Disabled in the Morning

I can walk. Normally, I manage an hour of limping around--enough to dress, water plants, feed the dog, and eat breakfast. While eating, I put my feet on ice to keep them from turning nasty. The rest of the day, I slump in a lift chair, legs elevated, feet touching nothing.

This morning, my feet got loud after only 30 minutes. That was it. No more walking. My hope for a quick trip to the farm market was gone.

Grief hit me hard, and I cried like a three-year-old who's pet just died.

I know grief is normal. After all, it's only been two years since I first tried on the label "disabled."

That was so-o-o-o liberating.

I'd been losing function for thirty years, but since I always found a way to get what I wanted--especially hiking alone in wilderness areas--the losses never registered as such. But the last three years of struggling to work had been h*ll. Giving up that struggle was a relief. A disability identity was comforting.

I can handle the pain--though, yes, I hate inspiration porn. The isolation is harder (among complaints, I have erythromelalgia which makes wearing shoes and socks excruciating--so no outside excursions in winter--while heat exacerbated pain keeps me inside in summer).


Walking has always been my main deal. Regular in-wild-ness time feels as necessary as food--in all seasons. (I can spend hours lying comfortably in a snow drift.)

Now, I usually can't sit on the deck.

Grief has it's own rhythm. It can become less suffocating while never going entirely away. But then when it hits, it can still hit hard.

Speak Before It's Too Late

First they came for Muslims, and I didn't speak because I wasn't Muslim.

Then they came for Blacks and Latinx, and I didn't speak because I wasn't Black or Latina.

Then they came for LBGTQ, and I didn't speak because I wasn't LBGTQ.

Then they came for PWD, and I didn't speak because I wasn't disabled.

Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.

- after Martin Niemöller

Global Warming, Marketing, and Zen Cats

I recently watched a video of economic predictions for 2020. A compendium of stats flashed by with rah-rah audio and snazzy visuals.

It was very much less than convincing. 

The video assumes that world economies will continue along existing change vectors. This is not realistic.

Oooh: colorful social media stats.

“Business as usual” can’t survive escalating climate disasters, rising sea levels, and the upset of local climate norms–with unpredictable swings among extreme heat, cold, wet, and dry.

As these impacts accelerate, no one will deny global climate change. The desire for profit won't let them. 

Frankly, I won't miss Florida or Texas (two states guaranteed to flood), but the US economy will.

Already, low-lying countries are being lost to sea level rise. Marketers expect Asia to be the economic powerhouse of 2020, but sea level rise will devastate many parts of Asia, not to mention flooding coastal cities around the rest of the globe.

Corporations in Europe are beginning to understand this. Self-preservation motivates businesses to become a force for climate sense.

Will it be enough, and on time?

Unfortunately, my years as an earth scientist lead me to say, “no.”

Global climate change is rapidly spinning us off into a vast economic and civic unknown, and we are likely far past the point where bright engineering solutions can stop earth's trajectory into warmth.

We can slow down the change, reducing the scale of human misery global warming will continue to cause, but we can not stop it.

An earth-centered view considers hundreds of millions of years. It's a very long civic view that considers a hundred years. Marketing considers only months while social media marketing is even more painfully myopic.

So what's a marketer to do? (After we get our collective heads out of our collective asses on climate change.)

Cornelis van Haarlem, The fall of Ixion

• Become like cats. Accept that change is the only constant, and develop an inner sense of gravity so we have a sense of uprightness while spinning through space.

• Take a tip from Buddha. Let go of the shore and live norm-less lives, grasping nothing and floating amidst turbulent change as if all was as it should be. 

*  *  *  *  *  * *

If We Are An Organ In Earth's Body

According to the Gaia theory, the earth is becoming a coherent individual, so I can't help wondering about humanity's function in earth's body.

Discover what we do best and you will discover which earth organ we are.

So what do we do best?

Collect together and talk.
                                     Connect.
                                                Send.
                                                     Receive.

We create community and we communicate.

That suggests that humans are the connecting, communicative organ in earth's body--earth's neural net.

According to a Morgan Stanley survey 91% of mobile phone users keep their phones nearby at all times. We use them everywhere: alone or in a crowd, in bed or on the toilet. In fact, 75% of American mobile users used their phones in the bathroom.

