One of the Buddhist maxims I stumbled across last night said that as a part of ritual to start the day I was to look at someone with gratitude. Other things involved in the ritual for commencing the day involved carefully preparing my meal, washing my bowl afterward, meditating and reading something silently.
Most of the stuff I do already. It is funny but one can be very mindful when preparing oatmeal and tea at the start of a day. And I usually read something spiritually/morally focused before I begin my first case.
When I first thought about the suggested look of gratitude I wondered how difficult it would be. Conveying gratitude is conveying appreciation or thankfulness. While I have contact with many people during the day, their acts carried out toward me are just done in the normal course of the stream of existence; they aren’t favors or kindnesses. Most people are just part of the world and on a basic gut level it doesn’t seem like I owe them thanks just for being.
As I thought about this I circled back to the concepts of mindfulness and acceptance. Each person I interact during each day is a sentient being and I owe them respect. Their lives are as fraught as mine with sadness and pain, struggle and doubt. In many cases the people I deal with are more tormented than I am. Many have sought refuge from the burdens of this world in chemicals and have allowed addiction to overcome their selves. Still it is easy to think that I don’t owe them thanks.
The people I work with as coworkers are just trying to make it from sunrise to sunset. They do what life has trained them to do in giving their effort. For the most part they are not overtly hostile. Sometimes they are downright helpful. Okay sometimes I owe them thanks but it is not a continuous thing.
However as Pablo Neruda said in his Noble Laureate acceptance speech we are all doing this clumsy dance of life together before a fire in a great unknown wilderness in an infinite night. Life is the fire itself in my mind and the dark wilderness and night is all that lies beyond this life. Using this metaphor I can appreciate that each and every person I come into contact with is doing the same dance that I am. I can look at them with gratitude for I am grateful they are willing to dance with me in the light and warmth of life’s fire.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Do not speak- unless it improves on silence.
Ah my soul felt empty this morning. The kids are home from school and camps have not begun. Things that might benefit them like reading books or riding their bikes are not even on their radar. Instead the allure of computer gaming draws their focus. The house is disheveled. My school board meeting last night was brutal so I spent the hour between its end and my going to sleep by watching a weird science fiction show that I really don’t care about. But I was drained. When I got up my soul was empty.
When that happens I have to pull out the tried and true resources, the Bible, Merton, Portals of Prayer, Moon in a Dewdrop or maybe my new read Everyday Zen. Merton won out this a.m. Merton’s reflections today in my Year with Thomas Merton were tied to a visit from a fellow monastic who was versed in both Christian and Eastern faiths. As Merton noted the visit he noted his perturbation with a loud tractor in a field near the monastery. It seemed to him that this year’s model was louder and more aggressive sounding.
To paraphrase Merton, our new machines, our bright shinning “improved” tools represent our fury, our restlessness, our avidity and ultimately our despair. Around and around both our machines and our “paths of progress” go; he viewed it as so many meaninglessly pieces of clanking metal on a giant circular path. In search of something better we travel on an empty sad path.
Our desires to get the next thing to fill a hole in our life never actually fill it. And we have repeated the cycle often enough to know at least at the subconscious level that the new boy or girl friend, the new blouse, the new car will not change us and make us happier. So often our attempts at making “it” better leave the problem (or perhaps a better term is the emptiness) worse than it was before.
There is an ad out now trying to sell an upgrade program at a big box electronics store. In essence the advert goes like this, if you buy a computer today the computer with the x factor will be released tomorrow and the little kid next door will make fun of you. If you buy into the optional upgrade program you will get some allotted portion of your current purchase price applied to the next best thing when you buy that. Did I mention meaningless clanking? In this case the meaningless clanking becomes ritualized. What we need is acceptance of ourselves in place in our world.
I guess this is just a long winded way of getting to the point of acceptance and mindfulness as a way to approach the day. What is mindfulness? “Mindfulness is the aware, balanced acceptance of the present experience. It isn't more complicated that that. It is opening to or receiving the present moment, pleasant or unpleasant, just as it is, without either clinging to it or rejecting it.” Sylvia Boorstein said this. Take today on its own terms mindfully you don’t need to fill any holes. Maybe it is better to say lose the passion to fill the holes.
The beauty of life is, while we cannot undo what is done, we can see it, understand it, learn from it and change.
So that every new moment is spent not in regret, guilt, fear or anger,
but in wisdom, understanding and love.
Jennifer Edwards
When that happens I have to pull out the tried and true resources, the Bible, Merton, Portals of Prayer, Moon in a Dewdrop or maybe my new read Everyday Zen. Merton won out this a.m. Merton’s reflections today in my Year with Thomas Merton were tied to a visit from a fellow monastic who was versed in both Christian and Eastern faiths. As Merton noted the visit he noted his perturbation with a loud tractor in a field near the monastery. It seemed to him that this year’s model was louder and more aggressive sounding.
