What I Learned

I love learning. Truly. There are times when I have only half-jokingly said that you can get me to willingly walk through pretty much any hell so long as I feel I am learning something in the process.

Every family develops a story, a way of ordering their small world in an attempt to ensure all essential roles are filled and some sense is made of the daily drama that inevitably ensues. In my birth family the story was that I was like my father, while my brother (who was a year younger than me) was like my mother. My father and I were fair-haired, supposedly even-tempered, and slow to anger, while my mother and brother were the hot-tempered, emotionally volatile brunettes. It made for a symmetrical if not necessarily accurate family portrait, and some very competitive broomball games after dinner on the rink in our backyard where, at forty below zero under a star-studded sky, my father and I played together to consistently out-score my mother and brother who were. . . well, not playing so well together.

Broomball victories aside there were many ways in which I was not like my father. But it did always seem to me that my father and I shared an endless curiosity about how things worked. He was the one who encouraged my dinner time musings and questions about faith, God, social justice and human responsibility. It was only as an adult that I realized how greatly our areas of interest differed with my father’s curiosity primarily and almost exclusively directed toward concrete problems while my own musings ran less exclusively but more generally to abstract, spiritual questions. Realizing this, I was all the more appreciative of how he had supported me in my esoteric and ethical explorations.

But, despite this difference, what I shared with and learned from my father was a delight in and willingness to learn- to go to what Buddhists call beginner’s mind- the mind that knows it does not know and is willing to learn. Dad candidly confessed what he did not know, never pretended to know something he didn’t, and was willing and eager to learn from anyone and everyone- regardless of age or position- if they had something they were willing to share. Although he had always done physical labour as a Hydro lineman, when he retired at fifty-five he set about learning how to use a computer- something he doggedly pursued by asking questions of library workers, computer store clerks, the kid next door and pretty much anyone else who appeared to be the least bit computer literate.

There is one story that stands out for me when it comes to understanding what my father taught me about learning. One day, long after my brother and I had left our childhood home, while trying to figure out how to make a household repair my father found himself needing to know how to calculate the volume of a cylinder. Neither my brother nor I were available by phone (although honestly I am not sure I would have remembered how if he had reached me.) He was not yet on the internet, and there were no math text books in the house. So, after trying unsuccessfully to figure it out my father called the local high school and asked to speak to a math teacher. When the receptionist asked why, he explained his problem and told her that he assumed a math teacher would have the information he needed. He told her that he himself had not graduated from the eighth grade and, if he’d ever been taught how to do the calculation, certainly could not remember it now. She put him on hold and, after a few minutes, a bemused sounding teacher came on the line and told him the formula for calculating the volume of a cylinder.

My father taught me to enjoy the process of learning for its own sake- for the beauty of the questions, the fun of the investigation, and the satisfaction of figuring something out or at least trying to. One of the hardest things about watching him journey deeper into the mental confusion of advanced Alzheimer's is knowing that this joy has been taken from him.

This coming Sunday is Father’s Day, and I am grateful that my father taught me to love learning, take pleasure in puzzling and embrace beginner’s mind over and over. Thanks Dad. I love you. Happy Father’s Day.

Lost Joys Shared

Earlier this week, I went down to the shore of Lake Ontario and sat at the water’s edge. I sat on the sand breathing in the sunlight shining on the water, the gentle lapping of the waves, the feel of the warm breeze on my cheek. And I was flooded with memories: of camping trips every summer with my parents when my brother and I were children; of floating on air mattresses on northern lakes and flipping each other into the cool clear water in mock battles; of cooking hot dogs and marshmallows over an open fire and sleeping close to the ground surrounded by the scent of canvas. Mostly, I remembered how much my father loved being outside. As a lineman for Ontario Hydro he worked outside daily, and our weekends and holidays were spent out in the wilderness hiking, canoeing, swimming, camping and generally just enjoying the shared beauty.

As I remembered my throat tightened and my chest ached. Because these days, my father is confined to the indoors, unable to remember previous summers of outdoor adventures or even to understand our conversations about current outings. Alzheimer’s has made him aggressive so, for the time being, he is in a facility that unfortunately does not have a secure outdoor area where he could safely go out to soak in the sun. His caregivers and I have talked about the wisdom of taking him outside anyway, but it is unclear whether or not that would in fact cause him suffering (if trips outside resulted in him needing to be physically restrained from going where he might harm others or be harmed, or if they ignite expectations of regular outdoor expeditions that they may not be able to accommodate.) So, for the time being and until they find the right mix of medications that will lower his anxiety and agitation while leaving him lucid and able to enjoy where he is, he is not able to go outside.

