Author: bondjanet

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” (Mae West)

The title of this blog came to mind a few minutes ago, and aptly so, as I was in the process of layering the kitchen scraps, grass clippings and hay into my five-months-old composter. Though it’s probably too soon to tell, what I’ve seen in the barrel so far looks more like mulch —something to discourage weeds, rather than nurture healthy plants. I’m reminded of the Christmas wreaths that I judiciously disassembled, and with which I christened my new composter in late December. I had high hopes of tumbling out dark, rich loam sometime before going home to B.C. In a couple of weeks. To yet another lockdown.

Though I’m not looking for (nor apt to get any) sympathy, returning to what is essentially a déjà vue in Vancouver is a daunting prospect. At this point, doing anything outside my now-familiar routine is a daunting prospect. Sometimes, say, after reading the latest news, even flossing seems daunting. Variety may be the spice of life, but hearing about variants of COVID 19 (romantically named B.1.351 and B.1.1.7 etc), whose total global cases have now exceeded 128 million, is enough to make me want to crawl under a rock. Alice’s rabbit hole comes to mind…

Which is why it is helpful to be reminded of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s chapter about the manure of experience in his book “Meditation in Action” (Shambhala Publications). In this particular chapter Trungpa writes about the need to reflect on our failures as much or more-so than our successes, for, by extracting the lessons learned through making mistakes, we stand to achieve better outcomes in the future. Trungpa talks about all the ways in which we humans tend to sweep our problems, mistakes, and miscalculations under the carpet, or toss our metaphorical rubbish over the fence into the neighbor’s garden. He explains it thus: “unskilled farmers throw away their rubbish and buy manure from other farmers, but those who are skilled go on collecting their own rubbish, in spite of the bad smell and the unclean work, and when it is ready they spread it on their land, and out of this they grow their crops.” In layman’s terms, this might equate to paying a psychologist, or guru, to tell us what we might otherwise learn from becoming our own laboratory, from using our minds to study our mental and emotional faculties. Our past choices and actions.

In other words, if I am to benefit from leading an examined life, I first have to take stock of the decisions that brought me to this point in time. My schemes and the desires that spawned them, my mistakes and the reasons I made them, (including putting evergreen needles in my compost barrel) are the fodder out of which I grow my inner and outer garden. My personhood.

If it’s not too big a stretch, it could be said that my mind is a metaphorical compost barrel — what I put into it bears a direct relationship to what comes out of it. And always has. The point of reflecting back, even into the more distant past is to see how I reacted or responded to things that happened, and reflect on whether my response would be the same were those situations to crop up again.

They say that time heals all wounds. This is only so if time also provides for more context, more experience, more objectivity.. Without the latter, one is apt to continue making the same mistakes over and over again. (Unless by some fluke one stumbles on a better way. As my husband likes to say, even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while).

As composting has taught me, we are accountable for our past mistakes in one way or the other. Adding evergreen clippings to my compost was a rookie mistake for which I need not be berated. But it will admittedly affect the quality of the compost. It will take more time for the pine needles to process through. But that time will undoubtedly pass, and by adding in other, more suitable materials, the toxic effect of evergreen debris with be dilluted. The same can be said for many of the things I may have done in ignorance. They all have their consequences. That is something I must accept, learn from, and move on.

After all, my cumulative experience is what makes me, me. It’s no use pretending to be something or someone I’m not. Trying to ignore, hide, or deny my past mistakes doesn’t fool anybody. Besides, as Trungpa says: “this collection contains good things disguised as bad and bad things disguised as good”. It is only through reflecting on this “collection” that I am able to see what Trungpa means. By continuing to lead an examined life, by continuing to learn and change with each passing day, I can find the silver linings that were not obvious at the time. By applying this learning, the outcomes, and my effect on the people around me, are bound to improve. Though in some ways my experiences are unique to me, in other ways, they are shared by countless of my friends and colleagues. Thus an added bonus to leading an examined life is the opportunity to share what I have learned with others, and, ideally, save them from making the same mistakes. In so doing, I can gradually become the change I wish to see in the world today.

To quote Mae West: “I never said it would be easy. I said it would be worth it.”

Blog post #19

“Between stimulus and response, there is a space,
In that space, lies our freedom and power to choose our response,
In our response, lies our growth and our happiness.” (Victor Frankl)

I have discovered that I have a problem with self-discipline. This is not news to me. It’s not even news to you. This is evidenced by the various things I have set out to do, but not entirely followed through. For example, I currently have sheet after sheet, video clip after video clip of physiotherapy exercises that I was meant to be doing since the last time my hip went out. Last summer, in fact. And I did enough of those to recover from the initial overuse injury that had me so crippled up that I couldn’t even climb a set of stairs, or get in and out of a car. But, once the extreme discomfort had been alleviated, I unwittingly slipped back into old, counterproductive physical habits. Of course one must never just look at the debit side of the ledger. I remind myself of the things I have achieved, and from this sense of accomplishment I find the motivation to do the next item on my to-do list. Such as practice my ukulele. After I finish this blog. And take out the compost. But I can hardly claim to have taken my recurring hip injury seriously enough to prevent it from seizing up again, as it did the other day. Which brings me to a consideration of habitual patterns of behavior, and how they might have a detrimental influence on my physical, (and likewise mental, emotional, spiritual and social) well-being.

