In the course of my many years of writing, I have accumulated a fair number of quotes in my big “quote file.” When I look at the file today, I sometimes feel like I must have been a terribly naive person at some point, and yet there’s also a consistency there.

There were a couple of “sayings” that jumped out at me, last time I was looking for a quote I thought I had.

One was “It’s only too late if you don’t start now.” I don’t remember the context of the original quote, but I do remember liking it as an “antidote” to toss at all those who claim it’s “too late” for them to change their lives, take up a new hobby, find true love, get divorced, get into therapy or whatever else they may say as a smoke screen to cover the fact that they have decided they are only “marking time” till death, doomed to be eternal spectators in their own lives.

The other was “You’ll never have more time than you do right now.” It’s similar to the first one, although contextually slightly different. This one addresses all those folks out there who are putting off and postponing the pursuit of what they truly want until they have “more time.” You know, “when I have more time, I’ll take up painting” or “as soon as I don’t have so much to do, I’ll start that fitness program.” A lot of people seem to fall into that one, busying themselves to the point of frenzy with doing the laundry every day, while blowing off opportunities to find lasting contentment in pursuit of their dreams.

Of course, I am one of “them.” One of the ones who spent much of the first half of my life “planning” and “saving” things I really wanted to do for some mythical “later” that’s somehow more convenient than “now.”

Now, I’m not saying that planning and waiting for the right moment– in and of itself– is a bad thing. I’m just saying that it’s easy to cross the line from mere ”planning” to “planning your way right out of living life.” And there are a whole lot of events and actions in life for which there will NEVER be a “right” time. The only decision is really whether to DO them, or not. Planning, alas, is an excellent procrastination tool… in that it allows us to pretend that we’re busy ”doing” something, even while the plans serve little other purpose than to postpone action.

In the end, life isn’t measured by what we meant to do, but by what we did do. When we sit and take stock, there’s a lot of stuff that’s important, yet we only think about it. And we allow a lot of stuff that’s not really important at all, to eat up our time and bandwidth. Under my “old paradigm,” I would never have gone to that retreat in Colorado… I wouldn’t have gone to the one in California, last June. I would have said “that will have to wait till I can afford it.” But somehow I recognized that time would never have come.

Figure out what’s important.

Figure out what it is you really want. Not what you “should” want, or what “makes sense,” or what you “usually do.”

Then do it.

Be your dreams.

Edited to add: I am NOT saying that planning, deliberating and waiting for the right moment is bad. I am just questioning the frequent practice of “substituting” planning for actually taking the planned action. I’ll give you a simple example from everyday life. Take a statement like “I’ll work on my resumé (because I hate my job) once I’ve tidied up my desk.” Many people who say this are just “avoiding.” After all, they manage to send 25 emails a day from the computer that sits on the messy desk. And they pay their bills, from the messy desk.  

I have written much, on these pages, about connecting and connection. Connection, relationships and love happen to be some of my favorite topics in life… perhaps because I see them as central to our overall well-being, both on a personal and a global level.

However, sometimes I do wonder if we ultimately walk alone.

Maybe that sounds odd, given my previous entry. And maybe it’s odd for me to write these words, given that the topic “we’re all ultimately alone” has been exhausted by writers, for generations.

When I was a teenager… and up into my 30′s (less frequently), I had a series of dreams with a recurring theme. Within these dreams I was always “important” in some way… like I was the inadvertent/unwitting “key” to something that needed to be done, said, collaborated on, or whatever. And I would do the “job” I was meant to do, with great skill and determination.

Usually, there was a person (or personS) for whom I was performing whatever the task at hand might be. In the end, that/those person(s) was/were always impressed and happy, and deeply grateful. Then there would be a leavetaking, and I would find myself watching the person(s) I had helped walk away; sometimes one, sometimes a whole group of people. And then I’d be walking down an empty road with the sun on my shoulders, feeling a great sense of loss.

Over the years, I have assigned a whole bunch of potential meanings to those dreams. One meaning– which is not relevant here– except to one single person– I am quite comfortable with, but it’s also based on a longer “version” of these dreams that offered some additional insight. The remainder has been cloudy, until very recently… when it struck me these dreams were all about non-attachment. And about “doing what’s right.”

You just do what’s right. Help, because you can. Not because you “hope to get something,” or “want people to think well” of you. If a hole needs to be dug and someone needs help, you pick up a shovel and dig the hole… for no reason other than it is “Right Action.”

In those dreams, I was “exchanging” (or wanting to exchange, rather) something I was capable of doing for “connection.” That has been a long and hard lifelesson for me. Just doing has no expectations. That’s not some nihilistic approach to gratitude or offers of connection… for those I am grateful… but they don’t drive anything, anymore. They merely “happen.” I used to pay really good lip service to the notion of “selflessness,” but have come to realize that even the awareness of selflessness is “transactional.” As in “look at me, look at how selfless I am being.” In having those thoughts, I am still trying to “get” something. Even if it’s merely a recognition of said selflessness.