Summer is short in this part of the world. Sitting by the lake and breathing in the scent of sun-warmed water my heart ached for the loss of this pleasure for my father. And then suddenly, spontaneously, I reached out for him, letting my heart-mind-spirit find and touch his. And I told him, “Feel the sun on my skin Dad, see the light on the water.” And I found a new practice: the practice of allowing the joy I experience in something I know my father has enjoyed but is not now able to access, be for the both of us. It’s kind of the flip side of the Buddhist practice of mudita: cultivating joy in the joy of others.

In her book How To Be Sick, Toni Bernhard does a great job of describing mudita. For those with chronic illness, one of the difficult aspects of life can be the envy and frustration that arise when others are enjoying activities or locations we are no longer able to access. The antidote to the poison of envy (and the pain and unhappiness it engenders) is mudita- focusing on cultivating joy in the joy of others. Like most practices it takes time to find real joy in the pleasure others are experiencing that is no longer directly available to us.

I think of what I am doing as a mirror image of mudita. I am bringing my attention to enjoying the moment my father cannot access, for the two of us. I dedicate bringing my full attention to the beauty of a summer day to him, to all the days he enjoyed, in the hope that my full enjoyment dedicated to him in gratitude and love may touch him in some way I cannot understand with a moment of unexpected and inexplicable joy. There is no way of knowing if this touches him in some way. I hope it does. I do know that it deepens my joy and my appreciation for the moments I am offered.

So, being here fully in the early morning sun and the shade of fresh green leaves- the joy of this moment, this breath, this summer day- is for you Dad. You are the one who taught me to love the wilderness and helped me to notice the great sigh of the sun as the wind moves over the water. For this and for so much more, I am deeply grateful.

Holding On to Impermanence

If you bring up the pervasiveness of impermanence for all life on the planet everyone nods in agreement. But do we really get it?

In the earth-based spirituality in which I trained and taught we talk about “making Death the Ally” -ie- allowing an awareness of impermanence and mortality to help us value life and live fully. But it’s hard to hold this awareness close when you're young or healthy or living in a culture with so much of everything. Seeing my parents’ struggle with what most would say was not an unpredictable development (my father has advanced Alzheimer's and has recently had to go into a secure care facility) I wonder why we find it so difficult to grasp the reality of impermanence even as we say we know that change is the only constant. When my mother (referring to my father’s need for care she cannot provide) said, “Who could have seen this coming?” I wanted to say (but didn’t) “Everyone! Anyone! All of us!”

It seems to be a species propensity, this ability to deny the probable if not inevitable unfolding reality. After all, who could have predicted that building nuclear reactors on fault lines would put life at risk of exposure to radioactivity? Everyone. Who could have foreseen that propping up despotic dictators would impede local democracy or result in civilian deaths when stirrings for justice and freedom arose? Anyone. Who could guess that dumping toxic chemicals into the earth and air and water would cause death and destruction for humans and other species? All of us.

I am stunned by our ability to ignore the truth when the truth is hard. Driving home from my parents, I really got it: old age and death is where we are all headed (if we are fortunate enough not to die young) no matter how we live. That’s right- whether or not we eat well, exercise diligently, are blatant materialists or focused on spiritual matters; whether or not we get everything on our to-do list done; whether or not we make or disparage to-do lists- it is where we are all going. Just let that sink in for a minute, let it shift your perspective on what you think you need to do or who you think you need to be.

I’m not saying that the quality of our lives is not shaped by how we live. To a large degree it is, although this remains in many ways unpredictable. Diseases like Alzheimer’s can strike anyone and profoundly shape the quality of life. But the ultimate destination- old age and death- is not a punishment for not getting it "right." It’s just the reality for all living things- including human beings- on this planet. And this is true whether or not you believe death is The End or a transition into a different state of being. Pretending that death is not the end of the human life we know reminds me of a woman in the birthing class I attended when I was pregnant with my second son (who was twelve pounds ten ounces at birth.) She suggested that if we called labour contractions “sensations” instead of "pains" they might not hurt as much. Ha!

In moments of clarity, when I accept Death as an Ally, I wonder at our timidity, our worry, our endless weighing of possibilities, our fears about and suffering over many of the choices we make. The denial of death paradoxically seems to lead to an almost casual disregard for the predictably dire environmental consequences of large decisions, but endless anxiety around smaller, unpredictable changes in our personal lives. We seem to perpetually sweat the (relatively) small stuff and sprinkle the big stuff with the fairy dust of denial.