The physiotherapist explained it thus: “You have recruited (and overused) certain muscle groups that aren’t actually designed to do the work that you are asking them to do. And on the contrary, you have not developed the muscles whose job it actually IS to do that work. Because of that the recruited muscles are not only doing double duty, but are bound to break down.” As they just did. In my hip. In other words, in an extreme circumstance, I can get out of my habitual patterns of behavior to do the things I think I cannot do, (or that, despite my best intentions, are simply not happening. Think New Years resolutions). It’s not that I don’t know how to go about a given task or exercise. Or that I’m lazy. It’s just that, over time, and based on recurring — albeit subjective —experiences, my mind has created mental ruts that I slip into mechanically, just as I fall into certain patterns of physical activity that are not currently serving me. Modern psychology calls this a “mental default loop”.

Freelance journalist and social commentator Zat Rana, puts it thus: “Our brain is a pattern-seeking survival machine, and habits are how it ensures that we don’t always have to think too hard about what to do when familiar situations arise, letting us conserve energy”.

The flaw inherent in this process is revealed when these patterns become so automatic, so habitual, that they become a closed loop, rendering us unable to receive or integrate unprecedented or unfamiliar information.

Rana adds: “Our subjective experience is limited and using it — and the thinking patterns that create it — as the baseline for understanding the world is a limited way to go through life, and it biases us in the wrong direction”…”any time we are struggling to solve some problem or lacking a sense of satisfaction or meaning, it’s due to the fact that the current thinking patterns that we are using to interact with reality are not adequately suited for the job.” Bingo!

As with recruiting physical muscles that are not designed for a particular purpose (road biking, evidently), I am fascinated by the idea that I have mental default loops that are not adequately suited to the task of navigating, say, a new era of COVID realities/challenges that threaten my health and safety, on all levels.

Continuing to explore the literature on default loops, I learn that the best way to avoid or prevent mental “stagnation” is by courting diversity. Consistently exposing myself to novelty. Challenging my thinking process and how I come to the conclusions that I do. With this awareness in mind, I am even more inclined to pursue Victor Frankl’s advice.

I choose to create a space between stimulus and response that allows room for new information and fresh, unbiased interpretations. A shortcut to that end is to ask myself the question: “What is happening here?” With as much detachment as possible, I take note (yes, back to the need for keeping a journal) of my thoughts and feelings about a given situation. As I mentioned in the previous blog, I might need to start with some centered breathing. Once I’ve recovered a sense of calm and objectivity, I can reread my notes and ask myself: “Is this the only way to interpret my situation? What else could it be or mean?” I can try flipping my conclusions to the opposite of my current thoughts. If nothing else, this process will help dissipate the charged energy and make room for more mental and emotional clarity. Create space to formulate a considered response versus a knee-jerk reaction. As Frankl wisely advises, my growth, and my happiness depend on my ability to respond versus react to the many challenges that hinder my path.

I’ll buy a ticket to that.

“Ten wthousand flowers in spring, the moon in autumn,
A cool breeze in summer, snow in winter—
If your mind is not clouded by unnecessary things,
this is the best season of your life. (ancient Chinese poem)

This morning we rode about twenty kilometers up the Queen K Highway in such a fierce cross-wind that at times I feared being blown into the traffic lane. And not for the first time. This has been a particularly windy season. Today it was all I could do to stay upright against the buffeting gusts, and when we stopped for a breather I immediately felt the effects of holding tension in my shoulders and neck. Of course the return ride was a breeze (pardon the pun) but, despite it still being early in the day, I now register my body’s struggle to restore equilibrium after being tossed around by the wind.

It occurs to me that my morning is an apt metaphor for those times when my mind is being tossed to and fro by the shifting circumstances of my life. Without any clear provocation, I sometimes find myself feeling irritable, negative or overwhelmed. At times like these it takes a concerted effort to restore my equanimity. I am reminded of the Buddha’s meditation vigil under the Bodhi tree, where, assaulted by the psychic forces of the demon Mara, he finally liberated himself from the triple threats of attachment, aversion and indifference. In sum, from suffering and the causes thereof. Not that I am anywhere near enlightened. But I do know that, like the seasons, all things pass, and that what I’m feeling on any given day or week, will pass just as inevitably as spring passes to summer.

