"But even if you think you know how things should be, the reality is that things are simply how they are."
19 July 2011
Even if you think you know...
One of the best pieces of philosophy I've heard from a tv series (Los Hombres de Paco):
10 July 2011
Of Spirit and Substance - Stuff
I have a complicated relationship with my stuff. I love it – pretty much every little, underused, misunderstood, dusty and ignored piece of it. I don’t want to get rid of it – that would feel both counterproductive (what if I need it later, and have to go out looking for something like it, when I could have just kept it here and had it at hand?) and disloyal (it’s given all this time to me, and what, I just throw it out? Like yesterday’s garbage?). Just like I have a personal relationship with my truck, for example, I have a personal relationship with all my stuff. Not that every relationship is well-maintained; but it is still there, and cherished.
At the same time, I have more stuff than I need or really want, and definitely more than I have space for. This leads to a feeling that my stuff is clingy – always closer to me than I really want it to be – and demanding – taking up space that I would prefer to be using in other ways, making it hard for me to vacuum or even walk around my room sometimes - and that, of course, signals a dysfunctional relationship (as if it hadn’t been signaled already).
When my father died and I emptied out his house – which, by the way, was FULL of stuff, some of which I’m sure hadn’t been used, touched, or even though of for decades – I felt like I was freeing up some secret stockpile of energy, sending things out into the world where they could be used and loved instead of hidden away, imprisoned. And look! I’m doing the same thing, even with some of the same stuff! (Yes, I kept some of his stuff.)
Just yesterday (she says proudly), I took a bunch of stuff to be recycled or reused – quite a volume of stuff, stuff that I could say with confidence I would not be using in the future. But I still have a lot of stuff.
It’s hard to imagine – but what if, as an experiment, I did something like got rid of some things I thought it possible I might use in the future. Would the regrets be devastatingly overwhelming if I did indeed find myself wanting to use them later? Might I forget that I had ever had such a thing, and feel no regrets? Might the gain of having the extra space more than make up for whatever regrets I end up feeling? Might it be just too destabilizing for me? After all, my stuff holds my aspirations, my possibilities, my interests, my preparations, my quirks, my past, my personality – in some sense it defines me, and darned well keeps me defined. What if I no longer had my stuff to tell me who I am, who I was, and who I might be?
What exactly is the relationship of substance - in this case, my stuff - to spirit, my spirit? What does it say about who I am, how I make my appearance in the world? Does it really hold potential? Or is it more like quicksand, sucking down the possibilities of change? Or is it entirely neutral - with perhaps my own attitudes about it all being either the repository of potential or quicksand?
It’s hard to imagine – but what if, as an experiment, I did something like got rid of some things I thought it possible I might use in the future. Would the regrets be devastatingly overwhelming if I did indeed find myself wanting to use them later? Might I forget that I had ever had such a thing, and feel no regrets? Might the gain of having the extra space more than make up for whatever regrets I end up feeling? Might it be just too destabilizing for me? After all, my stuff holds my aspirations, my possibilities, my interests, my preparations, my quirks, my past, my personality – in some sense it defines me, and darned well keeps me defined. What if I no longer had my stuff to tell me who I am, who I was, and who I might be?
What exactly is the relationship of substance - in this case, my stuff - to spirit, my spirit? What does it say about who I am, how I make my appearance in the world? Does it really hold potential? Or is it more like quicksand, sucking down the possibilities of change? Or is it entirely neutral - with perhaps my own attitudes about it all being either the repository of potential or quicksand?
14 May 2011
Just How Good Is It All?
I've been waiting - I admit, impatiently - for the waning of the phrase "It's all good" for some time now -years. But it doesn't seem to be happening. In fact, it seems to be increasingly popular among my spiritual growth buddies! Argh!
Here's why the phrase bugs me.
It feels like either a pushing-down of or a glossing over something which is actually significant, and which deserves attention. It's different than saying, "I don't want to talk about this right now," which is straightforward and honest. It's different than saying, "I know things will turn out ok eventually, but man, is it hard right now." It feels both somewhat dishonest and somewhat condescending. It reminds me of friends saying they were doing great, everything was fine and looking up one weekend, then the next weekend saying that things had been really bad last time, but now they were better.