The only path out is to just do whatever it is I do. And to find compassion. And to love, in that zen-like “love-for-all” way, that is actually both self-ISH and self-LESS. The key isn’t that we have to run towards aloneness like it’s some great thing… we can still seek company, love and connection… the key is just to let go of the need to “avoid aloneness at all costs.”

Why that scares people so badly, I don’t know.

My recent trip to the Colorado retreat offered me some new insights into “where I am.” Maybe it was on the third evening– I found myself “stepping back” and watching others find connection and a sense of “home.” And I realized that I no longer felt the need to be acknowledged for my contribution to the process– which, in this case, had been fairly significant. Not saying I wouldn’t like acknowledgment, just saying I didn’t need it, anymore.

What’s kinda funny about it all… is that when you can let go of the need to control an outcome; to micro-manage how others respond and perceive you; to be possessed by the word “must,” then there is great freedom and peace. That’s especially true of love and relationships. If you don’t feel the compulsion to “shape” them so they fit into a particular “box,” the possibilities and opportunities become so much greater.

When “They” talk about being fearless, maybe that’s what “They” mean.

My thoughts and love, today, goes out to someone who’s on the road… be safe!

I have been away, for a while.

I went to a retreat near Estes Park, Colorado– to a place where I met up with old friends; to a place where I made new friends; to a place where I got away from the world; to a place (a bit like “Cheers”) “where everyone knows your name.” After I come back from such a place, it always takes me a few days of reflection to get back into my normal routine.

Colorado in the fall is a beautiful place to be– unpredictable weather notwithstanding. Many days were sunny and warm, albeit a tad windy. One evening we were sitting around talking, when the snow started driving through. Life at 8500 feet… by the next day, we were back to sunny and pleasant.

Those who have been reading these lines for a while may remember that I talk about “going away” to HSP Gatherings. To date, I have mostly been the “casual participant.” This time, I found myself in a different role, as “co-host” of the event. It wasn’t really a job I asked for– it was one I more or less “fell into.” I also found myself in the role of “workshop facilitator,” which was somewhat of a stretch of my comfort zone. All in all, it was an enjoyable experience.

Each of these retreats seems to have its own “flavor.” Apart from the organizing/teaching gig, I met an unusually large number of people.

Hmmmmm…

That’s not exactly what I meant to say. I met an unusually large number of people I’d previously “known” only inside this box. Whereas I have met 100s of Cyberians in the course of my 14-odd years of connectivity, it has been a long time since so many “old friends” were gathered in a single place. It made me realize how the ways we connect have changed, and it also made me realize how the way introverts and extraverts “feel connected” is usually rather different.

One of my dearest friends of some six years was there… 100′s of emails, but this was the first time we’d occupied the same space. Another friend of about eight years was there, too… now partnered with yet another friend whom I met at the very first retreat of this kind I went to. In a sense, we also had a xanga “mini gathering” (completely inadvertent and unplanned, I might add), as I got to meet fellowxangans S2Know (on whose site you’ll find the “evidence” that I really am rather tall, I’m not just making it up), sprolee, CanadianBear and WildernessLiving.

Sitting on the plane going home, I realized that I had been with my “chosen” family. We may not get along with our blood relatives… but there’s something amazing about having a chosen family. What we shared was much more than just “going to a workshop;” we shared authentic human connections… in this fast-paced world that seldom allows anything but the most superficial. And I feel connected to this family, and I realize that “connection” is precisely what you make it… something we define for ourselves, and not something we should let others define for us.

This music (courtesy of brilliant composer Thomas Newman, whose talent for evoking emotional states is perhaps unsurpassed among modern composers) accompanied me, as I wrote this… so I decided to let it accompany you, as you read. Assuming, of course, that you stay to read….

Sometimes I find that I just need to back away, in order to get perspective.

Sometimes the swirls of stuff; of possible outcomes; of life itself, get so dense and confusing that I realize that I must be looking to closely at something, to the point where I can’t really see what sits in front of me. The Greek Chorus of my insecurities and doubts chimes in that I think too much– and I believe that is entirely possible, even though I have no idea what “too much” really is. Too much for you? Too much for me?

Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

I examine, and write what floats to the top, in response.

I got to thinking about this virtual space, to where I come and send musings and words out into the world. I don’t write here very often, anymore. I was thinking that I had perhaps just grown “bored” or maybe “too busy” to care… but on a deeper level, this “place” feels like it has “served its purpose.” A bit like… you have a bird feeder, into which you put just the right mix of bird seed, to attract some extremely rare and unique species. It could be anything– an insight, a person, an epiphany, a teacher. Day after day, year after year, you put out the food. Then, one day, the bird appears. You marvel and count yourself among the fortunate few who have actually beheld such rare beauty.

But then what?

Do you continue to put out feed, with the same determination and steadfastness you once showed? Do you continue to feed the birds, “just because,” or do you find something else to do?