That said, there are some things I have learned in my spiritual search that have helped see me through such times of mental or emotional disturbance. The first step, always, is to express my thoughts and feelings in my journal. Download them, literally, at an arm’s-length distance. I find this gives me more detachment, and acknowledges my state of mind without needing someone else to witness, advise, console, fix, or, worst case scenario, bear the brunt of it. Otherwise known as scape-goating. Though peace of mind might not be restored immediately, this process has the effect of “parking” problems while I resume other commitments and activities, buy time to calm my nerves, gather more information, and finally, revisit my journal — and the issues within it — from a fresh perspective.

Journaling might not come naturally to you, nor articulating your feelings in writing, especially if emotionally agitated, but there are some approaches that can assist with this. One such practice is simple meditative breathwork. Focusing on balancing the breath has a dual benefit: it evens out one’s jagged emotional energy, and calls for concentration that takes away from whatever is winding up the mind. An easily accessible technique, and one I still use all the time, is called 4-4 breathing. In a seated position, spine erect and or supported, eyes closed, gently draw in the breath to a comfortable count of four, and exhale to the same count of four. As I sit, breathing evenly, I draw in my senses the way the tortoise draws in its limbs. Sink to a place below the surface waves of my busy day. Use my imagination to create an inner sanctuary that invokes a sense of peace, harmony and ease of well-being.

You may also use your imagination to breathe in light, representing the highest and best qualities that you would offer yourself or anyone else. These may be the antidote to what you are currently feeling, for example, if you’re feeling angry you might visualize a calm pond. If sad, you might invoke a memory of happier times. The quality that I called up today was equanimity, because I needed a break from all the chatter in my head. Chatter that I’ve mentioned in recent blogs; concerns about our imminent return to Canada, about saying farewell to friends with whom, for the past half year, I’ve shared this strange COVID hiatus. Tamping down a sense of urgency to do everything I set out to do six or so months ago, (and no — I didn’t peel off those COVID pounds as I’d intended) or bone up on my French, or master the ukulele, or get to eat even one of the five white pineapples that are very slowly maturing along the back edge of our property. But I’ve harvested about fifty bananas (Jim actually cut down the tree), and a small but steady supply of lemons, limes and mandarins. I’ve continued to compost; an herb garden looms in the near future. I’ve continued with my blogging; eighteen down and counting. I’ve facilitated study groups on the yoga of healing, and the power of speech — going online soon to a computer near you; and I’ve tried my best to tread a middle way through all the unprecedented shifts and changes that blew through my life in 2020, and in the few months since then.

Perhaps the wind that’s been hounding me all week is symbolically blowing the clouds of unnecessary clutter from my mind, so I can truthfully say: this is the best season of my life.

Well, it would be, if I could just get those pineapples to ripen tout de suite. Aka immediately… (see, I did brush up on SOME French). À la semaine prochaine…

“See the dark night has come down on us
The world is livin’ in its dream
But now we know that we can wake up from this sleep
And set out on the journey
Find a ship to take us on the way.” (from “The Ark” by Gerry Rafferty)

I was part way through writing a blog on equanimity when the above lyrics burrowed their way into my psyche, distracting me like a toddler tugging on my pant-leg while I’m trying to talk on the phone. Usually to tell me there’s a pot boiling over on the stove! In short, some messages are more important to heed than others. If today’s message is about waking up from the sleep that has been for many, prior to and during 2020, a dark night of the soul, then Gerry Rafferty has got my attention. Rafferty’s lyrics are appealing because I have long-subscribed to the idea of a soul journey, an evolutionary process that takes me from “ignorance-is-bliss” to ever-increasing awareness. From sleep-walking to being conscious of my choices and their consequences. The more I am aware of what makes me tick — how I function and operate — the better chance I have of understanding others, and hence of contributing solutions to the problems I see around me. In my experience, most human beings are essentially the same; we want similar things in life and react in similar ways to similar stimulations. Perhaps that’s a gross generalization but, with myself as a human laboratory, there is always something to learn, if only how I don’t want to be. Or how I might become a better “me” in relation to other people.

Listening to “The Ark” reveals other compelling lyrics: “The time has come to trust that guiding light; and leavin’ all the rest behind…” What might he mean by guiding light? What is one meant to leave behind? For me, this light may simply be a reflection of my own essence, the part of me that remains when I have screened out — left behind — the voices of my ego, my illusions, or other conflicts and confusions. I also believe that this essence is common to everybody, though perhaps more visible in some than in others. And this visibility depends on how much of one’s life is lived from a place of self-awareness and authenticity as compared to a derivative life governed by a herd mentality. The events of 2020 have given me more time, and incentive, to reflect on topics like these, and other weighty issues like mortality, the purpose of my life, what to do with the time I have left, and how to discern what is no longer working.