It's another politically-correct way of speaking about things, to say, it's all under control, no need to worry about me, nope, I got my spirituality going and I'm handling things! Distancing.
Tell me if I'm wrong about this.
20 March 2011
Presence: A "Lesson" from My Cat
(I put "lesson" in quotes because I so doubt that cats think in terms of teaching. They just are, and do, and learn. That's what I suspect.)
After visiting a friend who has a cat, I was thinking back on the good times with my own cat, who died a while back. One of her absolute favorite things to do was the bathtub game. She'd hop into the bathtub when I was in the bathroom, then sit expectantly, waiting. It was hard to resist her. So, most times I'd grab an old toothbrush, squat down beside the tub, and either tap the toothbrush on the edge of the tub or poke it over just enough that she could see it.
This cat was a street cat, a survivor, who grew up catching her own food. She never quite grasped the concept of not using her claws, and when she did use her claws, she used them as though she were catching food that her life depended on. She was highly skilled at this, and she did not hold back in any way. So, it was very important - VERY important - to make sure that her claws did not come near my hand.
The instant she heard the tapping, or saw the toothbrush appear over the edge of the tub, her pupils would snap open, and her body would sink down just a bit - preparing for the death-spring. (She apparently didn't care that toothbrushes never die - she was willing to try over and over.) At this point, I had to be ready to move very quickly indeed, or to bleed profusely.
Those times, playing with my cat in the bathtub, were incredibly fun, and funny. Part of it was just the pure pleasure of seeing her in action, because she was an amazingly fast, efficient hunter, and cat-beautiful. Part of the funny was the ridiculousness of making my vulnerable hand her prey. But part of it was the demand to me to be absolutely, fully present. If I was not, the consequences were immediate and painful - a great feedback mechanism, eh? And that's the "lesson" I'm referring to: one of the things I learned with this cat was how it feels to be completely present in a given moment, and also how it feels to be completely present with another being.
I really have a lot to thank her for.
After visiting a friend who has a cat, I was thinking back on the good times with my own cat, who died a while back. One of her absolute favorite things to do was the bathtub game. She'd hop into the bathtub when I was in the bathroom, then sit expectantly, waiting. It was hard to resist her. So, most times I'd grab an old toothbrush, squat down beside the tub, and either tap the toothbrush on the edge of the tub or poke it over just enough that she could see it.
This cat was a street cat, a survivor, who grew up catching her own food. She never quite grasped the concept of not using her claws, and when she did use her claws, she used them as though she were catching food that her life depended on. She was highly skilled at this, and she did not hold back in any way. So, it was very important - VERY important - to make sure that her claws did not come near my hand.
The instant she heard the tapping, or saw the toothbrush appear over the edge of the tub, her pupils would snap open, and her body would sink down just a bit - preparing for the death-spring. (She apparently didn't care that toothbrushes never die - she was willing to try over and over.) At this point, I had to be ready to move very quickly indeed, or to bleed profusely.
Those times, playing with my cat in the bathtub, were incredibly fun, and funny. Part of it was just the pure pleasure of seeing her in action, because she was an amazingly fast, efficient hunter, and cat-beautiful. Part of the funny was the ridiculousness of making my vulnerable hand her prey. But part of it was the demand to me to be absolutely, fully present. If I was not, the consequences were immediate and painful - a great feedback mechanism, eh? And that's the "lesson" I'm referring to: one of the things I learned with this cat was how it feels to be completely present in a given moment, and also how it feels to be completely present with another being.
I really have a lot to thank her for.
31 December 2010
Happy, Healthy, Interesting New Year!
Wishing you a happy, healthy, interesting 2011!
And may the journey be rewarding.
And may the journey be rewarding.
14 December 2010
Keeping Friends Close and Enemies Closer
Sun Tzu, a Chinese general and strategist from long ago, suggested we keep our friends close and our enemies closer. From a strategic perspective, of course you want to know every move your enemies make.
Here's another perspective. Both our friends and our enemies are on our minds a lot: we wonder what they're doing, have imaginary conversations (or battles) with them, wonder how they would like this or react to that. This tells us about ourselves, too: how we think of them, how that reflects on how we think of ourselves, what's important to us.