In some ways, I originally came here to “be me.” Maybe that sounds weird, since we’re all– basically– ourselves. I guess when I say “be me,” it’s more a case of getting rid of filters. Learning to Be, without filters. It’s funny, in a way, how a handful of people who have known me since way-back-when have occasionally visited these pages and commented how this didn’t really seem to “be me.” It was helpful feedback, in the sense that I realized that they had known an Illusion, rather than Authenticity. I suppose I had some curiosity, as to what “me” meant, in the context of the world… but that was really the extent to which I had any kind of “other orientation.” Which, I suppose, I feel compelled to say in response to those who believe blogging is about ego-gratification.

I suppose what I ended up reflecting on, this morning, was the issue of “truth” and “illusion,” and the realm of finding and living our authentic truths, rather than play whatever “games” we feel driven to pursue, because we’re feeling unsure of ourselves and/or are socialized to believe they represent what we “should” pursue. We often “think” we’ve reached our authentic selves, even as our insecurities are in the driver’s seat, guiding us towards some kind of pseudo-truth. The real truth often remains hidden. And there’s no guarantee that authenticity is necessarily “pretty” or “nice.” Often its very lack of platitudes is what upsets people… we don’t like our apple carts upset, and human beings.

And so, as I stepped back and thought about my words, and this “community,” and authenticity, and learning to “be me,” I was reminded of “incidents” in my life, when my truth (at least then, in those moments) came to the forefront.

I was six or seven years old, and playing outside in the yard at my friend Henrik’s house, back in Denmark. A couple of other boys were there, too… one was a bit of a bully, and he seemed to “get” that I was an easy mark. He had this English policeman’s whistle, and kept blowing it. Noticing that I winced every time he did so, he decided to pursue me, blowing that whistle in my face. And so, I got up and ran… and practiced my talent for becoming “invisible,” hiding under the front steps to the house, and not coming out till the boy with the whistle– his name was Jan– went away.

While sitting under the stairs, I had some moments of clarity… I saw the “big picture” and failed to understand it, and failed to find my part in it. Why did people seem to “relate” through hurting each other? Why was there camraderie in having a fight? Why did married couples argue fiercely and slam doors, and call it “love?” Why did people create “chaos,” even as they spoke of their desire to find “peace?” I turned inward on myself and pondered why– even as he tormented me– I had absolutely no inclination to want to hurt Jan. Everyone I knew would most likely have tried to beat him up. And then I stumbled upon the larger mystery of why there seemed to be nobody else “like me.” And I pondered why seemingly well-meaning adults would pat me on the head and patronizingly say “Oh, you are just thinking too much,” when I would approach them with the greater question of why people reach for conflict rather than connection and understanding. Then I was told I needed to “play the game” in order to get along in the world. I didn’t want a game, I just wanted to be me. I just wanted everyone to get along.

For the first time, I formed some kind of idea about “truth” and being oneself. And recognized that it was something that makes people feel alone.

I was seventeen years old, and at boarding school in the UK. One morning, I found myself headed into the showers, walking across the outdoor cobblestone courtyard, on a rainy dark day. I entered the bath and shower hall, as the first person of the morning to do so. As I came around one of the interior partition walls, I found a boy– of about fourteen years of age– who had hung himself with the belt from his judo kit. He was a soft-spoken, gentle, sensitive person who’d never hurt anyone… but was the chosen prey of many school bullies, because all he did was stand there and take it, without lashing out in reactive anger. For a moment, I saw myself hanging there, and felt how close I was to his fate. And again… I had complete clarity in seeing how the entire world seemed to be built on people visiting pain and suffering upon each other. And the poor kid, whose lifeless body was hanging there, seemed like a symbol for the world around me… as well as a horrible warning to those who don’t play the game. I didn’t want a game, I just wanted to be me.

I was thirty-two years old. My life was pretty much a giant stinking pit of manure. Crumbling marriage that had already been “over” for several years, meaningless rat race, a hefty income but a mountain of debt, in spite of so-called “success,” a life that seemed dismal and oddly predictable to such a degree that I realized that I was 32, and basically “waiting to die.” I could already see every step I would take, from here till the end. Or, at least, every step that went with the path I was on. I didn’t mind the predictability, so much as the seeming inevitability of eternal nothingness. I was seriously thinking about suicide as a very real option to get away from “it.” “It” being a world that was all about illusion, facade and “playing the game.” About getting ahead, often at the expense of someone else. My discontent was perhaps a result of feeling caught in the vortex of “the game,” and feeling like nothing about it was “right.” Feeling like I didn’t fit. Realizing that I was no good at it, and that I was faking it.

It was 1992. I went to the movie threater to see Cameron Crowe’s movie “Singles,” which is– in my opinion– one of the more insightful vignettes about the human condition Hollywood has managed to come up with in the last 20 years. I was struck by– and deeply related to– the scene in which Linda and Steve meet at a club and she tells him ”I think your ‘game’ is that you don’t have a game.”

It bothered me, in a way, that statement. I was bothered by the idea that no matter what you choose, someone, somewhere, will want to dismiss you as a cliché… and will insist that you’re still “playing the game.” I wanted something else. But the world is not built for those who don’t play the game, because it is the playing field on which we relate. I was offended that even being oneself is seen as a “game.”