It occurs to me that Rafferty’s “dream the world is livin’ in” is what’s no longer working. Have we in North America been caught up in a “need and greed” society that is asleep when it comes to the problems that our standard of living is causing, globally and individually? World events: COVID, #BlackLivesMatter, the genocide in Myanmar, and natural events: wildfires, earthquakes and tsunamis have seeded deep anxiety for many. For me, a major priority has been to clarify how I sustain myself in such times of upheaval and uncertainty. Central to that theme has been my belief in a soul journey, and my process has been one of articulating what that means to me, personally. Separating what I know to be true for me, experientially, from certain pieces of acquired knowledge that no longer hold water. One piece of acquired knowledge that very much holds water for me is this quote from Mahatma Gandhi:

Your beliefs become your thoughts,
Your thoughts become your words,
Your words become your actions,
Your actions become your habits,
Your habits become your values,
Your values become your destiny.

With those wise words in mind, I’m beginning to think that my soul is the repository of, or the potential to embody, my best qualities. My best thoughts, habits, values and actions. The qualities of compassion, understanding, forgiveness, empathy, patience, tolerance and acceptance, to name a few, arise not out of some pristine void but are called up when, and only when, I am stirred by external events, and particularly as concerns the people and environment around me. Soul doesn’t operate in a vacuum. It needs an interaction with my surroundings, with my sense impressions and the mind that interprets them. When I respond to a perceived need without any expectation of reward, or praise, or indeed regard for the consequences, I am embodying what Gandhi called “soul force” or “truth force”. Without wanting to get into a debate about these ideas, I simply wish to express that my soul journey is one of waking up, of discovering and cultivating the qualities that make myself, and the world I live in, a place of peace and harmony and ease of well-being.

Aum shanti, shanti, shanti.

“No, I’ve made up my mind about it; if I’m Mabel, I’ll stay down here. It’ll be no use their putting their heads down and saying “Come up again, dear!” I shall only look up and say “Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person I’ll come up: if not, I’ll stay down here till I’m somebody else”… (Alice in Wonderland)

The other day a friend drove me up to Waimea, a bustling town north of Kona, and one at considerably higher elevation. I’m not talking snow and freezing cold, but definitely a winter of what my mother-in-law, when living on Galiano Island, B.C., called “soup-and-sweater-weather”. To my surprise and delight, in Waimea we encountered echoes of that Pacific Northwest climate in an abundance of ornamental cherry trees. Blooming in gardens and on boulevards, their sprays of glorious pink blossoms stirred nostalgic memories of spring in Vancouver.

But thoughts of home also stirred up a hornet’s nest of worries and uncertainties. I am perplexed about what’s in store for me when I return to B.C. Not just to B.C. but to some form of “life as I’d known it” before COVID. Or not? The potential transition from pre-to-post COVID life leaves me floundering in ambivalence and ambiguity. And equally confounded as to why this should be. As much as anybody, I desperately want this pandemic to end. But, like Alice, there’s a hesitation to leave the state of limbo that COVID has imposed. Expressing my conundrum to a friend, I took comfort in his observations on the topic:

“Fact is, we have all spent the past year with more or less one sole purpose: dealing with COVID. Once we significantly reduce our risk, our singular purpose will be fulfilled, kind of like the end of WWII, fall of the USSR, etc. We will all need new goals and doubtless will momentarily have the empty feeling that soon succeeds accomplishment.”

Prior to COVID, I was almost always laying tracks in front of a moving train. Preparing for travels near and far, planning big family gatherings, and generally knowing my future agenda for months on end. But throughout 2020 I got used to the devil I knew, and in this case, the devil I knew was COVID. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, nobody to meet. I gradually got used to that sense of suspended animation. Finally learned to just be where I was. Not planning the next trip, celebration or recreation. Not needing to have things work out, one way or the other. Pëma Chödrön refers to this pattern in her aptly named book: “Living Through Personal Crisis”. She writes about our resistance to feelings of uncertainty and ambiguity:

“In the middle way, there is no reference point. The mind with no reference point does not resolve itself, does not fixate or grasp. How could we possibly have no reference point? To have no reference point would be to change a deep-seated habitual response to the world: wanting to make it work out one way or the other. If I can’t go left or right, I will die! When we don’t go left or right, we feel like we are in a detox center. We’re alone, cold turkey with all the edginess that we’ve been trying to avoid by going left or right. That edginess can feel pretty heavy.”

The irony, I realize in retrospect, is that I got used to the detox!

I got used to a “new normal” of “not knowing”, of living for the moment and not being invested in a specific agenda (what would be the point?). As I contemplate what lies ahead I’m loath to get back on the hamster run that was once my habitual response to the world. It suddenly occurs to me that the transition I’m caught up in is NOT the transition from a pre-to-post COVID world, it’s from a pre-to-post COVID me! The concern is not what I will encounter when I return to B.C., but who, what and how I will be.

Unlike Alice waiting to be told who she is before she will leave the rabbit hole, the “me” who emerges from the detox that is COVID has to be informed by my own vision of who I want to be. And not only informed but inspired and motivated. As Gandhi would say, to be the change I wish to see in the world today.

Who, what and how will you be, post-COVID?

“Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?” (Winnie the Pooh)

Regardless of Pooh’s predicament being brought on by over-indulging Rabbit’s hospitality, whoever invented the peanut butter and banana sandwich gets a star on my Comfort-Food Walk of Fame. Laid low by a headache, with a gloomy mood to match, I temporarily suspend all my weight-loss, anti-carb ambitions and tuck into a creamy-smooth-Jif-peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. On sweet-potato bread. Were I Pooh Bear I’d probably have added honey, just because… (At least it’s not a tub of chocolate ice cream, with fudge sauce, and nuts, though that’s not entirely out of the question.)

The point is, if I don’t give myself a little TLC when in need, who will? Which brings me to the question of sustainability. Not the sustainability of natural resources that has become a major concern in our consumer-overload-society. Though very worthy of reflection, the latter is not what I mean by sustain-ability. What concerns me as of this writing is the ability to sustain a superhuman level of focus and energy when one is running on empty. The kind of fortitude that an Ironman triathlete has to dredge up when on the last leg (literally and figuratively) of his or her multi-hour, multi-sport odyssey.

But even that pales to oblivion when compared to a parent whose job it is to tend a sick or dying child. Maybe even hold down a job and tend to other children, a spouse and/or aging parents, as well. Talk about super-humans. That’s a particular kind of hell through which many women and men are having to sustain themselves, often without the help of extended families or friends. Quite frankly, it beggars belief that this is so often demanded of sincere, hardworking, loving, caring and giving human beings. (Think nurses, doctors and first-responders during COVID. Think everyone during COVID).

Years ago, when studying for my Masters degree, I read treatise after treatise about “the end of suffering”. The Buddha taught that attachment and aversion were the root causes of suffering. We suffer because we scheme to get more of what we like or want, and scheme to avoid whatever we dislike or don’t want. These extremes have to be overcome in order to liberate ourselves from attachment, aversion, and ultimately dis-harmony and dis-ease.

I respectfully disagree.

This week I heard the story of a young mother’s struggle to support her child through a terminal illness — the toll this took on her marriage, her other children, her relationship with extended family and friends who weren’t able to walk through the “valley of the shadow of death” with her. Not only what she went through with her child, but also the ordeals she saw other families endure all around her, were almost enough to tip her into insanity. I daresay it would me. I don’t get how the Buddha’s teachings could have eased these parents’ suffering, or sustained them through such ordeals. Of course I could be utterly wrong, but barring a strong Buddhist practice and upbringing, I wouldn’t offer it to a running-on-empty mother or father at the bedside of a sick or dying child. I doubt any self-respecting Buddhist would do so either. The point is, then, how CAN one sustain a suffering father, or mother, friend, or other?

Seeking more clarity on this topic, I asked my friend how she sustained herself in that most trying of times; what words of advice would she give to other people in her shoes. Her answer affected me profoundly. She JUST.DUG.DEEP. She stepped entirely out of the life she had known, the plans she had made, the hopes she had entertained. And gave herself, body and soul, to the needs of her stricken child. Faced down her fears and shut down the wild imaginings of her frazzled mind.

Every chance she got, she paused. Centered herself in the present. One breath, and then one step at a time. Laser-focused on the task at hand. Gave it her all so that no matter what happened, in the end, she would have no regrets. No second-guesses. She relied on what she discovered deep inside: unconditional love for her child. In the end, her child, and her family survived this compound fracture in their lives. Not because of anything particular they had done, the mother takes pains to emphasize, but because they were the lucky ones. Despite years of uphill battles, she considers herself the luckiest woman alive. Gratitude radiates from her like a beam of sunshine. Peace, harmony and ease of well-being.

Emerson concluded his poem, “What is Success?” with the following: “…to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is the meaning of success”. Perhaps the ability to sustain others stems from our own times spent traversing the dark valleys in our lives, from meeting the challenges – whatever they have been – to the best of our ability. As imperfectly human as that may have been. And the best I can now do, to comfort and sustain one on that path, is to ask — and then listen very carefully for — what might help them breathe more easily.

After all, there, but for the grace of God, go I.

“The eyes are the windows to the soul.” (ancient proverb)

There is a school of thought (that I happen to subscribe to) that places an emphasis on our five senses (six, if you include the mind) as having more influence on our conscious thoughts and actions, our reality, than one might realize. These senses are also linked to natural elements: the earth to the sense of smell; water to the sense of taste; fire to the sense of sight; air to the sense of touch; and ether to the sense of hearing. Ether (meaning something very elusive, ethereal, and yet very powerful) is also the element associated with the mind, which is described as the bridge between our physical existence and the subtle, intuitive perceptions that percolate into our awareness when the busy, day-to-day mind steps aside, say, in meditation.

That the Eastern teachings have connected the senses with the natural elements of earth, water, fire, air and ether is a reminder that we humans are an integral part of this great earthly garden, and still depend on these elements for our survival. With this awareness we become more grateful, respectful, and responsible for the terrain we call home, and for the senses that help us to navigate it.

