Allegiance to the Earth

 

For years I’ve flown a blue flag with a picture of planet Earth rather than the flag of the United States. 

What if everyone was first a citizen of the Earth and each other, and secondarily a citizen of a particular nation?

Despite mottos that we’re all one in our diversity, nationalism actually conflates our differences as we wonder if those whose lives aren’t mirrors of our own are truly part of the nation.

If, however, I become curious about difference, I realize those divergences of belief, attitude, cultural practice, language, food choice, etc. are sites of expansion, exploration, and possibility.

If Earth were our guide to difference, we would celebrate the astonishing diversity that allows every single entity to flourish at a granular level. That’s the kind of individualism we talk about supporting when we tout our freedom, but don’t actually enact very often because of the crushing conformity of a cultural story to assimilate and fit in to belong.

What does it mean to belong to Earth first? Prioritizing what makes this earthly home sing, not ache. Taking actions based on the answer to the question—does this wound or heal the planet? Protecting remaining wildness and beauty. Taking time to be in the natural world and receive its gifts.

To belong to each other means I’m as safe and successful as the least secure human. Utter poverty may not seem to impact my daily life, but if affects my soul.

What decisions, purchases, and choices honor the artisan, worker, farmer, and laborer who actually made this product? What decisions lift them into sane living with clean water, shelter, enough food, education and opportunities to create and which ones keep them scrambling?

Living under an Earth flag means growing up. Looking beyond my own tastes, desires and comfort and acknowledging that I have a contribution to make and a responsibility to keep my eyes open when I see challenging circumstances and to do hard things.

Belonging to the Earth and to each other could transform the little interpersonal difficulties that dot my days by providing a larger, and far more urgent, context in which to work, live, and interact.

Belonging to Earth and everyone could seem overwhelming, but it’s actually what feeds us, gives fresh oxygen to our psyches, and keeps the lifeforce moving.

Today, on the eve of a national holiday of independence, I choose the Earth and you, which can only nourish this struggling democracy.

 

Chasing the New

 

I am recovering from a bout of new car fever.  After sorting all my clothes from a huge pile based on the principle “does this spark joy?” I realized my current car does not bring me joy. Surely, I deserve ecstasy every time I drive to the grocery store.

I remembered the other model when I was test driving my current car. I loved that car but decided to be practical and get the one that easily fits into our 1928 garage.

So off I went in search of perfection. I test drove and asked questions, drove more and created charts, researched specs and made columns to see which of these cars hit all the requirements.  I did more internet research, went back and drove different versions, and after two days, I went to bed unclear except that it had to be blue and asked for guidance.

Woke up the next morning knowing which one was it and texted the salesman. Sweet relief with such clarity.

And then, second thoughts.

Did I really want to spend this much money in a couple years on cars? After all, I work from home and rarely drive!

Did I really want to sell my 2020 Prius which has depreciated so much that I’d have paid almost $1 per mile it’s been driven since purchase?

Did I really need a bigger car, one that would make every single in and out of our narrow garage an exercise in mindfulness?

Why did I think a new car could deliver joy?

Whose agenda of prestige or status was I pursuing?

What would help me love my current car?

The next time I got into my grey Prius I said, “Good morning, sweet pea”  and gave it a tender pat. She now has a name. She tucks into my garage so effortlessly, gets 50 mpg, is paid for, and aligns with my values.

I can buy a better cushion to sit higher and get lumbar support. I can wash and vacuum more often, use an air freshener, and pay myself the savings with an experiential destination.

There’s no end to projects, areas to develop, and ways to grow, but shopping, hunting for that perfect something, is the easiest, most familiar use of my loose energies. That itch really means it's time to stop and create something, express myself, listen more deeply, or steep in silence.

If I didn’t get a new car, what other areas would get that money, attention and energy?

Time to deepen friendships, make my yard a beautiful sanctuary, write twhat  I want to create, visit my dream list of destinations, and immerse in the topics I teach, like addiction recovery, transformation, and resistance to change.

I am so relieved I promised myself I would NOT purchase something the very day I test drove it.  Those 48 hours allowed sanity to emerge and the dopamine rush of a spontaneous purchase to settle.

What do you do with your inner restlessness?

 

18 Years Today

 

Today I celebrate 18 years of continuous sobriety and want to reflect on tackling the beast of addiction and the benefits of recovery.