I was thirty-five years old. I had spent a few years examining what “it” all meant. My soon-to-be-ex was living in another state, and we were “pretending” to still be married. Pretending we could “fix it,” through marriage counseling. Pretending there was even anything there worth fixing. One evening, I found myself at my friend Diana’s apartment. We’d known each other for a long time… years back, she and her husband had been close friends with my ex and I, in that “couples way” couples seem to have. Now we were both separated, and about to become divorced.

I was very down on myself and lamenting that fact that I just hadn’t been able to “become” whatever it was I was needed to be. The conversation turned deep and strange, perhaps helped along by the wine, perhaps by a shared intimacy growing out of the fact that we’d secretly had crushes on each other, for almost a decade. Perhaps the weirdness was amplified by the fact that she had grown very jaded and cynical, while I continued to single-mindedly pursue the “search for self,” through some path of compassion and openmindedness. Or perhaps not the search, exactly… but the insistence that I “had to” live as I felt myself to be.

I was facing it, front and center, as the marriage was winding down. I did not hate my ex, was not “at war” with her, and wanted the best for her. I was constantly accosted by friends who insisted that we were “getting along far too well” to get divorced, and that I was just deluding myself and in denial… that in “reality” I would come to understand that I “should be” hateful and angry.

Somewhere in the evening, Diana told me I was just “too nice” for my own good… and insinuated that I needed to stop playing the “nice” card. In one of my rare assertive moments, I challenged her to consider the possibility that maybe what she perceived to be “playing” was actually my essence. It took us down an interesting rabbit hole, in which we examined the odd reality of “EVERYone likes Peter” I’d always been living under. I tend to not talk about it, because it feels so conceited to make a statement like that. But it was true. Even before I was “vocal,” a couple of child psychologists who visited my parents as friends commented on what a peaceful, content and self-contained baby I seemed to be… even while they worried about my developmental well-being, because I was NOT having tantrums or testing limits. 35 years later, Diana was telling me that I was the only man she’d ever met with whom she felt no danger of any kind, and free to be completely open… even while she was telling me not to be “playing the nice game.” Very symmetrical…

I don’t remember all the exact details of the conversation (that’s wine, for you!) but some parts remain clear. At the heart of it, the fact that I was never “trying” to make people like me… but that I had never felt heard and seen for myself, as a result of which I felt compulsively driven in life to allow whomever came through my awareness to “simply be,” in an environment that offered the physical/emotional/spiritual safety I never experienced. Even if I never had it, perhaps I could at least offer it to others. In sense, as Benjamin Franklin once said “If you would be loved, love, and be loveable.”

Somewhere in there, another moment of clarity occurred; the realization that I had always felt most alien in the world during those times when I was “most myself.” Perhaps… because those times when I was “most myself” also coincided with every comment from the outside, insisting that I really “couldn’t be” who I said I was, often accompanied by assertions of “delusion,” “denial” and “game-playing.” In Diana’s jaded perspective, “nobody is as nice as you, unless they are playing a game to ‘get’ something, or they are out to get their ego stroked.” A recent incident in my personal life reminded me of these words, of hers.

Now, I should kick in a footnote here, that Diana (at the time) was a practicing psychotherapist with a lot of experience, and not just someone pulling psychobabble out of her ass.

I wanted to know what it would mean if I was truly not “trying to get” anything, and just being the way I was because it felt right and like what I wanted to be.

“What if this is really who I am?” I said.

“If that’s really who you are, you’ll live a life in which you are very, very popular, and very, very alone.”

“Alone? Why alone?” I wanted to know.

“People trade on their need to feel special and uniquely loved and cared about. When you treat someone with total kindness and compassion, they love you for it, whether that’s your deliberate intent, or not. They feel special. But when you treat EVERYone with the same kindness and compassion, nobody feels ‘special.’ Unless you play ‘favorites,’ people will not understand where they ‘stand,’ in relation to you. And so, everyone will want to feel that love and kindness, but since you basically afford the same kindness to your neighbor as to the love of your life, you will ultimately be alone because you cannot be kind to everyone and hope to build a special connection with anyone.” 

Her words stung, which is why I still remember them, although the above is not a verbatim recollection. Her whole subtle innuendo that I “needed to be” something other than myself, in order to get on in life hurt me. She was also the first person who more or less directly told me there was something “missing,” in me… that I “had to be hiding” something. Many people have since made similar observations about “not knowing” who I truly am… and yet, none have ever been able to tell me what it is they are looking for– only that something seems “missing.” One of my old Teachers once observed that it often scares us when we can’t see our own rage, insecurity, jealousy, envy, greed, angst and pain reflected back from those around us, so we project (almost as a form of psychological self-defence) those things onto anyone who doesn’t show them.