And all of this makes me wonder where I’m not living fully who I am, where I am putting in time, waiting for something hoped for or unnameable, where I am allowing the small stuff to distract me from this moment, this breath, this life and all it asks of me. I shake my head at the wasted energy of holding onto hurt from past injustices, the missed opportunities to be kind to myself and others, the failure to greet each day as the gift it is.

Driving home from my parents’ I spoke out loud as I drove down the highway, addressing my soul and the Mystery that is larger than myself, saying, “Speak to me. Direct me.” And I recommited to listening and following what comes from that which is deeply sacred within me and around me, without hesitation or timidity or worries about where it might take me.

It’s not that I’ve never done this before. I have and continue to do this regularly. But with the changes in my parents’ lives the reality of our mortality has become vivid for me again, in a deeper way. And with Death as the Ally, the questions, the listening, the courage to follow the impulse when it comes from the soul becomes, if not easier to heed, harder to ignore. I don’t want to be surprised when death comes, not because I have any fantasy of control, but because I want to arrive in that moment having spent myself completely on living fully committed to Life, holding close the reality of how impermanent it all is and, as poet Mary Oliver writes- “When the time comes to let it go- to let it go.”

Time as Grace and Ally

I am fascinated with how time changes things. Because, when I really look at myself and others, I am not sure that much else does. Change things, I mean. Particularly, change people.

I recently got together with two women I’d met thirty years ago in a group for new mothers. The three of us had not been together for decades. As we sat around a table discussing our “children” (now in their late twenties and early thirties) I was struck by how little any of us had changed. (Well, if I am being completely truthful, I was amazed at how little they had changed- but I know what that has to mean re: me.) Our conversation followed a rhythm that I recognized from years before, and the positions and perspectives we each offered to the discussion was very much as I remember them being way back when.

My dear friend Joan Borysenko and I got together for tea recently, and after we caught up on each other’s lives, I raised the question: Do people really change? As we turned our inquiry inward we both felt that we had changed, albeit in relative ways. We could see how we were less judgemental, more relaxed, less likely to worry, less anxious (and more able to tolerate the anxiety that is part of a human life) than we were ten, twenty or thirty years ago. But, as Joan pointed out, these changes felt more like part of a natural maturing process- ie: consequences of the passage of time- than a result of conscious attempts to change.

Now it’s interesting that two women who some would see as being in the “business” of creating change would be having this conversation. After all, we each write, do public speaking and facilitate workshops that focus on living life more fully and deeply- which implies creating a change from living at least a little less fully and less deeply. Neither of is inclined to believe in or promise quick fixes. But, on the other hand, we have both had profound experiences of Spirit and life that we are inclined to think have changed us, and we are both insatiably curious about how we and others find our way to living from the centre of being- which, once again, implies a change from living in at least a slightly-less-than centred place at least some of the time.

Which brings me back to time.

Because Joan is probably right- some of the changes we see in ourselves are a result of aging, which requires time, years in fact. But time alone won’t do it. I’ve met a some very aware individuals in their twenties and thirties (and some astonishing three year olds), and we all know folks who are as unconscious (in denial about addicted, self-destructive, lashing out in pain etc.) at 40 or 50 or 60 as they were at 20. (Those other people- not us, right!? Hmm. . . . . . )

What Joan pointed to is a process of not simply getting older, but of maturing- growing and deepening in ways that help us live closer to the centre of who and what we are. Not all the time. Not perfectly. Not in huge leaps and bounds. Just imperceptibly more than we did yesterday, and hopefully noticeably more than ten years ago. This requires both grace and an active willingness to learn from others, from life and from our own experience and mistakes.

I think one of the many faces of grace that allows us to change, is the magic of time. Oh I know, some maintain there is no time except in our thinking, but I can’t agree. Time, like all the other elements of living a physical and conditioned life, does have a level of reality to it. If the best before date on my milk is long past, the concept of time is useful. And yes, we can alleviate suffering by not reviewing old hurts endlessly or anticipating real or imagined troubles to come. But, the truth is, some things are handled simply by the grace of time- things that happen with or without my effort, sometimes when I am not even paying attention and sometimes with just a little willingness, with a timid or desperate prayer asking for help. It was time that made clear to me that I needed to leave my marriage, and I can see (as if catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye) how time is healing my heart and allowing me to open to life once again.

