat to one’s ego or existence. But just how might one approach this prescription?

A useful mindfulness practice – and starting point -- is contained in the Metta meditation, often translated as a ‘loving-kindness’ or ‘loving-friendliness’ meditation. The process is very much like peeling an onion. . . in reverse. At its core, it represents a simple recitation of blessings, compassionate affirmations and assertions, and, as the translation indicates, kindnesses. It begins, however, by directing our attention to ourselves, the ‘heart’ of the onion; then progressively working out through the layers to the ‘really difficult folk’ in the outer rings, our enemies. Jack Kornfield describes this process as ‘stopping the war within’ – before we address the war without. The intent is to purify, forgive, and accept ourselves (our hearts) – well before we take on the really big and long-entrenched challenges of those with whom we struggle.

As a preparation for this form of mindfulness practice, you might try a simple exercise as follows:
- Take a cleansing breath or two.
- After settling, think back over your recent life experience and identify two good deeds you’ve done.
- As you examine each of these deeds, consider how their performance affected your consciousness, how they made you feel, the impact on others, the ‘after-glow’, the resolutions that may have followed.
- Consider the precursors of these two acts, what led up to them, what choices you made that facilitated, allowed these actions. How did you get there?
- Consider the ‘unconditionality’ of these actions. Were they ‘agenda-free’? Performed without expectation of ‘repayment’.

Metta is intended to address ‘how the heart acts’, fostering simple, compassionate, perhaps altruistic, and connecting (with others) / unifying awarenesses; in place of divisive, alienating, isolating, perhaps vindictive or acquisitive postures. In essence the intent is to ‘train the puppy’, in Kornfield’s parlance, replacing a set of counterproductive behaviours with more salutary ones. The goal is to not merely suppress the former behaviours – but to substitute generosity for greed; benevolence for hatred / resentment; compassion for self-absorbing, self-serving behaviours. Cancelling undesirable behaviours with desirable ones. It’s not very effective to pronounce ‘bad dog’ – without offering a viable alternative.

The process is a simple one – as are most things associated with mindfulness. As you begin your sit, having settled and centered, recite to yourself a variation on the following cycle of affirmations / intentions:

May I be well, happy, and peaceful. May no harm come to me. May no difficulties come to me. May no problems come to me. May I also have patience, courage, understanding, and determination to meet and overcome inevitable difficulties, problems, failures in life.

Then progress to the next ‘layer’: May my family. . .

Then on to my teachers. . . my friends. . .my neighbours. . .all persons who are strangers. . .my enemies. . .all living beings.

Like most contemplative activities, this simple recitation is not intended as ‘intercessory’; neither requesting, nor even expecting all these desirable states to appear in our lives – just because we asked for them. The intention is to subtly and regularly – even each time we sit – to adjust our ‘heart’ to a more open and compassionate posture.

Next week: Right speech, the transition of loving-kindness into the other 23 ½ hours. (Read any good P G Wodehouse lately?)

1The Shadow knows. . .

Leggo My Eg(g)o!

2011-01-31T11:45:00.000-08:00

Whoever it was that penned that inane (but obviously catchy), 1970’s commercial for Kellogg’s waffles, I’d wager mindfulness practice might have been one of the more remote sources of inspiration for them. As the pedantic and whiny father makes his case, attempting to guilt his eight-year old (but unbending) son into surrendering his frozen bit of dimpled cardboard, how prophetic is the framing of the classic clash of ego’s (over Eggo’s, trivially enough in this case).

With my wife away for the weekend not so very long ago, the ‘window of opportunity’ opened on watching a movie or two that were let’s say not at the top of her viewing list. Harry Brown and Avatar found their way into the DVD player and with them the shared theme, among others, of the tension and its ‘resolution’ between the Us(es) and the Them(s). For Harry, the aging pensioner, living out his declining years on a housing estate in a rough section of London in the UK, the opposition comes clad as a group of older adolescents, largely treating the estate environs as their personal playground, content to bully and terrify residents who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The defining moment in this case is the assault and killing of Harry’s longtime friend bent on challenging the young toughs and refusing to live in fear of them. The event catalyzes Harry, long since content to have put aside a lethal skill set developed during his war years in favour of an attempt at a life of tolerant coexistence, when he too is confronted and threatened. His systematic, vigilante-style, ‘elimination’ of the gang’s members escalates with the predictable tragedies mounting on all sides.

Avatar too explores the consequences of (in this case, literally) alien agendas played out in an insular and self-serving fashion in the absence of understanding of ‘the other’s’ position – or even any interest in determining what that might be. As with Mr. Brown, it’s not hard to generate sympathy for the ‘victim’ – never a challenge distinguishing the white hats from the black – cheering each unlikely ‘victory’; but never quite losing sight of an ominous truth behind, that (much less trivially this time round) the issue is once again a clash of ego and all that that implies – with no clear good guys, only (temporary) winners and losers.

Mindfulness practice is sometimes described as developing a state of egoless awareness. Buddhist wisdom identifies two classic impediments (sometimes benignly referred to as ‘hindrances’) to this process: greed (attachment) and hatred (rejection or avoidance of relationship) – directly attaching both these barriers to relationship unity to the ego of the individual. Both are clearly played out in the two films above. For the ‘human colonizers’ in Avatar, the primary interest is in securing a supply of a valuable mineral – the impact on the indigenous population be damned. For Harry, it’s avenging his friend’s death and ‘sanitizing’ the estate of a hated blight.

Our inclination, when desirous of or challenged by a person, group, or situation, is to first wash it through the filter of the ego. Is this something that will enhance my state? Is this a threat to my security, prestige, position? Then, more often than not, have that circumstance become the focus of our action; almost invariably at the cost of relationship. The defense of the ego becomes the distancing act of separating me from the other. The I want what he/she has or I want to prevail and force my will on him/her become our prime directives. Most meditative traditions endorse a ‘letting go of’ as a substrate for a more peaceful and fulfilling life, less absorbed with acquisitive or adversarial goals. Nevertheless our culture seems bent on endorsing the opposite: ‘he who dies with the most toys wins’ is replete with the cultural values of both acquiring and competing/dominating. Evidence of our increasingly litigious natures is seen everywhere, with the knee-jerk response being the evaluating of almost any situation first through its potential for a ‘successful suit’.

Laurence Freeman, a meditation teacher in the Christian tradition, examines this plight from the standpoint of our approaching relationship as an essential duality, more bent on maintaining our individuality, our uniqueness, our ‘difference from’ – than on fostering, in his words, a ‘oneness’ or unity in relationship. James Cameron’s cinematic conceit for this same concept is a literal joining with, an empathy for all organic entities. For those who haven’t seen the film, the ‘crippled’ human hero is made whole by taking on Pandoran form (the indigenous residents) – quite literally ‘walking a mile in his shoes’; with the extended metaphor of peaceful coexistence centering on one’s awareness of, respect for, and sensitivity to the needs and wishes of all beings from other humanoids to trees.

Mindfulness teaching then provides a vehicle for a much more positive spin on the ‘leggo my eggo’ jingle of some 40 years ago – far from it being a challenge, a throwing down of the gauntlet, an ‘I want what you got’, they advocate a ‘letting go of my ego’. Just how practice suggests we do this is the subject of next week’s blog.

[For those sports fans amongst us, the answer does not involve tossing one’s waffles onto the ice at the Air Canada Centre in protest over the Maple Leaf’s abysmal season!)

The Trouble with Change

2011-01-24T11:01:00.000-08:00

As a recent psychology graduate and newly minted employee of our local hospital, I was called upon frequently to present to all manner of groups; often asked to expound upon stress, it symptoms, sources, and to offer some presumed solutions and management strategies. The tack I came to adopt most often was to define stress as our natural response to change. I would dutifully outline Hans Selye’s General Adaptation Syndrome as the process through which organisms, human and animal alike, struggle to restore order, to return to what ‘was’ in their lives, once this familiar comfort zone had been upset in some fashion. His language, while biologically precise, inadvertently pathologized ‘change’, incorporating it as the villain setting in motion a ‘syndrome’, variously defined as a disease, disorder, or set of symptoms. His labels, too, of stages of coping within this syndrome, as one gradually decompensates over time, convey the pejorative, perfidious nature of change: respectively, the Alarm, the Resistant, and finally, the Exhausted stage.

A second favourite inclusion of mine was a table sometimes referred to as the ‘Life Change Scale’, presuming to attach a value to each of 30 or so ‘life events’ ranging, depending on the version of the scale, from ‘death of a spouse’ (98 points) through ‘getting married’ (26) to ‘going on vacation’(5). The ‘values’ of events one had experienced within the past year are totaled and purport to provide an estimate of how ‘stress vulnerable’ one might be – less than 150 = OK; 150-300 – better watch your change meter; greater than 300 – you’re euchred! The message is similar – change, regardless of its presumed ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’, will get you. And the ‘solution’, to the extent one is able to make such choices, it to limit change; thereby minimizing one’s stress levels.

Lovely! As I reflect on this now thirty-plus year old ‘wisdom’, I marvel at how many ways the assessment and attendant prescription got it wrong. No question that Dr. Selye’s mice, swimming helplessly and hopelessly (if we can anthropomorphize rodents for the moment) in their inescapable pond, gradually succumbed to their ‘stress’. And equally, no doubt, events like moving house, getting downsized from one’s long-term employment, or having a close friend become pregnant (although it mystifies me as to why this event shares equal stress value with starting to date again in adulthood – I suppose it depends upon how close a friend that now fecund acquaintance might be!) are indeed likely to amp up one’s stress-o-meter. Where the impassioned plea to ‘control your stress by controlling change’ leaves the tracks is in its identification of change as the root of this evil. Rather like blaming a highway for causing auto accidents. Not to mention the fool’s errand and arrogance of presuming to ‘solve’ this state by controlling anything as unpredictable as change!

Three decades later and in a decidedly less certain and more contemplative headspace, I am prepared to let change off the hook. Like the 401’s of our lives, it appears much more likely that it’s how we approach and utilize this ‘highway’ than it is something inherent in the ‘tarmac’ of change itself that requires our attention. Two pillars (essential truths) of Buddhist teaching are often translated as ‘impermanence’ and ‘unsatisfactoriness’. For better or worse (often the latter), we continue to struggle with and deny these ‘truths’, generally being quite unhappy ‘when things fall apart’ (to borrow Pema Chodron’s book title) – when enjoyable, desirable states metamorphose into something less so, underscoring both the inherent transitory (read, changeable) nature of all things and (to quote the controversial Richard Dawkins) the dominant tendency for such mutated states to less functional (appealing and desirable) than their immediate predecessor. We neither want the good times to stop rolling (attachment); nor their less attractive replacements to hang around (avoidance). We become frustrated, disappointed, resentful, even cynical over our ‘loss’, (obsessively) clambering (like those little ‘Selyean’ mice) to return to what was (dry land) and fearing the alternative – what is (a deep, dark puddle).

How mindfulness practice prepares us for a much more adaptive (and less neurotic, blame-casting, and fearful) way of dealing with the inevitability of change is contained in the practice itself. (Sadly, reading about it isn’t enough!) A prime directive (if you will) in formal, meditative practice instructs us, as we are inevitably drawn away, distracted from our focus (the rhythm of our breathing, our mantra, etc.), to notice this departure; then letting go of whatever has distracted us, to return to our focus once again. This simple cycle holds the very seeds of dealing adaptively and acceptingly with the ‘impermanence’ of, in this case, our focus – no one expects to hold that concentrated anchor for more than a few moments at a time. Despite our best resolve, we will ‘change’, evolve away from; this is what is. It’s neither bad, nor undisciplined, nor avoidable; it just is. Far from ‘controlling’ ourselves, we accept, even embrace change; far from regretting, judging, being disturbed or frustrated by the place to which we’ve ‘mutated’, we simply note it – and return to the breath.

So change happens – as the (slightly sanitized) saying goes. To villainize and resent it; to (superstitiously) prepare ourselves for it by becoming so constricted in our hopes (lest we be saddened and disappointed when they too vaporize, as they must) that we dampen our enthusiasms and celebration of what’s (happily) happening right now, is to revert to what I might have prescribed in those early years: control what you can, then duck. Sitting with, observant and non-judgmental as the river flows on, seems a more sustainable, reality-based script.

Mindfulness Basics

2011-01-17T15:32:00.000-08:00

So what exactly is meditation, anyway? What is going on when ‘nothing is going on’? And, always assuming I have answers to the first two questions, what does this process look like when I move it out of that half-hour meditational period and into the day to day? What are the mechanics – in plain language, if you please?

Consider first of all that the human condition is to be distracted and distractible. And the 25-minute sit is not exempt from that normal, predictable, relentless process. The practice of mindfulness is, at core, the practitioner’s coming to accept this most human of activities and his/her cultivation of a simple strategy through which he/she may return to a more ‘unified’ state of mind – only to be distracted once again.

My wife presented me with a lovely metaphor for this process. Consider one’s ‘desirable’ state of mind (both in and out of one’s formal practice period) as consisting of a committee of ‘individuals’, all happily working together around a shared centre or focus; but all with quite unique agendas: management by committee. Let’s call this the ‘syntonic’ state – centered and grounded. In my wife’s example, I had been dispatched to find dining table accessories for a larger than usual (for us) dinner party scheduled for an evening on the weekend. No problem so far – my wife’s ‘committee’ had a clear expectation of the product with which I’d hopefully return. Her creative side saw ‘matched and blue’; her time manager was comfortable that all would be in place with time to spare; her chef was well-prepared (and didn’t really care about the niceties anyway – as long as the menu worked); and her ‘how do I compare’, socially conscious committee member was aware that one of our guests was a consultant for an interior design magazine – and, as yet, she (my wife’s committee member, not the guest) wasn’t squawking too loudly. Enter David with red and green napkins and place mats, a bouquet of flowers more suited to the floor beside a pulpit than the dining table – and powdered (vs. block) parmesan to boot.

Quite suddenly the harmony of the ‘management committee’ is fractured. An outlier had been pulled from the centre – by a distraction (I’ve been called many things, but rarely a distraction), leaving the rest of the group more or less in tact – but with the attention now on the outlier. (For the sake of illustration, let’s make the outlier the ‘creative’ committee member.) In the example, the issue / challenge to the group is not so much its source (aka: me), but the outlier. They notice the fragmenting behaviour of the outlier. Her focus, however is more likely on the source – ‘he should have called’; ‘he could exchange (but there’s no time)’; ‘my table will look like a Christmas tree’ – and the need to have the source fix the problem and restore harmony. The result, further contributing to the disruption, is to more fully engage ‘the source’, pulling herself even farther from harmony – as voices rise, explanations flow, anxiety and urgency build. Syntonia has become dystonia, wherein the environment has become very ‘noisy’ courtesy of the distraction.

The essential element at this point is for the outlier to notice, become aware of the process that she’s (dangerously) engaging. Then to allow the situation as it is comprised – not as she would have it or needs it to be; loosening the grip on her ideal. This acceptance (not resignation or capitulation, mind you) serves both to remove her from ‘battle ready’ status and to free her up to address the ‘real issue’ – not the source’s cock up and all the judging and negative evaluation that that might include – the circumstance in which she now finds herself and finding a solution within it.

If one is actively meditating, this ‘notice and accept’ phase might look something like ‘there, I’ve become caught up in that distracting sound or sensation or thought’; then, allowing it to recede, to ebb or flow – as they usually do – and return to one’s breath / focus. If one is outside the sit, it’s sometimes necessary to push a ‘pause button’ – I went and shoveled snow; my wife reframed the ‘Christmas tree’, cutting flower stems down and minimizing the volume of observable red and green – to allow our ‘lizard brain’ (our very old and instinctive chemistry that readies us to fight or flee), and the activating messages it’s sending to the body, to catch up with our consciousness. When the body is ready – defused and less inclined to work against our efforts to rejoin the rest of the committee – we can successfully return to the task at hand. It’s important to note that the ‘old brain’ and the body are just doing their job (granted, one that was defined 30,000 years ago) – which is to address the ‘distraction’, be it a wooly mammoth or an irritating spouse; they must be allowed their due – not judged. It should also be noted that breathing is a very potent mechanism for ‘calming’ the side of our nervous system that prepares us to act, to engage. So whether you’re sitting and meditating or facing your neighbourhood mammoth, breathing is a good thing, working equally well in both cases.

And so to summarize. Mindfulness practice is a four step process: NOTICE – observe that the outlier has removed himself from the core committee; ACCEPT – as the outlier, allow the situation as it is, not needing to control it, wishing it were otherwise (and further entrenching in the distraction); PAUSE – as needed, to allow the energized body to stand down from its (natural) preparation to act; and BREATHE – returning to the committee with a calming breath, rejoining the rhythm.

By the way, the driveway got cleared, the napkins got rolled, the flowers are still in bloom – and the Bourguignon was marvelous!

Christmas Greetings 2010

2010-12-07T08:20:00.000-08:00

Mom’s mantra: ‘we’re going to clean out the basement – this year’. Somewhere between bridge clubs and borders (both gardens and guarded – the international type) in my memories of my mother’s favoured obsessions, sat this phrase, usually uttered after a protracted search for some item or other that had been lost to this heart of darkness of my childhood home. So one can imagine the angst that began to swell when these self-same words surfaced early January (this year – not circa 1956) with a targeted completion date of December 31, 2010. The chill deepened as crosshairs locked onto kitchen renos attended by the equally scary: ‘so what’s my budget?’ I needn’t have worried (well maybe just a little) wed to both an accountant (read sharp pencil) and an Ikea devoté (read not custom-designed). And so the steady march toward the Guinness Book (and beer!) for ‘most drawers in a single kitchen by a non-commercial customer’ (as awarded by Len, our Irish installer – whose day job merely provided opportunity to test drive his latest stand-up routines). We did, however, finish second in the puck light competition, ceded to our neighbours, equipped (in the ever-hyperbolic words of our shared electrician, Roger) sufficient to preclude the need for a cook top: “just set those strip loins on the island and turn the pot lights to broil”. So with Magnus (the Viking – range, not the Scandinavian) and faithful companion, Thor (the exhaust fan during whose initial fire up we’d been warned, by Roger of course, to remove small dogs and children from the immediate vicinity – lest they find their way airborne toward Shakespeare), we christened the new laboratory for Nicola.