Connectivity is addictive. 

Once we get it, few of us can let it go, even for a few hours.

Why?

Most of us have an unsatisfied hunger at the center of our being. Unsatisfied longing hurts. Connectivity combines two of the best ways to distract ourselves from pain: keep busy and consume.

But is there more to our love of connection?

We humans have only just filled our environment. What if this is the required tipping point in earth maturing into a coherent homeostatic individual? If so, we have only just crossed that line.

Then our NEED for connectivity is not just a desperate wall social isolates erect against loneliness, or a way business profiteers build global markets, or how all of us keep ourselves from feeling. Our connectivity addiction would be an inherent response to our nascent biologic role in homeostatic earth.

Then connectivity would be vital to every human, plugged-in or not.

Vital to all life, human and non-human.

            Vital to the earth.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Human Population Growth: Earth's Push Back Time

Humans are entering the top of our population growth curve. 

Partly because some of us have chosen to limit births, but also because, for the very first time in human history, earth is limiting our births for us. 

It’s a biological given that populations have an s-shaped growth curve.

At first, growth is exponential, starting slow and increasing at a faster and faster pace.

Sound familiar?

Until recently, this is what all the human population growth charts looked like:

Doomsday scenarios say if we keep reproducing at greater and greater rates, we will soon run out of food, water, and space.

For most biological populations, though, the rate of growth starts off exponential. Then it slows and eventually stops. The top of the curve becomes flat, making that characteristic s-shape.

Why?

Most critters are no smarter than people. They don’t choose to limit how many babies are born.

The environment limits births for them.

Populations race exponentially upward until the critters have filled their environment. Then the environment pushes back. 

The critters' waste products pile up. A poison to them, their waste damages their fertility and vitality. Meanwhile, predators--including disease organisms--settle in for a steady munch. The result? Population growth slows, then levels off.

The human population is still growing, but our growth rate is going down.

We have entered the top of our growth curve.

Now, some of that is sociological. For people in rich countries, kids are expensive, social services means you don't need them to take care of you in your old age, and better medical care for children means you no longer need a bunch to have some reach maturity. So people choose to have smaller families.

But there may also be a more biological explanation.

Think about it.

1. We are the only true world-wide species. (Other world-wide species, like Norwegian rats, live off us).
2. If the whole world is our environment, we have only just filled it.
3. As we cover the earth, our waste products spread--primarily industrial and agricultural pollutants. These decrease our health, and many act like hormones to decrease our fertility.
4. As a global monoculture, we are fast food central for human disease organisms.

Humans are not really better than other critters. We are not immune to normal, biological processes. 

Neither are we worse. 

In fact, we’re just the same, and we’ve finally filled our environment: the whole earth.
  
Giving the earth a chance to push back.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Pitch Wars Bio

Pitch Wars is an amazing, fun, (and sometimes anxiety fraught) writing contest run by Brenda Drake. But it is more than a contest; it is a community--for both the mentee hopefulls and the mentors.

Mentors post a blog to help mentees make their submission choice. Some mentees do as well. (Mentee Blog Hop)

Here is mine:

I read and write kidlit from PBs to YA. I used to read and write grownup stuff, but not so much now--'though my pub credits are all for grownups. Wanna peek at the most grownup of my grownup pubs? I could never write like that now. Not that I want to. Ugh!

My Pitch Wars sub leans magical realism, but some might call it realistic fantasy. If you've read The Mostly True Story of Jack by Kelly Barnhill, mine wanders nearby, 'though a bit more on the mr side.

The "magic" is pretty close to my experience with nature beings. In that sense it is completely realistic, but most modern Americans deny nature beings exist making the same things fantastical.

My inspiration was wondering what happens to the kid after her brief magical adventure is over. All she has is memory and practices that she desperately hopes will bring direct communion, but that never quite work. That is also entirely realistic.

If you like my pages or my query, I need to share credit with the fantastic Scribophile Ubergroup managed by the incomparable Jerry Quinn, also the Ubergroup members who gave me such great critiques on both.

Sankofa Bone

Enough about my sub, what about me?

I far, far prefer editing to writing a first draft. Editing is like carving, shearing away the dross until the emerging form sings. I've carved both wood and stone, but mostly wood.