The senses provide information that is processed in the brain in ways that are too complicated for this author to explain. Or understand, for that matter. But I do know that, as with any information system, there can be glitches in delivery. Conflicting information can effectively “jam” the system, and lead to knee-jerk reactions like “fight, flight, or withdrawal” versus considered responses. Let’s look at a culinary example: in Quebec, Canada, they make a noxious smelling cheese called Oka. Its aroma is offensive (to some) and yet it tastes sublime. My sense of smell would warn against putting such a substance in my mouth, but once tasted, Oka cheese can be appreciated as a gourmet treat. (It goes particularly well with Calvados). Whenever the mind is confronted with conflicting sense perceptions such as these, a decision has to be made: on which information should one’s actions or choices be based? Life is full of these conundrums, the eyes telling one tale, the ears, touch, tongue and/or nose telling another. What is an average bear supposed to do?

As concerns the senses, our English language is full of expressions or stories that serve as cautionary tales. We say we “smell a rat” when someone or something is behaving suspiciously. There is no overt odour, such as with our Oka cheese, but something in our psyche picks up a signal that generates a warning. Not to be ignored. Little Red Riding Hood is a familiar nursery tale that illustrates this point:

“When Little Red Riding Hood arrives at Grandma’s place, she notices that her grandmother looks very strange. Little Red then says, “What a deep voice you have!” (“The better to greet you with”, responds the wolf), “Goodness, what big eyes you have!” (“The better to see you with”, responds the wolf), “And what big ears you have!” (“The better to hear you with”, responds the wolf), and lastly, “What a big mouth you have” (“The better to eat you with!”)”…and thence ensues the demise of Little Red (or a variety of alternate, less gruesome endings that aren’t of concern to this writing).

What is of concern is how to discern what is true and real when our senses present us with inconsistent or incongruent information. Such children’s stories are a form of shorthand; a way of passing on folk wisdom from generation to generation: “looks can be deceiving” and “don’t talk to strangers”.

In simple terms, Grandma ain’t always who she appears to be!

What’s true of sight applies to the other senses as well. All of the senses play a significant role in navigating our surroundings (how could they not?), and can be equally deceptive. We are influenced by an alluring aroma (smell), a pleasant face (sight), a sonorous voice (hearing), an attractive manner of dress (taste), or a compelling handshake (touch) without assessing the degree of sincerity or integrity of these attractions.

This points to a need for keen observation, for not taking things at face value, but rather attuning ourselves to the more subtle messages that come via our hunches, our intution, and the subtle signals that our sense of smell, taste, sight, touch and hearing present when we are particularly attentive. We can cultivate our sense of sight to the level of insight. Attune our sense of hearing to the still, small voice of intuition. Discern what “rings true” vs the voices of flattery or chicanery. Our sense of touch can respond to another person’s unspoken needs and be a source of empathy, and ultimately, healing.

On this premise, the value of leading an examined life rests. If we are going to learn anything from history, it is imperative that we learn from past mistakes, individual and collective; commit to a process of tracking our footprints, accounting for our choices, and implementing changes when necessary. Otherwise we are at the mercy of passing whims or conditioned, knee-jerk reactions. As the Buddha said, we must “deliberate and analyze, and when it agrees with reason and conduces to the good of one and all, then believe it, and live up to it.” The eyes may be windows to the soul, but the devil is in the details.

(P.S. This is my fourteenth blog and it still hasn’t become a habit.)

“…when you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.” (Winnie the Pooh)

I now know why I am rarely on time for “dates”. I putter. A close cousin to Procrastination, Puttering is my middle name. This morning I went to get a pair of shorts from the laundry room (clean, of course…) and found myself emptying the dryer, lugging the basket into the bedroom, then folding the clothes I’d dumped onto the bed so as not to let them wrinkle too much, and only when hubby said “You’re late” did I grab my runners and dash out the door. Good thing I’m only minutes away from my destination.

But still. “It’s not nice to keep people waiting!” my inner taskmaster chides. “Is your time more important than theirs! They should probably just leave without you!” it continues. (”It” seems to occupy one degree of separation from the “me” who is being chided. As if a part of me is actually separate, and the arbiter of my acceptability. But they both, bafflingly, live inside me and vie for supremacy. And they’re not alone!)

The late Swami Sivananda Radha, mentor and teacher of many an aspiring yogi/yogini describes this pattern in “Time to be Holy”. She writes: “You want to survive in your own mind, and your own mind sets the criteria by which you want to survive. That’s a very dangerous trap. It makes difficulties and creates a lot of absolutely unnecessary pain.”