Who could resist the siren call of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and Benjamin Bunny? Clearly not us. Early April, when the UK was bracing for its final blast of inclemency (we had snow while Perth County was sunning itself in 26˚ C temps), found us in the Lake District’s Beatrix Potter country and Chester’s cathedral for Holy Week. Simon, wrapping up his stint as organ scholar, was beginning to cast his eyes colony-ward for future prospects (more of that later); doing yeoman’s service as local guide. For better or worse, we were left to our own orienteering devices for the balance of the trip, doing our best imitation of Heathcliff and Catherine slogging about the glorious landscapes of the Peak District from our base in a little stone cottage in Cheshire. Walk ratings of ‘easy to moderate’ are so much sheep dip (of which there was certainly no shortage either!).

All illusions of father-daughter idylls, crossing the finish line together, clasped hands raised high in personal victory have now dissolved, the ephemeral vestige of an aging man’s dream world. The writing was on the asphalt at this year’s New Year’s Eve run – a modest 5-, or 10- for the hardier, kilometer ‘fun run’ that ushered in 2010 (and by the time dad coasted into the finish paddock, we were well into 2010). Left in the slush, as training for Jill built to a half-marathon and ultimately to a first full 26 miler (in the old tongue) in September on a sunny Sunday in Toronto accompanied by 3,000 or so of her closest friends. 4:01:53, a whisker from the 4-hour goal and incentive to push all the harder in 2011. Even the 'race photographer' status has been surrendered: Brant is now the official -- with his credentials becoming better established as I write. First film screened in November this year.

So what’s a body to do – but find an alternate sport. Hmmm? Skydiving, wind surfing, rock climbing – surely all within the grasp of this now 64 year old (well, only if I use my right hand, grip strength having flagged considerably on the non-preferred side!) Perhaps not. Ah, something sensible, even familiar: like bicycling – and there were six of these things hanging, bat-like from the basement rafters already. So after the RBG garden tour commitments were safely satisfied and we had our yard to ourselves once again; and after the angst of a bus load of blue hairs, armed with notebooks and an ample supply of obscure botanical questions (necessitating the usual ‘oh, that must be the other rodgersia pinnata, native to southern China – they are so easily confused’), Provence appeared on the radar. Six glorious days of cycling up hill and down (the French have this oddly understated definition of what constitutes a ‘hill’ – something to do with category 1 or ‘beyond classification’ . . .or something) from Nimes to Aix, and as many four- and five-course dinners in between as one could stuff into those already stressed spandex shorts. The 70 kph Mistral aside (well really from all sides!) – defined by Mr. Wiki as ‘the strong, cold and usually dry regional wind in France, coming from the north or northwest, which accelerates when it passes through the valley of the Rhone river’ (where we just happened to be); and the ‘slide into second base’ along several feet of asphalt (after the fender wedged in the back spokes) notwithstanding (which I certainly wasn’t – along with a good part of thigh, calf, knee, and shoulder epidermis) on a descent (much too cavalierly) from Les Baux, all was sunny and worth every drop of the IV antibiotics on return home. It must have been all that good Cotes du Rhone medicine that forestalled the pain.

And so to the prodigal – nope, make that prodigy – son. Quite a year for Andrew. After four hugely formative and supportive years at St. Mary Magdalene in Toronto, the opportunity – and what an opportunity it was – to move over to St. James’ Cathedral surfaced in early May as assistant organist. Two months into the gig and he’s playing for no less a parishioner than the Queen herself. Never sure where the ‘ice water in the veins’ comes from in musicians – but nary a mis-note. With some comings and goings amongst personnel, the ‘assistant’ has been replaced with ‘interim’ and the ‘organist’ morphed into ‘director of music’. Not bad for 23 and counting. Not surprisingly sights have shifted to Canadian opportunities from the hoped move to the UK. Even a little 2nd British invasion, with longtime friend and fellow organist, Simon arriving to cultivate a future in the colonies.

As for the basement: cleaned out, revisioned as sewing room and exercise centre and with storage that would have Martha Stewart turning green (that would be with envy, not environmental sensitivity). And it’s only December 7th!

God Bless from 90 Neal and . . .

Nicola, David, Jill, Brant, Andrew, Simon, Martha, Oban, Morag, and Charlie (and any blue hairs who couldn’t find their way out of the backyard).

Developing A Mindfulness Practice

2010-12-02T10:46:00.000-08:00

Following are notes / handouts from an eight-week group intended as an introduction to mindfulness practice. Materials are drawn from the following resources:

Mindfulness – In Plain English. B. H. Gunaratana.
Full Catastrophe Living. Jon Katat-Zinn.
The Mindful Way through Depression. Williams, Teasdale, Segal, Kabat-Zinn
Wherever You Go, There You Are. Jon Katat-Zinn.

Beyond Anxiety & Phobia. Edmund Bourne

Week 1

General Introductory thoughts.

Jon Kabat-Zinn’s definition mindfulness:

Paying attention (to the breath)
In a particular way (formal structure of meditation)
On purpose (with intention, not in the largely automatic, “unconscious” way we generally conduct our day)
In the present moment (vs. stuck in past, worrying about future)
Non-judgmentally.

Transcending. Breaking thru’ what Gunaratana describes as a wall of automatic / conditioned / reflexive thoughts and behaviours -- ‘the monkey chatter’ of moment to moment experience.

Goal.
Becoming more a witness to
And less a participant in ‘what’s going on in the moment’.

Less drawn into our thoughts – and all the automatic behaviours and emotional reactions this might imply – less judging of them; and more an observer of them; with the control and choice to engage or not.

Emphasis on non-judging. Resisting the categorizing of thoughts, experiences as
+ve = attachment,
-ve = avoidance,
or neutral (ignored, mindless)

Meditation as a tool for stepping outside of these compulsive patterns – choosing (intentionally, on purpose).

WHERE’S THE AUTHORITY?
Part of transformation is to cultivate an internal authority – not an external comparison – to see if we should be happy, sad, disappointed.

Meditation teaches an ‘inside – out’ process

Right Technique: Guidelines for Practicing Meditation

There is a technique to proper meditation. Probably the most important aspect is to sit in the right fashion, which means sitting upright with your back straight either on the floor or in a chair. There seems to be a certain energetic alignment within the body that occurs from sitting up straight. It's not likely to happen when you're lying down, although lying down is fine for other forms of relaxation. It's also important to relax tight muscles before you meditate. In historic times, the main purpose of yoga postures was to relax and energetically balance the body prior to meditating. The guidelines that follow are intended to help make your meditation practice easier and more effective.

Find a quiet environment. Do what you can do to reduce external noises and distractions.

Reduce muscle tension. If you're feeling tense, take some time (no more than ten minutes) to relax your muscles. Progressive muscle relaxation of the upper portion of the body—your head, neck, and shoulders—is often helpful. The following sequence of head and neck exercises may also be helpful (some progressive muscle relaxation in addition to this sequence isprobably optimal).

• Slowly touch your chin to your chest three times.
• Bend your head back to stretch the back of your neck three times.
• Bend your head over to your right shoulder three times.
• Bend your head over to your left shoulder three times.
• Slowly rotate your head clockwise for three complete rotations.
• Slowly rotate your head counterclockwise for three complete rotations.
Sitting Properly
Eastern Style: Sit cross-legged on the floor with a cushion or pillow supporting your buttocks. Rest your hands on your thighs. Lean slightly forward so that some of your weight is supported by your thighs as well as your buttocks.
Western Style (preferred by most North Americans): Sit in a comfortable, straight-backed chair, with your feet on the floor and legs uncrossed, hands on your thighs (palms down or up, whichever you prefer).
In either position, keep your back and neck straight without straining to do so. Do not assume a tight, inflexible posture. In general, do not lie down or support your head; this will tend to promote sleep.
Set aside twenty to thirty minutes for meditation (beginners might wish to start out with fifteen minutes).

http://www.insightmeditationcenter.org/meditation-timers/ links you to online meditation 'timers' of varying lengths. Alternately you may wish to set a timer (within reach). After you have practiced twenty to thirty minutes per day for several weeks, you may wish to try longer periods of meditation up to an hour. Typically, however, 25 to 30 minutes is a desirable and sustainable meditative period as a long term goal.
Make it a regular practice to meditate every day. Even if you meditate for only five minutes, it's important to do it every day. It's ideal if you can find a set time to practice meditating. Twice a day—upon rising in the morning and be fore retiring for the evening—is optimal; once per day is a minimum.
Don't meditate on a full stomach. Meditation is easier as well if you don't practice when you're tired. If you are unable to meditate prior to a meal, wait at least a half hour after eating to do so.
Select a focus for your attention. The most common device is the rhythm of your own breathing .

(From Beyond Anxiety & Phobia, Bourne)

RIGHT ATTITUDE

Beginner's Mind
To observe your immediate, ongoing experience without any judgments, preconceptions, or projections is often referred to as "beginner's mind." In essence, it is perceiving something with the freshness you would bring to it if you were seeing it for the very first time. It's seeing—and accepting—things as they actually are in the present moment, without the veil of your own assumptions and judgments about them. For example, next time you're in the presence of someone familiar, consider seeing them as much as possible as they actually are, apart from your feelings, thoughts, projections, or judgments. How would you see them if you were meeting them for the first time?
Nonstriving
Almost everything you do during your day is likely to be goal-directed. Meditation is one thing that is not. Although meditation takes effort to-practice, it has no aim other than to "just be." When you sit down to meditate, it's best to clear your mind of any goals. You are not trying to relax, blank your mind, relieve stress, or reach enlightenment. You don't evaluate the quality of your meditation according to whether you reach such goals. The only intention you bring to meditation is simply to be—to observe your "here and now" experience as it is, observing your breath to assist your focus. If you are tense, anxious, or in pain, you don't strive to get rid of these sensations; instead you simply observe and be with them as best you can. You let them remain simply as they are. In so doing, you cease resisting or struggling with them.
Acceptance
Acceptance is the opposite of striving. As you learn to simply be with whatever you experience in the moment, you cultivate acceptance. Acceptance does not mean that you have to like whatever comes up (such as tension or pain, for example), it simply means you're willing to be with it without trying to push it away. You may be familiar with the saying, "What you resist persists." As long as you resist or struggle with something, whether in meditation or life in general, you actually energize and magnify it. Acceptance allows the discomfort or problem to just be. While it may not go away, it becomes easier to deal with because you cease to struggle with and/or avoid it. In life, acceptance does not mean that you resign yourself to the way things are and cease trying to change and grow. On the contrary, acceptance clears a space in your life to reflect clearly and act appropriately, since you remain unfettered by reacting to or struggling with the difficulty. Sometimes, of course, it's necessary to go through a range of emotional reactions first—such as fear, anger, or grief—in order to get to acceptance.
In meditation practice, acceptance develops as you learn to embrace each moment as it comes, without moving away from it. As you learn to do this, you discover that whatever was there for a given moment will soon change. More quickly, in fact, than if you tried to resist it.
Nonjudging
An important prerequisite for acceptance (as well as for beginner's mind) is non-judging. When you pay attention to your ongoing experience through the day, you'll notice that you frequently judge things—both outer circumstances as well as your own moods and feelings. These judgments are based on your personal values and standards of what is "good" and "bad." If you doubt this, try taking just five minutes to notice how many things you judge during that short time interval. To practice meditation, it's important to learn not so much to stop judging but to gain some distance from the process. You can simply observe your inner judgments without reacting to them, least of all judging them! Instead you cultivate a suspension of any judgment, watching whatever comes up, including your own judging thoughts. You allow such thoughts to come and go, while continuing to observe your breathing.
Patience
Patience is a close cousin to acceptance and nonstriving. It means allowing things to unfold in their own natural time. It is letting your meditation practice be whatever it is without rushing it.
Patience is needed to make time to meditate for a half hour to an hour every day. Patience is also required to persist with your meditation practice through the days or weeks when nothing particularly interesting happens. To be patient is to stop hurrying. This often means going against the grain of a fast-paced society where rushing from one destination to another is the norm. The patience you can bring to your meditation practice will help assure its success and permanence. Sitting in meditation regularly will help you develop patience, as it will help you cultivate all of the characteristics described in this section. The attitudes that help you develop a meditation practice are the very same attitudes that are deepened by the practice itself.
Letting Go
In India there is an efficient way to catch monkeys, recounted by Jon Kabat-Zinn. A hole is drilled in a coconut just large enough to accommodate a monkey's hand. The coconut is then secured to a tree by a wire. Then a banana is placed inside the coconut. The monkey comes, puts his hand in the coconut and grabs a hold of the banana. The hole is small enough so the monkey can put his open hand in but cannot pull his closed fist out. All the monkey needs to do to be free is to let go of the banana, yet most monkeys don't let go. Our minds are often like the monkey. We grab on to a particular thought or emotional state—sometimes one that is actually painful—and then we don't let go. Cultivating the ability to let go is crucial to meditation practice, not to mention a less anxious life. When you hold on to any experience, whether pleasant or painful, you impede your ability to simply be present in the here and now without judgment or striving. Learning to let go of things is assisted by learning to accept them. Letting go is a natural consequence of a willingness to accept things as they are. If you find that, prior to meditation, you have a hard time letting go of some concern, you can actually use your meditation as a means to witness the thoughts and feelings you're creating around the concern—including the thought of "holding on" itself. The more minutely you observe the specific thoughts and feelings you have created around a problem, the more quickly you'll be able to expand your awareness around that problem and let it go. When the concern is intensely charged emotionally, it's probably best to release your feelings by talking or writing in a journal about them before you sit down to meditate. Cultivating all of the attitudes described in this section will help with letting go.
Trust
Another important attitude to bring to meditation is a basic trust in yourself. This means you honor your own instincts, reactions, and feelings, regardless of what any authority or other person may think or say. You refrain from judging what comes up in your experience and believe in the inherent goodness of your soul—your essential self. The practice of meditation is about becoming more fully your own self. Practicing mindfulness means you take responsibility for your own experience on a moment-to-moment basis. It's you who are responsible for your experience and no one else. To fully embrace that experience, you need to trust it. Trusting you own insights and wisdom helps you to develop compassion toward yourself as well as others.
Commitment and Self-Discipline
A strong commitment to work on yourself, along with the discipline to persevere and follow through with the process, is essential to establishing a meditation practice. While meditation is very simple in nature, it's not easy in practice. Learning to value and make time for "just being" on a regular basis requires a commitment in the midst of a society that is strongly oriented toward doing. Few of us have grown up with values that cherished nonstriving, and so learning to stop goal-directed activity, even for just thirty minutes per day, requires commitment and discipline. The commitment is similar to that which is required in athletic training. An athlete in training doesn't practice only when he or she just feels like it, when there is time enough to fit it in or other people to keep her company. The training requires the athlete to practice every day, regardless of how she feels or whether there is any immediate sense of accomplishment.
To establish a meditation practice, it's best to sit whether you feel like it or not –whether it's convenient or not—six or seven days per week, for at least two months. (If you find you're unable to sit that often at first, don't chastise yourself—just do your best.) At the end of this time, if you've truly practiced regularly, the process will likely be enough of a habit (and sufficiently self-reinforcing) to continue. The experience of meditation varies from session to session: sometimes it feels good, sometimes it seems ordinary, and other times you will find it difficult to meditate at all. Although the point is not to strive for anything, a long-term commitment to regular meditation practice will transform your life fundamentally. Without changing anything that might happen in your life, meditation will change your relationship to everything you experience, on a deep level. In my personal experience, the hard work involved in establishing and maintaining a meditation practice is worth it. There may be no conscious aim of meditation practice itself, but the benefits that naturally follow from developing your observing self are profound.

From Beyond Anxiety & Phobia, Bourne

Mindfulness of the Breath

1. Settle into a comfortable sitting position, either on a straight-backed chair or on a soft surface on the floor, with your buttocks supported by cushions or a low stool or bench. If you use a chair, it is very helpful to sit away from the back of the chair so that your spine is self supporting. If you sit on the floor; it is helpful if your knees actually touch the floor; experiment with the height of the cushions or stool until you feel comfortably and firmly supported.
2. Allow your back to adopt an erect, dignified, and comfortable posture. If sitting on a chair, place your feet flat on the floor, with your legs uncrossed. Gently close your eyes.

3. Entering a state of GRACE: Ground; Relax; Aware/accept, allow; Centre; Engage.

Ground: Bring your awareness to the level of physical sensations by focusing your attention on the sensations of touch and pressure in your body where it makes contact with the floor or whatever you are sitting on. Spend a minute or two exploring these sensations.
Relax. Scan your body for places where tension is being held. Gently relax and let go of as much of that tension as possible.

Aware, accept, & allow. Allow your attention to fall on whatever sounds, sensations, etc. seem to surround you in the room. Some will be irritating or intrusive; accept these as a part of your environment and allow them to be -- flowing around you and past you, but resisting becoming to attached to them.

Centre. Gently bring your attention inside, moving away from elements in the room into your own body.

