The Creatures: I

In the first year of adulthood, I discovered an author whose touch my soul still feels, some 30 years hence.  The exact story I cannot recall, but the impact it had on my soul is bright and clear.  This story crept to my consciousness of late.  But there is more to this story than told by Richard Bach.  The as yet unwritten calls to me, wants release. 

This is a story of creatures, seemingly quite small, that live below the surface of the water, a stream it seems.  These water creatures know this of life, ’Hold on to the giant boulders, always.’  Born, hold on, die.  And the generations pass.

Until one day, a creature is born who asks, 'Why? 'Why do we hold on?'  To this, none can find an answer.  This is, quite simply, a fact of life.  'It just is.  That's all,' state the elders.  And, they return to their business of holding on.

The one can not find solace in this answer.  'But, why?' she asks.  They glance at her and smile knowingly.  'She is young,' they chortle.  'The young ask such silly questions.'  And they return their attentions to the most pressing of community issues.

Paid no heed by the others, she gazes up into the heavens.  There she sees familiar patterns on the liquid sky, the sparkles that dance in the light and are taken by the dark.  ‘Where do the sparkles go, really?’ she wonders.  ‘Why does the dark take them?’

The story, as told by the elders, is that there is an eternal war between the dark and the light, each stealing the sparkles in turn, when the other is sleeping.  One day, it is told, the dark will steal the sparkles and hide them where the light can never again find them.

On this triumphant day, a huge celebration is planned.  It will be the day of the creatures’ liberation from the beasts with the gaping maws that steal the young and swallow them whole.  The beasts with the gaping maws never come in the dark.  It is said that their spirits are taken by the dark along with the sparkles.

 Many believe the sparkles are the spirits of the great beasts.  No one knows for sure, but the elders seem quite certain.  And no one questions the elders, except the one.

She knows better, has been told to stay quiet, has been taught the ways along with all the other young.  But, the questions still come, begging for answers.  She senses there is more. 

Like the sparkles, the questions dance in her mind.  ‘There is more.  There is more.  But, what is it?’  ‘Why do the dark and light fight?’  ‘Where does the dark take the sparkles?’  ‘If the dark does hide the sparkles forever, will the beasts with the gaping maws really finally leave us and stop taking our young?’ 

And the question that sparkles more brightly than any other…  ‘If they leave, can we let go?’

All these questions, she has asked the elders.  Their patience waning, they nevertheless answered, believing deeply in their veneered role of passing wisdom to the young and saving all from the gaping maws of the beasts.  But, when she asked that question, when she asked if they could let go, the elders flew into a rage.

‘Never!’ they screamed as one.  ‘Never shall you let go!’  ‘Never speak those words again!  And never, never let go!’

The others looked on in shock, holding more tightly to their rocks, as if the question itself would pry them from their fast hold on life and all that is.  There was a deep quiet that day.  The elders gathered closely, whispering and occasionally glancing back at her, with, it seemed, a mix of horror and disgust and concern.

Alone, hugging her rock, feeling once again like she was different, didn’t belong.  ‘Why don’t the others wonder these things?  Is there something wrong with me?  I am young. They are old and wise.  I am one.  They are many.  It is me.  There is something wrong with me.  Why can’t I be more like them?  Why can’t I just be happy with holding on?  Why must these questions steal my thoughts?  What are the answers?!’

And quietly, in the back of her mind, it emerges again, ‘What would happen if I let go?’

The questions hung on as tenaciously as did the creatures to their rocks.  Despite, or perhaps because of, the increasing rancor of the elders, the questions gained strength, became alive.  And, in their persistence, they bore yet more questions, leading ultimately to those forbidden from the mouths of all.  

‘Are the elders wrong?  Is the wisdom they teach untrue?  Is there, in fact, a different reality?’

Through the perpetual battle of dark and light, she watched.  As the great beasts with the gaping maws stole the young and those who could no longer hold on, she watched.  When the heavens shook under the pounding of the god’s fists, she watched.  And when the raging currents ripped even the strongest from their rocks and tossed them into the abyss, she watched.

Her questions, her inability to quiet them, and her persistence in asking, slowly built a chasm between her and the others.  She held now to her own rock, separated from the community.  Even her own young had moved from her to the community, sensing her difference, confused by her questions, wanting security and friendship.  Wanting happiness for her young, she allowed their migration to the community and thanked the dark for hiding her tears. 

She accepted now her exclusion from the community.  The dark and light had come enough times that she knew her difference was real, and that she likely would never again be able to stand inside the community.  The chasm between her thoughts and theirs spread wider than the gaping maws of the beasts and seemed to grow with each passing light and dark.