It’s always worthwhile to ask what we can do to learn, to heal, to change patterns within ourselves that we can see are causing suffering for ourselves or others. But it’s also important to know that we are not alone in this, that there are forces on our side, mysteries working with and within us. And one of those mysteries, an ally in healing, is surely time. We are conditioned beings who change with time. There is silver in my hair where once there was only gold. I forget names and nouns more than I once did, but I remember more frequently what matters most.

We are always living in the present moment, whether we are remembering the past or dreaming the future or bringing our full attention to this what is in this moment- to the click of my fingers on the keyboard and the mechanical roar of a leaf blower outside my window. But every present moment gives way to the next present moment . . . and the next.

We are embodied souls, and so, beings in time. And time is one of the faces of grace that can, particularly when and where we are willing, offer us the miracle of small changes that accumulate and slow openings that let us gently but completely unfold to become more of who and what we are.

Befriending Moments of Loneliness

I was sitting with a friend who has recently separated from her husband of twenty-nine years. I’ll call her Bonnie. After six months of separation, Bonnie was telling me how difficult she is finding the loneliness.

Being an introvert with a chronic illness I don’t often have the energy or inclination to do a lot of socializing and I’ve assumed that this is why loneliness sometimes arises for me. But, Bonnie is one of the most extroverted people I know. She has a plethora of close friends, an extensive community, supportive family members and an extraordinary ability to reach out to connect with others. She runs her own successful business and is a generous, resourceful woman. I get tired just hearing about Bonnie’s week of social contacts, work with others and staying in touch with friends.

But, despite all this, I hear how genuinely lonely she is. As she told me about a business contract that had not work out as she’d hoped and her need to take this into consideration around future plans, I had an insight into the kind of ordinary loneliness that even extraordinary people experience. Because for many of us, the hardest loneliness is not a­­­­ lack of support around the Big Challenges- the sudden serious illnesses or death of a family member, the loss of home or livelihood. In moments of acute crisis many of us are lucky enough to be surrounded by friends, family, and sometimes even caring strangers offering concern and support.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean we do not experience loneliness.

As Bonnie is discovering, if you live alone it’s often about the ordinary daily challenges- the adjustment of plans to logistical changes and cancelations; the nervousness about unexpected expenses; the minor illnesses that just make you feel crappy; the insignificant irritations like traffic jams, line-ups and bureaucracy. It’s about carrying the daily uncertainties alone­­­­­­.

When you live with someone you often share these small daily challenges. Someone is there to listen to your tiny tales of woe, calm you down, commiserate, make you to laugh, give you a hug or just let you rant. You’re not in it alone. Your fortunes, your health, your moods and your circumstances, your small joys, disappointments and fears are intimately shared with someone else. And theirs are shared with you. And this can make the burden feel a little lighter when the day feels a little too long and the world seems just a little too overflowing with crazy.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been married. I know that just because you live with someone doesn’t mean they will always be there at the end of the day in the way you would like them to be- or in any way at all. Sometimes we can be acutely lonely when we are with someone. But for most of us, if we've stayed with someone for any length of time, it was because there was a some degree of comfort and comfortableness in the way we shared the tasks of daily living with a fellow human being. Even when we might have been in disagreement about The Big Things or the deeply intimate things, many of us continued to find companionship in sharing laundry and car repairs, good meals and bad television.

And it’s weird when no one else is there, when there is no companionship at the end of the day unless you arrange it- and even then, eventually you will be going home alone. Again, don’t get me wrong. It is often with great relief that I come back to my tiny apartment that fits like a nest around me, where everything is exactly as I left it and there is silence and blessed solitude. What I missed when I was married was often my own company.

But I also know what Bonnie is talking about when she speaks of the loneliness, of feeling a kind of ache, a sadness and weariness, at being on her own with the daily concerns and challenges of a human life.

I don’t have a solution. Certainly my experience of a sacred Presence that is greater than but also within me is a reminder that I am always participating in an inter-dependent wholeness. But I don’t think even an impossibly constant sense of the Mystery would shield us from moments of the loneliness.

So lately, when loneliness arises, I just sit with it. I ask myself, What is this thing I call loneliness? Where does it live in my body? What is its colour, its texture, its taste? I turn my attention to it and explore. I remind myself that this is bearable, this will not kill me so I do not need to run from it.