Engage the breath. Bring your awareness to the changing patterns of physical sensations in the lower abdomen as the breath moves in and out of your body.
4. Focus your awareness on the sensations of slight stretching as the abdominal wall rises with each in-breath, and of gentle deflation as it falls with each out-breath. As best you can, follow with your awareness the changing physical sensations in the lower abdomen all the way through as the breath enters your body on the in-breath and all the way through as the breath leaves your body on the out-breath, perhaps noticing the slight pauses between one in-breath and the following out breath, and between one out-breath and the following in breath.
5. There is no need to try to control the breathing in any way—simply let the breath breathe itself. As best you can, also bring this attitude of allowing to the rest of your experience, There is nothing to be fixed, no particular state to be achieved. As best you can, simply allow your experience to be your experience, without needing it to be other than it is.
6. Sooner or later (usually sooner), your mind will wander away from the focus on the breath in the lower abdomen to thoughts, planning, daydreams, drifting along — whatever. This is perfectly OK—it's simply what minds do. It is not a mistake or a failure. When you notice that your awareness is no longer on the breath, gently congratulate yourself—you have come back and are once more aware of your experience! You may want to acknowledge briefly where the mind has been; ("Ah, there's thinking"). Then, gently escort the awareness back to a focus on the changing pattern of physical sensations in the lower abdomen, renewing the intention to pay attention to the ongoing in-breath or out-breath, whichever you find.
7. As often as you notice that the mind has wandered (and this will quite likely happen over and over and over again), as best you can, congratulate yourself each time on reconnecting with your experience in the moment, gently escorting the attention back to the breath, and simply resume following in awareness the changing pattern of physical sensations that come with each in-breath and out-breath.
8. As best you can, bring a quality of kindliness to your awareness, perhaps seeing the repeated wanderings of the mind as opportunities to bring patience and gentle curiosity to your experience.
9. Continue with this practice for the next __ minutes, perhaps reminding yourself from time to time that the intention is simply to be aware of your experience in each moment, as best you can, using the breath as an anchor to gently reconnect with the here and now each time you notice that your mind has wandered and is no longer down in the abdomen, following the breath.
10. When the bell sounds, gently open your eyes and come back to the room.

(From The Mindful Way Through Depression, Williams et al.)

Transitions

2010-02-15T08:45:00.000-08:00

When Gregor Samsa awoke from troubled dreams one morning, he found that he had been transformed, in his bed, into an enormous bug.
The Metamorphosis, Kafka

“Who are you?” asked the caterpillar. “I hardly know, just at present”, replied Alice. “At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have changed several times since then.”
Alice In Wonderland, Carroll

Alice and the unfortunate Gregor share one thing: they are each the recipient of unwelcome and unexpected change – with all the attendant disorientation, demands for adjustment, paucity of ‘management guidelines’, and gamut of emotional response this might evoke.

As I sat in vestry this past Sunday and listened to the ebb and flow of conversation and opinion that surrounded recent events unfolding in St. James, I was struck by the intensity, diversity, and polarities of the views expressed; and equally, the capacity of sudden change to evoke in the individual, a characteristic stance likely representative of his or her unique ‘take’ on the vagaries of life itself – if that’s not too grand a proposition. Opinions ranging from the ‘save the building (at all – or nearly all – costs)’ to the ‘we are not bricks and mortar, we are community (wherever we might meet)’; and many stations in between. And so the first lesson of change: faced with crisis (or indeed, opportunity), what is one’s ‘typical’ response. Again, content aside, what do such changes as dislocation from one’s ‘comfortable pew’ teach us about ourselves? What are our attachments? Our fears?

There’s an old aphorism in my trade that goes something like: Neurosis is the logical result of applying old solutions to new problems. And its Karmic corollary: we will continue to be presented with variations on a theme (opportunities, if you will), until we get it right – think Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day. The second lesson: do we continue to do the ‘same old’ – with the same old result?

I think it’s fair to characterize the potential for a church’s roof to collapse in the face of nature’s next ‘design event’1, the ensuing necessity of moving first into the adjoining spaces of upper and lower parish halls, and now rather unceremoniously split into a ‘two-point parish’ as the functional equivalent of tumbling down the rabbit hole. The familiar touchstones of one’s customary pew and all the attendant trappings no longer exist. The comfortable routine of Sunday mornings (and a good deal else) is effectively ended. And as soothing as it might be to portray this as a ‘temporary inconvenience’, this may be at the very least naïve; at worst, a costly and unredeemable error in judgment.

As with most endings, a number of more or less predictable responses, emotional and psychological may and perhaps should occur. A process of disengagement2 may have already begun for some of us; but for many, it’s early days. The urgency to ‘restore’ (witness the somewhat euphemistic moniker of the committee charged with examining options) is very strong. It represents a return to the familiar and with it, a reassurance that this is ‘just a bad dream’ and that, once awake, we’ll be back in Kansas again. Disengagement, an integral and necessary part of the process of transitioning, requires the courageous (and distinctly ‘non-neurotic’) acknowledgement that the old, the existing is forever altered, most likely no longer available. Once daddy is glimpsed placing the presents under the tree, Santa ceases to be. Clinging to his existence may serve some purpose for a time, nostalgic mostly – but the threshold has been crossed.

To return to Kafka, for those unfamiliar with this seminal morality tale, Gregor’s family (following his unfortunate ‘change’), initially horrified and embarrassed by his transformation, make efforts to soldier on. They take jobs and accept boarders to replace the lost income resulting from his inability to work (and to support the family as he had traditionally done); they care for their son/brother; they compensate for and rationalize his presence – until his unexpected entry deprives them of their last vestige of income. Only when the family is confronted with his demise – in rather too graphic terms, when they view the corpse – are they able to accept the reality that a large (and fiscal) burden has been removed from their lives; to acknowledge that they are ‘better off’ without their resident apparition; and to viably plan for the future. The Samsa’s had ‘disengaged’.

A second and equally inevitable aspect of transitioning, disidentification, describes the confusion and uncertainty that follows the removal of the familiar outer trappings, and with it the role-identity that comes with what was – but no longer is; the now sitting in plastic in the club room versus that familiar pew in the nave. In short, who am I once the old identity is removed and I find myself a displaced St. Jamsian sitting in a Knights of Columbus Hall, having ashes imposed in Zion Lutheran. As with disengagement (the separation from the venue, the ‘building’), disidentification, (the distancing from old identities) is every bit as essential to the transformative process.

And so on to disenchantment. And this is where things get really tough. A regular reading of Michael Valpy3 is all it takes – and for that matter, lame responses from the Bishop of Toronto don’t much help (‘proximity to death is an expected state for Anglicanism’ – oh really!). A third aspect then to dealing with the ‘endings’ inherent in transition is a letting go (if that’s not too clichéd) of treasured beliefs, cherished views, sentimental and idealized perspectives. To paraphrase William Bridges in Transitions: To really change – not just switch positions – requires a realization that a significant part of one’s reality is in one’s head, not out there. And further: One needs to consider that the old view or belief may have been an enchantment cast in the past to keep one from seeing deeper into oneself. The disenchantment experience is the signal that the time has come to look below the surface of what was thought to be so (p. 101).

The significance of a compromised roof on a building in Stratford has but drawn this particular congregation’s attention to a ‘situation’, to put it mildly. To respond to this awareness with redoubled efforts to restore the status quo with ‘time-honoured’ interventions (read the ‘same old solutions’), without first considering (again in clichéd terms) the ‘big picture’ or reading the ‘writing on the wall’ is at the very least reactive and perhaps even irresponsible. Valpy’s article, which I would encourage all to read (and hopefully by the time this piece appears, will be available on our website), is but one in a growing series that have appeared over the past few years; all tracking the trajectory, together with credible explanations as to the ‘why’s’, of church life in Canada. In sum, the data show clearly that the current generation of attendees is quite likely functionally the last for the church as we know it. This, no doubt, is about as ‘disenchanting’ an awareness as one might muster. And it is increasingly doubtful that a kiss from a passing prince will break this spell.

Disorientation – the final piece of the transitioning puzzle – begs the question of ‘which way is up’; in short, how do we reorient and plan for the future. Historically, being disoriented, feeling lost, scared, and uncomfortable was an accepted part of change. Nobody welcomed it; most endured it. Our modern ways lobby strongly against allowing the discomfort that disorientation drags along with it. Instead we bounce between unbounded (and unfounded) optimism (bless Norman Vincent what’s his name) and tragic catastrophizing (‘the end is nigh’). We do our level best to ‘fix’ what’s making us unhappy – to make this ‘bad state’ go away as quickly as possible; or avoid even the thoughts of it. Disorientation is indeed the ‘dark night of the soul’ of transition, our existential crisis. And, if we’ve learned anything from the writers, thinkers, philosophers, we should have learned that we need to struggle through this stage, whether in the belly of a whale, engaged on a ten-year Odyssey, or hung on a cross. (Not surprising that I found myself thumbing through Psalm 22 the other morning.) Not just close our eyes and jump.

With endings come new beginnings. And perhaps some productive (maybe even helpful) ways of being in transition. Finding a regular time and place to be alone and reflect – imagine meditating one’s way to insight and a little deeper understanding of self! Journalling, written reflection (I suppose that’s what I’m doing as I craft this offering) may help clarify and focus thought, decision making. Simulating the journey, in individual terms, that the community is about to undertake. What does it feel like to be contemplating a project without clear fiscal parameters or defined utility, were it my journey? Taking one’s time to facilitate fully informed, understood, thoughtful decision-making – a sentiment contentiously debated at vestry. Arranging temporary structures. Resisting acting for the sake of taking action – addressing pseudo-urgency. Identifying the ‘real’ source of discomfort – separating the worry around a compromised building from the deeper, visceral angst of setting off on a journey without having one’s vehicle fully serviced and prepared. Talking – town-halling the process. And even more important, listening – hearing what’s said. Exploring the ‘other side’ of change – if not the obvious or compelling path, then what? And taking care of self in all this process.

1A sufficiently severe, natural event (heavy snowfall, ice storm, or sustained wind storm).

2Bridges, William, Transitions: MakingSense of Life’s Changes. (Addison-Wesley, 1980).

3Valpy, M, “Anglican Church Facing the Threat of Exticntion”, Globe and Mail, Feb. 9, 2010.

The Elephant in the Room

2010-02-10T07:17:00.000-08:00

One always hesitates to ask the obvious question. If it’s this immediately apparent to me, and no one else appears to be asking, then it must be a stupid question. I must be missing a critical piece of information that everyone else has factored in; so best I just keep quiet. Such is the case with a recent and avalanching sequence of events within our parish. In very short order, the ‘grand old church on the hill’ has seen its nave declared unsafe for use, necessitating a hasty shift of all church activities into the attached upper and lower halls – of equal age and, as it turns out of equal or greater compromise. No sooner had our hardy little group of parishioners adjusted to this move – no mean task for a population likely averaging three score and ten (and all the inflexibility that that might imply) – then, these (hallowed?) halls too were declared in sufficient peril to require their being evacuated. Rather like watching the flood waters’ relentless rise, pushing occupants farther and farther into the corner, from floor to habitable floor, perched first on chairs, then tables, then banished to the roof. To its credit the ‘club room’ now serves as meeting hall, chapel, meditation hut – depending on chair configuration and occupancy.

As with choice of up-scale restaurants, an abundance of excellent music, and a world class repertory theatre, Stratford is blessed too with a full palate of churches. The rationale for edifices of the same stripe, being built, cheek-by-jowl in a town that only now pushes 30,000 occupants, has long since receded into the mists of the late 19th and early 20th century. Two Presbyterian congregations, marginal in their numbers, worship mere blocks apart, having declared quite publically and perplexingly their inability to consolidate – quite possibly sounding their respective death knells. Two Catholic flocks, one clinging precariously on life support, steadfastly carry on, unfalteringly ‘separate’. And three Anglican buildings, a stone’s healthy throw apart.

And so to the obvious question: “With the aforementioned crisis at hand (that would be paragraph one, not two) and some pretty viable and consecrated options available, what are we doing scurrying about moving, cramming, compromising, and splitting what (optimistically) remains of this congregation, camping out in the Knights of Columbus Hall – having only just escaped setting up shop in the Army Navy?” Even more to the point, if one is permitted two stupid questions in the same paragraph, “Why are we suddenly deaf to the obvious option of celebrating what is frequently and sanctimoniously referred to as the ‘Anglican Communion’ – this (evidently under other conditions) tight little community of like-minded folk – by joining an existing congregation five blocks away?” Oh what the Hell, let’s go for a third dumb query: “Why, with an Archdeacon for parish rector (that would be the nominal tie that binds together our little band of buildings in this patch), is this not the first option to be considered?”

Ever the advocate of collecting empirical data – that would be the scientific and grounded-in-reality alternative to sitting in one’s (insular) study and hypothesizing (aka ‘navel-gazing speculation’) – I set out this past Sunday morning. First stop, St. Paul’s for their BCP service, thoughtfully scheduled for 8:30 to allow me as well to attend St. James’ transplanted vestry meeting, preceded by its drive-thru’ (‘Eucharist-free’) 10:00 service. There’s nothing quite like a test drive. Funny how the ‘grass is greener’ applies even in February. The turmoil, the uncertainty, the concessions, the next hard on the heels of the last, are real enough – sufficiently evident to make the abstraction of sitting in the pew of a less traumatized congregation quite appealing. But, what one leaves behind in one venue is quickly supplanted with a different set of issues in the next – once one climbs out of one’s assumptions, one’s conjecture, one’s expectations and pulls into traffic behind the wheel. I’d long forgotten this particular rector’s penchant for a sing-songy, lily pad to lily pad, oral cadence. While I recognized a few faces, the ‘community’, while welcoming, was unfamiliar. And the no-nonsense, near-mechanical rhythm of the service excised a key element that had drawn me back, after forty years, to the formality of a four hundred year old liturgy: the mystery and reverence for the words. Nothing fundamental; but enough to remind me of the colour of the grass everywhere in our land in February – that would be that drab and lifeless brown.

And I did say everywhere. On to the K of C (vs. KFC – although a secret recipe would not go a wanting at this stage). Perhaps empiricism does have its drawbacks. Small, low-ceilinged, fluorescently brilliant, packed with the ubiquitous ‘stackables’ – just like every other ‘meeting room C’ in this convention centre or that – with an eclectic mix of iconography to remind us we’re not in a Courtyard Marriot somewhere. And just when the pendulum was starting to reverse toward St. James. I know, I know, as Malcolm so eloquently reminded us, it’s not the building, it’s the community – and boy was it a tight wee community that day!

And so full circle, back to that big, grey, wrinkly thing in the corner. What’s the harm in taking community A with all its reverence for the word, inserting it into community B with its building and trappings, and worshipping as something other than the clerical equivalent of the Sharks and the Jets? Or is that just a stupid question to which everyone else knows the answer but me?
David Howard

Words

2009-10-03T10:28:00.000-07:00

I can still recall (probably a good thing) sitting in Peter Denny’s cognitive psychology class during grad school days, enthralled by what this man had to say about language, it’s infinite cultural variations, how one’s environment shapes the subtleties and nuances that insinuate themselves into our speech. And perhaps most profoundly, how words facilitate thought (which, after all, was the point of the class); and its converse, how, without words, thought beyond certain, elemental levels becomes difficult, if not impossible. I’d venture that my love affair with language and reverence for same was cemented in those heady days of academe. A favorite read: Eats, Shoots and Leaves. Fowler’s English Usage and The Chicago Manual of Style continue to occupy positions of veneration on the book shelf. How fitting that I have earned my living with words for all of my working life. And please don’t presume to correct my syntax!

Then encouraged by a friend to give ear to a recent Rowan Williams’ BBC interview and focusing on prayer, things shifted. He finished with reference to a poem written by a priest-poet, following 9-11 recounting the meeting of a priest, a rabbi, and an imam (no, this is not the lead in to another tired joke!) Sharing neither a common language nor essentially a common belief, the three contemplate the enormity of what’s just happened and what their respective roles might be – as they minister to their damaged and damaging flocks. They sit in silence – and, in that wordless space, the healing began.

I was immediately struck by the paradox that the very capacity to speak, not merely ‘communicate’ (as, obviously some ‘sub-human’ species are able), at once contains perhaps the single most defining aspect of our ‘humanness’ and the particular seeds of our undoing. Although the point of Babel was to highlight the folly of human achievement for its own sake (vs. the ‘glory of God’), an interesting sidebar is the mechanism by which the endeavor was ultimately quashed – failed communication. How many times have we heard variations on the theme of being ‘misunderstood’, when our meaning fails to match the intention of our spoken word; heard email pilloried because it lacks the nuance, the face-to-face quality and cues, the inflection in the voice – and is ‘mis-read’. How, when we sense we are being misinterpreted, our compulsion is to throw more words at the issue – and succeed in only making things worse.

Conversely, how often silence is referred to as ‘awkward’ and gaps in conversation filled with idle chatter – seen, most times for what it is, yet indulged nonetheless. How, faced with the prospect of ‘being out of touch’ for more than minutes, the cell phone comes out, the recent ‘texts’ checked, the twittered comment sent, email reviewed. How often is the quiet person vilified in some fashion – standoffish, sullen, uncommunicative, isolated; the loquacious one seen as social, friendly, engaging. How we abhor silence. How we suspect what it might conceal.

Our friend, as she so often does, built some lovely connections between Williams’ comments and a much-loved subject of hers (and ours): meditation – and the attendant importance of silence. “What is going on when nothing is going on?” a popular invitation to ‘listen to the silence of oneself’, foregoing the urgency to fill the space with noise, words. So elemental, so primitive and involuntary is our compulsion to ‘drown out silence’ that reportedly our brain, confronted with same, will ‘manufacture’ its own sound (in the form of that hugely irritating hum, the whine experienced as a tinnitic ‘ringing in the ears’) that plagues so many of us as we age.

Our priest today, quite unwittingly I suspect put the final punctuation point behind our culture’s tacit but widely shared opinion of this ‘anathema’ of human interaction – silence. Excluded from the oral and quite redundant recitation of the ‘announcements’ (printed in their entirety in a bloated bulletin of Sunday services) was any mention the contemplative (read: reflective, meditative and silent) activities in the parish. I suspect the irony was lost on most that, in his own way he was ‘supporting’ these very goings-on and their shared de-emphasizing of the spoken word by ‘keeping silent’ about them; while airing the things we could quite easily read about, were self-evident, or of little interest – much in the vein of so much of our ‘communication’.