I'd love a mentor who is a fearless cutter of unnecessary words (and paragraphs and sections).

Do that for me and I will work my butt off for you.

Some other facts of which I am inordinately proud:


I've lived in 5 countries on 4 continents, 3 and 3 before I hit puberty, also 6 states including Alaska.


I was kicked out of a monastery. You already knew that if you read the header on my blog, but I am very, very proud of it.

Moon Over Jon Oriental

I loved Chicago as a natural environment: the orange-red brick cliffs, the wind tunnels, and the great majesty of the lake shore, also living in a white-minority neighborhood.

I don't miss the petroleum-fume-laden air.


Gifs confuse me.


via GIPHY

Sweet Honey

My first animal companion was Daddy Rat. I was three. 

Honey is my present animal companion.

Between Daddy Rat and Honey have been Lady (a dog), numerous mice, George (a terrapin that I smuggled into England from Nigeria when I went to boarding school), and Aijde (a cat).


My family also shared Dab Dab (a duiker), Aku (a West African grey parrot), and Sir Robin (an ex-champion race horse).


I dropped out of high school. While working on a kibbutz, I discovered how woefully ignorant I was, and since the only efficient way to get an education was college, I went--all the way to a PhD in a useless-for-getting-a-job field. After, I abandoned science for education.

Creative writing was my PhD survival strategy. 

Fav reads are far to numerous to list. Here are some recent ones:

TALL TALES by Karen Day. If you like Sharon Creech and haven't read Karen Day, you must.

THE JUMBIES by Tracey Baptiste

THE SINISTER SWEETNESS OF SPLENDID ACADEMY by Nikki Loftin (although, really, anything by Nikki Loftin)

TIGER RISING by Kate DiCamillo

THE ONE AND ONLY IVAN by Katherine Applegate

SPIRIT’S KEY by Edith Cohn  

BIGGER THAN A BREAD BOX by Laurel Snyder

BESWITCHED by Kate Saunders (a modern transport-into-the past story like Penelope Farmer's CHARLOTTE SOMETIMES that I loved growing up)

THE GREEN GLASS SEA by Ellen Klages

CURSE OF THE THIRTEENTH FEY by Jane Yolen 

WHEN YOU REACH ME by Rebbeca Stead

ELEVEN by Patricia Reilly Giff

SUN AND MOON, ICE AND SNOW by Jessica Day George

And I am in love with Junie B Jones if for no other reason than the way Barbara Park writes emotional cues.

When Compassion and Biology Collide

With a flash of annoyance, I drove up behind a car stopped in the middle of a suburban street. Then I noticed that facing me was another car in the opposite lane. Between the two cars a mom duck was crossing followed by her string of ducklings. A lot of ducklings, maybe a dozen.

They all crossed. As the cars started up, the mom duck jumped the curb. Her ducklings followed one by one.

The second smallest duckling jumped at the curb--and missed. The smallest also failed to make the jump. The two ducklings flapped their nascent wings, jumping at the curb again and again.

No luck.

They stumbled along the gutter, jumping and flapping, while the mom duck hunkered down on the sidewalk surrounded by the rest of her brood. A crow flew down to stand in the grass over the struggling ducklings. The ducklings would make a nice feast once they'd exhausted themselves.

Unaware of the ducklings that I was still watching, another suburbanite drove up behind me and honked. I had to go. I put my car in gear.

It’s just biology, I thought as I drove slowly away. What duck fledges a dozen ducklings? There is nothing to do except let nature take its course. After all, crows deserve to eat, too.

I drove a couple of blocks, then stopped. I couldn’t just leave. I had to try and help.

By the time I returned, the stranded ducklings had gotten pretty far from where the mom duck still crouched--the crow keeping pace over them.

I parked and got out.

Now I’ve lived with mammalogists and ornithologists. I know how to grasp a small wild thing: firmly, wrapping my hand around its body just behind the head. Hold it firmly, and it won’t hurt itself or you.

I know what to do. That doesn’t mean I can do it. My socialized fear of hurting interferes.

I scooped up the second smallest duckling. Although I held it too loosely, so it flailed in my hand, I managed to set it down near the mom duck. It ran to safety, tucking itself into the mass of ducklings. I felt the rush of warmth that philanthropy brings.