I was forty-two years old. I was having a lengthy email discussion with a friend about the great difficulties we both had experienced in finding meaningful connections in life, both in friendship, and in love. Most of the discussion revolved around destructive patterns, and how– even though we almost always “knew better”– we would almost always find ourselves caught up in chaos and suffering. Chaos, not of our making (although it does take two to tango; chaos, brought to our doorstep… often accompanied by the insistance that unless we participate in the chaos, we “had to be” “detached” and “uncaring.” And should we dare to claim that we had no need for chaos, we’d be assured that we were merely “in denial,” because “everyone” feels that way.

She related to me something one of our mutual Teachers, Russ Hudson, had shared, at a workshop. He’d said “You will discover that as your level of self-awareness, self-acceptance and inner peace grows larger, so the group of your true peers grows smaller.” And therein lies one of the great ironies of living, and of seeking the true meaning of your life, and your place in it: The more capable you become of forming healthy connections, the more alone you become. In the broadest of senses, people talk about the need to “compromise” in order to get along, in the world, with people, with lovers. But most compromises are merely us giving our consent to be sucked back into the game…

And so, I arrive at yesterday. A random person asked me a question about something I am selling on eBay. I just sat back and wrote her the kind of answer I would want, were I the questioner. She wrote back, and told me I was the first and only person she had encountered who actually responded to a “non-sales” inquiry, and she asked a few more questions. Which I candidly answered, and sent back, with some additional suggestions, as a result of which a brief exchange followed… at the end of which was a “vibe.”

And so, I stopped. I stepped back, for perspective, and into the space from where I am now writing these words. Not because there was a vibe. Not because there was marginal “gushing” over my taking a few minutes to help someone. Not because I sensed the earliest signs of some kind of idealistic transference. But because of the world I am looking at… where I felt the profound sadness of a place in which someone taking a few moments to help another and allowing them the space to feel heard is SO unusual that people assign huge importance to it.

How did we become so disconnected from our source energy; from the basic compassion and truth within us? Why are Diana and Russ right, and what we aspire to is a rarity, rather than the norm? Why the perception that people with the attributes we admire most must be– almost by defintion– “fake” and “hiding something?”

I am 47 years old. I have almost nothing, and I know almost nothing. I have no “career,” I have no “assets,” I have no “success,” I have accomplished little in the greater scale of life. The one thing I do have, is the knowing of “being me,” along with an unwavering belief that kindness, compassion and love form the cornerstone of Right Being, no matter what skepticism someone might bring to my doorstep. I am an imperfect human, living in an imperfect world. In a few weeks, I take this “Being, without Knowing” to a retreat, where I have somehow ended up as co-host, and somehow have ended up co-facilitating a couple of workshops.

Perhaps “wisdom” is merely a matter of perception.

All I was ever asking for was peace, love and harmony. And I intend to continue being love, and sharing love… not because I “get” something, but because it’s simply the right way to live. As someone said to me, recently, if you do something and feel right about it, regardless of whether you’ll get anything in return, then that’s living your essence.

Then again, maybe I think too much….

If you have read to the end, thank you for sharing in my self-indulgent musings. The significance of the music is that it also represents who I am. The esoteric worldbeat and trance I normally post are but a tiny fragment of the musical landscape that follows my life…. for all I know, you’ll share the point of view of one person I know who heard these compositions and responded by saying “Great. Now I need to go hang myself.” Why do we fear sadness so much?

My moments as a writer are very fleeting. That is, my moments of true clarity and insight are fleeting… and if I don’t capture them there and then, they vanish on the breeze… even something as trivial as needing to go to the bathroom will interrupt the flow. Phone calls kill everything.

Of course, I still “write,” but in a much more pedantic and workmanlike way… even though I’ve had what I perceive as “pedantic” described by others as “better than 99% of the population.” In the end, it’s my own perception that counts; that’s my frame of reference. And, to me, it feels flat and two-dimensional.

My inner struggles with writing usually revolve around finding balance between solitude and connection. My inspiration comes from connection, and from touching a myriad points of energy– people, ideas, thoughts, feelings, events… but the insights about them only flow in solitude. When I sit alone, in retreat, and think “Wow, now I will have peace and quiet to write!” rarely does anything of value flow. I need some kind of transportation device that allows me to stand on a crowded street where the moment of insight occur… that instantly takes me to an empty space with a blank page, where I can feel 100% secure that nobody and nothing will interrupt the flow.

Yeah, I know. “Good luck!”

I suppose we all have different “sticking points” in our journeys. Blockages, if you will. In those contexts, our self-perception is typically quite different from “other-perception.” Most of the time, others are far more forgiving and accepting of us than we are of ourselves.

I am a “teacher” of sorts; I am seen as a “mentor” by a rather large (and growing) number of people. Some part of me shrinks from those terms, because I worry about people putting too much faith in someone (that would be me) who doesn’t really have any answers. On reflection, the only worthwhile thing I feel I can share is to encourage people to find their own answers, and to recognize that their unique answers come from within them… not from somewhere “out there.”