A small plea then to test drive the alternative. When compelled to share the bit of gossip, the less than helpful suggestion, to fill the space between with small talk, to ‘tweet’ – try silence. For anyone who’s sat in a filled room and foregone the ‘human privilege’ of speaking, who’s experienced a day or even an hour at a silent retreat, will know the potency of quiet. Perhaps it’s time to heed the words of another poet and listen to ‘the sounds of silence’.
David Howard

Of Estrogen and Anima

2009-09-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

I still remember the first time I suggested to a client that he may find it helpful to do some anima work. A thirty-something, well-educated professional, who’d already achieved what most of us might aspire to in a lifetime, this man had always measured his successes with a traditional ‘male’ yardstick (Note 1: as a culture, we were still on the cusp of metrification; note 2: any double entendres are completely intentional). He was ‘appropriately’ aggressive – in work, interpersonally, in leisure – allowing him to advance quickly and deliberately on all fronts. He could fly jets, he had leading-man good looks, he was a good provider, and he was respected and deferred to by colleagues. In short, his animus, his male ego was fully intact. So why the niggling dissatisfactions, the cracks appearing in his relationship(s), the relentless searching for the final piece, attaining which would no doubt make him feel complete (or so he thought).

Bear in mind that these were times, in the very early 1990’s, of rampant gender-role identity confusion (bit of a mouthful, that). There were women trying to be men – at least psychologically; there were men masquerading as women – athletically, entertainingly; there were men trying to be men – but ever so carefully so as not to ‘piss off Mother Nature’; there were strong women with traditional values; and there were men wondering just when it became politically incorrect to be male. And so on. . . and on. The ‘roar’ of the strident feminists, the equivocation of the fence sitting ‘soft male’ apologists (as Robert Bly was derisively fond of labeling as he advocated for men to reclaim their ‘wild man’), the entrenchment of any number of seemingly incompatible, ‘gender postures’ made one, at once, long for the simpler days of Father Knows Best and celebrate the energy of such diversity. So when the consummate, well-socialized macho man is advised to explore his feminine side, one can only imagine the confusion contained in the “my what?” response – not to mention, the resistance.

In the past fifteen to twenty years, we’ve made some progress; although I strongly suspect, were I chatting with this same man today, I’d be greeted with the same quizzical, initially amused look – conveying every bit of the unvoiced “you’re kidding, right?” Dinosaurs like Steinam at one pole and the religious, fundamental right at the other, beating its paternalistic drum relentlessly, still survive – but the uncritical acceptance of these anachronistic extremes has thankfully diminished. A sort of regression to the gender-posture mean, as happens with all statistical and social phenomena, has once again asserted its truth.

Jung’s concepts of animus and anima, descriptive of the male and female energy contained in each of us, have once again found a more sustainable, more balanced, less suspected expression in the culture. My now yellowed with age comments to my former client were little other than a suggestion that he explore a healthier balance in his life. The (literally) high-flying, aggressive, competitive ‘yang’ energy that had appeared to serve him so well in his first few adult decades, was sufficiently lopsided that it had begun to flag as a formula for living. A little more ‘yin’ was needed. At the time, no easy prescription – when polarities abounded; balance, equanimity eschewed.

Which brings me to the impetus for this piece. In our parish, this is ‘ACW Sunday’ -- for the uninitiated, the Anglican Church Women’s day to report in and hopefully recruit a few younger folk to their ranks. Some discussion had grown around the choice of readings for our BCP service – together with the ‘preferred’ language to be used. The ‘Virtuous Woman’ (of Proverbs 31) was to be described as the ‘strong and capable’ woman. And the homilist was to be the assistant priest, with no small reputation / track record for championing the role of women in the church. My wife and I had joked a bit around how she might ‘explain’ my absence from service today – with my rather flip summary comment: “Too much estrogen!” I’d anticipated (and I really must resist the temptation to pre-judge these things) a, how can I put this, asymmetrical morning (read lopsided, polarized rant – once again at the cost of equanimity); and chose to take a pass, rather than boost my blood pressure.

I suppose this is, in some ways, an extension of last week’s rant (of my own) – a rebuke of exclusivity. My client and our priest are, in the words of a friend, the ‘sandpaper’ that rubs away our surface rust and allows us to consider things from a slightly more ‘exposed’ (and hopefully, available) perspective. My sense is that, as long as we travel back and forth along the same ‘highway’, with feminism at one end and chauvinism at the other, making our points, expressing our position at the expense of the ‘other camp’, we will never see any other landscape. A detour, just a little ‘north’ of this all too well-travelled path allows us to both distance from this adversarial, partisan and pointless debate, bent on cultivating the already converted (whichever camp that may be) and alienating the other; and to regain a little balance in our perspective. Welcome to Equanimity, population TBA.

BTW, what was the homily about? Community building – but that’s another story.

David Howard

Long-haired, Freaky People Need Not Apply

2009-09-13T20:31:00.000-07:00

Carl Jung calls it synchronicity. Sometimes defined as a ‘meaningful coincidence’; a confluence of events that draws one’s attention to an underlying truth or significance. I’d bristled briefly at the rather generous description of my home parish as an ‘impartial community’, eschewing discrimination, exclusion, judgment – of ‘those not like us’ – as the centre piece of our rector’s homily this past Sunday. Hopefully enough in tune with my own antennae twitches to identify the source of the ‘Oh really?’ reaction, I’d attributed it to a ‘well that may be a stretch’ conclusion. But that was before this week’s new and improved ad for this particular church in our small-town rag.

As web mistress for the parish, my wife had invested considerable energy this past week in dressing up a ‘60’s GM product (I’d see it as a heavily chromed, gas-guzzling, Buick or Cadillac) of a website, as a vehicle a little more contemporary, a little less ponderous, and something that ‘gets you where you want to go’ without all the attendant glitter and arriving today (versus, whenever the site would load up). A toss-in was the sub-header: ‘in the heart of Stratford’. I can assume in recognition for her efforts, this week’s announcement of Sunday services in the local newspaper borrowed (more or less) from the site’s new clothes with an invitation to join us at the Parish of St. James’ – the heart of Stratford.

A bit of history at this point. This particular church, populated by this particular congregation has often been, somewhat disdainfully viewed as the ‘church on the hill’ and ‘out of reach’ of the broader population of Stratford. Rather like a snobby club with particular standards of membership and a vetting process that sometimes suggests that ‘long-haired, freaky people need not apply’ (to paraphrase). Rightly or wrongly in its take on the parish, the effort has been expended from within over the years to soften this reputation, to have it seen as more accessible and more (boy, I struggle with this word) welcoming, and less ‘exclusive’.

Like most things Freudian, the slip’s the thing. Drop a preposition and (I hope not, but) the underlying reality starts to surface.

But I’m getting ahead. The other bit of scary data arrived in my email early this Sunday morning. As a newly minted lay reader (and Anglican, for that matter), I was on tap for the BCP at 9:00. Lifers might recognize 1st Corinthians 1 as one of Paul’s little castigations against arrogance, self-satisfaction, celebration of human ‘excellence’ – in favour of humility and such like. Cautioned to be fully familiarized with the ‘unpronouncables’ (those tongue twisters of names and places) and caught substantially off guard a few months back with what passes for biblical porn (an account of David’s vile behaviour and lust; not to mention Bathsheba’s having recently endured ‘that time of the month’) – all because I hadn’t previewed the reading, I scanned this one pretty carefully for hidden potholes. I stopped mid-bagel.

The self-same theme leapt off the page: “Jews demand miraculous signs and Greeks look for wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles . . .” and so forth. Let me see, how does that inclusiveness dance go again. Sounds unsettlingly like us and them to me, if that’s not too many pronouns in one sentence – but we are trying to be inclusive!

My wife argued eloquently that the passage required a metaphoric reading; and that Greeks and their ilk were merely symbols of folks of the time that hadn’t yet got it. That this was not a barefaced identification of an in-crowd, and that if you’re not with us, you’re agin’ us. Unfortunately not sufficiently eloquently to allow me to stand at a lectern and voice the substantive opposite of an issue that I feel is at the root of the jaundiced eye that’s turned toward organized religion and perhaps Christianity in particular by the hoards that are departing for less fundamental shores.

Dress it up anyway you want. Statements given the weight of a ‘reading of the word’ can and will be heard by a huge majority of folk in the pews as a literal truth. Endorsement of an attitude that continues to segregate, differentiate, discriminate; to validate a belief that ‘we’ve got the inside track’ to wherever. It’s just too appealing to be soothed with the balm of ‘you’ve got it right’ – and everybody else doesn’t – to question the inherent contradiction that presents when one moves forty feet across the chancel from lectern to pulpit and (literally) speaks out of the other side of one’s mouth. Over there, we’re judgmental, exclusive, partial; over here we’re welcoming, inclusive, impartial. Sorry, doesn’t work for me.

When we start to understand that there are any number of ways of skinning the spiritual cat; that those that don’t drink at the same trough are not just Greeks and Jews in waiting for the only true path to someplace; and that living Buddha might just be hyping the same stitch as living Christ – maybe we can get on. Until then, the old label of hypocrisy is as well-fitting a shoe as inclusiveness. When we can describe ourselves as being in the heart of Stratford – and not the heart of Stratford, typo, oversight, or no – maybe we can get on.

David Howard

Driving In The UK

2009-09-07T19:00:00.000-07:00

So what do John Wayne, weed-eaters, attorneys general, and driving on the ‘wrong side’ of the road have to do with one another? Well while you’re pondering that one, allow me to share an, at the time, very small epiphany – and, in the bargain, slide in a ‘what I did on my summer vacation’. It’s Glasgow Airport, 6:45 a.m. (local time, after a largely sleepless, trans-Atlantic night). The expected ‘I’m sorry sir, that model is not available’ opening line from the car rental desk followed by the decidedly unexpected ‘Would you take a Mercedes in lieu?’ had already brightened the morning significantly. (In passing, I’d recalled from a distant time that the Brits have a variety of labels for ‘washroom’ – WC, bog, ‘loo’ – that, to the North American ear, may or may not compute at this silly hour. ‘A Mercedes in the toilet?’ What an odd question; and why is that particular car being parked in such an queer spot?) Having located my vehicle (in a parking lot), doing the usual, again North American, entry from the passenger side, and holding my breath, I insert Emily’s (my constant travel companion, aka GPS) UK brain and (victory number 2) am greeted with ‘loading maps’ – and, as bonus, a clear route out of the airport labyrinth, over the Pennines and on to York.

I suck in a second breath and fling myself (and my lovely little B-Class) into the surge of morning, Scottish traffic. Straight onto the M8, chock-a-block with commuters, lorries, coaches, and tourists, I merge – vehicle as well as brain – with the flow, chanting quietly ‘mirrors, signal, move’ – inverted, reversed, counter-intuitive. Slowly the shilling drops, as it would continue to do so over the next few weeks of crisscrossing this lovely land, on all manner of multi-laned, single-tracked, and everything in between roads: here, where one drove on the wrong side (compared to most of the rest of the globe) thrived a near-universal respect for rules of the road and the drivers with whom one shared these thoroughfares. Two immediate observations: the ‘passing lane’ is reserved for, wait for it, passing! Audi’s, BMW’s, and the occasional Deux Chevaux (go figure!) slide past, then, signaling, return to the middle of the M8’s three lanes. Not a truck or a bus to be seen on track three. No oblivious, sub-speed idlers; no hyper-aggressive jackrabbits; just those overtaking – and only while overtaking. The corollary, of course is that traffic moves along swimmingly, in an orderly, ‘at the limit’ fashion, with very little lane-hopping and, accordingly, much less visible impatience and acted-out road rage. (Incidentally, in the two-week, 2000 kilometer journey, I didn’t see a single traffic accident.)

And secondly, as one ‘downshifts’ to ‘A’ series roads, villages are encountered (with their countrified, ‘curbed’ thoroughfares and speed zones, generally of the 30 MPH variety). Nobody violates these limits! As far as I could discern, not because of speed traps, flocks of crossing sheep (or children), houses perched precariously a generous 10 inches from the travelled portion, or one-lane bridges (that’s another story). It, marvelous to relate, appears to be a widely shared and observed respect for the privilege of sharing the roadway. What a novel awareness!

Figured out the weed-eater connection yet? Not long after my return, commuting into Toronto, with 1080 (the ‘inside track’ on traffic facts, as it were) on the wireless, I was ‘privileged’ to be party to a call in, debating a (some would say, Draconian) bylaw proposed for parts of Quebec. The (inflammatory) issue: should we be allowed to operate power tools, in the open air on Sunday? The usual lines formed up, represented by the polarities of: ‘It’s the Sabbath and one should treat this as a (universal) day of rest’ at one extreme; ‘I work hard six days a week – it’s my right to cut my grass, build my deck, whack my weeds. . . if I want’, at the other. Not too hard to fill either argument with a good load of buckshot (fired on any day of the week I please from my – it’s my right to bear arms – 12 bore!) This is a most decidedly ‘ecumenical’ culture and certainly not one that should be governed by the conventions of one religion – however prevalent. As for the proffered work week – no other time. Oh, really!

No, the real issue is one that is increasingly prevalent in our social weave – entitlement! Have a listen to any rationale (adolescent or otherwise), justifying one’s ‘right’ to ________ (you fill in the blank). God (or any other deity for that matter) bless John Wayne and all his progeny. The rugged individualist, the swaggering, ‘nobody’s gonna tell me what to do and when to do it’ mentality that pervades this culture of ours certainly, and for a very long time, has dominated our approach to the roads.

And finally, to the sometime attorney general of Ontario, Michael Bryant. To refresh, this politically and professionally accomplished individual, with his deeply steeped personal and educational history in the laws of the land, killed a cyclist with his car on the streets of Toronto recently. Not to adopt a too-biased perspective, said cyclist has been variously describe as arrogant, swaggering, criminal, substance- and relationship-abusing, interpersonally confrontational, etc., etc.; in short (together with some other, uncatalogued characteristics), something of a sociopath. The tragedy which unfolded, followed a late-evening confrontation between driver and cyclist, as the latter exacted his ‘fair share’ of a downtown lane (after all, he was a cycle courier of nearly two decades experience and needing to ‘stake his claim’ to the roadway or be marginalized); and the former, encased in his thousand pounds of armour, his damsel at his side, inched his steed forward, issuing the implied and all too familiar challenge of ‘move it or lose it – you’re on my road’, tapping the latter’s rear wheel with bumper. Tempers flared, battle engaged. Casualty list: one literally dead, the other metaphorically so.

The ‘debate’ of who was in the wrong, how could this heartbreak have been avoided (‘should the police have escorted Mr. Sheppard home?’), a reiteration of cyclist etiquette, driver arrogance, and on and on . . . continues; the mutual victims being championed to prop up one’s personal soap box; pilloried as examples of ‘what’s wrong with cyclists' (or drivers, depending on one’s point of view). The real villain – John Wayne. Entitlement. The battle cry of ‘it’s my right’, bannered on the pennant flying at staff’s end, from the saddle scabbard. The real victims. Not Mr. Bryant or Mr. Sheppard; but civility, mutual respect, and ultimately, society. And, BTW, Michael, this is Canada -- driving on the wrong side of the road is not allowed.

David Howard

Civitas Sancti Tui

2009-03-16T12:49:00.000-07:00

Lent 1 Evensong and Evilution 010309

Henry Scott Tukes paintings are full of vibrant colour as they depict the play of light on landscape and the human body. They are mostly painted in and around Falmouth and last year Falmouth Art gallery in concert with other galleries put on exhibitions.

In one of the main rooms in the gallery during this exhibition featuring Tukes work was a darker piece. At first I didn’t want to look at it with its dark brooding colours and from a distance it looked impenetrable. It was my wife who made me look again rather than return to the vibrant attractive Tuke paintings all painted before the First World War.

But as I looked more closely at the dark panels details emerged, these details were fragments of ordinary life, the smashed computer, the broken crockery, the teddy bear amongst scattered spoons, the broken 78 record semi covered by broken brick and corrugated iron.

It was the detail that drew me in, resonated with memory- memories relayed by relatives from two world wars- they spoke not of battles or great movements and meaning but vapour trails over south east England, or a broken leg as one emerged from the observer’s seat in a WW1 aircraft which had crashed into a railway embankment.
It’s in the details of life that joy and sorrow are experienced, the fractured frame or the fragrance of the rose, the sounds of a song.

These details were in this work by Roy Ray and the bigger picture emerged as each panel revealed through the details its ghastly meaning. Looking at the broken computers unleashed images of clerks and secretaries making the familiar sounds of tapping keys before bright screens as passenger aircraft ripped open walls and their lives.

We Christians are at the beginning of Lent, our major fasting season and season of preparation for Easter. Now we concentrate on details, fragments of life, what we eat and drink, service to the poor, the use of time. We are encouraged to understand that it is in the fragments and details of our lives that we truly see ourselves, we truly hear the judgements we make of neighbour, and we truly feel the need for our will to succeed. Jesus often talks of these details in simple terms- to whom did you give a cup of water? Who do you judge? Do you visit prisoners? Love your neighbour- the very person next to you; love even someone across a national or religious boundary like a Samaritan. It’s in the details that we know the reality of Jesus life in ours. As the tree is shaken what kind of fruit drops down? Roy's painting here in the Cathedral reminds us to keep on looking at the details of life, and from there to a bigger picture.

These panels show us the details of city life smashed. The city- places where most people live. The city, the place of abundance, art, life, security and future. Cities have resources and cities typify our human aspirations where no longer determined by soil and season alone we can explore other ways of being human. Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Parisians, Londoners, New Yorkers will all know this. For Jews and Christians this is all summed up in the city Jerusalem, as a metaphor, a hope an aspiration. In Roy’s painting the City, the place of hope and aspiration is pulled down fragmented by human violence and envy, by distorted religion feeding off of violence and poverty.

The destruction of the City doesn’t suddenly come from nowhere- it comes from the build up of detailed actions and thoughts. WW2 emerged from so many small factors including the 33% of the German people who marked with a pencil a cross on a piece of paper at an election. London’s bombing in 2005 was made up of detailed decisions and actions going back years.

