The Gift & Burden of Choice

Someone recently mentioned "the burden of choice" to me. Having two parents with Alzheimer's I am aware of the flip side- the burden of losing choice. When we're growing up there is a gradual progression- we get to make more and more of our own choices, we look forward to being increasingly "in charge" of our own lives (until we figure out that's not exactly how it works in every instance) and often, particularly in the teenage years, imagine we will do things "better," or at least very differently than the adults around us.

My father's disease has advanced to the point where it is clear that he cannot make most of his own choices, although his daily caregivers give him as much autonomy as possible. It may not seem like much to decide what you will eat or where you will walk, but I can see my father's spirit is fed by being able to make even these small choices.

My mother is still in-between where her ability to make choices changes continually and is not so clear. Just because someone is unable make some choices, doesn't mean they can't make any choices for themselves. It's tricky, in part because we do not want to cause suffering by either prematurely removing a choice or by allowing a choice (like driving) that might endanger others.

It occurs to me that this is an essential aspect of our experience as human beings: decisions/choices consciously and unconsciously being made. Not to decide is in itself a choice with its own consequences. Sometimes we feel there should be someone else- someone wiser, kinder, less neurotic and more balanced and compassionate than us- to make the really Big Choices, particularly the ones that potentially impact others.

Of course we can and sometimes do draw upon resources that are larger than our own small perspective- the resources of community, the knowledge and wisdom of those who have walked this way before, and the guidance of that sacred wholeness we may call God or the Mystery. But it all still gets filtered through and acted upon by us- small human beings with our prejudices and unconscious fears, our incomplete knowledge and intermittent intuition, with our instincts and feelings and our desire to do what it truly best for all.

It's messy. At times it can feel like a burden, something for which we are ill-equipped. But I cannot help but feel it is also a gift, the core of what being here is about: learnin to make the best choices we are able to make knowing we are human, knowing there will be unanticipated consequences and changing conditions (inner and outer- many beyond our control) that will necessitate making new choices again and again.

It's a strange dance, a movement born of the tension between what we do not control and the ever-changing abilities we have to respond (our response-ability) for those choices that are ours. Somehow, in this tension- perhaps because of it- we grown up, we learn to do the best we can, we develop the ability to hold with tenderness our shared fallibility and limitations. In the shamanic teachings with which I have worked, we describe this process of shifting from unconscious reactivity to making compassionate choices to the best of our ability as moving from being a "two-legged" to being fully human.

It's why we are here.

Oriah House (c) 2013

Finding The Inner Wilderness

I love the wilderness of Northern Ontario: white birch trees, slender slivers of light amongst dark evergreens; the massive granite shoulders of the precambrian shield; the sound of the loons calling out from lake to lake; what those of us who grew up there call “the bush.” For many years I took people into the wilderness to do solo ceremonies of fasting and prayer- vision quests. I take myself there each summer for restoration of body and soul. For me, the bush hits the reset button on my nervous system, reminds me on a visceral level of how I belong in this world.

But some recent health blips mean I may not be able to go to the wilderness this summer. So, I started wondering about what the wilderness offers me, exploring ways to provide myself with what I need in the city. Of course, it won’t be the same. The quiet vastness of a natural area largely uninhabited and minimally impacted by humans cannot be duplicated in a city of 2.6 million. And yet, it feels like a worthwhile quest- this looking inward for the wilderness that feeds me.

In the wilderness my body lets go in places where I did not know I was holding on. I feel my smallness in a good way, a way that makes it clear to the embodied soul/en-souled body I am just how crazy trying to “hold on” is in a vast reality of constant change. Laying on a sun-warmed rock I become a molecule of an infinite universe and every cell in my body feels, “Home,” on this mother from which I come.

In the city it’s easy to forget that the earth that I touch in the wilderness is here beneath me amidst the asphalt and the concrete. But it is, and all we have built- the skyscrapers and underground garages and subways- is a mico-thin layer on the vastness of the earth beneath us. When I remember this, I pay attention to all the places where my body is touching a surface- feet on floor or in the grass, butt in chair or on the ground, muscle and bones supported by a bed or beach sand- and explore letting go a little more into gravity. With just this gentle prompt my body unwinds, sinks more into the knowledge that wherever I am is here, and here is always on the earth I love.

In the wilderness I expand my ability to be with and be enlivened by the creative chaos around me: new seedlings sprout and are nourished by the decaying bodies of what was alive and now is dead or dying; some seedlings fall where the sunlight is insufficient and shrivel, while others thrive; wind and water and birds and animals unwittingly carry seeds to new locations, creating new possibilities for life and death.