Then I went after the smallest duckling. It was way down the street, having run in total panic from my hand descending on its sibling. I was able to scoop it up, but couldn’t bring myself to grasp it firmly enough. It wriggled hard. I held it against my breast. It wriggled harder, falling from my fingers to the sidewalk. I didn’t hear it land, but imagined a sickening thumb.

Still, a moment later it ran to its mother. I smiled benevolently at it.

Only, something was wrong. This smallest duckling didn’t wiggle into the brood, but huddled into a small ball, separate from the others. Like it wasn’t sure of its welcome. Like it knew that that was as close as it could come and not be pecked.

No question: the smallest duckling was crow food. And although it was saved for now, how long did the second smallest have? It’d be an extraordinary year when a duck could fledge a dozen ducklings.

I went back to my car and my errands. I didn’t want to see the painful end to the smallest duckling’s story. I didn’t want to see biology at work.

Laying eggs is relatively cheap, and predators go for the weakest first. Perhaps the sole purpose of smaller siblings is to be a dangling bribe, insurance for those with a better chance of reaching adulthood.

If so, what price an act of compassion? Did I actually save one duck and give another a chance? Or did I just make myself feel good, while leaving those small ducklings to go through the same suffering all over again, later?

I don’t know.

But life is complicated and mysterious. If the value of helping is only measured by results, it means nothing when we don’t save the way we intended. But what if there is meaning in simply extending a hand, in trying?

If the purpose of the smallest ducklings is to protect the others by dying, then perhaps I did ok, even if my interference was naive. The thing is, my heart would not let me drive away. Of that I am sure.

Let nature go on clipping the string of ducklings, life by tiny life. I still had to put my hand in, all justifications aside.

That is also biology.

Rilke and Unemployment

I didn't get another job I wanted. If someone had taken all my greatest passions and all my skills, then designed a matching position, this one would have been it.

But no. I knew within two days of the interview, when they hadn't yet called my references.

I've made job application my priority for a long time now. Years. Yet, nada. Okay, that's an exaggeration. I have three part-time jobs, but even together, they aren't enough to live on. So...

The last time this happened was when I gave up on getting a research job in my science. I'd been on the job market for three years without an offer, although that wasn't a reflection on me. There were maybe five openings a year in the United States and 200 plus decent candidates. The average PhD spent ten years post-degree before landing a permanent job. I was actually doing better than most having had several interviews.

But it felt like I was running head-first into a brick wall expecting it to vanish. I'd slam my head, fall to the ground, then get up and do it again. Over and over and over. After three years, my bruised brain and butt had had it.

As soon as I turned away from research, I got every job I ever applied for. It seemed that the universe had other ideas for me than to use my degrees in the obvious way.

So is the universe sending me a message, now?

The only other direction available would be to put all my job search energy into writing and marketing my writing.

Big risk. Very scary.

So I think about Rilke who wrote in Letters to a Young Poet that writers need to decide if they must write to live. If yes, then they should stop whining about the difficulties and "build [their] life in accordance with this necessity."

I made a decision fifteen years ago to put my creative voice first - even if it meant giving up a tenure-track professor position. But somehow, I kept reneging on that commitment.

Perhaps, the universe has decided not to give me a choice.

Which leaves me to explore the difficulties.

Ps.97: Fire marches out in front and burns up all resistance.

My interpretation from the NIV, Vulgate in English, the Ancient Root Transliteration Bible, Masoretic Text, JPS 1917, & Young’s Literal 

Ready or Not in the Land of the Dying

I was sure he'd have died by now.

He was sliding fast last spring. I hoped he'd see his birthday in late June, but was positive he'd be gone by August.

Positive.

Come his birthday, and he rallied. I mean, really rallied. Not just ceasing to slide, but returning to a place he hadn't been in many, many months.

• He was awake for hours at a time.
• He looked people in the eye.
• He cracked his distinctive self-depreciating jokes.
• He laughed and sang.
• He thanked the caregivers for their help.

The visiting hospice nurse was shocked--pleased shocked. "Now I know why you all say he was such a great guy."

I couldn't help it. I began to fantasize.