But it is in the city where the details gather and finally pull down and break not just details but big pictures and patterns. The patterns of aspiration and hope, vision. The London bombings of 2005 shook our dreams of multiculturism and liberty, New York broke for a time the American ideals with Guantanamo Bay, the Blitz even led us to fire bomb Dresden with the loss of 30000 plus lives.

(Tuke painted before the cataclysm of WW1 Roy Ray born in 1936 inherits the memories and knows the broken dreams of the 20th Century. It was a stroke of genius to have his work alongside Tukes in Falmouth Art Gallery. It created an unexpected balance. )

On Good Friday a big picture is painted. The fragments and details come together in destroying through betrayal, politics, mis- aimed religion. The big picture and pattern which is destroyed is something thrown out of the city- without the City Wall. It is the life of the God bearing human Jesus of Nazareth. The hopes and aspirations of many hang broken and destroyed. All the details bubble and push until their final end is the death of beauty, mystery goodness and hope.

The Choir has sung about this- Salvator Mundi- O saviour of the World… Roy’s painting also points not directly to Christ on the Cross but upwards to how all the details make a bigger picture, how the details reveal both the effects of violence and the cause.

At the end of this service as we process out the choir are going to sing near Roy’s panels William Byrd’s Anthem: “Civitas sancti tui” by William Byrd.

Scholars suggest that Byrd was thinking metaphorically of the demise of the Catholic Church in England when he chose this text about the desolation of Jerusalem. His hopes and aspirations fallen, his life’s inspiration snuffed out.
The words are:

Civitas sancti tui facta est deserta.Sion deserta facta est,Jerusalem desolata est.
Your holy city has become a wilderness.Zion has become a wilderness,
Jerusalem has been made desolate.

As you hear these words, these fragments of sound you might like to pray for all who have lost their Jerusalems, their hope, their vision. You might like to consider as you look at Roy’s work the details of your life this Lent. You might like to trace how those details of belief and behaviour can lead to the destruction of beauty, love, hope in the body of Jesus Christ hung outside the City Wall.

Prayers. Artists, scientists, politicians, musicians. Cities, Ausw. Rick Rescorla RIP- Cornish who saved so many lives.

2 And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband. 3 And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, “See, the home of God is among mortals, He will dwell with them, and they will be His peoples, and God Himself will be with them, 4 and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; death will be no more;; mourning, or crying, or pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” 5 And He who sits on the throne said, “See, I am making all things new.”

The Rev'd. Canon Philip Lambert

Truro Cathedral, U.K.

The Changeling

2009-03-10T11:47:00.000-07:00

The Changeling, the recent Clint Eastwood movie about social justice, has a line that Angelina Jolie (the Mum) tells her young son Walter: "Don't start a fight, but make sure you finish your fights." The real-life mum of the movie, Christine Collins, showed us the importance of not only feeling deeply, speaking up but and most importantly, taking action. She publicly criticized the LA Police Department about their policies. With good reason. Walter was missing; and for whom her search never stopped. Christine, herself, had been physically and psychologically abused by the system. If you disagreed with the police force, you stood a good chance of going missing or being locked up in a mental institution, or dead. She pursued her feelings and her criticism with action.

Part of my faith journey has included studying the history of the church, especially the Lutheran branch. I wanted to understand what it meant to be Lutheran. That's when I discovered the shadows of the Lutheran Church. Two large dark ones.

Martin Luther was an anti-semite. There is no question about this, one need simply read his words. He preached anti-semitism. Some historians trace Germany's anti-semitic roots to Luther.

The Lutheran Church, the official church of the Germany, yielded to Nazism. There is no question about this one either, one need only to read the biographies of Dietrich Boenhoffer.

Criticism in Germany was dangerous in the Thirties and Forties. It could cost you your life. The church took the easy road on this one. Certainly there was compassion for the plight of those who were persecuted by the political regimes. But compassion without action is pointless.

As we are learning from our indigenous people, apologies are the first step to healing centuries-old hurt. In my mind, Luther and his followers (and that includes me!) owe the Jewish population a long overdue apology. These shadows of the church (and not just the Lutheran branch) continue. Today’s discriminated social sector are those with non-conforming sexual identities. Today, we are oozing with compassion for the portion of the Anglican Worldwide Communion whose religious convictions preclude them from unconditional acceptance of the LGBT sector. Hence the continuing moratoria on making a decision about how we will include the ‘sexual niggers’ of our society.

In this time and place of our lives, we have the great ability to exercise our freedom of speech and voice our concerns. We have the freedom to question authority without risk. With this freedom comes responsibility. Criticism is a form of freedom of speech. With it comes a heightened responsibility. It requires self-questioning, removal of reactivity and compassion. If criticism does not walk hand-in-hand with this trio, we have meaningless, hurtful diatribe. However, without out action, thinking and feeling are the incense of Christian life; only a reminder of what we are called to do: love radically.

Think (critically), Feel (compassionately) and Act (love radically). Think of these as alchemical elements which need to be balanced to equal Life.

Criticism is not just bad. Compassion is not just good. Criticism without responsibility or purpose is as destructive as compassion without action. Christine Collins provides us with a simple piece of wisdom: “Don’t start a fight but make sure you finish your fights.” I might add: thoughtfully and compassionately.

Nicola Adair

Covenant

2009-03-07T10:46:00.000-08:00

Forgive the adolescent opening – with a definition, as the cliché goes, from my Funk and Wagnall’s. A covenant, in its varied interpretations, is essentially an agreement, a contract, a compact between two or more parties. Lynn’s excellent homily of this past week examined, among other things the covenant between God and his people to never again destroy the earth by flood, in response to, in retribution for the actions of its occupants – however reprehensible. The ‘signature’ on this document, if you will, is the ‘bow’ in the sky, reassuringly appearing, as the clouds clear and the sun peaks through again to settle that bit of anxiety that percolates up in the psyche of the literalists among us. Lynn goes on to point out that this particular contract is as much a pledge given by God with no attached condition – as it is an agreement between. . . Sounds a bit like Grace to me.

As I attended to the rhythm of her text – as always accompanies a good homily in my experience – the linkages began to click and whir (again as usually accompanies) with the somewhat unexpected shunt to An Inconvenient Truth, Al Gore’s diatribe on the earth’s (inevitable?) march toward global warming and all the attendant fallout. In particular, the graphic projections came to mind of what parts of the planet might look like 50 or 100 years hence. Namely that what is now heavily inhabited ‘land’ would have morphed into sea bottom. ‘Free-associative thinking’ being what it is, next stop was a recent Globe & Mail piece on computer modeled predictions of the disappearance of the Antarctic ice shelf with its kilometers-thick mass relentlessly dissolving and pumping up sea levels. And I started to wonder a bit about said covenant.

Pledge or contract, these ‘arrangements’, at least in the human world, have both a need to be revisited and renewed from time to time – boasting a distinct shelf-life as it were. Granted, such mortal agreements generally have a term attached – but even those so-called open-ended deals (pension plans, pledges of undying love, you name it) seem to have a way of yellowing around the edges after a while and slipping into the nether world of ‘that was then; this is now’. And I began to speculate if global warming was not, in some way, Gods serving notice that the terms of his covenant were in need of ‘renegotiation’. Just that little tickler that “I know what I said, but things have changed – and it’s not pretty”.

Now I’m all in favour of Grace. A pretty good deal: behave as you will, deny as you might, diminish for that four score and ten – and, with God’s grace, all is forgiven. (In passing, for those of you who haven’t seen the new Brideshead Revisited, there’s a great scene wherein the dissenting dad, on his death bed, does a little gestural recant of his ill-spent ways and, presto, the family is reassured of his future, post-mortal coil existence, as it were. Good ol’ Grace!) But being in favour of something and adopting it as the moral instruction manual for structuring one’s life decisions are two pretty different issues. In my world, contracts are a two-way deal. It may feel like it’s management piping the tune and we poor workers have no choice but to comply or else. But contracts are a binding agreement that obligates both parties to fulfill certain conditions. I work for 40 hours; you pay me an agreed upon rate. I die prematurely; and you agree to continue to provide pension coverage for my surviving partner. And so on. And further, we typically have input into the terms and conditions that comprise the contract. Put more succinctly, there is a mutual responsibility that attaches. No free (Grace-driven) lunches!

So what of God’s pledge? As Lynn indicated, the world is a much-changed place. Our capacity to wreak havoc and ruin is much-amplified from those days some 600 years BCE. And what’s that (schmaltzy) line from Spiderman: “With great power comes great responsibility”. So maybe it’s time to start mutualizing things a bit – and to lean a little less heavily on the ‘management’ obligation to keep a finger in the dike or to turn off the celestial faucet before we hit the 40 day mark. Maybe it’s time for the worker contingent to flesh out its side of the contract a bit more fully.

A year of so ago Nicola had researched a unique spin on stewardship as part of her then involvement in that ministry, creatively coined Green Stewardship – and somewhat confusingly and distressingly, had the ideas marginalized as ‘flavour of the month’. Undaunted she continued to assemble reference material, much of it originating from Earth Ministry and distilled into a succinct manual of parishioner responsibility entitled: “Greening Congregations Handbook”. (The website for those interested in looking a bit further is www.earthministry.org. ) In keeping with the stimulus for today’s blog, reprinted in this handbook is a speech given by Bruce Babbitt, former Arizona governor and environmental activist, “Between the Flood and the Rainbow”, which too is worth perusing – when speculating about our side of the deal (online at http://www.fs.fed.us/eco/eco-watch/ew951218.htm. ) So next time the clouds break and the bow appears, enjoy the show. But I’d wager that little tickle in the gut is as much one of felt responsibility as it is relief that the pledge is still good.

David Howard

The Christian Church and The Titanic

2009-02-20T07:55:00.000-08:00

This is going to take awhile: I suggest, if you are up to the task of reading this tome, that you pour yourself a triple dram of your favourite Friday night single malt first. I’ll take mine neat, thank you.

Given the recent round of discussion, for me, this must be how Sister Wendy would feel if she were handed the keys to the Louvre: what thoughtful and thought-provoking discussion! Thank you, fellow catacombites for an abundance of food for thought. My head is spinning with the stimulation:

Leader vs. intermediary;
altar of worship vs. common table;
God in our midst vs. God in the East ;
Jenny Geddes alleged cry;
and deck chairs on the Titanic with poetry by Yeats:
this is a feast of serious thinking!
There are enough separate discussion threads to keep us going for a year.

The ‘deck chairs on the Titanic’ metaphor is the one that keeps popping up the most in my head. Obviously, the Church as ship is an ancient symbol; the word nave points this out. The last twenty-five years in the Church has felt like we’ve missed the signal about the approaching iceberg. Moving around altars and renaming them does seem quite akin to the aforementioned metaphor. But when I think about it more, it is not just the last twenty-five that have triggered the impending doom: I vote for the last two thousand years.

For me, it is quite confusing and has had me questioning how we worship God (modern or traditional approach, you choose). The Christian liturgy is the public worship of God by the people that has emerged through two millennia of political, social and theological evolution. If I wait until Sunday to have the presence of God symbolically represented to me by an altar position or priest position, I fear that I have lost much in my daily struggle to have a relationship with God. My private worship and relationship with God is an everyday responsibility.

The sacrament of the Eucharist is not God-worship, but Jesus-remembrance for me. Jesus went into the garden to work on his relationship with God; he went into the synagogue to study, teach and worship God. Not for one minute or a great bottle of single malt could you convince me that the position of the altar or the like would matter to Jesus or God.

So, before I look for a life boat or ask for the last dance on the Titanic or the altar to be moved or renamed, this question keeps nagging away in my head: can we save the ship?

Put that question on hold for just a minute though; let me tell you about chapel this Wednesday.

At the heart of St. James’ is the Lady Chapel. It is for me a little and barely-noticed jewel through which life at St. James’ flows. Every Sunday, the community passes through it; rarely pausing to breathe in the special quality that pervades the room. During the week, it is used as the short-cut to sanctuary. People tramp through it; every so often, someone will make a quick nod at the altar as they scurry along. It is on Wednesday morning that this room glows. 10 a.m., to be exact.

The paint is peeling off the walls in certain areas; the carpet is worn. Usually, the chapel chairs are helter-skelter. Many times, tired floral arrangements from the previous Sunday service quietly count their days in the corners. The altar is planted against the north wall.

A small, fairly consistent group of us gather each Wednesday. We wait quietly for the officiant to arrive; rarely is there chatter of any sort. We always start at page 67 in the BCP. There is always the epistle and the gospel; there is never a homily. We always kneel at the same points in the service. Very rarely does the presiding priest stray from the course that is hundreds of years old. Each week, we are reminded of the essential elements of the Christian life.

Because the service is always the same, I don’t really use the book. For extended passages of recitation, it is open for reference. I can focus on the why’s instead of the how’s of worship. Stopping my mid-week life to do so is not very easy for me. It would be far simpler to recite a prayer at home at 10 o’clock on Wednesday morning and get on with the have-to’s. But having observed mid-week chapel now for two years, I find it disturbing to miss it. Rather, my soul finds it disturbing to miss it.

In its quiet, contemplative way, Wednesday chapel dusts of my worries, sets me up straight and sends me back out into the world with a gentle nudge, ready to start all over again.

This Wednesday, Malcolm Wilson presided. We weren’t sure who to expect as it was not printed in the bulletin. Malcolm opens the sacristry doors and enters the chapel. He stops and lovingly looks at each one of us and greets us with a warm “Good Morning, everyone”.

Malcolm does not really preside. He speaks for us, not at us. He kneels when we kneel, he faces the altar as we do. He offers the words of absolution to us as though they were being offered to him. He invites us to read passages along with him that normally we are excluded from. He is amongst us, not above us. He does so not from a physical position; he does it in spirit. Malcolm’s authenticity, reverence and humility elevates the service to the most meaningful level. When the service is finished, we all sit in silence. There is no urgency to speak, to move, to get on with life. It is as though we have had a small slice of the peace that passes understanding; we don’t really want it to end.

Not many Wednesday chapel services feel this powerful, but when it does happen it is the most amazing tonic for the spirit and soul. Back to my question: can we save the ship?

The Titanic metaphor comes back to mind. The Christian church is very comparable to this famous ship: a huge vessel that seems unsinkable, carrying confident but oblivious passengers. A vehicle so large that it cannot react quickly enough to change its course to avoid destruction. The comparisons seems to go on. Let us not forget E.J. Pratt’s poem Titanic and its epic portrayal of hubris. There was nothing structurally wrong with the Titanic. The hubris of the people sank it. In the Christian church’s case, it has been sinking for nearly 2000 years.

Got that bottle of exquisite single malt handy: I would wager that Jesus never intended that there be a Vatican or a Canterbury, a pope, an archbishop, a diocesan appropriation that is sinking small parishs, an altar of worship or a common table/altar. He pointed out the slavery of the 613 Mosaic laws; he came that we might have life more abundantly. And, we, his disciples, took the 613 Jewish laws (this spreadsheet http://www.bendavidmjc.org/The%20613%20Mosaic%20Laws.pdf is available online and is a helpful outline ) and created an equivalent number for Christian liturgy and denominational dogma. Jesus pointed the way to God; not to himself. He taught that life is about paradox: The Beatitudes; he taught that love had to be radical ; he lived with authenticity, reverence and humility.

It has taken 2000 years but I wonder if the ultimate Christian metaphor may be unfolding. The Church will have to die before it can live again. No amount of shuffling of furniture, or glitzy signage, or dumbing down of the language, or sparkles of vibrant liturgy is going to get this ship out of the way of the iceberg of reality.

I can’t save the ship alone. My generation could maybe save her; I'm not sure what it would take to light a fire under the adherents. It is mind-boggling to imagine what it would take to usurp the political armour that her leadership have built around them and their systems. Perhaps miraculous radical love and action? Reminds a bit of this ancient story of a young rabbi...

I'm ready for a refill; are you?

Nicola Adair

Evolution and the Ideomorph

2009-02-15T15:53:00.000-08:00

What better forum than the Catacombs of St. James to discuss the niceties of Darwinian theory. Margaret Wente seemed to stir up a more potent than usual wasps’ nest this past week with her commentary on evolutionary psychology and the ongoing debate of whether we’ve pretty much arrived (the ‘as good as it gets’ view) – or are still not only continuing to evolve, but at an accelerated rate. Responses, mostly rather unflattering (but then her skin has also ‘evolved’ to lizarderm status, as it were), populated the op-ed pages of the Globe this weekend. Briefly, evolutionary psychology applies C.D.’s main thesis – that, pairing of stronger, more viable, and hence sustainable matches, over time produce a more dominant genetic line that will survive and thrive, while weaker, more ‘flawed’ pairs will gradually drop out of the mix – to social selection. Smart, accomplished folk who pair up with others of similar endowment and drive are in effect propagating that ‘line’; and you can fill in the other half of the equation.

This exchange of view was perched atop an equally ‘stimulating’ piece citing this same theory as an element underpinning the gender-wage gap in our culture. Feminists are fond of pointing rather exclusively to the ‘glass ceiling’ that exists for women. The ‘enlightened’, young (female) psychologist / columnist was suggesting that accomplished women actually select themselves out of the wage market (taking with them their significant incomes and abilities, thereby dragging down not only the ‘female average earnings’ but also removing a particularly promising group of employed and employable folk) by choosing as partners, males like unto themselves: bright, upwardly mobile, high achieving, etc., etc… In short, this process of modified ‘natural selection’ (to attach the usual Darwinian terminology) skews the number of top female candidates, leaving the males in play.

To illustrate her point, she cites the case of Michelle and Barack Obama. A mere three years before his election, Michelle was reportedly earning in the $300,000 (USD) range annually. Expected 2009 income: $0. The implication of course is that the Obama’s are representative of a significant group of similar couples, all studiously engaged in the process of pulling the female earning potential out of the market, leaving their male counterparts to boost the average male numbers. Maybe yes; maybe no. Unfortunately the theory is, how shall I put this, yet to be tested. While not a devil’s ‘advocate’ per se, I’m at least a promising protégé.

