Author: bondjanet

“Pass the puck, not the buck.” (said no one, but it bears considering)

The other day I was talking with our adult daughter (via Bluetooth, of course) as she drove her son to hockey practice, back home in B.C. COVID rules dictate that our grandson change into his gear in the car (thankfully it was a cool but dry PNW day) and this reminded me, yet again, of how much our lives have changed in the past twelve plus months. Though so much has been circumscribed by the dreadful COVID virus, the coaches and parents have gone to great lengths to sustain Canada’s national winter game for its keen young players.

In turn, thoughts of hockey reminded me of my passion for the Edmonton Oilers hockey club during their dynasty in the 1980s, when history-making Wayne Gretzky led the team. What stood out about the “Great Gretzky” was his ability to anticipate where the puck was going, particularly in a face-off, and his uncanny accuracy in shooting and passing. He is quoted as saying, “A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.” And he did just that. It was a pleasure to watch him streak down the ice, position himself where the puck was going to be, and, often as not, pass it to another player to give them the glory of scoring. This strategy of passing the puck struck me as the antithesis of an all-too-common practice of passing the buck, not taking responsibility for one’s mistakes or misdeeds, and/or making the consequences someone else’s problem.

When I first started blogging I had two objectives. One was to promote the idea of leading an examined life, consistently reflecting in one’s journal and being accountable for one’s impact on the planet. Without the latter, without a practice of tracking my footprints, I can’t possibly achieve my second objective which is to set out my personal “rules to live by”, my values and beliefs that stand up to the scrutiny the Buddha taught via his instruction to “…deliberate and analyze, and if it agrees with reason and conduces to the good of one and all, then believe it and live up to it.”

One of these beliefs is that of taking responsibility for my thoughts and feelings, words and deeds, and for the effects of these on the people and environment around me. In Hawaiian culture, the word for this practice is “kuleana”:

“Kuleana is the Hawaiian word meaning ‘responsibility’. Kuleana encourages us to be accountable for all that we do. It is the ’ability to respond’ to whatever is happening. Those who live the value of kuleana know that their happiness is dependent on what happens inside of them, not outside. They choose how they react to circumstances, not let the circumstances determine how they feel. When we live with kuleana, we do our part to take care of ourselves, our communities, and the environment.” (”Naturally Hawaïi” website)

To modify Gretzky’s comment, it could be said that good kuleana is about cleaning up my own back yard. And great kuleana is about helping my neighbours clean up theirs. And so on down the street, until everybody’s yard is clean. Granted, this sounds like a pipe dream, so I asked myself how this could apply to me, in “real time”. In what way could I use my skills and resources to the advantage of the people around me?

I look to other people’s examples for ideas. One friend is building a house on wheels, a “Tiny House”, as it is called, for Habitat for Humanity, to house families displaced by the December 2020 eruption of Kilauea. Another friend has created a plastics recycling business called “Upcycle Hawaii”, that, among other initiatives, regularly volunteers to clean up plastic debris from Kamilo Bay on the south shore of the island, which is dubbed one of the dirtiest beaches in the world. And yet another friend has helped create a sustainable rum ‘agricole’ business (aptly named ‘Kuleana’) that has revived the almost-obsolete Hawaiian tradition of extracting fresh sugarcane juice to distill into their rum products. Only 3% of the world’s rum is made in this ‘artisanal’ way, which both provides jobs and preserves a colorful piece of Hawaïian history.

An idea that has been percolating around in my own mind is to get more involved in paper “repurposing”. Since the Big Island does not recycle the reams of copier papers etc. that end up in the trash heap, I’m wondering how best to address this recycling deficit. Having been to Egypt in the past half-decade I am painfully aware of what happens when garbage takes on a life of its own. A case in point, there is an actual “Garbage City”, formally known as Manshiyat Naser, in Cairo. You can google it. It is a place where the pooorest-of-the-poor inhabitants are trying to create an economy out of the things that other people throw away. That’s what I’d like to do with paper.

Whether it’s by something as small as lending a shoulder to a person burdened with worry, or aiming for something more tangible, like housing for displaced families, one can practice kuleana wherever one happens to be. As Walt Disney once said: “The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.”