The loneliness does not instantly disappear but my fear of it dissipates, and it. . . softens. I can be with it, befriend it, know that it is part of being human particularly when we do not have companionship in the small things of daily life. As I stop trying to move away from it, it often slowly dissolves, the way mist on the lake in the early morning dissolves in sunlight. It becomes, after all, just a ripple of loneliness. Not death, not agony, not an indicator of sinister news about my being. Just a ripple of loneliness, a little discomfort. Observing and allowing it, the loneliness becomes just one more thing arising in awareness, like the feel of my beating heart, the temperature of the air on my skin, the sound of the city going to sleep around me, my inhale filling me and my exhale leaving my body.

Loneliness becomes just one of the many experiences of being human. And I am grateful for even this.

Not Waiting for Life to Get "Better"

This morning the sun is blazing forth, trumpeting “Live!” in a clear blue sky. The buds on the trees are unfurling un-weathered green into the world. Spring: undeterred and irresistible life, newness from the decayed ruins of the old, fresh starts and impossible hope.

It has been a year of legal arrangements and new adjustments since my marriage ended in April of 2010. And just as I approached the final collection of a few belongings from the former matrimonial home, sure that I would then be able to focus fully on new writing, my parents (both of whom have Alzheimer’s- my father in an advanced state, my mother recently diagnosed in the early stages) need my on-going assistance with new living arrangements.

Because that’s life- a series of continuous and unpredictable changes that demand our attention, disrupt plans and require flexibility. My desire for tidy, uninterrupted time and space for writing is understandable, but not to be. So, I’m writing anyway- in bits and pieces, in between meetings with doctors and social workers, after daily conversations with my mother (who, at 76, is living alone for the first time in her life,) in the early morning quiet and during the noon-day rush at roadside diners.

Because if we postpone the soul’s agenda until life clears away all the distractions and concerns, if we wait until things have reached some kind of imagined inner or outer ideal state of expansive uninterrupted calm, well. . . we’ll still be waiting as we slip from this world into what lies beyond.

At the end of radio shows many interviewers ask, “Is there one last thing- a central message- you'd like to leave with our listeners?"

I’ve done enough interviews you’d think I would have some snappy, articulate answer prepared, a concise and profound or witty comment ready for the moment. But no matter how many times it comes, I never seem prepared. Maybe it's because I don't think of myself as having "A Message." As Wavy Gravy said, I'm just another bozo on the bus, albeit one that likes to reflect on and write about the journey.

So lately, at the end of interviews, with only moments remaining, this is the response that arises from the request to offer one last essential thing:

“Life is messy. Accept this. It's okay to have a plan, just don’t focus on it. Things aren't likely to go according to plan. Focus on what you need to do next, right now. Pay attention to what has real value for you at the level of your body-heart-self- the people, places, activities and practises that help you feel truly alive, that support your ability to be present and kind. If there’s something calling to you, turn toward it and start walking. It may not lead where you think it will, but make a place in all of the wonderful chaos of life to listen deeply to the voice at the center of your being and pay attention to what it tells you.

Life is short and messy. Don’t postpone living until life gets neater or easier or less frantic or more enlightened. There’s a “catch” to the popular admonishment to “live in the Now.” It’s that the only way to be in the Now is to be Here, in the life and the body you have, and in the world we share, right now (not with the body or the world we hope to someday have or imagine we used to have.) This is it. And it will change. Choose life in all the small ways you can, every day.”

On some level, it all sounds so obvious, and I realize I am saying what I need to hear over and over.

So, I am writing- mostly about what it really means to love the life and world and being that I am/you are right now. And I find I can’t approach this loving and care-taking, as I once did, from a place of principled and disciplined practises (as much as I value the practises I have and continue to use.) This new loving of self and life is. . . messier in the ways that organic things are messy- different aspects growing at different speeds, circuitous routes of growth following the instinctual need for light and warmth, some parts blossoming as others decay and feed the roots with what has died.

I’m still doing one-on-one counselling sessions on the phone (if you’d like an outline of how this works please email me at mail@oriah.org) and I’m posting regularly on both the Oriah Mountain Dreamer Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/Oriah.Mountain.Dreamer (you do not need an account to see the page.) /The website is http://www.oriah.org

Whether you are enjoying the cycle of new life in the spring of the northern hemisphere or the transition of autumn in the southern, may be you be blessed with the fullness of living- the life you have given and are co-creating with us all. Blessings, Oriah

(This is the Spring 2011 Newsletter. If you would like to receive the newsletter three or four times a year please email Oriah at mail@oriah.org)

What We Don't Want To Know

I’ve been cringing all week, but not for the reasons you might think. It’s true that the Canadian election is not in alignment with my personal preferences, and I felt great sadness watching the public celebrations of Osama bin Laden’s death. (I cannot celebrate another human being's death even when that human being has orchestrated violence and caused great suffering.) But my cringing was less about these events than it was about some of the reactions they provoked: some Canadians calling others “idiots” for how they voted; people expressing their disgust with those who were celebrating in the streets, calling them “the lowest common denominator” or worse.