• He isn't dying, at least not soon. We'll have years together, yet. Good years. Awake, aware, and happy years.

This went on for about a week. Then he rapidly slid further than he'd been before--barely opening his eyes for more than a few minutes--mostly staying distant and unfocused.

But the damage was done.

When we first approached hospice, I was not remotely ready. I only tried it because they evaluate you after three months. If you aren't clearly dying, hospice kicks you out again. I figured that would happen to us.

It didn't.

One evaluation. Two. He was certified dying--even if at slower than the proscribed, gone-in-six-month rate.

Since the beginning, I'd assumed that when the time came I'd say, "I'm fine. Don't hold on just for me. It's okay."

That would be a proper monk-like attitude.

Now the time was imminent, I found I couldn't do it.

I wasn't fine. It wasn't okay. I desperately wanted him to hang on for me.

My whole mind and body screamed, "Don't go. We were supposed to be together for many more years. Don't leave me."

Nine months passed. A third evaluation. Still, hospice kept us. And I changed. I began to feel that I could let go.

Listening to his cries of confused pain in response to the most benign bodily care--a wipe on the chin, for example--that helped. The stress of life with caregivers also helped --selfish as that may be.

Mostly, time helped. I just got used to the idea again.

Then came the day he said he was dying. Right then. I found myself saying, "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

It was true. With my whole heart and body, I knew I would be fine. I was finally ready. What a relief.

Until his birthday rally.

Now, that is a lie.

Five months and several hospice evaluations later, my only thought is: 

"Please, don't leave me. Not yet. I can't live without you."

*  *  *  *  *  *

Living with Strangers

For nine months, I barely tolerated my narcissistic weekend caregiver and his slovenly ways.

He never cleaned.

He broke my dining room chairs.

He wore his pants so low, he graced me with his bare butt when he bent over.

He grumbled, grumped and demanded that I meet his latest need.


Finally, I could no longer stand this man radiating bad temper through the house while my uncle was dying. Yet, the company who supplied my caregivers refused to replace him.

So, I decided to do what I should have done long ago: get my weekend caregiver from a different company. I'd put it off and put it off, not wanting to rock the delicate, care-giving boat.

I've gone through a lot of caregivers since my uncle has lived with me. I feel incredibly lucky to have a great person five days a week. What if I went to another company, yet got another dud?

      It's not easy being a live-in caregiver. It's much harder when
      a competent person is living right there. To succeed, my
      caregivers must do everything for my uncle - who can do
      nothing for himself - PLUS get along with me.

I sympathized that someone might find the situation stressful.  That didn't mean I should tolerate a resentful person skulking about.

Then, like a miracle, without my doing anything, the annoying caregiver disappeared. I was assigned an amazing man from Southwest Nigeria (the region Shell and BP have made into an environmental disaster area). Highly educated, experienced, and with an optimistic sense of humor - he was good with Milt and with me.

I couldn't believe my luck or blessing or whatever it was.

I felt more relaxed than practically since I started this gig.

Living with a dying man is an emotional wringer, but that is not so hard. Hard is sharing my house with an endless parade of well-meaning or not-so-well-meaning strangers while that emotional wringing is in progress.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Death Practice

I knew it was time for Milt to be in hospice last fall, but I still didn't like it. When I agreed to do this, I thought we'd have at least five years together, hopefully longer. Two and a half years? I couldn't make sense of it. I gave the hospice folks a lot of grief as I twisted and turned, pushed and pulled, unable to lie comfortably in this new bed.

I'd expected that when Milt was ready to let go, I wouldn't hold on. I didn't want him to linger just to take care of me. But the fact is, last fall, I could not honestly say that to him. However much I didn't want to, I clung to him, a desperate hunger in my throat. I needed him to live.

Luckily, he was not in a hurry, either. We coasted along, immensely helped by hospice, as Milt slid slowly toward the end. The change was so gradual, it was only obvious when it was time for his six months review.

To stay in hospice (at least paid for by medicare), you have to be in a steady decline. The expectation is that you'll be dead within six months. You can take longer - as long as you are making steady, downward progress.

When I made a list of Milt's losses over that six months, there were many. No question we could stay in hospice - thankfully, as we had grown dependent on their services - but it was a great reprieve. He might be dying, but he wasn't dying all that fast.