Or, as my mother used to say: “Do something, even if it’s wrong.” I have a wealth of experience with the latter. Witness my pine needle faux pas with the compost. Which is when the Kuleana rum comes in handy…

“…and in this existence I’ll stay persistent and I’ll make a difference…”

(”Aloha Ke Akua” by Nahko and Medicine for the People)

This past week an incident happened that had a far greater impact on our small community in Hawaïi than one might first have imagined. In order to avoid passing on misinformation, I will simply say that a shark attacked two swimmers who, thankfully, survived the incident without permanent physical damage. Mentally and emotionally it may be a different story. Understandably. No one else was hurt, but the incident left a close-knit community reeling, rumors flying, and messages of concern pouring in from far-flung friends and family, as news (and misinformation, my own included) circulated via the internet.

While it is not uncommon for sharks to ply the waters on the west coast of the Big Island, instances of actual shark attacks on humans are rare. And of course as ocean-lovers, we have to weigh the risks and rewards of sharing space with those myriad creatures whose home is the ocean.

The reality is, we humans take our chances when entering an apex predator’s domain. (Not to mention a large body of water whose power has wrecked ships many times larger than our humble swimmers). As one observer commented: “Would you go into the jungle on safari without a Jeep, a guide, and a weapon for protection?” When you put it that way, probably not. But by that same token, I wouldn’t dare ride my bike on the highway, either, with tons of metal hurtling past me while I cling to the belief that they can see my flashing red light. And me. As they roar down the highway. Texting. Talking. Or half-asleep from the monotony. Maybe even inebriated.

Let’s face it, as Forrest Gump would say: “shit happens”.

Am I willing to give up the activities I love, with the people I love, for the relative safety of a “sheltered” life? A life lived in progressively greater physical, mental and emotional isolation as my fears dictate the extent of my range?

What compels me to venture out of my comfort zone in the first place? My Ohana. A group that meets my need for belonging; a community with whom I have important things in common. Wherever I happen to be, “ohana” is the foundation of my relationships. Though my ohana is currently in Hawaïi, I strive to create this sense of extended family, of deep connectedness, wherever I happen to be. While here on the Big Island, I thrive on the camaraderie (and competition, to be honest) between myself and my fellow cyclists, paddlers or swimmers. And I share a sense of responsibility as fellow stewards of “mauka and makai”, land and ocean.

A Hawaiian dictionary articulates the meaning of “ohana” as follows:

“Everyone related by blood is part of an ohana, not just the strict nuclear family, and so are close family friends. However, the concept of ohana can go beyond blood relatives to describe family that’s not formally related, but who are nevertheless bound by circumstances or inclination. Churches, schools, places of work, and recreational activities can all be the basis for developing ohana, referred to as one’s work ohana, school ohana, and so forth.

 “In addition to describing relationship networks, ohana carries a certain responsibility. When you’re part of an ohana, you have an obligation to take care of those in your circles, and they have an obligation to take care of you. In the context of a family, this can mean respecting your elders or caring for children within the family. In a work ohana, colleagues share obligations. More generally, a member of any type of ohana is expected to behave honorably and avoid bringing shame to the group.”

In this part of Hawaïi, ohana is embedded in the culture and embodied by its people. A few days after the incident, the community of swimmers, paddlers, canoeists, and those working to instruct and protect us, gathered at the beach with a distinct purpose. To honor and show support for our fellow swimmers who were injured and/or traumatized by their shark encounter. And we gathered for each other, as members of a community that is tacitly bound by the ideals of ohana. We generated, through this “strength-in-numbers”, the power to conquer our collective fear of returning to the water. We were encouraged by each other’s presence, and inspired by our injured swimmers’ examples, to wrestle down individual memories of past traumas that fed our fear in the present moment. Residual emotions and future forebodings that can cripple our minds and circumscribe our lives. We each in our own way took a step in the right direction. Out of our protective shells, our individual comfort zones. Pushing away an instinctive need for security, for guarantees. Past whatever was holding us back. And always, with our ohana dispelling the illusion that we are isolated and alone with our struggles and hopes. That’s what I mean by community.

P.S. If you are reading this blog, whether you know it or not, you are an important part of my ohana. Geography no object.

Aloha ke akua. (You can look it up.)

“…I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.” (The big Bad Wolf)

The other morning, in a groggy lapse of judgment, I began Instagram surfing through photos of jungle animals behaving like themselves, which is to say, gruesomely; then reading about Derek Chauvin’s trial for the murder of George Floyd, also gruesome; and finally, an essay about the withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan. Gruesome, gruesome, gruesome. In his human interest essay, ex-soldier Timothy Kudo, who served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, questions the worth of his multi-years of military service. What hooked me were Kudo’s comments about returning to civilian life after his honorable discharge from the army:

“Suddenly I’m on a cold American street littered with leaves. A couple passes by holding hands, a bottle of wine in a tote bag, dressed for a party, unaware of the veneer that preserves their carelessness.”