After 9/11 I wrote a piece about not dividing humanity, even in our own minds, into “us” and “them.” (It’s posted on my website at http://oriah.org/other_writing.php if you’d like to read it.) Separating ourselves from those who do what we find objectionable or abhorrent is easy, but it sets us up for inner and outer war and denies the shadow aspects of self we'd rather not know.

I’m as tempted as anyone to ask- what were “they” thinking when “they” voted for the Conservatives or danced in the streets chanting “USA, USA!” But, if I really want to know what my fellow human beings are thinking and feeling, I have to ask and listen. And then, if I really want to be the change I'd like to see in the world, I have to consider where a similar sentiment, motivation or perspective might live within myself.

My original article suggested starting simply with a change in language, saying (even in our minds) "some of us" instead of “they.” Some of us celebrated the death of Osama bin Laden by dancing in the streets. Immediately, my response is diverted from mind and heart-closing judgments to asking, “Why?” One of the women interviewed at the celebration at ground zero in New York said that her husband had died on 9/11 and she felt for the first time that she might be able to go on with her life now. I said a prayer for her, that she be able to do just that.

So. . . . . some of us have been so devastated by the losses of 9/11 that going on with life feels impossible without some form or revenge or justice, without the death of the person believed to be the cause of that loss.

I honestly don’t know if bin Laden's death will bring closure for some, but I find it useful to take my contemplation one step further: Where does part of me feel so devastated by a loss that I want revenge, or justice, or some form of loss to be felt by someone I believe/feel was instrumental in causing my loss? Last year my marriage ended. Can I deny that this feeling- however small, intermittent and misguided (I do not think my ex’s suffering would bring me fresh hope or a sense of celebration) lives within me in response to hurt, betrayal and loss? It’s not the only feeling I have, (as I'm guessing that hope for moving on was not the only feeling the woman who was interviewed was experiencing) and I choose not to act on it. But this choice is only possible in part because I am conscious of the feeling. If I deny this feeling and it goes into the unconscious, it is much more likely that I will seek revenge in unconscious ways.

I am not equating terrorist acts of violence with marital betrayal, and I do think it's useful to be able to discern between different degrees of doing harm to others. But, at the same time, if I am interested in self-awareness and deeper inter-personal communication, I need to look honestly at where the qualities I abhor in the other might live in me.

And I can use this same method of contemplation to understand why some voted differently than myself. When I ask my neighbour why she voted for Harper, she tells me that she is afraid of what would happen to her small pension if the economy falters, and she believes the stock market and other financial institutions will respond best to a Conservative government. She also says that she does not like the positions the Conservatives have on the environment or women’s issues but thinks this is just the price that has to be paid for economic survival.

I disagree with her assessment, but I listen and consider: What part of me, when afraid for (and rightly or wrongly assessing the chances of) my survival becomes willing to compromise other values I say I hold dear?

This is not about agreeing with others' actions. This is about not separating ourselves from our fellow human beings, not making them something less than human, not pretending that what we think we see in them, does not or could not live in us.

And I can use this method to reflect on the cringing I did at the derisive comments about Canadian voters or people celebrating Osama's death. The folks making these comments are no more “them”(vs. us/me) than those they were condemning. So, what part of me- when frightened by decisions others make that have potential unwanted consequences for my life- condemns, dismisses, derides and judges others in an attempt to separate myself from “them”?

You get the idea- it's not about failing to discern right action for ourselves, it's just about recognizing that there simply is no “them” and “us.” What lives in another, lives in me. And if I want to have real choice about how I act on all that lives within me- love, fear, generosity, courage, cowardice, judgement, acceptance- I have to be willing to be with as much of it as I can, to bring it to consciousness. The process is always enlightening and humbling, and in this task, others- particularly those with whom I do not identify, those from whom I want to separate myself- can be my greatest teachers facilitating self-knowledge and awareness. And for this, I am grateful.