An occurrence that old Charles D seemed to struggle to account for was not only the appearance of but the apparent thriving of anomalies – those quirky right turns in the methodical, relentless march of evolution from which sprang, quite suddenly, spontaneously, and without apparent genetic forebears, completely new (and sometimes desirable) directions, homo erectus being a prime example. The fossil record, after several millennia of plod along one, well worn trail, seemed to lurch (in evolutionary terms) rather abruptly along a new path. I would maintain that the Obama ‘match’ might better be viewed as one of those desirable hiccups and far from sufficiently representative to account for anything as far reaching and ubiquitous as the wage gap across genders. I’d put Mr. Obama himself (perhaps prematurely – hopefully not) in the category of the Winston Churchill’s, the Lester B. Pearson’s, the Pierre Elliott Trudeau’s, the JFK’s – politicians to be sure; but certainly not leaders born out of the existing genetic political pool, nor the ‘expected’ progeny of the existing ‘political parentage’. I’m not sure if the term in the title is original (I highly doubt it) – but it certainly works in just these situations. The aforementioned are ideomorphs, one-offs as it were, unique forms (to consider the etymology of my makey-uppy term) that pop out of centre field (if the metaphors may be mixed) and not from the predominant, primordial ooze of the political landscape.

Nicola and I got to discussing, at the same breakfast time ‘round table’, just such anomalies in the slightly lowered profiles of our own families; triggered in no small measure by content of an extended family history, provided Nicola some ten years ago and detailing three centuries of paternal genealogy and more particularly some of the extended writings of a grandfather. Her mother is fond of saying: “just where did you come from?” – reference the values, style, integrity, attention to detail, and so on that not only characterize her daughter (and make her, I believe in mother’s view, something of a rebellious handful) , but set her at some considerable distance from the value systems detailed in a family history of high-achieving, but decidedly ethically challenged progenitors.

I, like most borne out of a scientific training, subscribe quite heartily to Darwinian ideas. Creationist science is not only deemed bunkum, but is positively oxymoronic – with the emphasis on the final three syllables. I am left, nonetheless, in some awe of individuals that strike a unique path, that eschew the proscribed direction – whether it be swinging from trees with a penchant for walking on one’s knuckles or simply donning the party (be it political or familial) colours and espousing the expected and predictable rhetoric. In a tradition within our household, certain festivals and other ‘Hallmark days’ are marked with homage paid each other, most often in form of a haiku. Following is a variation on just such an acknowledgment of the ‘ideomorph’ I am honoured to be partnered with:

Culvert cultivar;
One’s weed, one’s wonder –
Uncommonly principled.

Psyguy

Captain Karma Comes A Callin'

2009-02-06T06:21:00.000-08:00

A wise friend (and, for all I know, avid Jim Croce fan) once paraphrased those words to live by: “ya don’t tug on Superman’s cape, ya don’t spit into the wind, ya don’t tug the mask off that ol’ Lone Ranger, and . . .” with his own caution. “Always answer the door when Captain Karma comes a callin’.” Easier said than done. What’s this guy look like? How do I know it’s not just another JW in a fancy cape. If I open the door to another bag of stale chips or almond chocolate bars, I think I’ll explode. If I had a swimming pool that needed cleaning, I’ll sure call you first. Sorry, no tax receipt, no ticky. In short, we’re pretty much conditioned to slam that door in the face of just about anybody that rings the bell.

And so as I fired up the snow blower on what, to all appearances was not a particularly auspicious, winter morning, I was not really prepared to entertain such a guest. Two, three inches at most; should be able to blast through this in top gear and get in before the coffee cools. Driveway, done. City walkway – all the way to the corner (self-absorbed slugs who drop their citizenly duty, take note), done. A little polish off of our own sidewalk . . . Oops, just about dropped the ball on that one! Toss the newspaper safely out of the way onto the front porch; mark that extension cord, frozen in place ‘til Spring – and WHANG!

Blue smoke, usually the exclusive province of the machine itself, redoubled as its owner added to the column. Nothing stops a blower in its tracks like a good, hefty, mid-week edition of the Globe & Mail. Momentarily at a loss, I poke my head around to the business end and confirm that, yep, a little tattered and twisted but otherwise wedged in tact was Wednesday’s best (bearing out my fear that I’d carefully rescued yesterday’s paper) mid-maw as it were.

Years of anger management (teaching, not taking – thank you very much!) reminded me to belly breathe, hit the ‘pause button’ (as if that would get the *&%@! Globe out of the blower!), put an optimistic construction on events (‘could have been the extension cord’ seemed a bit limp at this point). And thus, as the mailman (and it was a man) strode up the driveway with his sunny greeting of how much he appreciated a clean path, I responded in kind with an “it’s the least I can do” – and went back to work with the sledge, crow bar, and sotto voce curses. It was some time before my mind (and the smoke) cleared sufficient to register that just maybe that wasn’t the mail man after all. Maybe that was CK in a mad bomber hat (the guy is a master of disguise).

Now the parallel tale, of course, is the Lenten theme at St. James this year. Let me get this right: something about consumerism, loving the planet, caring for our non-renewable resources. For some time, heeding the refrain that the church website is such a wonderful tool for communicating with the parish, for sharing life at St. James with those that can’t attend on a regular basis (Hmmm?), for keeping folks current with bulletin and community news, coming events and music lists (well, those will come, I just know it), the scribe and faithful sidekick have connived and plotted, pushed and (digitally) published this little vehicle in every way possible to save a tree here and a pinch of Xerox powder there. But alas, the drafts of drafts, the photocopies of photocopies, the pink, purple, and puce ‘eye catching inserts’, the printed reminders to check the website for details – just keep a rollin’ off the press. The direct emails, weekly updates, the attempts at ‘reverse marketing’ (“if you want to receive a hard copy of . . .”) have fallen on deaf ears. Ah, but Captain Karma hears!

Feeling ever the hypocrite, I recall my rants about inserts, flyers, ad mail, and unsolicited newsprint – dropped disdainfully into the recycle bin between the mail box and the house, unread, unwanted, resented; as I pull a shred of “Leafs lose another one” out of the blower’s rotors. As I untwist the plastic wrapper from the drive shaft, I cast mind back to the (now hollow) advocacy to ‘read online’; the barely controlled telephone exchanges with the London Free Press, censuring them for delivering ‘complimentary copies’ of their ‘illiterate rag’ to our house. Tentatively tweaking the clutch to expel the final few remnants of Rex’s column onto my neighbour’s snow bank, I shudder to remember the carefully lettered warnings taped to mail box cautioning anyone who might challenge to “save a tree – leave no junk mail here!”. How many times does the message need to be delivered? How much clearer can CK be? P-R-A-C-T-I-C-E W-H-A-T Y-O-U P-R-E-A-C-H. Come to think of it, that’s kinda catchy – even has that kind of churchy feel to it. Hmm. Wonder if there’s an application of that up on the hill. Or do we have to wait for a visit from CK? Wonder what the liturgical equivalent is of a Globe stuffed up your rotor?

David Howard

A Riddle For You

2009-02-05T12:50:00.000-08:00

Question: What does the Grand Philharmonic Choir of Kitchener-Waterloo and St. James’ Anglican Church have in common (other than The Rev. Lynn Mitchell)?

Answer: Members who do not take ownership.

December 13/08, the KW Records reported that the Grand Phil has an accumulated deficit in excess of $110,000 and its very existence is in jeopardy. Everyone from the outgoing President, the Artistic Director and a humble chorister were quoted as bewildered with the dilemma. They’ve done everything possible, they are very good as a performing ensemble, they’ve featured world class soloists, they use a great hall and they have an orchestra as the back-up band. Yet, the concert hall is half-empty for performances and the cash cow just died.

Choristers pay $275 per year to sing in this choir, the newspaper reported.

February 1/09, the St. James’ annual Vestry meeting is presented with a BDO Dunwoody financial statement that shows a General Fund deficit of $83,438 before inter-fund transfers and opening bank balance (hello everyone, this is the real deficit; not the questionable numbers that have previously appeared from internally generated statements). The 2008 calculated deficit (including net income from the restricted fund) was $59,729; 2007’s deficit was $32,791. According to the Treasurer, the parish has cut costs and been responsible. And, oh by the way, parish council did approve a 2.4% Diocesan recommended pay increase for 2009.

A few brave souls query the increase, given the facts that parishioners are losing jobs and retirees on fixed incomes are living with significantly reduced disposable incomes. These naysayers are soon humbled for their scrooge-like outlooks by an inner circle that is chanting the refrain of ‘but with all of these problems, the priests will have to work (note: future tense was used by the speakers) harder to help counsel the needy’.

My knitting keeps me silently absorbing the information, the dialogue, the rationalizations. A very popular parishioner promotes the idea that the parish can cover the extra costs by encouraging more than the current 26 parish families (total active families statistic for parish in 2008 = 238 families) to use the Eat To Give programme.

More knitting.

I stop to glance at the 2009 proposed (internally prepared) budget numbers. More knitting. The actual 2008 givings were $258,000 (down from $263,000 in 2007). For 2009, $269,000 has been budgeted. Wow; talk about faith!

More knitting.

From this same proposed budget chart, 2008 payroll was $193,000; the Diocesan apportionment and other expenses were 64,000. Oh, how I love the beauty of numbers: 2008 actual givings is almost the same as the total of 2008 payroll and Diocesan apportionment. The minute we turn on a light or turn on the heat or photocopy a piece of paper or (the really important stuff) like feed and shelter the poor, we have DEFICIT, Houston!

Another popular parishioner speaks up: Come on, Folks! We’ve got a million dollars in the bank; stop worrying!

More knitting. More math.

Let’s do the math, folks. At the rate of the increasing annual deficit, we are talking a dozen years, more or less, before we face the same dilemma that the Grand Phil faces today. And that does not include any capital work that requires doing (as opposed to discretionary change) or the very real fact of declining membership (hence, declining givings) or the ongoing truth of diminishing investment value and earnings.

More knitting, more math.

A Grand Phil chorister pays $275 a year to be a member of that choir. How much should a St. James’ parishioner pay to be a member of this ‘choir’? By my math, and using the 2008 actual external accountants’ numbers: $1510.27 per year or about $125 per month or about $30 a week or about $4 a day. Not really that much, is it? And, I fully understand that not everyone can afford the cost of membership at St. James’. However, using the 2008 receipted contribution chart included in the vestry report, of the 238 reported active families, 182 of those families give less than $1500 per year. That is a whopping 76% of active membership. I find it impossible to believe that more than three-quarters of the parish cannot afford to maintain their membership costs.

My thoughts to the Grand Phil and every other non-profit organization that is facing a deficit: Ante up! If I want to sing the music that I love, it is going to cost me; anything that the public contributes through ticket sales is a truly wonderful gift. If I want to be a part of a church that provides me with a venue for worship and community, then it is going to cost me. If I want two priests, a half-time paid office manager, a music director and lots of paper to hold in my hands, it is going to cost me. Manna from heaven, we feed ourselves and our souls with. Church operating costs are the responsibilities of its membership; not God.

Or the reality, like the one the Grand Phil is facing, (and I really hate to use this line but...) ‘the fat lady is singing’. The singing will stop; the doors will close.

I am going into my sewing room now. I love this part of my creative life as much as that chorister in the Grand Phil loves to sing. Every fibre, machine, needle and what-not was paid for, lovingly, happily and with hopes of sharing my ‘voice in fibre’ with others.

Amen.

Nicola Adair

The Mystery of Private Prayer

2009-01-30T08:34:00.000-08:00

David and I strongly encourage contributions to the blog: our intention is that this be a place for dialogue. Thus we thank Mackie100 for taking that risk and engaging in our digital conversations. And, as another means of engaging, we present a contribution from Fiona Wilkie. We are more than happy to add your thoughts to the blog by simply giving us them: we’ll type them. That brings us to Fiona’s contribution. We toyed with the idea of scanning her contribution and posting it as a pdf- her handwritten piece is artful in its beautiful script on crisp thick creamy-coloured paper. Alas, the timeliness factor played in and her piece has been transcribed.

Fiona’s piece underscores for me many strongly-held beliefs: life is enriched by ritual, the transcendental power of music, the liturgical mystery of divine offices, and the need to stop and listen to the still, small voice of God within us.

Thank you, Fiona, for this sharing:

Sometimes the most private experiences are meant to be shared. Nicola has so persuaded me and, as she was the instrument of my blessing, here is my story!

Last Wednesday Nicola interrupted my self-imposed week of house-bound solitude-due to a severe cold and exhaustion-by dropping off a complete, delicious, ready-to-eat, dinner and a CD. To celebrate these gifts, I lit a fire, revelled in the tasty, nourishing feast, then cleared away and tidied the kitchen and returned to the fireside. I built up a good fire, lit a number of candles in old brass candlesticks, switched off all lamps and lay down on the rug in front of the gently licking flames to listen to the CD. I had purposely read only the title: ‘Evensong for Etheldreda’ – the choir of Ely Cathedral.

There followed over an hour of perfect beauty and of heavenly bliss: lying on my back I could see the shadows of the firelight and the flickering candles on the ceiling – a shadowy, cathedral-like atmosphere evolved; I was totally absorbed into the music, its intimate calm, its soaring challenging, overwhelming magnificent passages of choral singing, its hauntingly beautiful soloists, its comforting plainsong—and the organ; as never ever before I was surrounded, wrapped, lifted up and carried inside beauty by the richness and warmth of the organ’s music. I experienced feelings that really defy my accurate or even adequate description- I just knew: beauty was God and God was beauty and I was there.

The range and depth of emotions I experienced differed from those engendered by any Evensong before, and when I read the words and titles in the CD booklet-I understood. ‘Tongues of Fire’ – the final organ solo title- perfectly described the awe, cleansing, encouragement, and even grace, that I had experienced.

Last summer in Buckfast Abbey I was blessed with an insight which has remained with me almost as a point of reference for decision making.

It happened during the middle of three Compline evenings I was able to attend. The service in the vast abbey, lit only by one candle, was one of mystery, meditation and the prayerful chanting of the brothers in their long, black, hooded habits. In that particular brief act of worship, I was unexpectedly but calmly, surely, completely and utterly filled with a certainty that all would always be well. This definite feeling was accompanied by two precise instructions for my life in the next year- totally unsought guidance. I have abided by these tenets despite persistent kindly opposition, and, quite amazingly, I can summon strength by returning in my heart to that Compline in Buckfast Abbey.

Following that memorable Compline, I pursued a slow, meaningful walk through the labyrinthine paths of the Abbey’s lavender gardens. Very separately, and silently, but very joined- so did Nicola.

Fiona Wilkie

Likert Who?

2009-01-28T13:26:00.000-08:00

It’s hard to escape them. The phone rings, typically as the family gathers round the dinner table; and then the query: “Can I have a few minutes of your time?” We all have strategies (some passive, some not so) for dealing with the ubiquity of telemarketing and its blood-brother, the telesurvey. Nicola’s personal favourite is to feign distress that, yes they could – but it’s usually her husband who answers all questions; and he’s not due to be released for some time. I try to stick a little closer to the facts (maybe she knows something that I don’t!). No, Mr. Adair doesn’t live here anymore (this is a true statement – as the phrasing goes). Or, in my more generous moments, I just acquiesce; as much fallout from having a possible future son in law who is one of those folks on the other end of the survey and has quite likely had all the abuse he can swallow for one day.

“On a scale of 1 to whatever, could you please rate the following statements? ‘1’ being ‘strongly agree’; ‘whatever’, being ‘I don’t ever want to hear another of your questions for as long as you may choose to live’.” “Sure, I guess.” “Are you married?” “Yes.” “No, sir; using the rating scale I described, please.” “OK, 1”. “If you answered ‘1’ to the previous question, could you please rate… ” And so it goes: a (painfully) long list of queries that produce (no doubt) a dog’s breakfast of irrelevant information that will be quantified, averaged, standard deviationed, and ultimately passed on to the company who hired this underpaid, abused individual to stick it out to the end… and then do it all again. Talk about Groundhog Day! Much as I hate to admit it, these litanies of meaningless inquiry do compel me, on those generous occasions when I agree to participate, to listen to the question and, God forbid, think about my answers.

Something approaching a high point in my week of mornings is Friday – the day the Globe and Mail includes, in their Review section, the entertaining, acerbic, droll, and frequently insightful review of the recently released movies. Time to fess up; I’m a movie nut – not just any movie but one that might steer me to the next good book on which one was based; or maybe just the next candidate for what Nicola charitably calls “treadmill fodder” (aka, something too violent, too macho, or just too inane to occupy us on a weekend evening – but suitable for David to wile away his time on the ‘mill’). Rick and Liam (two of my favourite ironists), after lauding or lacerating the video candidate (whichever is appropriate), will offer a ‘score’ as it were (somewhere between 0 and 4 stars), reflecting the global merit of the particular offering.

It shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that ‘4’s’ are relatively hard to come by; equally (believe it or not, given the parade of mindless ‘mill fodder’ that seems to fill the big screen) ‘0’s’ don’t show up too terribly often either! Most ratings are in the 2 to 2 ½ range, indicating a product of interest, but with significant shortcomings, indulgences (gratuitous gore), irrelevancies, or just plain bad acting to make it a struggle on some level for our erudite judges to sit through – without engaging their finely honed senses of humour.

What binds these seemingly quite unrelated experiences are two elements: a) the use of some kind of mechanism for ‘scoring’ as it were; and b) the (somewhat unexpected) attention that must be paid to meaningfully ‘rate’ one’s response. As one who has, in one way or another, spent a large part of his working life in the realm of ‘ratings’ and the (sometimes fruitless) attempt to have people take this exercise sufficiently seriously to enable me to draw conclusions about their personality, intellect, pain levels, and career aspirations from pages of blackened-in bubbles on the response sheets of questionnaires, this resonated indeed. Years of being called upon to quantify the subjective, to supply a number to a definition, a writing sample, a partially recalled design, to rate a mood, or to score someone’s ‘global functioning’ (“please consider the following on a hypothetical continuum of …”) can’t help but endear one to the sheer simplicity and reductionist thinking embraced by a lovely, linear, Likert scale. The kind that’s anchored by a ‘strongly something’ at one end (often the equivalent of a ‘+2’) and a ‘strongly not something’ (‘-2’) at the other. Do I hear Ebel’s “two thumbs” echoing in the background?