The author describes having shared his experiences in Afghanistan with others who, like the carefree couple, remained in the States, and who recoiled in horror at the gruesome facts of war, (which are painfully true to our animalistic roots):

“I knew their repulsion was only self-preservation. After all, the war cost nothing to the civilians who stayed home. They just wanted to live the free and peaceful lives they’d grown accustomed to — and wasn’t their peace of mind what we fought for in the first place?”

But doubt as to the validity of his “cause” in general, and the “usefulness” of his years in Afghanistan in specific, merely widened the gap between the author and his fellow citizens:

“After my discharge, I moved to an apartment near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, overlooking downtown Manhattan. I’d sit and stare across the river to the gap in the skyline where I tried to imagine those two towers I’d never seen in person as people passed by laughing and posing for pictures. Part of me envied their innocence; another part was ashamed of them, and of me for wanting to be like them, and of the distance between us.”

That last comment impacted me greatly. As I see it, the distance between the author and the people he both envied and was ashamed of, is the distance between innocence and a knowing that will not be – cannot possibly be – forgotten. A knowing of the enormous cost of complacency. A soldier’s knowing that he could not un-do what he had done or un-see what he had seen in that decades-long atrocity, ironically fought in the name of peace and freedom.

But what of you and me? Where do I stand under the rubric of complacency? Do I fall into the category of those party-goers — blissfully unaware of the veneer that preserves our carelessness? And of what does that veneer consist? For me, “veneer” is synonymous with “illusion”, the thin veil between ignorance — particularly intentional ignorance — and awareness.

The veneer, or illusion I equally envy, and am ashamed of, is what our middle son calls my “room of ignorance”. An escape into innocence and unknowing. The attempt to live the “free and peaceful life” about which Kudo writes without all the harsh realities that permeate modern society. And yet, upon reflection, I don’t wish to un-know what I know. The fewer illusions I hold, the less chance of missing the obvious: I am mortal. I am responsible for my life and the impact it has on the planet. As the poem Invictus says: “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.”

No “ignorance is bliss” for me.

So if I am not to be complacent, then what is to be done about the shock and awe with which the news is constantly bombarding me? First and foremost, I need to assess what, out of all the “good causes” I might espouse, I might reasonably hope to achieve. What could I reasonably hope to contribute to the greater good of my fellow humans? If I am to evolve into a more enlightened, compassionate and understanding human, I need to start in my own “back yard”. I need to clear out the illusions I carry inside me, my biases about right and wrong, my preferences about who and what to believe. I need to effectively dispel my own ignorance and build a foundation that can withstand the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” (as Hamlet would say).

Reflecting on this foundation, I see an image from “The Three Little Pigs”; one with his house of sticks, another with his house of straw, and the third with his labour-intensive house of bricks. The former two could well symbolize Kudo’s party-goers, oblivious to the veneer that preserves their carelessness. Alternatively, building that house of bricks is easier said than done. Digging into my own back yard can unearth the kind of incriminating muck, the contradictions, hypocrisies and fantasies that Kudo was so ashamed of. Which is why I have developed a set of inner tools to push me through the inertia of ignorance.

One such tool, as I’ve already mentioned, is my journal. Another, also mentioned previously, is focusing on centering, or “4-4 breathing”. And today, I would like to add a dimension to the latter that is helpful in counteracting inner, growth-stunting obstacles. It’s about invoking the light of wisdom and understanding, and is easily done wherever I happen to be. Finding a quiet place in which to gather in my senses the way a turtle tucks in its limbs, I begin the 4-4 breathing that settles into a calm, balanced rhythm. I then create a visualization of light entering my body with each breath that I inhale, and, like pouring milk into coffee, with every exhale, I visualize the light washing the dark matter away. A kind of “self-cleaning-breathing”. This “prescription” is how I try to treat dis-eases of my mind. The intention is to fill in the habitual mental default ruts (or rabbit holes) with something more positive. A fresh, new perspective. A different interpretation for each challenge that comes my way. The key is to not let myself become complacent.

Rx: Inhale light. Exhale shadow. Inhale wisdom. Exhale ignorance. Inhale whatever you need to be a better human being. Exhale what’s no longer serving you. Repeat as often as needed.