Our son, the shame educator, would call that “shaming our shame”. And say that it comes from the same source as many a counterproductive behavior: a lifetime’s-worth of unconscious coping mechanisms that not only rule our lives the way my inner taskmaster rules mine, but which obscure our essential Thingish-ness, our true thoughts and feelings. We get too busy “doing the right thing” in order that our thoughts and actions align with the voices inherited from outside. And what those voices obscure is the still, small voice of our intuitive knowing, the authentic self that remains when we strip away all our pretenses and coping mechanisms. That, too, is not without pain. There is pain in knowing one has abdicated one’s authority and authenticity for the sake of belonging. Of not rocking the boat. And what suffers most is the unexpressed potential of the soul. According to Sarah ban Breathnach, best know for her “Simple Abundance: a Daybook of Comfort and Joy”: “The authentic self is the soul made visible.”

Though trained in Transpersonal Psychology, or “care of the soul” in layman’s terms, I still struggle to explain “soul” in my own words. Like Winnie the Pooh, the Things — beliefs and ideas – closest to my heart can whither to silence when subjected to outside scrutiny. Which is the kind of humiliation from which my inner taskmaster is trying to protect me.

And therein lies the rub.

The inner aspect which I’ve unconsciously developed to protect myself from the shame of rejection, dismissal, and defeat can also be the enemy of my authenticity. Of my own unique contribution to this great human tapestry. If I can’t even communicate clearly and candidly — let alone agree — with myself, how can I possibly communicate with anybody else?

However, after decades of living according to external authorities, how DO I go about embodying my authentic self? How do I listen for the voice of the soul that I’m told holds my “distinctive human code”? Self-acceptance is the key. Acceptance of my physical, mental and emotional make-up. Acceptance of who I am, why I’ve done what I’ve done, where I’ve been, how I’ve erred and when succeeded. What works for me is stopping the mental chatter of “coulda, shoulda, woulda” — and their opposites — long enough to let inspiration arise from what James Hollis calls “unknown zones”, or the “unfathomable otherness of the universe”.

Soul is one of the many things that originate in Hollis’s unfathomable otherness. So too does the life force that animates me — body, mind and speech. Explaining these phenomena to my satisfaction is a futile exercise. Words fail. But I do know enough to track my footprints in a journal that I can revisit at my leisure. I know enough to steep myself in silence in order to let my intuition speak. I know how to use my ego and senses as receptors, versus drivers. And I know enough to accept that I don’t know what I think I know. Furthermore, I understand that I don’t need to know all the answers, nor be perfect according to the script I acquired as a child, in order to evolve into a more courageous, caring and self-aware human being. And that’s good enough for me.

Now, as any self-aware bear would say: what’s for lunch?

“…we cannot stuff everything into this life. Every time we choose one thing, we exclude a dozen others. If we could live a serial existence, we might have a dozen opportunities to follow a talent, an interest, a curiosity, but we don’t.” (James Hollis)

With Groundhog Day (and the film by that name) just behind me, I gravitate to the above statement for the reality check that it is. In the film we see Phil Connors reliving the same day, February 2nd, until he is proficient at French language, ice-sculpting, chiropractics, life-saving, concert piano; even tire changing, bank-robbing and toddler rescuing. Back on Planet Reality, I fear I lack the time, manual dexterity and energy – not to mention self-discipline – to become even a decent ukulele player. This can be a tough pill to swallow. I am becoming, of necessity, more discriminating about what I choose to do. My choices reflect what interests me most, what has heart and meaning for me, and a significant factor in the latter is a sense of community. Simply put, I need people. And so far ukulele playing has delivered in spades!

Walking around with my ukulele has attracted two other keeners who plan to convene on Tuesday for the inaugural meeting of the Nascent Ukulele Players. No doubt we’ll come up with a better name, and I suspect there will be more of us as time goes by. Music has a tendency to attract people like moths to the light, and I imagine all sorts of instruments jamming at informal “talent nights”.

Needless to say, this vision has motivated me to practice for twenty minutes a day, which, if done consistently I’m told will make me an expert in a mere five years! Even in so short a time I marvel at how much progress I’ve made, simply by choosing to spend the time I have (and that of my teacher) to advantage. I now know three chords, am working on a fourth, and next we will put it together into a song! Only a week ago that would be inconceivable. It once again brings to mind Goethe’s quote: “Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.” When I bought the ukelele I never imagined that it would draw a diverse group of people who are grateful for any activity that breaks the Groundhog Day-like monotony that COVID precautions have implied, or imposed. In a previous blog I described how COVID has restricted many liberties that I’d taken for granted, which begs the question: how much choice do I really have?

In general, I choose to believe that I am the sum of my choices, which is to say that my choices have led me where I am today. If I am not content with my current situation, I believe I have the power to change it. But if not age, then certainly COVID has taught me that my presumed power of choice is a luxury. This awareness compels me to choose wisely, gratefully, based on a vision of who I might become.

More than any particular choice, what matters to me is taking time to reflect on why I choose what I choose. Is it to meet some ego-driven need? To compare and compete? To succeed at an arbitrary standard I’ve inherited from my peers, teachers, parents, the media? On what does my sense of survival and security depend? My sense of belonging and acceptance? If these depend on outside standards and influences then I have abdicated my independence and autonomy to a revolving door of people who don’t really know me or my purpose on earth. Of course it can be comforting to fit in, but what price conformity? A statement attributed to the Buddha has been my pole star for many, many years:

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.”