Now I am not so naïve as to assume that everyone attends with rapt focus to a homily from beginning to end. But I have observed that sometimes my attention is captured; and sometimes, let’s just say, less so. Sometimes the Sunday morning efforts are an “English Patient”, or a “Schindler’s List”; and sometimes, let’s just say a “Death Race 2000”. And, as with any good screen play, script, or text, one looks for the requisite component pieces: the inclusion of timely scripture (a premise), the delivery (the acting), the integrity (does it wander, does it hang together), the climax (does it consolidate), the sidebars (the self-indulgences), and the resonance (does it touch, connect). And, sad to say, mere popularity, sentimentality, familiarity, as with the movies, sell tickets but may be, what shall we call them, ‘box-office successes’, but critical failures. (For fun, I’ve correlated – another psychologist’s ‘trick’ – dollars of ticket sales with the G & M’s ‘star’ scores. Not good.)

And so was born a little device, a context, a rating scale that, for me both fosters critical listening and invites a serious, considered evaluation of a weekly (hopefully) event that has as its structure and intent a pulling together of liturgy, church calendar, scripture, proffered guidance, spiritual stimulation, and reflection. How could we afford this less importance than the relentless “On a scale of … could you please rate your enjoyment of the themes explored in this week’s episode of Becoming Jessica or Being Veronica or . . ?”

David Howard

Synchronicity

2009-01-23T10:29:00.000-08:00

Synchronicity: a meaningful coincidence. It always surprises me. The most recent occurrence for me has had me looking back into my past.

The inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of our neighbours to the south captivated the interest of a good part of the world. The local rag had a front page story of a Stratford resident who was travelling to Washington to be a part of this historic event.

America needs the energy, optimism, realism and hope which Mr Obama genuinely embraces. Afro-Americans needed the affirmation that this historic event delivered. The world needs a superpower to shift into, hopefully, a new direction of leadership.

For most observers, though, the significance of Mr Obama's success is obvious. For myself, and this is where the synchronicity comes into play, it goes deeper. Enter: The Secret Life of Bees.

With a healthy chunk of our RBC reward points, David, unexpectedly surprised me with my very own Ipod, a sleek, shiny Nano 8. I had been resisting this popular device for one reason: its popularity. I had also been resisting a friend's several-year-old suggestion that I should listen to audio books. Na...nope, not for me: can’t walk and chew gum so how could I walk and listen at the same time. Besides, I’m the touchy-feely type: I want to fondle my books while I read.

That held until I became smitten with the writing of Ian Rankin. Mr Rankin, a Scot PhD, wrote the Rebus crime fiction series. Rebus is an Edinburgh detective inspector; a fully developed character with lots of complicated and nasty crimes to deal with. For a 2009 resolution, I decided to read the entire series from start to finish. David suggested that I listen to a download that he had of the first novel: Knots and Crosses. I thought about it for awhile. The realization that I could needlepoint and listen occurred. Brilliant. The long-in-the-tooth Leek pillow project could be finished along with the novels.

In a weekend, I finished Knots and Crosses and a long border on the Leek; six hours of listening to a delicious Scot brogue. The decision was sealed: I would listen to the series. Onto novel two: Hide and Seek.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I have a hyperactive imagination. My dreams during the period listening to these two novels became vivid crime fiction fodder. Not very restful. Best take a break from the crime fiction, but what should I listen to. As Inauguration Day was approaching, I thought about Obama’s Audacity of Hope. Na. His autobiography, maybe...na. I felt like some chick fiction. David suggested that I look at his download library, 117 books and still growing. That’s when I stumbled on The Secret Life of Bees.

1964, south of the Mason-Dixon line and a complicated childhood...that resonates. For the better part of my life (age 8 and on), I would mumble when someone asked me where I was born. Dallas Texas. Yep. You know, the city that killed JFK. I came from the country that killed its dreamers, sent its future to a dirty war in the South Pacific, and had missile silos buried all across its landscape.

Worse still, I came from the part of the country that celebrated segregation. My grandparents had 'nigger' help, a gardener and a housekeeper. There were only white people in our neighbourhoods, schools and churches. There was no mixing, no respect and no tolerance.

When I started listening to The Secret Life of Bees, I had vivid mental pictures of the events that Sue Munk Kidd describes. Things like the regular atomic bomb safety exercises at school (and yes, it seems oxymoronic to me but...). The alarm would sound and we were instructed to immediately crouch under our desks until we were given a signal. Or, watching Walter Cronkite on the nightly news. In my grandparents' home, conversation and movement of any kind was forbidden while the news was on. As an eight year old, it was unnerving. It seemed like you couldn't even breath. My grandfather would yell at Walter whenever a nerve was touched: like the enactment of the Civil Rights Act...it seemed like the world was coming to an end. It was scary.

For me, being an American was a terrible thing. It was humiliating. I couldn't wait for the day when I got get my Canadian citizenship. A few years ago, I couldn't believe my ears when my brother said that he was going for his dual citizenship papers and would be moving back to the U.S. I considered it temporary insanity.

February 2008. Michelle Obama is getting heat because of her Milwaukee speech, "For the first time in my adult lifetime, I'm really proud of my country...not just because Barack has done well, but because I think people are hungry for change. I've been desperate to see our country moving in that direction and not just feeling so alone in my frustration and disappointment." I knew exactly where she was coming from. I wasn`t convinced that America was prepared for change despite the hunger.

A part of me is relieved that my grandparents are not alive. Not for their sake; for mine. It would be impossible to talk about a Democrat in the White House, let alone an Afro-American. It's hard enough talking to my very Republican but colour-blind brother about it.

But this Tuesday, I know that for the first time ever, I too was proud of my former country. I actually said 'God bless America' out loud and meant it. Not just because the impossible became a reality. Probably, more, because I saw Americans joyfully jump into a great melting-pot of hope. I sensed that the global community was breathing in the sweet smell of hope that was rising about the USA like incense.

A chapter of history is complete, the old book is done.

In closing, I would encourage you to watch the embedded link to Bishop Gene Robinson's invocation at the Inaugural Celebration at the Lincoln Memorial. He reminds us that Obama is a man, not the Messiah. It is a powerful and beautifully hopeful prayer for the future.
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=kWWAnitUCw4

Nicola Adair

Mr Howard says toMAYto; Mackie100 says toMAHto

2009-01-15T19:50:00.000-08:00

To me, they are saying the same thing.

Resolution:

i) A resolve or determination (as in to do something)

ii) The act of resolving or determining upon an action or a course of action

iii) A reduction to a simpler form; conversion

iv) Medical-the reduction or disappearance of a swelling or inflammation without suppuration

v) Music-the progression of a voice part or harmony as a whole form from dissonance to consonance.

Mr Howard suggests using the mindfulness pruning tools of reciprocation, intention and boundaries to achieve premeditated acts of reduction that will achieve the resolution outcomes that Mackie100 welcomes.

As Mackie100 eloquently describes the desired outcomes of pruning: improve the plant’s health (necessary to sustain the momentum of continuing the journey in whatever direction or beyond whatever obstacle), increase its production (expansion) and enhance its shape (moving beyond or in new directions), he is simultaneously describing his desired outcomes of resolutions.

So, to me, we are singing from the same page; which is where the music reference, in the aforementioned meaning, comes into play. And where the paradox of the faith journey enters: hopefully moving forward on a path that we have no idea where it is taking us. Through the years, whether we are using the plant or the drop analogy, we can only hope to move from dissonance to consonance. Whether premeditated or spontaneous, our action or reaction is best from a position of mindful awareness.

Nicola Adair

Resolutions

2009-01-08T10:31:00.000-08:00

Same old, I suppose – lose 10 pounds, get back into shape, drink less red wine, simplify. The good news (as it were) is that the first two are, as I write this, attainable; again, depending on one’s definition of ‘shape’. The third? Well, the jury is sufficiently ambivalent (on the respective benefits and costs of same) that I think I’ll just hold that one until the definitive study is done. Also, there is that case of good Australian Shiraz that still sits on the rack. But the fourth. Now we’re talking real resolve. As Nicola and I sat on a blissfully quiet New Year’s Eve at home, and discussed where we’d like to see 2009 be directed, the need to ‘reign in’ was uppermost in both our thoughts. Not just a rewording of the old ‘take more time for ourselves’ mantra – but in the neighbourhood.

A few months back, sitting amongst a group of old friends and acquaintances, I’d begun to muse about the pleasure I was able to take in the ways in which a number of areas in my life had apparently begun to crystallize, particularly in the past year. It would be arrogance indeed to claim that these were ‘goals attained’ – since that would imply some intention in the setting of same. No, these events were more a subtle coalescence of important and very occupying quarters of my life into what could be loosely described as ‘achievement’; reaching a satisfying state that, on reflection, could have been goals if, twenty or more years ago I’d had the wisdom, forethought, and sustainable drive to target them.

I rambled (much as I am now) about the satisfying growth and expansion of an ‘accidental business’ commenced some sixteen years ago. How, without any discernible plan, a small (and decidedly tenuous at the time), private practice had evolved into a twelve-practitioner, two-building ‘enterprise’. How ‘graybeard’ status seemed to have crept up and was, at long last a comfortable mantle in my community of peers. How the opportunity to mentor and spawn a second generation of colleagues had presented. Again, not with any intention (and certainly not desire) to build some professional edifice; but to merely give back to a profession that has been good to me over my working life. And how, with the waxing and waning of many different communities over several years and focuses of interest, a few such have attained gratifying and sustainable prominence in recent times.

And so it was not without some significant surprise that I heard, amongst the litany of well-wishings, a subtext of ‘now what?’; the personal and interpersonal cost attached; and the subtle, incipient seeds of ‘addiction’ being sown. Always ready to relate things to movies, I was reminded of What A Way To Go, a 1960’s comedy with Shirley MacLaine, Dick Van Dyke, and Paul Newman, built around the ‘unintentional’ but fatal success, evidently spawned in any number prospective husbands by Ms. MacLaine’s interest in them; seeing a meteoric rise from small-town contentment to mega-success – and, predictably, one’s being done in by same, shortly thereafter. And so with more than a healthy sprinkling of addictions therapists present in said group, I thought it prudent to at least consider their take on what moments before had been a comfortable riff on being sixty-two and reasonably content at ‘having arrived’.

And so here we are with simplifying. Not such an easy task – when the ‘complications’ in one’s life are, at least on the surface, paying dividends as it were. Perhaps it was the time to actually make a plan – to contain, to build healthy and sustainable boundaries, to be selective, and to be a little less prepared to be seduced by the sweet smell of success. Another abiding metaphor for both Nicola and me is that of gardening: time to prune!

As with any good ‘clean up’, some principles need to be identified and applied. After all, one cannot just go about, randomly clipping and hacking at plants; and expect the result to be anything different than a bad hair cut – shorter hair, but a rather ragged and haphazard ‘look’. And so the task became not just one simplification – which, for me has always smacked of taking things out of an equation in the fond hope that there would be more ‘quality time’ left at the end of the day. But examining one’s commitments, roles, obligations from within the values of intention, reciprocation, boundary-setting as possible parameters directing the decision-making in the upcoming year.

A basic element in mindful living, intention invites a conscious awareness of what one chooses to do – not the harried, reactive, and ill-considered basis that seems inevitably to result in over commitment. Reciprocation, particularly in relationship, be it with individual or community, presupposes a ‘two-wayness’; a sharing with, true – but also a receiving from as a precondition of relations that present as balanced, authentic, satisfying. Too often I find commitments being made where the ‘flow’ is decidedly one-way, ultimately fostering a resentment of time and energy invested. How better to prune, to judiciously assign one’s precious resources than to those mutual attachments. And boundaries, those elusive, often porous limits to our emotional, interpersonal ‘properties’, and their companion principle – saying ‘no’ – consistently applied have simplification written all over the gatepost. With the careful excision of those co-dependent, enabled commitments, one clears the way for healthy growth, the creaking, groaning deadwood kicked to the curb.

And with it all, the opportunity to festina lente – make haste, slowly. No more rushing!

David Howard

Hope (n.)

2008-12-19T16:36:00.001-08:00

The theological virtue defined as the desire and search for future good, difficult but not impossible to attain with God’s help.

“To hope” was borrowed from Low German: hoffen- to hop (v.) on the notion of “leaping in expectation”.

Advent is the church season that is pregnant with hope; like the adolescent Mary. Every pregnant woman knows the hope she carries within her body. The first recognizable movement, the leaping baby within, is a beautiful and unforgettable experience. For me, the word hope will relate to the experiential with each recalling of my own (now adult) child’s leaping within me. The unborn child is a mystery. What will this child look like? What will this child grow up to be? What will this child’s future bring? With the growing physical presence of the unborn, each mother desires and prays for the future good for her child, difficult but not impossible to attain with God’s help.

The future of the unborn generations to come, however, is being significantly compromised by those charged with the stewardship of the planet today: you and me. In her commencement address to the 2008 graduating class of Duke University, novelist Barbara Kingsolver challenges them to march forth with hope. She ends her address with a poem written for the class. I trust that Barbara will forgive the reproduction without permission here. For me, Kingsolver – a university-trained biologist and remarkable storyteller (The Poisonwood Bible) - captures the essence of hope. After reading the poem, I invite you to listen to the complete address.

Hope; An Owner’s Manual

Look, you might as well know, this thing
is going to take endless repair: rubber bands,
crazy glue, tapioca, the square of the hypotenuse.
Nineteenth century novels. Heatstrings, sunrise:
all of these are useful. Also, feathers.

To keep it humming, sometimes you have to stand
on an incline, where everything looks possible;
on the line you drew yourself. Or in
the grocery line, making faces at the toddler
secretly, over his mother’s shoulder.

You might have to pop the clutch and run
past all the evidence. Past everyone who is
laughing or praying for you. Definitely you don’t
want to go directly to jail, but still, here you go,
passing time, passing strange. Don’t pass this up.

In the worst of times, you will have to pass it off.
Park it and fly by the seat of your pants. With nothing
in the bank, you’ll still want to take the express.
Tiptoe past the dogs of the apocalypse that are sleeping
in the shade of your future. Pay at the window.
Pass your hope like a bad cheque.
You still might have enough time. To make a deposit.

http://www.dukenews.duke.edu/2008/05/kingsolver._print.ht

Nicola Adair

Communicatio

2008-12-12T07:10:00.000-08:00

This week, I received an unusual email from an acquaintance. The gist of the it was that I was asked to send an email to 11 friends as part of a high school religion class project. I was advised that prayer was one of the best gifts that can be received. By simply copying and pasting the prescribed prayer into 11 separate emails, I would be sharing this gift.

My first reaction was: why not send a blind copy bulk email and save all the copying and pasting. That observation was quickly replaced with: why would I do this? I come from a generation that actually handwrote chain letters. I rued the day that I received my first chain letter: the threatening guilt-laden closing sentence still comes to mind. What horrible curse was I to bring on my family and myself by not continuing the chain? I didn’t know twenty people to continue the chain let alone have the wherewithal to bear the cost of postage on my weekly pre-adolescent 1960’s allowance (read: non-existent!). Just thinking about, I wonder if this was not the seed of my neurosis with guilt. Hmmm; I’ll worry about that later. Alright: back to the matter at hand.

After serious contemplation, I responded to the email sender:
Well, I do pray and I hope that my life is a prayer but I don’t use email this way. Almost daily, I receive chain mail style email (prayer and otherwise) that I resent (as in despise; delete). Before photocopiers, folks actually had to write this stuff out and that curtailed the masses. Photocopiers made chain mail easier; email has made it an epidemic. Email prayer: Sorry, no! No copying or pasting; I will pray the specified prayer for 11 souls and trust in the powerful mystery of faith.

The exercise made me stop and think about how I use the internet in my faith journey. I frequent a few sites daily. A Benedictine monk’s daily reflections, an Episcopalian cafe and a spirituality reader are favourites.

The Diocese of Montreal’s excellent weekly lectionary with commentary and links to an incredible Christian art online reference library is a shortcut on my desktop. Incorporated into my lectio divina practice, I have found this site to be very helpful as I leave the lectionary open (well, to be honest-it's on the desktop as an RSS feed) and throughout the day read and reflect on the words and art.

So, what then, do you ask, is my problem with email prayer? Well you may ask. It’s all about me. In the September blog entry “Ora and Labora”, I set out my evolving thoughts on that ‘most elusive Christian concept’, prayer, as Joan Chittester describes it. I won’t bore you with re-iteration; my prayer is about inward communication and personal relationship with Another.

Communication and community seem to originate from the same root word: communicatus; to make common. And for me, therein lies the most potential for this relatively new technology. The St. James’ website was a sleeping creature for a couple of years before David Howard decided to rattle its chains. Slowly and sometimes crumpily, the silent creature is awakening.

Since April 11 2008, we have been encouraging the parish to embrace the critter. Weekly, a bulk email is circulated within the parish roster. Most parishioners don’t reply to the email, but our sense is that they respond. By year’s end, we expect to be well over the 2500 hit mark on our tiny counter seated at the bottom of the homepage. This number is tiny by comparison to the some of the hits I’ve seen on YouTube (where dancing dog home videos may receive over a million hits, go figure). However, the really important part about our number is that it is us: our parish. For a parish with an active roster hovering near the two hundred mark, this is significant.

And a simple, little note each week has been doing the work of communicatio, making common, the life of the parish for the parish.

Another important part of the website has been to communicate the life of the community visually-through the embedded slideshow. I'm convinced that David's ministry is not only psychological but photographic (or maybe I am using this as a rationalization for him to significantly upgrade the current camera equipment), but if we want to really pull people together, electronically, post pictures! The posting of The Amazing Weekend slideshow created a noticeable change in traffic on the website.