The first time I heard some variation on that theme, I thought it was the most trite and overused cliché on the planet. It just annoyed the *%$#(& out of me. I wanted answers and fixes. But the thing is… are are no people on “fine white chargers” who’ll bring us absolution and connection; nobody will come and serve us up a perfect life on a platter.

Perhaps the ultimate epiphany comes when we recognize… and truly embrace… the importance of thinking for ourselves. And then to step forward and be active agents in our own lives… because, after all, “life” is not a spectator sport.

Happy Labor Day, to all!

I hope– for your sake– that you are NOT laboring, today.

For the first time since the mid-80s, I find myself NOT sitting here on this day, wondering when the first cool front is going to come in take away some of the misery of relentless summer heat. You’d think someone couldn’t get that wrapped up in “the weather,” especially someone who self-confesses to be incapable of staying interested in Small Talk.

And the weather, after all, is the pinnacle of small talk, no?

I suppose that when something weighs really heavily on us– and permeates most of our thoughts, and almost our entire existence– that “something” can go from being small, to being of major importance.

When you feel physical discomfort at temperatures above 76-78 degrees, and it hasn’t been below 80 (even at 4:00am) for 90 days, then the weather becomes something more than “small talk.”

But I am not here to talk about the weather, of course.

The thing that puzzles me– about the weather, about anything seemingly “trivial”– is the fact that it often takes this huge effort for me (and for lots of other people; you probably recognize yourself) to “persuade myself” that my intuitive sense that some trivial issue that “shouldn’t matter” is actually having a huge impact on my life, in terms of general physical well-being and emotional balance.

Maybe it’s the “shouldn’t matter” that’s key, here.

The “shouldn’t matter” seems to have its roots in some greater societal myth that basically amount a variation of “grow where you’re planted.” Sure, I can’t argue with the fact that there’s wisdom in the notion of “making the most of your situation.” If we didn’t, we’d be forever complaining, and always longing for the mythological “greener pastures” on the other side of some imaginary fence.

But there are limits.

There are places where the platitudes just don’t make sense.

It may be that we should try to grow and thrive where we are “planted” (and I mean that in a very broad sense– geographically, relationally, spiritually, and so forth), but you just can’t stick a Fuchsia in the ground in the middle of the desert, and expect it to do anything but wilt and die.

My point being, that if you find yourself planted in fallow ground, your intentions– no matter how good– will not make you grow and thrive.

Sometimes I see a version of this unfold with relationships. Two people may genuinely love each other to bits– but, for whatever reason– they have a couple of completely fundamental differences that mean that no matter what, one or the other must be unhappy. Sometimes love (and commitment) is not enough. And you can love someone enormously, without being able to live with each other unless one– or the other– packs away and gives up some core truth.

I see so many sad people, trying to make a go of it, in barren soil. And I am not excusing myself, as I once was part of that paradigm. I guess what makes it sad is that these folks often recognize (at least peripherally) that they are suffering… but they attribute their pain to “not trying hard enough,” rather than the deeper reality that they are “planted” somewhere they can never grow.

“Change” (and I mean REAL, deep-level personal change) is an interesting critter… because it always has “emotional roots,” and it can be difficult to peel away enough layers of the onion of “self” to get at the core that needs addressing. Even when we think we’ve done well, and changed a lot, we often encounter another layer we hadn’t considered. Could be that we have had a pattern of choosing abusive bosses in our work; then we break that habit… only to discover a “greater” pattern of choosing work we really don’t like… so we break that habit, and find something we love… only to discover a greater pattern that we don’t feel like we “deserve” to be fairly compensated for our contribution…. and so forth. We do it with work, we do it with relationships… we do it with all things.

We have “meta patterns” that can be incredibly difficult to get at… and hard to break, if toxic… because we’re as attached to them as a baby duck popping out of an egg, seeing an adult duck and going “ma-ma!”

And then… there’s the great “Cosmic Joke,” at the end of the rainbow.

Once you get “there” (or some semblance thereof), you discover that you’re the only one there. Or maybe you always were the only one there… because there’s “nothing” there, no matter where you go.

As you can see… this picture taken recently from the front porch… my rainbow ends at a stop sign, at the intersection of 50th and Kuhn….

Somehow, I can’t help but think there might be a deeper message, there. Perhaps that message is that I have been running for so long that I have forgotten (or never knew) how to just stop and be still. And I am reminded… by the relative “silence” I find, when I look inside myself for words to write. Where there once was a flood of things that “had to be said” and “had to get out,” there’s relatively little.

Which is cool, in a way, since it was what I was always working towards.

Isn’t it?

It’s funny, how differently people respond to ideas they don’t agree with.

Some become quite militant and argumentative, some grow tight-lipped and cold, some expansively declare those of differing views to be “idiots” and yet others just walk away. The thing that sometimes astonishes me is just how few people seem capable of saying something like “I respect that this is your point of view, but that’s not how I see it.”

I do find myself wondering about those who are so deeply invested in having everyone around them share their point of view. On some intuitive/psychic level, it almost feels to me like their own identities are coming into question whenever someone else is “allowed” to have a diverse viewpoint.