Writing here in the city, I feel how the past is compost for the seeds of new stories, new ways of seeing. Some seedlings will remain in the “Unused bits” file on my desktop while others find their way into published work. The wilderness teaches me to allow and embrace the chaos necessary for both creative work and new growth in an old forest. Remembering this, I let go of trying to “organize” material that is still forming, shy away from the temptation to pretend to know where the writing will take me, what the book will be. An oak cannot be foreseen by simply looking at the acorn.

And still there is something else. The “wild” in wilderness- like the knowledge of belonging and the power of creative chaos- lives in me. It is what is untamed and uncensored, what is free from considerations about how I might be seen or heard (or read by) others. In other years, when I spent weeks alone in the bush in the summer, I forgot about how I looked, was surprised to see my sun-browned skin and bright eyes in the rear-view mirror of my car when I drove out to get supplies. I slept when I was tired and rose when I awoke- sometimes to view the moon shining on still water

It’s not always easy to find our natural rhythm in the city. And yet, the animal-self that has not lost contact with body-wisdom speaks to me. When I rise early and drop down into the pre-dawn hour, I find the end of a thread that guides me to eat and sleep and move and be still according to an internal rhythm that is older than electric lights and the sounds of traffic.

I will go to the wilderness again, when I am able. But I will not abandon the wilderness within me, even here in the city. I set aside time- days, weeks- to follow no schedule but the one my body and the impulse to write set. I cover my walls with the images and stories that come to me from dreams and daylight, writing amidst the delightful debris as I would on the shore of a lake, without trying to “tidy” or “organize” growth around me.

This summer, I rise before dawn while the city sleeps, greeting the pale light and birdsong that announce a new day. I stand on my small balcony and let the smoke of burning smudge- cedar, sage, sweet grass and lavender- remind me of ancient rituals that recognize the earth and call on the spirits of water, air, earth and fire. I put my hands to my heart and bow to the four directions here, amidst tall buildings, from the centre of the wilderness within.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer (c) 2013

The Power & Pitfalls of Wanting

My morning prayers contain a word or two about wanting. I ask to know what is needed in the situations that arise today and to follow my deepest soul-desires in choosing how to be with or meet those needs as I am able. That covers needs and desires. But I also say a prayer to come “into right relationship” with my wants- which is to say, to bring them to consciousness, to neither deny nor be led around by the nose by wanting.

I use the word wanting to point to the kind of must-have-this feeling that involves attachment to specific results. When I start wanting things to be a certain way (within myself, in the world or with another) I’m generally headed for some frantic trying (during which I can become a menace to myself and others) or painful disappointment, or both.

I try to avoid judging my wanting when it arises, knowing that this is likely to shove it down into my unconscious where it can wreck havoc in my life. Awareness at least gives me a shot at not allowing my wanting to create suffering for myself or others. And, knowing that wanting can be a powerful and persuasive force I’d like to enlist its mojo in doing those things that I know make my life healthy and balanced.

I'm currently doing a meditation program designed for folks who have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (and ME or FM.) It has helped some restore their energy. I want this. A lot. But (and this is a Big But) I cannot do the meditations driven by and focused on understandably wanting health and vitality. It won’t work. I can’t try harder to unhook from inner neurological loops of hyper-vigilance around physical symptoms (that create an adrenaline cycle that deepens symptoms.) I can let the energy of my wanting fuel my willingness to go to this program every day, but then I must gently put aside the attachment to specific and speedy results.

So far, this use of the passion of wanting while letting go of the object of wanting seems to be helping me keep me on track, which is why my prayer is not to abolish wanting, (something I doubt is possible in human beings except for moments and by grace) but come into right relationship with this powerful energy.

Years ago, I remember hearing Jann Arden sing “Good Mother,” and belt out with deep longing, “I’ve never wanted anything so bad. . . .” At the time, the line made my eyes fill unexpectedly with tears because I had separated myself from my own needs, wants, and desires on every level to tolerate staying in my marriage.

I wanted to want something- anything- just to know I was still alive.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want to suppress or ignore the power of wanting, even though I know the pitfalls and suffering that can be created by being attached to having things a certain way. It’s a little like using the power of fire- you must be mindful or you risk getting burned, but there’s nothing like it for life-sustaining warmth on a cold dark night.

Oriah House (c) 2013

Smoke Signals

Ah. . . the blessing of a cool morning and the humbling gifts of living as an embodied soul/ensouled body, effected by internal and external conditions that challenge us to keep our hearts open.

I have a small private pie-shaped balcony where I do my morning practise of prayer and meditation each day. I get up as early as my body will allow to catch the pre-dawn coolness and quiet time in the city. I live on the second floor and my balcony looks out on a small park. As I settle in for my practise I look up into the dense green of maples and hemlocks filled with black squirrels chasing each other and birds singing the sun up each morning.