This month, the parish website enters a new era. In welcoming the new church year, we have moved to have the homepage reflect the current church season: with the season's liturgical colour and in the weekly lectionary message-through word and image. Perhaps I am doing this just for myself as part of my lectio divina as I contemplate how to electronically present the week's message; if one other person benefits from the exercise that surpasses the expectation.

The internet is a powerful resource for exploration as part of one’s faith journey. The breadth of opinion, the depth of available scholarly reference vehicles and the ease of accessibility add to the lustre of this tool. But the fact remains: it is merely a robotic tool; much like the copy and paste of a prayer chain letter or a bulk email. The real work rests with the individual, within oneself and without, in the testy waters of community.

Nicola Adair

Out of the Mouths of Babes (and a couple of guys, too)

2008-11-29T08:40:00.000-08:00

I can think of few less likely candidates to teach Sunday school than this writer. A ‘wanderer in the wilderness’ may be a bit extreme; but equally, ‘no particular affiliation’ seemed understated – casting mind back over the past forty years. Kind of the equivalent of hiring the fox to guard the hen house – but then that may have been just the job description that had surfaced for our assistant priest when she approached me last summer to do a four-week stint, at the time, eons away.

As you may have noticed, children are disappearing – not in the sinister, Golden Compass, ‘snatch ‘em for research purposes’ kind of way. Just a none too subtle fade away. So, if I may presume to climb inside the motivation of our crafty priest, I’d say she was looking for someone who might ‘connect’ with kids, particularly the senior crowd and hopefully provide a hook that would retain them in the parish for a bit longer. Someone with a sufficiently murky (or let’s just say, ambiguous) past, who, if we lined up the authority figures on one side of the room and the kids’ buddies on the other, might stand somewhere in between. Someone who, while not overtly ‘dangerous’, is not particularly bound by the conventions that populate our culture – and has been known to challenge same on occasion. And perhaps someone with a bit of a track record of being accessible and available to said kids. And so I agreed – with a condition. That I could ‘teach’ whatever I wanted.

November, being ‘the cruelest month’, rolled around too quickly and my commitment began to loom. Lynn began to lobby for some ‘catchy’ bulletin inserts with the attached realization that Sunday 1, as it were, was less than a week away. I thumbed through curriculum materials and reasoned that a cut paper collage was not likely the hook I needed to catch the interest of an increasingly sophisticated group of charges. Deep breath, settle the mind, and see what surfaces. Well that was easy – teach ‘em to meditate. A little juggling of some basic Eastern tenets, a little massaging of the suggested scripture of the week and presto – a four week prospectus that just might fly.

And so we began. ‘Don’t just do something, sit there!’; ‘The present moment: soap-on-a-rope’; ‘Pulling weeds with the Bare Naked Ladies’; and finally the habitual favourite, ‘Wherever you go, there you are: the benefits of going in circles’ – all certainly sufficiently enigmatic to rouse the curiosity of the adults in the parish. But would it snag the kids? As it turns out, I think the answer is a qualified yes. (The feedback was, albeit disinhibited by a glass of wine or two: “You’ve got a gift!”) Our little group ebbed and flowed from week to week – but it survived. What I was least prepared for however was that I would learn!

Mantras, breathing techniques, non-judging, letting go . . . all proceeded on course. We even managed to wedge the whole thing in between the processional hymn and the Eucharist. Right up to the: ‘establish a practice: regular time, regular place, daily if possible – just like brushing your teeth’. Full stop.

As a psychologist in private practice, no small part of my case load is comprised of adults presenting with variations on the theme of dealing with stress, type A personality issues, anxiety disorders, sleep disturbance, dissolving relationships, depressions. . . the list goes on. But sharing at least one common element: reactions to the complexities of an over-busy, demanding, relentless lifestyle – and generally one over which they feel they have largely lost control.

As our time together began to unfold, the ‘evidence’, so to speak, too commenced to build that this little group of mid-adolescents was every bit as vulnerable to these self same issues as were their elders. L, interested and participative as one could wish, would have eyes droop; K would shift uncomfortably in his chair; S would voice his ‘reactivity to just about everything’. No quiet place to sit. Pause for a moment – and be overtaken by sleep. These were very busy, committed (perhaps over-committed) kids – with no time! A simple body scan, intended as much as an exercise in controlled concentration, produced accounts of headaches, stiff necks, sore shoulders, upset stomachs – as the ‘places where you hold tension’ were discussed. A suggestion that we start with five or ten minutes of quiet time a day, evolved quickly into a problem solving session of ‘where I would find five extra minutes’.

What I began to consider was that this little group, so typical in many ways, had learned their lessons very well. Had learned what we teach – not by our ‘good words’; but by our not so good deeds. We had imbued them with our busy schedules; our value systems built on growth, expansion, achievement, productivity. And by extension, had taught them to be suspicious of ‘down time’, emptying one’s mind (instead of relentlessly filling it with even more information), letting go of worries (instead of clinging to anxieties about the future and guilt over past ‘failures to meet a mark’). A recent article in the New Yorker reviewing a trio of books on what is euphemistically now referred to as ‘helicopter parenting’, convincingly underscores that, in our urgency, our compulsion to have our children achieve to their ‘highest potential’, we schedule them to capacity, we coach and obsess over performance, we lobby to secure access to the ‘best schools’, and so on. The result it seems, in the short run are children who feel stretched to capacity; in the longer run, ones who will cultivate the same debilitating, perhaps counter-productive neuroses as their well-intentioned parents. Certainly not the blissful, reflective and contemplative, grounded individuals we would hope.

That some folks may have picked up on this generational hypocrisy and the need to start at an early age is evident in some very encouraging materials emerging, I think appropriately, in Australia (that would be the geographic, and evidently philosophic inverse of we Northern Hemispherites) and focusing on teaching meditative principles to children commencing as young as ages four or five. Now there’s a concept!

And as the bard would have it, all’s well that . . . Our final meeting was structured around an ‘active meditation’ – a little less of a stretch for such a busy crew. We were fortunate enough to borrow a full, eleven-ring labyrinth from a neighbouring community’s church – allowing us to ‘walk our way into awareness’. Seems like actually ‘doing’ is a bit less of a cultural leap than sitting cross-legged and chanting. And there’s hope for this old teacher as well. Actually signed up for some ‘labyrinth training’. Bit of an oxymoron, I suppose – but as close as I get to balancing bliss with productivity.

David Howard

And, Furthermore.

2008-11-21T19:30:00.000-08:00

Very recently, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Chief Rabbi travelled together to two of the notorious concentration camps of the Third Reich. Both call for a renewed recognition of the fundamental humanity of those with whom we disagree.

The website of the Archbishop of Canterbury is herewith linked so that you, please, read their individual reflections on their visit. It seems an appropriate addendum to the previous blog.

You can find the website http://www.archbishopofcanterbury.org/2038.

Amen,

Nicola Adair

Adult's Dirty Laundry

2008-11-14T14:08:00.000-08:00

In case you missed it, the letter to the editor of the November 2008 edition of the Huron Church News from reader Patti Patstone bears repeating:

Dear Editor:
I was sickened to see the article in the Huron Church News (Oct.’08) on “Children’s Festival 2008”. I participated as a musician at that event so I was aware of the program and the day’s events. I was horrified when I read the following: “...if you could preach in church, what would you talk about? Laura responded: I’d preach about the importance of same sex blessings”.

This article was about a CHILDREN’S FESTIVAL. It is unfortunate that Laura has not received better preaching from God’s Holy Scripture. But what is worse, is that you printed it!! It is very sad that this issue is being placed on the same page as a children’s event. The adult’s dirty laundry is polluting the minds of our children. It is no wonder that the world wide Anglican church looks at the Anglican Church of Canada with disdain. I am certain that an article about a Children’s event taking place in most parts of our world would not be paired with this issue.

I am concerned that this comment was included with this article and I pray for the “Lauras” in the Anglican Church of Canada. I join with the prayer from the world wide Anglican church that the Canadian church would repent of her waywardness and return to the truth of the Bible.
Sincerely,
Patti Patstone

After reading Ms Patstone’s contribution to a benign journal, I, too, was sickened. I’ll explain.

Some weeks ago, I happened upon a TVO programme that studied the British Empire’s involvement with slavery. The researcher was in Ghana at a former British slavery depot. She was standing in a basement holding room with her Ghanaian guide; the room was about the size of St. James’ lower parish hall. The guide explained that, typically, the room would have been filled with about 3000 men. Their wives and children would have been separated from them and held in different rooms. All would be waiting for their deportation as slaves. Families separated forever; lives changed forever with horrid consequences.

What sickened me, aside from this factual representation of what occurred in that basement room, was the fact that a Christian chapel stood over the room. And, ‘the truths of the Bible’ were being preached while thousands of native Ghanaian suffered in inhumane conditions, not unlike the concentration camps of the Third Reich.

Just last week, we were called to remember the lives of those who suffered death while fighting for the freedom of humanity. Our rector told his parish how he will remember the name of a two year old Jewish child, Dora Rosenblum, who succumbed in a concentration camp.

I was reminded that the German Jewish community was one of the targeted groups for the Nazis as they sought to purge Germany of race enemies and “lives unworthy of living”. Six million Jews were slaughtered. Five million Russians, Poles and Roma died in this purging as did four million Catholics and thousands of mentally disabled, other religious minorities and approximately 55,000 German homosexuals.

The treatment of homosexuals detained in post-war concentration camps went unacknowledged by most countries or churches. Some that did escape were even re-arrested and imprisoned based on evidence found in the Nazi years. It was not until the 1980’s that the German government acknowledged this episode, and not until 2002 that the government apologized to the gay community. In 2005, the European parliament adopted a resolution regarding the Holocaust where the persecution of homosexuals was mentioned:

27 January 2005, the sixtieth anniversary of the liberation of Nazi Germany’s death camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau where a combined total of up to 1.5 million Jews, Roma, Poles, Russians and prisoners of various other nationalities, and homosexuals, were murdered, is not only a major occasion for European citizens to remember and condemn the enormous horror and tragedy of the Holocaust, but also for addressing the disturbing rise in anti-semitism, and especially anti-semitic incidents, in Europe, and for learning anew the wider lessons about the dangers of victimizing people on the basis of race, ethnic origin, religion, social classification, politics or sexual orientation...

Slaves in the basement; gays in the post-war concentration camps: all while churches were filled with those “receiving better preaching from God’s Holy Scripture”.

Fast forward to the new millennium: not only are Afro-Americans allowed to marry but, and merely 150 later, a powerful Afro-American couple will soon reside in the White House. Homosexuals are no longer jailed (1969, Canada decriminalizes homosexual acts) but are serving as priests in the Anglican Church. Today, same-gendre parents are supported by the positions of a number of organizations, including the American Psychological Association, the Child Welfare League of America, the American Bar Association, the American Psychiatric Association, the National Association of Social Workers, the North American Council on Adoptable Children, the American Academy of Pediatrics, the American Psychoanalytic Association, and the American Academy of Family Physicians.

The American Psychological Association has stated that:

There is no scientific evidence that parenting effectiveness is related to parental sexual orientation: Lesbian and gay parents are as likely as heterosexual parents to provide supportive and healthy environments for their children...research has shown that the adjustment, development and psychological well-being of children is unrelated to parental sexual orientation and that the children of lesbian and gay parents are as likely as those of heterosexual parents to flourish...

As well, from the Children’s Development for Social Competence Across Family Types, a major report prepared by the Canadian Department of Justice, in July 2006, but not released by the government until forced to do so by a request under the Access to Information Act, in May 2007, reaches this conclusion:

The strongest conclusion that can be drawn from the empirical literature is that the vast majority of studies show that children living with two mothers and children living with a mother and a father have the same levels of social competence. A few studies suggest that children with two lesbian mothers have marginally better competence than children in traditional nuclear families, even fewer studies show the opposite, and most studies fail to find any difference. The very limited body of evidence with two gay fathers supports this same conclusion.

By failing to offer same-gendre marriage blessings, the church promotes a form of double-standard mongering: relationships in the heterosexual constellation are right; those in the homosexual constellation are wrong. And as social tolerance endorses the non-traditional nuclear family, the church continues to turn its eyes as it did, for too long, with slavery and homosexuality.

In the United States, the F.B.I. reported that 15.6% of hate crimes reported to police in 2004 were based on perceived sexual orientation. 61% of these attacks were against gay men. The important word here is ‘hate’. Open acts of violence against gays are socially unacceptable, we would all agree (I hope). But what about what ‘soft’ acts of hatred...like a letter to the editor.

Hate: to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest.

My sickened response to Patti Patstone’s reply to Laura’s answer came from the awareness of hate mongering. “The adult’s dirty laundry is polluting the minds of our children”. I would agree with you Patti: but it is the dirty laundry of political, social and religious intolerance and discrimination that pollutes minds.

My hope rests in the “Lauras” of her and future generations to come to power who will forgive the sins of their parents and will tear down the walls of this type of discrimination and intolerance.

For you, Patti, I recommend these words for prayerful contemplation: Matthew 25:40, "Truly, I tell you, just as you did to the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.". From St. Francis of Assisi, “Preach the gospel every day; if necessary, use words.” And from Martin Luther, “Love is the image of God.”

Nicola Adair

So, How Big is Your Amygdala?

2008-11-07T16:02:00.000-08:00

So what is a psychopath anyway? For most of us, say the word and the Charlie Manson’s, the Hannibal Lector’s, the Jack the Ripper’s spring to mind. Tough to argue that these characters definitely do qualify. Clinically, it’s a tad more complicated though than donning a goalie’s mask when you own a carving set and no skates; or firing up the latest version of your Stihl MS 460 and waiting for the next, naïve, car load of unsuspecting teenagers to roll into the front yard. There’s that penchant for telling porkies; for picking fights – just to pick a fight; for generally finding yourself on the questionable side of the bars – the steel ones, not the fun ones; for sporting an emotional ‘body temperature’ somewhere between cold and frozen – that would be conscienceless; for having the capacity to sustain relationship somewhere between a junk yard dog and a hooker (without the heart) . . . to mention a few of the more endearing features.

I recently attended a symposium conducted by one of the more renowned researchers in this field, Robert Hare, as I searched for interesting ways to spend my summer vacation – and do the regular upgrading that allows me to distinguish these folks from those of us in the general population. (Not everyone carries a loaded assault rifle and dresses in Goth or army fatigues.) Bob has not only identified the twenty, cardinal features that single out likely candidates; but has managed to demonstrate some rather interesting differences in the way these characters’ brains work when presented emotionally charged material. In a nutshell, it amounts for your average psychopath to reacting (at a cortical level) in about the same way whether you’re looking at Rembrandt or road kill. (Seen No Country For Old Men yet?)

But the truly telling feature is the absence of a little, very human feature called ‘empathy’. The everyman definition of empathy goes something like: ‘the capacity to understand and identify with another’s perspective; to experience the same feelings as another; putting oneself in another’s shoes’ . . . and so on. A slightly more discerning element is ‘the ability to accurately discriminate the emotional state / response of another (to one’s actions)’. And Bob has tossed us another curve in his most recent book, Snakes in Suits. These folks are not only walking around amongst us – but are so good at insinuating themselves into our good graces, are so superficially attractive to us that we actually welcome them, admire their 100 watt smiles, and are impressed by their firm hand shakes.

As is so often the case, Lynn’s eloquent homilies trigger lots of thought for me – just not always the bright and sunny ones. Her deconstruction of the metaphoric meanings of ‘salt’ – in particular, the “you may be the only gospel your neighbour reads” closing – really stuck with me; and sure enough, reflections on not only how we speak and conduct ourselves, whatever our best intentions might be – but also how these words and actions are perceived by those on the receiving end; how we are experienced by others, began to boil and bubble.

So what does all this have to do with the closet Ted Bundy’s lurking in the narthex? Well, in making this connection, partly it’s helpful to be inside the mind of a psychologist whose charge it is to spot and tag such specimens – although Nicola’s forever pointing out that “not everyone thinks like you!” (I can only assume that the unexpressed parenthetical is – “and a good thing, too”.) At the risk of being a bit too reductionist, a view commonly held (and seemingly supported by Hare’s research) is that ‘psychopaths are born, not made’. This is certainly not to say that this is strictly a nature (vs. nurture – you know, the genes we walk around with vs. the families that ‘brung us up’) issue. But essentially, the brain is subtly different in structure – and therein lies the root of many of those nasty little predispositions I’ve listed above. And that would include the capacity for empathy and it’s extension; namely our capacity to monitor the impact of what we say and do and to ‘read’ the impact these words and deeds have on those around us.

In short, if we accept the teachings of these extremes in behaviour, some of us can ‘see’ what we’re saying and the potential good (or ill) it might engender; and some of us can’t – all a function of the hard wiring we bring to the task. Some of us get stuck in the ‘rightness’ of our perspective and are really unable to get past the content of our ‘personal gospel’ (that our neighbours are reading). And some of us are better equipped to ‘take the temperature’ of the exchange, let go of the content to an extent, and adjust our ‘message’ – largely predicated on the reactions of that vulnerable and under-read neighbour. Some of us are pure teachers (in Lynn’s metaphor, the ‘book’ on this subject or that), secure in the knowledge that what we’re sharing and how it’s framed is, well, just what is. Some of us are endowed with a capacity to attend – in our empathic model, to listen to our words, our gospel and appreciate not just its message, but its impact, its reception. All a function of a little structure buried deep in our brain and one most of us would struggle to spell, much less pronounce: the Amygdala.

So as we venture ‘out there’, as Lynn homilized, as we carry our particular gospel to those next door, two blocks over, or beside us on the bus, let us be mindful of, let us be sensitive to – to the extent we are able – the ‘what’ we pass along and most particularly the ‘how’ we are heard. We forego, ignore, or are simply insensitive to the latter at our peril, alienating where we most wish to foster; disaffecting those we most wish to include. For we may indeed be the only gospel our neighbour reads.

David Howard