Then, about two months later, he suddenly said, "I'm dying." His voice was softly wondering, as if he was simply cataloging an interesting fact.

Now, Milt has not wanted to discuss his impending demise and had never previously said anything remotely like this. Not only was it a strange thing for him to say, his whole affect had changed. He was oddly blank and floating - lying back with his eyes rolled up to show the white.

"Are you dying right now, today," I asked.

It took awhile to get his attention, but he said yes.

"Your brother is visiting tomorrow. Will you still be here."

"No."

Nothing was hurting and he wasn't scared. He was simply ready to go and he was going. I held his hand and for the first time, was able to honestly say that it was okay for him to go. I would be fine.

Turned out to be a practice run. It seems it is not uncommon for people to dip into dying and then come back. Like they need a taste before committing to the real thing.

At ten months and counting, Milt has had two more hospice evaluations. He is still on a steady slide out. He's also had four more of these dying practice sessions. He had one today.

Am I still ready? Well...

* * * * * * * * *

Dying in Peace

My uncle lives with me. He is dying. With hospice at our sides,* his passing has a good chance of being gentle and sweet. He’s on the last stretch. I hope he makes it to his birthday in late June, but don't expect him to be here for long after.

Still, his body has a fair bit of letting go to do. He eats less and less, but still eats. (Those truly ready to go often stop eating altogether.) He mostly sleeps, but has short periods of wakefulness and engagement. For an entire day a couple weeks ago, he suddenly returned to the man he’d been – chatting and laughing and showing the astonished hospice folks why he’d been voted funniest professor year after year.

Although his actual slide out of here promises to be easy, in the meantime life has gotten very hard. The slightest touch brings on screaming, swearing, and pleas to stop. Dementia has eaten the part of him that would have let him steel himself through necessary pain, leaving only the moment of agony.

“They’re mean to me,” he replies to my morning greeting. "They tortured me."

In the U.S. with our lack of social services, my uncle is lucky. He can afford decent home help rather than being warehoused under the care of overworked, underpaid, demoralized “nursing” home employees. I’m there to make sure his care is as attentive and kind as possible.
After a year struggling through one comically inadequate live-in helper after another, we stumbled into the arms of a gracious, attentive CNA. A Sunni Muslim from India, he quietly prays when it is time - his devout observance, my uncle’s atheism, and my own eclectic spirituality coexisting without tension.

Finally, reliable care for my uncle. Respite from anxiety for me. 

Yes, we are lucky. For those poorer and less lucky, how much more traumatic dying must be. I expect I will be among the mass of poor and unlucky ones when it is my time. Having watched my uncle, I frankly don't know if I can let myself down into that well or not.

* Medicare presently pays for hospice home care visits during the last six months of life. This serves the caretakers of the dying as much as the dying person. We must not let greedy, corporate privatizers and their political henchmen take this rare benefit.

* * * * * * * *

Grief, Joy, Rest

I'm learning yoga nidra. This is the yoga of deep relaxation and complete self-acceptance - the exact
opposite of throwing your body into extreme poses - as "yoga" so often means in the US. Yoga nidra is deeply relaxing. Yet like meditation, the practice brings increased wakefulness and awareness through greater presence to the whole truth of your experience.

In order to accept yourself you have to be present to yourself. You have to let yourself feel.

The version of yoga nidra I'm learning is called Integrative Restoration or iRest. It relies on body sensing and includes the practice of experiencing opposites as they show up in your body: opposite physical sensations, opposite emotions, opposite messages about yourself.

I've found this practice really illuminating, especially when overwhelmed by one or another difficult emotion like, say, grief. Flooded by intense grief, my body wants to hunch over with shoulders curled in and head drawn down. Feeling joy, my head lifts, chest expands, and heart opens.

The cat yoga pose has the drawn in quality of grief while the cow pose has the opened up quality of joy. I was already doing the cat/cow progression regularly as it is great for low back pain, increasing flow and movement in the lower spine. You don't even have to get on your hands and knees, but can do a version standing or sitting in your office chair.