“The situation is hopeless, but not serious.” (Paul Watzlawick)

Yesterday morning, a friend and I set out for a kilometer-long ocean swim, as we have done regularly for months. A few days prior, the beach had been cleared when a tiger shark was spotted cruising through the bay, a not-infrequent occurrence in these waters. My swim buddy had been on the beach at that time, as she had been on other occasions wherein a shark had been sighted and the beach temporarily closed. Needless to say, sharks were on her mind that day. We hadn’t swum far when she seized my arm and pointed to a large, indistinct greyish shape materializing maybe twenty yards away. Meanwhile, I had been looking for a small spotted eagle ray that has also been known to frequent this part of the bay, so that, when my friend grabbed my attention, I had only curiosity as we tried to focus on this grey-black blob approaching us in the low-visibility water.

Soon we were able to pick out the distinctive shape of a very large manta ray, it’s graceful “wings” flapping in a leisurely manner that propelled it ever closer. For several minutes we hovered motionless and fascinated by its graceful aqua-batic display of arcs and rolls, its mouth and gills stretched wide to filter feed on the plankton that had been creating the poor visibility. When the ray drifted into the foggy distance we finished our swim (after hailing the lifeguard, patrolling on a jet ski, to accompany us for the rest of the journey).

Safely back on land, my friend and I debriefed about this unusual occurrence; seeing such a massive but benign sea creature “up close and personal” was the experience of a lifetime. But the initial mental suggestion that it had been a shark approaching us out of the murk was enough to compromise the rest of my swim partner’s day. As it would have done mine, had not a shark been the furthest thing from my mind. What my partner had fallen prey to was the acronym with which I titled today’s blog:

False. Evidence. Appearing. Real.

How often have I let my imagination run away with me in that same way? And what has been the effect of this fear on my mind and body? Depending on the seriousness of the imagined threat, I can feel anything from an elevated heart rate to spasms in my stomach, to a sense of hyper-alertness, or, worst case scenario, a state of wild panic. If in the latter state, I cannot muster the objectivity needed to assess the situation calmly and respond rationally. To quote behavioral psychology, my pre-frontal cortex (or rational faculty) has already “left the building”. How does this sequence happen? How is it that I can so quickly go “from zero to sixty” in re: how I perceive a threat to my safety and security?

The neuroscience behind this phenomenon attributes these knee-jerk reactions to our limbic system. The limbic system is located in the brain, and is most frequently associated with emotions. I think of this system as my personal bodyguard, whose role it is (among other things) to protect me from any and all perceived threats to my survival. The amygdala is an almond shaped collection of nuclei located in the temporal lobe that seem to be especially involved in fearful and anxious emotions, and has the ability to override or effectively shut down the brain’s logical capacity, and expropriate my mental faculties for a “fight, flight or freeze” course of action.

All of these reactions have one thing in common. They put me (and you, most likely) at the mercy of an ancient part of the brain (our lizard brain) that operates on a program of “lack and attack”. It is incapable of detecting the difference between real and perceived threats to my existence, which explains why, for hours after the monster in my closet turns out to be nothing but a crumpled-up pile of clothing, I still have difficulty lowering my heart rate, calming my nerves, and/or executing tasks rationally. That’s the science in a nutshell. Pun intended. Michael Singer, author of Untethered Soul, personifies this hyper-vigilant aspect of personality as a maniac in one’s brain. He writes:

“Ninety-nine percent of your thoughts are a waste of time. They do nothing but freak you out.”

 “To attain true inner freedom, you must be able to objectively watch your problems instead of being lost in them. No solution can possibly exist while you’re lost in the energy of a problem. Everyone knows you can’t deal well with a situation if you’re getting anxious, scared, or angry about it. The first problem you have to deal with is your own reaction. You will not be able to solve anything outside until you own how the situation affects you inside.” 

Hard as it is to detach myself from my knee-jerk reactions, Singer insists that my essence, my true nature, is that which can stand by and witnesses this inner parade of thoughts and feelings, the way a particular situation effects me inside. As I understand it, when I say “I’m feeling anxious, bored, or angry etc.,” I’ve already demonstrated that I CAN and DO witness what’s going on in my mind. All the time. Like a therapist to a client, there is a part of me that can rationally see and describe what’s happening, even as I’m caught in the thick of it. I can observe the constant flow of opinions about everything (my big important story, as it were), and register the fact that I am more than all of these thinking, feeling and reacting facets. How could it be otherwise? The key is to not identify with the maniac in my mind.

Hence the point of leading an examined life. Just as soon as I finish this therapeutic glass of red wine.

“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.