To paraphrase Merton, our new machines, our bright shinning “improved” tools represent our fury, our restlessness, our avidity and ultimately our despair. Around and around both our machines and our “paths of progress” go; he viewed it as so many meaninglessly pieces of clanking metal on a giant circular path. In search of something better we travel on an empty sad path.
Our desires to get the next thing to fill a hole in our life never actually fill it. And we have repeated the cycle often enough to know at least at the subconscious level that the new boy or girl friend, the new blouse, the new car will not change us and make us happier. So often our attempts at making “it” better leave the problem (or perhaps a better term is the emptiness) worse than it was before.
There is an ad out now trying to sell an upgrade program at a big box electronics store. In essence the advert goes like this, if you buy a computer today the computer with the x factor will be released tomorrow and the little kid next door will make fun of you. If you buy into the optional upgrade program you will get some allotted portion of your current purchase price applied to the next best thing when you buy that. Did I mention meaningless clanking? In this case the meaningless clanking becomes ritualized. What we need is acceptance of ourselves in place in our world.
I guess this is just a long winded way of getting to the point of acceptance and mindfulness as a way to approach the day. What is mindfulness? “Mindfulness is the aware, balanced acceptance of the present experience. It isn't more complicated that that. It is opening to or receiving the present moment, pleasant or unpleasant, just as it is, without either clinging to it or rejecting it.” Sylvia Boorstein said this. Take today on its own terms mindfully you don’t need to fill any holes. Maybe it is better to say lose the passion to fill the holes.
The beauty of life is, while we cannot undo what is done, we can see it, understand it, learn from it and change.
So that every new moment is spent not in regret, guilt, fear or anger,
but in wisdom, understanding and love.
Jennifer Edwards
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Stuff in our Father’s Drawers-Performance
According to my child’s psychologist and his physician my youngest son is suffering from moderate depression. There have been suggestions that the relationship with his brother with Aspergers may be playing a significant part in gestating the depression.
This is a difficult time for me. Trust me when I say I too understand that living with ASD as part of the household, almost a family member in and of itself, can be hard on the psyche. Many a night I have lain down to try and take my rest only to find my mind racing with what ifs of now and of the future. Only when I take a stance of mindfulness, that is letting my mind empty and simply watching the wild thoughts fly by, do I ever find rest.
Since the diagnosis of depression has come to light I have been trying to address some things that are challenging to my youngest son’s life. While I thought I had been making time for him in the past I am clearly setting aside time for him and him alone. Being with him alone and talking to him seems to have had some benefit. Some days now when in response to my questions about how did school go, the words “suck” or “sucked” don’t come out in the first sentence.
Secundus is a fledgling pianist. For whatever reason he has ditched learning classic tunes. In the past year he has moved into the study of what we call the standards. These songs are the compositions that Nelson Riddle arranged around the voice of Frank Sinatra that made women just want to jump his bones backstage at clubs in New York. These songs are the pieces that Nat King Cole and Miles Davis each took to completely different but very beautiful places none the less.
How we got here was a one of those flukes. A couple of years ago when Halloween rolled around Secundus could not come up with a costume. He searched magazines, he looked on the internet, he confabbed with Mom. It was only when he was surfing You Tube that he saw a clip of Sinatra singing “Fly Me to the Moon”. He knew he could pull off that style. He grabbed an old rat pack hat and an old jacket and memorized the song. As he went from house to house he would sing the fist four or five lines while adopting a hipster’s pose. He pulled in more candy than anyone. At that point he knew there was something to this.
Last night was his spring recital. He had opted to play “It was a Very Good Year”. His piano teacher encouraged him but had her doubts. In practice his use of the pedals was on the mark but transitions between parts of the song were not fluid. He would almost get it right, but in reality the piece was never quite right. Even up to the moments before we left the house for the recital he was seemingly struggling.
One of the last acts before we headed out was to get him dressed. He put on some chinos and pulled out a white French cuffed shirt. I don’t remember where we got the shirt but he had never worn it before we had never gotten him cuff links. With the performance imminent I had to drop back and begin the search for links. Through drawers and boxes of knick knacks stuffed in my highboy I rampaged. I knew I had some cuffs from when I was his age. In the 1973 French cuffs were all the rage. I believed I had at least one set because they had been my father’s and had set on his dresser in ashtray with pins pulled from new shirts for the majority of my life. When he passed they become mine. They were nowhere to be found although I did find an old hash pipe, a beer stein from my German trip in 1972 and my ticket to the 1964 Democratic National Convention in Atlantic City.
Never did I find a matched set. What I came up with was one blue and one ruby red cuff of completely different styles. Secundus loved ‘em. Putting the cuffs on him you could see he was ready to perform.
It wasn’t the cuffs that made the difference and I know that. Secundus is a performance junkie. Whether it is debate or singing or recitals the rush of being in the public eye charges him and changes him. I know in my heart of hearts he loves the spotlight and that he cranks it to level 11 each time he walks out onstage. The cuffs were nothing more that a thread connecting him to the men of his family through the years none of whom shied away from the spotlight. Not Dad, not Granddad, not uncles; this larger than life onstage persona is probably genetic.