Many people would tend to stereotypically attribute this kind of behavior to the profoundly religious who try to convert everyone around them… but that would be a gross generalization. Just think about how locked-in people can get, when it comes to anything from politics to family morality.

Those who know me well also know that I can be fairly stubborn. Stubborn, that is, in terms of defending my own points of view. But I care very little whether or not someone else has the same point of view. Sure, I will choose to hang out with those I predominantly agree with (and vice-versa) because I don’t care to waste my time nit-picking and fighting with people.

The other day, someone left a rather derogatory to bordering-on-rude comment on a post here, and several people messaged me, wondering if I was going to “leave it there” or “take him to task.” My answer to which is “What is the sound of ONE person fighting?” I don’t care– he can have his point of view. Often, a person’s own actions can be a much better “rebuttal” than having a brawl with them.

But what the hay… I’ve always been a peacenik.

“Better,” “Worse,” or “Just Different?”

I expect that few who read these words can miss the fact that I like to examine life; to take a long hard look at “what’s there,” and to seek some kind of meaning in the things I see out there.

There are people in my life who have gotten (or get) frustrated by this. They often make the point to me that they are more interested in “applied” life.

I have no problem with that… we each have to find things that make sense to us. The problem arises, when people want to start sorting “just different” approaches into “good” and “bad,” and “right” and “wrong,” and some other long list of qualifiers.

How often is something actually “bad” in the broad sense of the word? When a friend of mine says “I just can’t go out with Mike anymore, because he’s such a bad kisser,” does that really mean that Mike is a “bad” kisser, or does it merely mean that Mike kisses in a way that doesn’t feel like the way you want to be kissed? Not withstanding the fact that “bad” can exist, in some cases, isn’t it entirely possible that Sophie over there, would think that Mike is an absolutely dreamy kisser?

Why do we apply these good, bad, right, wrong terms so easily, liberally and universally? And we do… in politics, in families, in love, in religion, in bed, at work…. and so often, the outcome is a heap of hurt, both for other people, as well as for ourselves.

A friend of mine talks about my “analysis paralysis.” That I “think about” the consequences of life, rather than just “living it.” Of course, I “prove” her right by going straight into an introspective contemplation of whether or not her approach is resulting in her living a happy life. After a bit of that action, I conclude that her approach may– or may not– be working for her, but that it wouldn’t work for me. And, that the issue really isn’t about that, but about all the times people “need” others to conform to their realities, to varying degrees.

Don’t get me wrong, I love sharing ideas of with others… and I’m always excited when someone adopts one of my ideas and their existence feels brighter to them, as a result. However, I have no attachment to anyone thinking my ideas are cool, helpful, or interesting. Ideas simply “are,” much like rain.

I am slowly getting into teaching. That is, I have been asked to facilitate workshops at the HSP Retreats I periodically mention in these pages. I find myself less concerned about my general discomfort around public speaking and presentation, than I do about the possibility that people will attach too much “meaning” to what is nothing more than “ideas.” I feel concerned that some will think I have “THE ANSWER,” when all I really have is an idea or two, and I barely have any answers, for myself.

One of my favorite concepts is INTERdependence. To me it implies that we’re all connected and open to sharing and exchange as part of our well-being, while remaining autonomous and self-directed. I have been through the whole cycle of INdependence, COdependence, and straight dependence… and they so rarely seem to manifest in what I’d call “healthy expression.” Interdependence is compassionate, but not needy and clingy.

It’s also, sadly, quite rare. Most often, I hear people say “nice idea, but who’s actually that adult and secure?” Maybe I’m just an idealist…

I want you to care about me, not take care of me.
I want to care about you, not take care of you.
I want you to help me, not control me.
I want to help you, not control you.
I want to support your changes, not change you.
I want you to support my changes, not try to change me.
I want to let you be 100% you, when you’re with me.
I want you to let me be 100% me, when I’m with you.

You know, the 3xdubya really is a marvelous thing. Seriously. I found myself searching for an utterly obscure Australian band from the 80′s, and ended up on the Australian Rock Database, which is located on a Swedish web site, operated by a fellow from Belgium. I mean… what could be cooler than that, in terms of connectivity?

And no, the embedded music is NOT them. Some acts simply go away… but I still have vinyl, and the means to play it. Hah!

I have been pondering “connectivity” recently, and the multiple meanings people assign to the idea of “connecting” with others. I made a new friend back in June, and found myself mildly amazed at the fact that she’d (for all intents and purposes) never turned on a computer, and never used email, prior to the middle of this year. But there’s an odd symmetry in the “miscues” that go with that… as I find myself as utterly dumbfounded at the idea of someone being able to live completely outside the realm of email, the web and everything inside the box… and she finds herself utterly dumbfounded at the idea that I am actually “getting something” from the intricate network of connective threads I have been building since I laid my phone handset in one of those old “cradle” modems and dialed in to .alt BBS systems at a time when a “staggering” 100,000(!) people were signed up on AOL.