Today I see the benefit of gathering more and more people in a circle of music, gaiety, and shared humanity. Outdoors and socially distanced, of course. As fate would have it, the song we are learning is called Kaleohano. It means “the voice of authority and respect”. It’s your birthright, and the choice to use it is yours.

C-F-C-G7-C x 2; Chorus (C) C7-F-G7-C…

“A clean house is a sign of a wasted life.” (Anon.)

For some unknown reason the above quote came to mind when I began to gather my thoughts for this week’s blog. The original idea for the theme of “habits” (I’m hoping to come up with a catchier title than that) came from a conversation with friends who asserted that it only takes from twenty-one to twenty-eight days to create a new habit. Presto; change-o.

I take exception to that.

I have been blogging for eleven weeks (aka seventy-seven days) and it’s far from a habit. I’ve been composting for almost as long, and experience an equal degree of self-sabotage as in my resistance to blogging. Bearing in mind that both of these projects are entirely optional, one wonders why I bother at all?

If for no other reason, the discipline and persistence required to establish an arbitrary habit are a pro-active way to prepare myself for the involuntary changes that have been visiting me (and everyone I see) with unprecedented frequency: (COVID! Quarantines! School, restaurant, airport closures! New strains! Vaccine supply and eligibility!) You get the idea . Developing the resilience that enables me to respond, correct course, re-imagine and otherwise persist in overcoming obstacles to my brilliant plans, is a good kind of habit to have.

So I’m going to experiment with how long it takes me to establish a fail-proof habit of blogging, composting, and now, (drum-roll please) playing the ukulele. I’ve been in possession of my new ukulele for almost a week and have yet to establish any intention to, let alone make a habit of, practice.

In fact, I’ve yet to take it out of the package.

There’s the actual ukulele. Nicely wrapped in white squishy plastic. Then there are all sorts of bits and bobs, the sight of which, I find strangely draining. (Like a parking ticket I have yet to pay but look at every day). There are extra strings. A tuner. Six colorful felt picks. So far so good. A left-handed chord chart that is truly mind-boggling. Tiny fingerboard-position stickers that go on the neck of the ’uke’, but which will require some serious manual dexterity. A self-inking chord stamp of as-yet-unknown utility. A book telling all about the ukulele. A nifty looking case. A strap. (Ok. I can handle that.) And maybe more. But I can’t bring myself to go near the couch where it sits to sort through all of it, to tame the beast as it were.

That said, I now have a handle on how I initiate change. I procrastinate. I talk about it. A lot. I make my intentions as public as seems reasonable, and then feel compelled to follow through lest I be judged, mocked, ridiculed etc. (Psychology texts call this “external referencing”. ) Hence the mention, in last week’s blog, of learning to play the ukulele. History tells me that I will approach that goal in my usual crab-walking fashion. (In case you’re unfamiliar with the term, a crab-walking approach is a sideways trajectory that the crab is anatomically forced to execute. No amount of wishing, hoping, thinking and praying will change what is the crab’s evolutionary inheritance. You can’t make a crab walk straight. It just is what it is.)

Figuratively speaking, crab-walking suggests a cautious, oblique (aka indirect) approach that has even been seen, by some, as sly or devious. However, for me, crab-walking is an arbitrary strategy that I’d like to grow out of. It means, in re: the ukulele, that I will move the bundle of related items back and forth from the counter to the couch, to the dining room table, and, as I sometimes do with laundry that desperately needs folding, to the bed I intend to sleep in this evening. I will eventually unpackage it bit by bit. As I have just now done! (Since I’m making this public, I have to demonstrate SOME progress). Next will be a text to my musician friend to set a date for an initial lesson. (Done. Tuesday at 1:00!) This will force me to do as much relevant reading and organizing as I can before that appointment happens. I have my pride, after all. And, with these small advances achieved, I heave a sigh of relief and reward myself with a small bowl of potato chips.

What has this to do with a clean house, a wasted life, or how long it takes to change or establish a habit? As with the crab, it’s about knowing what is possible and what is, constitutionally speaking, not possible. It’s not possible to have a perfectly kept house and yet make any kind of creative progress. Change is not possible if I don’t want any disruption to the status quo. (The bugs, mess and smell of the compost). To establish any new habit means enduring the discomfort of letting go of the old. Resisting that which resists in me. Day after day. Week after week. Until it becomes second nature. No “presto; change-o” for me. It’s Just. Not. Easy.

But by my count, I have already taken eleven steps to better blogging. A few dozen steps (if you count the actual distance to the tumbler) to consistent composting. And, NOT counting the shuttle between couch and counter, several solid paces towards ukulele playing. And that’s good enough for today.

Pass the chips, please.