Not long ago I had a dream in which I bought a pack of cigarettes, drank alcohol, and ate ice cream. It’s been 34 years since I’ve had a cigarette and 10 months since I’ve had any sugar, and yet my inner addict is never far away.

Brian asked me if there were times in these 18 years when I was close to having a drink? Nothing recent came to mind, but the beginning certainly wasn’t easy.

Omar Manejewala writes, “You can’t fight cravings; you can only outgrow them.”

Facing an addiction requires growing in new ways when times are hard and the old coping mechanisms are ones I don’t want to use. I’ve learned to pray more earnestly than ever and to tell people what’s going on, even when it’s not pretty or doesn’t look like the put-together image I’d like to present.

I also have learned to take a deep breath, take a walk, take a nap, read a book, take a bath, drink tea, or journal about what’s eating me in order to ride the wave of desire, which is an old neural pathway that gets lit up when a situation emerges and escape seems like the best action.

Of course, I still escape. I read voraciously, I shop with tenacity for the “perfect” whatever I’m hunting for at the time, and I spend too much time rehearsing what I’m going to say, should have said, or should have kept to myself.

And none of this recovery happened overnight.  Identity gets formed over time, and in community, so hanging out with other recovering alcoholics and food addicts helps normalize what affects only a small percentage of the population actually. There's still plenty of stigma surrounding addiction, yet people in recovery are the happiest, most honest and generous people I know.

If someone had told me 30 years ago that someday I wouldn't smoke, drink, eat sugar or flour I would have gasped. But it gets easier.  I can do hard things because I don’t do them alone. I believe that anyone else can too. There’s nothing special that allows me and millions of others to be sober or abstinent while someone else struggles. We just made a decision and kept coming back until it stuck.

It’s not the easiest path, but it’s so worth it, that if you’re in a place of deciding to give up something that’s not serving you, please reach out and let others help.  You may, as I have, be given a life beyond your wildest dreams.

Puzzle Me This

 

It’s the season for jigsaw puzzles in our house.  Our dining table has been cleared and right now there are two 1000-piece puzzles being constructed on the ends.  Brian’s working on Van Gogh’s The Irises, which is too difficult for me. So I bought a puzzle that was my skill level. Every time I work on a jigsaw puzzle, the way I eventually see distinctions I didn’t at first strikes me.

When I first dump the puzzle out and turn the pieces over, I pile the edges together and make some large groupings by color. I’m not sure how many hours I need to immerse in the scene for finer differences to emerge.  In this puzzle—portraits of women in a museum—the frames seemed all the same at first, but each one is slightly different. The blues take on more subtle variations of shading, etc.

It feels magical when I find the exact piece for a spot after scanning what had once been an undifferentiated mass.

In life, what have I clumped together without seeing differences? It might be a group defined by race, ethnicity, gender, income, caste, occupation, age, etc. It could be a geographic, educational, or political affiliation. But not until I immerse myself in the actual community, through literature, media, or in-person connections, does the rich variety within every group get revealed.

What I know for sure is that the pieces don’t change; I do. It’s my perspective that grows more sophisticated because of the time, attention, and lack of judgement I bring. If I hated all the green puzzle pieces, I wouldn’t be as likely to notice variations. While some pieces/people are more immediately visible, every piece is essential, and ultimately we are all linked. It matters to look on the floor for missing pieces so that each one gets placed into the whole, creating a complete puzzle, a healthy community, and a well-functioning nation. We can’t afford to leave a single soul behind.

Only when I invest time, attention, and curiosity to the uniqueness of non-interchangeable people and ideas does something whole and holy emerge.

A Spacious Year

 I often choose a word or phrase to guide my year, and for 2021 it is spacious.

Here’s what happens when I don’t claim spaciousness during a day:

I snap at people to keep them away.

I eat too much to give myself a break.

I read anything, typically falling into the black hole of social media, rather than carefully choose what to read.

I shop.

I cut corners on meditation because the silence, which feels more like emptiness than spaciousness, has become less familiar and therefore scarier.

When I stop writing morning pages because writing by hand annoys me, I lose what has become a portal to inner wisdom.

Space is not a hole to be filled but something to explore, shape, and curate. 