Of course, the discussion of what is “real” and what is “not real” is ancient… and I won’t go into details about that, even though it seems to be a debate that will never die. But I did end up sitting down and thinking about where and how I formed my ideas about connectivity.

Back before the Internet, there were still “two kinds” of people. Those who solely moved in their local realm, and those who extended their interests and inquiries “beyond,” through written letters. I suppose I learned most of my “social nature” from my mother…. and even though she was a hugely extraverted person with dozens of friends (I’m an introvert), what I also observed was the vast network of correspondence she maintained. It was a rare day when there wasn’t a letter from some other part of the country, or a foreign place. Often, there were 3-4 letters a day. As such, the underlying idea of “reaching out” beyond the people in the neighborhood, and whom I’d bump into at school was already sown by her example. I wrote letters extensively from about age 8-9 and forward, and didn’t really slow down until the advent of email. Ans when email did come along, it was never some great “mystery,” nor did the Internet ever seem like a “scary” thing… merely a different way of “delivering mail.”

Naturally, we all know that the Internet is much more than just a “mail delivery system.” I am just talking about the precedent, and how easy it seemed to be (and I have tested this with other people) for letter writers to transition to this electronic format.

Which brings me back to considering these thoughts about what “connecting” means to different people. For some, clearly, there IS no “connection” unless people are actually sitting in the same room, drinking tea and munching on cucumber sandwiches. For me (as for countless others) “connection” doesn’t require a physical presence, per se; virtual connections are merely a form of connection that is no more or less real than the conversation you have with your neighbor. And for a fair number of folks, there’s a seamless transition between “the virtual” and “the real,” with the connections in their lives flitting in and out of cyberspace. When I think about it (perhaps a bi-product of the fact that I travel around a lot for workshops and retreats), I know know a large number of people I have met in meatspace whom I keep in touch with by email, and I know a large number people I’ve met in cyberspace, whom I’ve subsequently met in fleshspace. For ME that feels completely natural… and I always end up doing a double-take when someone is startled and responds almost as if I am slightly psychotic and delusional.

And they think I’m even more psychotic when I share that the person I feel closest to… in all my soon-to-be 47 years… is someone I connected with “in here.” And I’m sure they’d call for the guys in white lab coats at the idea of love in virtual space.

As always, I keep coming back to two ideas. One, that we need to find whatever it is that works for US; works for ME. And two, find the middle way. Being glued to the computer 24/7 means you’ll miss out on a whole lot. However, refusing to turn one on, ALSO means you’ll miss out on a whole lot.

Music from the Cistern Chapel

This is an interesting town.

Last night, I went to a “happening.” Or maybe it was a “concert”, since hundreds of people showed up for an outdoor venue, on a blustery weeknight. Keep in mind, only 8,000 people live here….

Visualize this: A flat circular grassy clearing on a hilltop in the woods, in the middle of a 500-acre state park. The clearing is surrounded by tall trees on three sides; the fourth overlooks the Puget Sound, with the Cascades rising behind islands, across the water; if you pay attention, you can see snow covered Mt. Baker and Mt. Rainier in the distance. The sky seems clear near the horizon; gray clouds drift overhead, on a somewhat stiff breeze.

In the clearing, an assemblage of people in portable chairs, on blankets, on the grass… probably the largest congregation of fleece wear you’ll see in a long time. Some are having picnic dinners on their blankets; some are lying down, seemingly asleep. All ages are here, from toddlers to octogenrians. And a few dogs.

At each compass point, at the edge of the clearing, a large concert speaker. Six feet below all the people… a facility locally known as “The Cistern Chapel:” A two million gallon concrete tank that once held the water supply for Fort Worden (if– back in the dark ages– you saw the movie “An Officer and a Gentleman,” it was filmed here), now empty, cleaned, and coated with a newer layer of concrete.

This tank is prized by musicians for its unique acoustics… specifically for the 45-second reverberation of sound it produces, without any bouncing echoes. You play a single note, and it hangs in the air for 3/4 of a minute. In a way, like Canyon de Chelly, only different.

Inside the cistern, four musicians from very different backgrounds, playing trombone, trumpet, didgeridoo, conch shell, garden hose, and a variety of other “instruments;” the sound fed up to the audience above, as they play their own version of “music from the underworld,” for a little more than an hour. Nobody but the musicians can be inside the tank… every sound (including someone coughing, or shifting their feet) is amplified and would become part of the performance for 45 seconds.

The music… hypnotic, mesmerizing, otherworldly, primordial and psychotropic. The acoustics of the cistern does something to the sound quality of the instruments… although no electronic gear or enhancements were used, the sound is spacey, unreal– as if it could not possibly have been made by humans. Above, the effect is profound. Almost as one, those gathered fall into a sort of mass trance; some so deep in a meditative state you’d expect them to all of a sudden levitate; others with facial expressions that suggest they are no longer part of this reality.

Then it is over, and people disperse into the woods.

About the “Cistern Chapel”

Below, a video snippet from last night’s event.

Also check out Stuart Dempster’s recordings, through the “now listening” link that goes with this post.