She sought the quiet, the separation from what she had grown to recognize as the noise of the elders shaping the reality they wished others to see.  Their work never ended for new were always born and the world they wished to be quiet continued to shift and change, creating fear and requiring yet more efforts to pacify and maintain the creatures’ focus on the rocks.

Apart from the community, she heard her own voice more clearly.  She sought answers to the persistent questions inside her own being.  She learned to listen inside, to trust that perhaps answers could be found in the quiet of her own heart.  As the light and dark passed, so dawned a new understanding.  Yes, she was different.  But, that difference did not make her bad or defective.  It made her uniquely who she was.

And as she gazed at members of the community, she became aware that each had a unique sparkle.  That sparkle was dim for many, obscured more and more for those who experienced many passing light and darks.  But, it was strong in the young, bright, dancing, vibrating and pulsating like the sparkles in the heavens.  The young would look her way, recognizing the bright sparkle that surrounded her being, unaware of their own sparkle and fascinated by a connection they could neither name nor describe, but which they knew.  Often, she would hold their gaze and they would share a secret smile.  And then, noticed by the others, they would be pulled back within the fold, blocked from her view and taught by the elders.

At times, the aloneness consumed her.  She had grown to love herself in a way never possible in the community.  She came to believe that she was, in fact, good and that her uniqueness was not a curse, but a blessing.  And she relished the time to be with her self.  But still, there was an ache, a longing and a profound sense of sorrow that she could never reach far enough to span the chasm between herself and the community, that she could never again be a part of them.  Again, she thanked the dark for hiding her tears.

-------------------------

There’s more.  It bubbles inside me, wanting release.  But, it is scary to venture beyond the poems that flow so easily from my fingertips into a story that must, by nature, unfold over time and across multiple pages.  Can I find my way through the pages to the end?  I don’t know.  But, I share this first piece, I guess, because it is here awaiting release.

Pondering 'Truth'

Everything that I write finds its way to the page via a complicated process of reception, filtration and interpretation within my mind.

My senses collect input from the world around me.  The input passes as through a sieve into the complex array of experiences and impressions in my mind.  The sophisticated, yet hidden, sieve filters out data that doesn’t fit and shapes that which does. 

In this way, I make sense of the world.  Every moment of my life is shaped by, and shapes this process, creating meaning out of raw data and building the lens through which I see and define ‘reality’.

This is a highly unique and personal process, affected as much by the spirit I bring to this world as by the experiences I collect as I move my way through this life.  So, even another that encountered the exact same experiences as I would have a unique worldview, all hir own.

This being how the mind functions, I can honestly say that my ‘truths’ represent no one other than me.  And even those truths have a transitory quality as they are shaped by each moment that I live.  Certainly as I look back over the years, I see ‘truths’ once sacred to me as vestiges of the past, reminders of the particular life lessons I was encountering at the time.  Though some remain as elemental parts of this being, even they have been shaped by experience and time.

So, how could I ever have the audacity to say that my ‘truth’ represents any other than myself?

For that to be true, I would have to reside in hir body, experience the moments that are hirs alone, witness the worldview created by the accumulation of moments into a lifetime of experiences, beliefs, expectations, and feelings – all of which created filters for how s/he perceives, and hence, responds to life. 

If I ‘walk in another’s shoes’ for many miles, I can develop empathy and some level of understanding.  But ultimately my perception and interpretation, of the experience, and hence my worldview and sense of ‘truth’, will always be uniquely mine. 

So, how then can I say that my truth is hirs?  Or anyone’s, for that matter, other than my own?

It’s not such a bad thing, really, to only be able to represent oneself.  Certainly, it seems a lifetime to even understand one’s self.  And, if we could find a way to articulate the truths we glean from our unique experiences with life, we would have so much to teach, and learn from, each other!

That is, however, if we can refrain from trying to convince each other that our truth should be hirs, just allow our truth to be our own, and work to understand the other’s truth in our own unique way.

Nature requires ‘requisite variety’ to be resilient and healthy.  So too, humanity, needs variety, lots of it.  And as we learn to share that variety without judgment, we open ourselves to develop to higher levels of consciousness and humanity.

This, of course, is a ‘truth’ which I can only claim to be real for myself – my unique read on the world in this moment.  What is yours?

Free Your Mind and Think

Coming to Grips with my Wealth

People my age [early 50s] are starting to tell me stories of the American war [we know it as the Vietnam war].