And, as I take a long deep inhale to settle into my meditation on these summer mornings, I am greeted by the smell of cigarette smoke. The man who lives in the apartment above me is also an early riser. He sits out on his balcony each morning watching the sun rise, smoking and coughing in a way that makes my own chest ache to hear it.

I admit I was initially annoyed by both the acrid smell and loud coughing. But I quickly realized there was nothing I could do about it. This man had every right to be on his balcony in the morning and to smoke.

I have a kind of soft spot for smokers- even though I am allergic to cigarette smoke. Every adult human being I know has addictions or habits they know are not good for them.  Some, like over-work, are lauded and many are done in secret away from other’s eyes. Nicotine is incredibly addictive, and smoking is almost impossible to hide- others are going to see you do it, smell it, and hear the effects we all know about in your cough

So, I decided that when I smelled smoke or heard my neighbour's burning, hacking cough, I’d just say a small prayer for this man on the balcony above me, sending cool healing light to his lungs and wishing him well. That helped me let go of any annoyance that arose and return to my practise.

But over the last few weeks, what began as primarily a defensive move intended to maintain my cherished shot at (real or imaginary) equanimity has become. . . .  . something else. I do not know this neighbour personally, although we say hello in the lobby and on the stairs. But, hearing the painful cough every morning and smelling the smoke that is no doubt a contributing factor, I realize I do know him. He is another myself, another human being doing the best he can. We all do some things that cause suffering some of the time. Smelling the smoke, hearing the coughing, I feel my heart cracked open to our shared humanness a little further each day. I still offer a prayer for this man’s health and well-being, but the prayer has changed, has become more about “us” and how we struggle, and includes genuine gratitude for the reminder of our shared humanness. This is particularly valuable on a day when my practise is going “well” and I am tempted to separate myself, if only in my own mind and only for a moment, from those aspects of self or others that are having a moment that is not going so well (including myself, yesterday, when monkey mind had me by the throat and calmly meditating was impossible.)

The longer I live the more I am convinced that our humanness is a feature and not a bug of this life we are given. It is the very thing that teaches us about the magnificence and beauty that is revealed only under conditions that are not "perfect" by beings that, although capable of heart-breaking mistreatment of self and others, can and often do choose compassion instead.

Every moment offers us what we need to remember what we are, pulls us to open our heart a little more to ourselves, others and the world. And for this, I am deeply grateful.

Oriah House (c) 2013

Talking to Myself

I’ve always known words have power- to belittle or lift up, to shame or encourage. Having said that, I’m always a little ambivalent about suggested affirmations. Sometimes they just feel like too much cheerleading or someone’s attempt to get me to talk myself out of feeling the way I am feeling. And, having said that, I know that how we talk to ourselves (often just below our most conscious thoughts where it’s hard to catch) has a profound effect on how we behave, feel, and respond to life.

I’ve been reading Eve Ensler’s new book, In The Body of the World, a profoundly personal and insightful account of her journey through cancer and the creative chaos of healing her life and contributing to the world. In the middle of the book, unexpectedly, I found something I am using as a kind of affirmation with which I could actively work. I wasn’t looking for one, I’ve had my doubts about them all, and I still feel a little odd looking at myself and speaking out loud to the reflection in my bathroom mirror first thing in the morning. But every time I do it I am moved to feel deep compassion for and empowerment within myself, so I offer it here in case it is of benefit to others.

Early on in Eve’s cancer treatment she meets a man she calls “the most handsome doctor in the world.” One of the first things Dr. Handsome says to her is, “Before we begin I want you to know how much I admire you and all you have done in this world for women and all you have written and all the ways you have made the world better. It is a privilege to care for you and I will do my very best.”

My throat is suddenly full of tears as I read this passage. To be offered real and concrete care from someone who is in a position to offer it, who genuinely feels it is a privilege to provide it, who sees and appreciates what you have done and try to do with your life. . . . what a gift! 

And then I wondered, “What if I could give this to myself?”

And so I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and said out loud to the woman with the blue-grey eyes who looked back at me, “I want you to know that I appreciate all you do. . . . all the places where you do your best to love well and contribute to the world.” I swallowed hard and continued more slowly. “It. . . is. . . a privilege. . . to care for you, and I will do my very best to do so.”

I started doing this each morning, often starting the way Dr. Handsome did with Eve, saying, “Before we begin I want you to know. . . .” The specifics about what I appreciate about myself change. Some days it is my efforts to be a good mother to the two wonderful men who are my sons. Other days it’s my unwavering commitment to writing. One morning I expressed appreciation for how I had gotten up at all after a night of too little sleep and too much pain. Another day I appreciate that I do my daily practise even when I do not feel like it, holding the world in my prayers to the best of my ability.