My thought is that so is depression. While Secundus’ challenges are impacted by his environment all the men in my family have had dark moments, dark periods. Nobody stepped up early to help us manage it. Nobody had a name for it, or a course of treatment for it. Me I went for positive thinking ala Dr. Norman Vincent Peale and years of reefer therapy. Eventually I came to sober quiet reflection/meditation/writing and I am okay with that. My hope is that by using a psychologist I am doing the right thing. My hope is that with some external insight emphasizing positive approaches to life Secundus can come to a point where he knows how to get back to balance when things start to grow dark.
I don’t want him to lose the joy of performance. Neither do I want him to have to travel the dark roads I have seen in the past. Being a parent is a balancing act and while others can offer suggestions a parent is ultimately the person who has to make the tough calls.
This is a difficult time for me. Trust me when I say I too understand that living with ASD as part of the household, almost a family member in and of itself, can be hard on the psyche. Many a night I have lain down to try and take my rest only to find my mind racing with what ifs of now and of the future. Only when I take a stance of mindfulness, that is letting my mind empty and simply watching the wild thoughts fly by, do I ever find rest.
Since the diagnosis of depression has come to light I have been trying to address some things that are challenging to my youngest son’s life. While I thought I had been making time for him in the past I am clearly setting aside time for him and him alone. Being with him alone and talking to him seems to have had some benefit. Some days now when in response to my questions about how did school go, the words “suck” or “sucked” don’t come out in the first sentence.
Secundus is a fledgling pianist. For whatever reason he has ditched learning classic tunes. In the past year he has moved into the study of what we call the standards. These songs are the compositions that Nelson Riddle arranged around the voice of Frank Sinatra that made women just want to jump his bones backstage at clubs in New York. These songs are the pieces that Nat King Cole and Miles Davis each took to completely different but very beautiful places none the less.
How we got here was a one of those flukes. A couple of years ago when Halloween rolled around Secundus could not come up with a costume. He searched magazines, he looked on the internet, he confabbed with Mom. It was only when he was surfing You Tube that he saw a clip of Sinatra singing “Fly Me to the Moon”. He knew he could pull off that style. He grabbed an old rat pack hat and an old jacket and memorized the song. As he went from house to house he would sing the fist four or five lines while adopting a hipster’s pose. He pulled in more candy than anyone. At that point he knew there was something to this.
Last night was his spring recital. He had opted to play “It was a Very Good Year”. His piano teacher encouraged him but had her doubts. In practice his use of the pedals was on the mark but transitions between parts of the song were not fluid. He would almost get it right, but in reality the piece was never quite right. Even up to the moments before we left the house for the recital he was seemingly struggling.
One of the last acts before we headed out was to get him dressed. He put on some chinos and pulled out a white French cuffed shirt. I don’t remember where we got the shirt but he had never worn it before we had never gotten him cuff links. With the performance imminent I had to drop back and begin the search for links. Through drawers and boxes of knick knacks stuffed in my highboy I rampaged. I knew I had some cuffs from when I was his age. In the 1973 French cuffs were all the rage. I believed I had at least one set because they had been my father’s and had set on his dresser in ashtray with pins pulled from new shirts for the majority of my life. When he passed they become mine. They were nowhere to be found although I did find an old hash pipe, a beer stein from my German trip in 1972 and my ticket to the 1964 Democratic National Convention in Atlantic City.
Never did I find a matched set. What I came up with was one blue and one ruby red cuff of completely different styles. Secundus loved ‘em. Putting the cuffs on him you could see he was ready to perform.
It wasn’t the cuffs that made the difference and I know that. Secundus is a performance junkie. Whether it is debate or singing or recitals the rush of being in the public eye charges him and changes him. I know in my heart of hearts he loves the spotlight and that he cranks it to level 11 each time he walks out onstage. The cuffs were nothing more that a thread connecting him to the men of his family through the years none of whom shied away from the spotlight. Not Dad, not Granddad, not uncles; this larger than life onstage persona is probably genetic.
My thought is that so is depression. While Secundus’ challenges are impacted by his environment all the men in my family have had dark moments, dark periods. Nobody stepped up early to help us manage it. Nobody had a name for it, or a course of treatment for it. Me I went for positive thinking ala Dr. Norman Vincent Peale and years of reefer therapy. Eventually I came to sober quiet reflection/meditation/writing and I am okay with that. My hope is that by using a psychologist I am doing the right thing. My hope is that with some external insight emphasizing positive approaches to life Secundus can come to a point where he knows how to get back to balance when things start to grow dark.
I don’t want him to lose the joy of performance. Neither do I want him to have to travel the dark roads I have seen in the past. Being a parent is a balancing act and while others can offer suggestions a parent is ultimately the person who has to make the tough calls.
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