If I have space in my day, without appointments, errands, meetings and chores lined up like spices on a too-small rack, I listen to my body, drink more water, rest, or stretch the muscles that call for attention.

On a spacious day I brush my hair, clean my glasses, put on earrings because I notice what’s needed.

With enough space I find my puppy charming and can give him guidance with a light heart. Without space our power struggle consumes me and I channel my own mother at her worst.

With space I drink tea when it’s actually hot, savoring the nuanced flavors. Without spaciousness, cups grow cold, get microwaved over and over, and I start longing for half and half to make the tea more enjoyable.

A spacious moment allows me to take in what is happening, process what I'm feeling, express it appropriately, and decide how to act next.  Otherwise I'm simply reacting to one atrocity after the next outrage, never feeling the deep grief that underlies most anger.

Spaciousness may be a privilege, but it is not a luxury. 

If people had the breathing, living, playing, creative, political space to attend to their dreams, desires, and loved ones, we’d have more creative solutions to our daily challenges.

May your 2021 be S P A C I O U S.

What if you just let yourself weep?

 

Today an inner voice said, “What if you just let yourself weep?”

Because having a puppy is harder than I thought

Because all the work decluttering seems for naught when I see how much I still have and how obscene it is in a global context

Because even being sober and abstinent isn’t a magic potion against feeling overwhelmed somedays

Because isolation is lonely and virtual connections don’t quite meet some primal need to connect

What if I just let myself weep without even knowing why?

Because we’re all connected and so many are hurting

What if I just let myself weep instead of bucking up, counting my blessings, or thinking of someone else for a change?

What if I just let myself weep?

How long would it last? 10 minutes? Thirty? An hour or more? Am I afraid I won’t stop?

If I wept every time I felt sad, scared,  anxious, impatient, out of my element, in over my head, or utterly alone, would it be like an afternoon tropical shower that clears the air and enhances the sun?

What if I just let myself weep because others have so hardened their hearts that some of us have taken on their quota of feeling?  

What if I let myself weep because some people won’t make it through these times, at all.

If I cry today I could feel lighter tomorrow and see glimmers of goodness and slivers of solace anywhere I truly looked. 

Why don’t you  just let yourself weep?

On Loving Work

 

I’m not a workaholic, for I can relax and be away from work without becoming anxious. But I do love to work. Intellectual and emotional labor is what my current job entails. I’m a well-trained listener and invite people to share details, stories, and memories of their lives. I notice patterns, phrases, and perhaps most often, what’s absent from speech but somehow here between us. That’s where I gently probe. My career requires concentration, presence, and effort, but it doesn’t exhaust me and is never boring.

I need physical work to be happy as well. My favorite vacations are visits with people who need my help with some project, or travel to beautiful places where I can hike each day. Walking the Camino de Santiago was sublime pleasure for me. I prefer having a destination when I walk.

Work provides purpose, which keeps the life force moving through me. I have noticed that people who retire without a project often turn their health into their life’s purpose. Couples with nothing new to create once the family is raised have a harder time staying together.

As I descended to the basement for a second time this morning, I realized that this kind of physical effort to clean, replenish supplies, and release what no longer serves is what connects me to humans throughout time.

Our ancient connection to the actual work of staying alive played a big part in my love of camping: making a shelter, building a fire, cooking food and cleaning up to prevent animal encroachment feels primal and satisfying. Resting in that deep lap of time brings comfort.

It’s always seemed ironic that the work of tending bodies and souls of children, the old, and the ill pays the lowest wages in this society, whereas abstract work with money, paper, and numbers pays so highly. I’ve come to believe that the intrinsic reward of work that has immediate value offsets the low wage while work that has been made up and doesn’t serve people in a tangible way requires more monetary reward to justify itself. It's  not just but it makes a perverted sense.

Since the start of the pandemic, many people have devoted additional labor to their yards and houses. Now that we are spending more time at home, why not make it completely functional, even beautiful?  The privilege of this work is not lost on me: too many Americans are unhoused, and encampments in parks have highlighted the crisis we face and must resolve.

We have collective work ahead of us. Establishing practices, policies, attitudes, and systems that don’t let anyone fall through the cracks will call upon all our talents, energies, and ancient knowledge. Such work can renew our sense of purpose, connection, and joy. 

I’m ready.