Prompted by my yoga nidra practice, I began to go through the poses while feeling the opposite emotions: cat/grief and cow/joy, cat/grief and cow/joy. I let myself fully feel each emotion while expressing how it showed up in my body. Some minutes into this practice and I would be able to be fully present to both feelings at the same time. Amazingly, the emotions then began to balance. Neither was as intense as before and I arrived at a state of rest. I didn't need to suppress the difficult emotions, deny them, or distract myself from them. I found rest while still feeling the feelings.

How amazing. Joy plus grief equals rest.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Ordinary Light

After my monastic experience, you'd think I'd be suspicious of any self-proclaimed purveyors of Truth. You'd think I'd look first for the man behind the curtain. Still, I thought Amma was different - what with her free-hug darshan and "all money for charities" cant. Besides, many of my friends were Amma followers

True, her idea of karma was kindergarten simplistic & opposed to my own perceptions (people as completely separate and individually responsible for all positive or negative acts - which are totted up like a bank account). And of course, I never thought her some perfect, ego-less, goddess-on-earth or expected her organizations to be of pristine spiritual quality. Still I thought her a worthy guru, someone who channeled the divine energy more clearly than most

I was so desperate for help cutting through the fog so I could resonate with the divine light within. The way I had done in the monastery. The way I so thirsted for, but could not find in the world. Amma's darshan was thick with that energy. It rose from the crowd to fill the hall. I felt I could happily swim in it forever.

Amma's darshans were equally thick with buyers and sellers. The first time I saw Amma, my desire not to own stuff prevailed. I spent little and the marketplace atmosphere slid by unremarked. The second time...

That it was for charity bolstered my prickling desire for acquisition. The demon avarice overwhelmed me. Oh, not just to buy objects. I spent much on various forms of pure donation. Still... By American standards, I am a poor person. Yet, I spent all my pitiful savings. ALL.

This hit after I came home. To help myself feel okay, I decided to listen to people helped by Amma's charities, people much poorer than me, a homeless person who'd gotten a home, someone who couldn't afford school fees who'd been given an education. I searched the internet for the blogs, posts, notes, letters of real people whose real lives had been changed. I found...

Nada. Ziltch. Zip. Nothing but the glittering ads of the Amma organization, itself.

Huh? Given the hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people her charities had served, surely some should have an independent web presence. Nope. Instead, I found disillusioned ex-devotees eager to tell the other side of the story. They gave massive evidence that Amma was but one more victim of the Guru Effect.

sigh.

Maybe people who truly have a larger opening to the universal, spiritual energy generally start out well. Yet more often than not, they get caught in the snare of pride. Followers are desperate for a divine savior. They want to worship the person, hang on her every word, etc. Glitz, hype & the need to appear as more than she is soon become irresistible. Pride opens the door. Soon all the little demons - desire for ownership, for relationships and for consumption (aka avarice, lust and gluttony) - are holding a rave in her house.

The 4th century, desert Amma, Syncletica, advised against teaching or leading others, saying, "As wax melts when it is near fire, the soul disintegrates in the face of praise."

She went on, "Pride attacks subtly and secretly a soul that considers itself zealous and diligent in discipline... The soul imagines that it has grasped matters incomprehensible to the majority, that it is superior. It forgets all its sins and mistakes. The soul is deluded with positions of command - with teaching posts and displays of healing. Thus deceived, the soul perishes and is destroyed."

In other words: the Guru Effect - when the clay that every guru has for feet rises to consume her or his whole being.

Does that mean there is no divine light, that there are no legit teachers or practices that can help us find that light in ourselves? No.

I've literally seen that light: in myself and in others. I know it is there. Waiting. Loving. Gentle. Eternal. Non-judgmental. Self, yet no-self. Reality. Ordinary.

Yet, there are no magic leaders who can take us there miraculously, cleaning out all our gunk without effort.

The Dalai Lama is another exalted spiritual leader with his own clay feet. He repeatedly says, "I am an ordinary man." It is important to get the message:

We are all equally ordinary. We are also all equally divine. Some folks are born more aware of their spiritual being - with a larger open channel to the universal energy. Some are diligent in practices that open their hearts to that energy through humility and compassion. Yet clay remains part of each and every one of us.

Clay and spirit. The balance goes one way. The balance goes another way. And there we are, doing and being life as a body and a spirit, as ordinary and as light.

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