Each time, after I have expressed some appreciation for the human woman I am, I repeat slowly: “It is my privilege to care for you. And I will do the very best I can today to do so.”

And every time I do this I get that it is indeed a privilege to care for this one small human life and how much I appreciate the life I have been given and the woman I am. And acknowledging my appreciation, I recommit to caring for myself today, that I may receive what I need, that I may offer what I am able to the world.

These are the words I need to hear right now, and I am the one I have been waiting to hear them from.

Oriah House (c) 2013

Rumi & Leaf-Blowers

Every Monday morning in the summer, at eight o'clock, the caretakers of the property adjacent to my apartment fire up a gas-fuelled leaf blower, shattering the morning quiet with nerve-jangling noise. Often the blast of noise comes as I am doing my practise of meditation and prayer. It is a test of equanimity that I don’t always pass.

Living in a large city I’ve gotten pretty good at embracing the sounds that arise around me. When a siren wails I pause and say a prayer for both the first responders and for those who are awaiting their arrival, sending a breath of calmness and comfort and a prayer that all be well. When warm weather is accompanied by the sound of city workers jack-hammering up the pavement to replace water pipes, I greet the sound with gratitude for running water and indoor plumbing. Even on Sunday mornings, when the quiet is disturbed by the street-cleaning vehicle noisily sucking up gutter debris, I manage a small inner bow to those who keep our city clean.

But for some reason the Monday morning leaf-blower defies my attempts at garnering gratitude for all the sounds of life around me. Perhaps it is because I don’t really “get” the usefulness of leaf blowers that seem to shift grass clippings and fallen leaves from one property to another without actually removing them. Perhaps it is because it always starts at eight on the first day of the work week, reminding me ominously of the old adage, “As we begin, so shall we continue.” As I sit in the midst of the noise I acknowledge that the man wielding the offending power tool is no doubt doing so to provide for his family, but I can’t help but wish that he- that everyone- would find a way to do so without gas leaf blowers.

I’ve tried putting in earplugs before I begin my practise, although I don’t always remember to do so, and while they are not completely effective at blocking the snarl of the leaf blower, they do stop me from hearing the birdsong that accompanies the beginning of my practise.

So this week, when the low rumble that leads to a screaming whine indicated that the dreaded leaf-blower was being fired up, I decided not to pull away from either the sound or my own reaction to it. I felt my body tense and noted the tension; I heard my inward protest and let the wail go on as long as it wanted to; I acknowledged that I do not like this sound, and I do not control the source of this sound.

And then . . . . I started to wonder, what else might be here for me? And I remembered what I try to forget: that the pattern of sleep and waking that most suits my life, my body, my being and my choices includes rising around five in the morning. I know this, and yet – mysteriously- I fight it. I resist living according to the monastic pattern (at least in sleep and rising times) that appeals to my soul.

And here’s the thing: when I obey this deeper longing, when I arise at five, my practise of meditation, prayer, yoga and dream-writing is completed by eight when the leaf-blower is fired up. When the mechanical noise interrupts my practise it is because I have not followed my deeper impulse to rise before the sun and sit in the quiet of the dawning light. My irritation is laced with disappointment to have missed the time of day that sets my soul afire with possibilities.

Realizing this, I can’t help but smile. Suddenly beneath the roar of the leaf blower I can almost hear Rumi whisper:  “The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep.”

Sometimes, the sounds that call us home are not all melodious.

~Oriah 2013

Release From the Paralysis of Perfectionism

(This week's offering is a day early and a bit briefer than usual because I am off with some friends to do some of the shamanic ceremonies we have shared for over twenty-five years and have some fun and relaxation together at a lakeside cottage for a few days. Will return next week- maybe with pictures if I can figure out how to post them here!) 

"I once heard Robert Bly talking about poet William Stafford. Stafford apparently made it a practice, a commitment, to write one poem a day. Once, when an interviewer asked him what he did when the poem he produced was no good, Stafford replied, 'I lower my standards.'" ~ Oriah Mountain Dreamer from "What We Ache For."

It feels counter-intuitive, but even as I tense a little at the idea of "lowering my standards," I am attracted to the possibilities it holds. When my desire to be fully present in each moment is derailed by distraction, what if I simply "lower my standards" to being present for this moment? What if, when I realize I have said or thought something unkind, betraying my resolution to be compassionate with all, I lowered my standards in this moment to being kind with my own failure to live true to my intentions in every moment? Surely that might increase my chances of being kind with others in the next moment.

Perfectionism makes us give up- No point in eating a healthy dinner because I didn't have my green smoothie this morning. Lowering our standards- letting go of our attachment to perfectionism- allows us to do our best in each moment, helps us begin fresh, again and again.

Oriah (c) 2013