Who our friends and enemies are also shows us what parts of ourselves we are friendly or inimical toward. For example, a close friend of mine has some qualities that I find very irritating (the reverse is true, too) - directiveness (or, perhaps, bossiness). The truth of the matter, when I look at myself, is that I have a strong aversion to being bossy myself. It's part of my possible self that I don't know very well because I have consistently shoved it into a closet - a closet without a light, and with a pretty strong latch on the outside.
If friends can show us those parts of ourselves that we don't really want to look at or challenge, imagine what our enemies could do for us if we kept them close enough!
Here's another perspective. Both our friends and our enemies are on our minds a lot: we wonder what they're doing, have imaginary conversations (or battles) with them, wonder how they would like this or react to that. This tells us about ourselves, too: how we think of them, how that reflects on how we think of ourselves, what's important to us.
Who our friends and enemies are also shows us what parts of ourselves we are friendly or inimical toward. For example, a close friend of mine has some qualities that I find very irritating (the reverse is true, too) - directiveness (or, perhaps, bossiness). The truth of the matter, when I look at myself, is that I have a strong aversion to being bossy myself. It's part of my possible self that I don't know very well because I have consistently shoved it into a closet - a closet without a light, and with a pretty strong latch on the outside.
If friends can show us those parts of ourselves that we don't really want to look at or challenge, imagine what our enemies could do for us if we kept them close enough!
11 December 2010
Heart's Desire
There's a teaching on the Sweet Medicine SunDance Path called the Staffs of Power. These are not physical objects, but types of maturity related to our aspects (emotional, physical, mental, spiritual, soul force). The very first one, the one upon which all the others are dependent, is related to our heart's desire - developing the ability to assume authority for it.
Sounds simple, doesn't it?
And yet, how many of us are actually good at it? I know I'm not. Perhaps I'm better than I used to be - almost certainly I'm better than I used to be. But all kinds of things interfere with even knowing my heart's desire, much less assuming authority for it.
In fact, sometimes I don't think I really even know what "heart's desire" means. Does it mean the thing I think will bring me happiness? Something that I long for? Something that will satisfy me in some way? Something that will bring pleasure? A relationship, perhaps? (A Google search on "heart's desire" turns up a bridal shop, cross stitch shop, gift shop, among other things.)
And there are so many aspects to desire - so many facets, different types and intensities, different directions of desire, which sometimes reinforce each other but often work against each other.
But maybe awareness of that tension is part of really knowing and assuming authority for my heart's desire. As I've imagined it, this "assuming authority" thing would involve being aware of and responsible for what I truly desire - whether it is something I choose to act on or not.
As 2010 draws to a close, I'm looking back and reflecting. It has been a year filled with changes and challenges. Some patterns I thought I had left behind me - this year especially related to work and food - have reappeared; at the same time, they have also shown me some new things about myself - for example, why I have developed such expertise at keeping people in my acquaintance circle rather than my friend circle. And how habit combined with allowing pressure from others to guide my priorities keeps me quite distant from my own heart's desires.
Sounds simple, doesn't it?
And yet, how many of us are actually good at it? I know I'm not. Perhaps I'm better than I used to be - almost certainly I'm better than I used to be. But all kinds of things interfere with even knowing my heart's desire, much less assuming authority for it.
In fact, sometimes I don't think I really even know what "heart's desire" means. Does it mean the thing I think will bring me happiness? Something that I long for? Something that will satisfy me in some way? Something that will bring pleasure? A relationship, perhaps? (A Google search on "heart's desire" turns up a bridal shop, cross stitch shop, gift shop, among other things.)
And there are so many aspects to desire - so many facets, different types and intensities, different directions of desire, which sometimes reinforce each other but often work against each other.
But maybe awareness of that tension is part of really knowing and assuming authority for my heart's desire. As I've imagined it, this "assuming authority" thing would involve being aware of and responsible for what I truly desire - whether it is something I choose to act on or not.
As 2010 draws to a close, I'm looking back and reflecting. It has been a year filled with changes and challenges. Some patterns I thought I had left behind me - this year especially related to work and food - have reappeared; at the same time, they have also shown me some new things about myself - for example, why I have developed such expertise at keeping people in my acquaintance circle rather than my friend circle. And how habit combined with allowing pressure from others to guide my priorities keeps me quite distant from my own heart's desires.
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