There was one time, 12 days in December of 1972, when we bombed this city every single day, without pause.  I'm hearing stories about that.  And as I listen, I feel horror and shame and so much more.  

I was only 12, so I know intellectually that I wasn't culpable.  Still, that knowledge doesn't release me from feeling responsible for the devastation we wrought on this people.  There is something here that I need to learn.

So, I listen.  And my friends share.  The juxtaposition of me climbing trees and playing kickball while my friends were hiding under stairwells and fearing for their lives is almost too much for me to bear.    

I think it is a sure sign of wealth that the many wars in which we have been engaged have been fought in someone else's home, while we live in total safety.  With the exception of 911 [which was one hellatious day], I can think of no other time in my life when the battle was waged on our soil.

It's hard to have the conversation regarding war without getting into the politics of it.  Allowing ourselves to go into that space, however, diminishes our humanity, for any bright person can conceive of entirely rationale and logical arguments for attacking another country and killing its people.  In fact, that's much of what makes warring against another people possible...the dehumanization of the country's people and the creation of fear among those living in the attacking country.  But, I want to step aside from all that because it negates our humanity even as it strips others of theirs.

If we were to courageously separate ourselves from the political rhetoric that creates this artificial boundary between us and others, what might we learn...about others...about ourselves...?

My favorite pastor once told a story for her sermon.  In it, there was a wealthy man and his family.  Each day, they would feast on succulent foods in a beautiful house, while just outside their door people were starving.  Never once did the man or his family come to the door...never once.  

The pastor stopped then and looked us squarely in the eye.  'We...Americans', she said, 'are the rich man and his family.  People in our own backyards and around the world are starving...not just for food, but for water and basic safety...'  In the silence that followed, she ended her sermon asking, 'Will we go to the door?'

And I wonder, if we dare to go to the door and open it, to sit with the people there, look them in eye, take their hand...  What will happen?

So, I am listening to the stories.  I am asking questions.  I am reading a book written by a famous Vietnamese author on the war.  I am trying to just be quiet and listen.  And, I am watching my own reactions.  There is something important here to learn...something about our humanity, about life and love and compassion and hope and forgiveness...  I am searching for that.

Evolution Fast Forward?

It is 6:15am.  I have just completed my morning walk and must sit directly under the fan (which is set on high) for at least 15 minutes to cool off.  To put things in perspective, I am a 50 year-old woman with a 30-year history of sitting at a desk most hours of the day, and not taken to vigorous workouts...or workouts of any kind, if truth be told.
So, my morning workout consists of a hearty walk - 3 times - around the campus, combined with jogging up three flights of steps four times.  Divulging the sore state of my physical being, however, was not my purpose.
It was, rather, to ponder the capacity of the human body to adapt...
My question, then,
Is is possible for a body forged in the ice caves of northern Europe to acclimate to the wet heat of the tropics?  If so, how long would it take?  And if said person carefully and systematically exposed herself to the climate of this tropical land and avoided the artificial, albeit comforting, climes of air-conditioned rooms, would this transformation occur more quickly?....like say in time for the summer months?
They say spring is short here.  Summer will bring with it temperatures averaging 95-100 F and equally high humidity.  We are in spring and I am already developing coping strategies to avoid looking like the sparkling, wet tomato of HCMA.  And, to add to the already humorous situation, my 50-year old body is going through its own changes, unbidden by me.  At the slightest increase in temperature, it will flash hot as an oven  So, as if in league, the heat and humidity of this fair land and my body join to challenge my ingenuity and my sense of humor.
And I wonder...maybe I can be trend setter.  The new look of middle-aged women in Asia... red, glistening faces and really huge portable fans!

Children of War

Sitting on low chairs in a makeshift cafe, my friend told me, "I was 15 and living here in Hanoi.  We would hear a loud horn blaring throughout the city and then a man on a loudspeaker would yell, 'The Americans are coming!  The planes will arrive in 15 minutes.  Find cover now!'  And, so we would all race to shelter and wait for the bombing to stop.  Sometimes, I would look into the air and I would see an American plane crashing down out of the sky...  Several times, we had to evacuate the city.  We ran northwest to hide in the caves and wait."

"I was 12 years old," I say, "and living in the heartland of the United States.  I heard occasional news reports of the war, but my days were never interrupted by the goings on in some far part of the world."

I thought I would share about my brother who was almost drafted, but then re-considered.  How would it feel to someone who had to run for his life so many times to hear that someone else 'almost got drafted'...almost, but not...still in the safety of a country so rich that its people would never really understand the meaning of war and fear and death...

In Viet Nam, they call it the American War.  When I first heard this, I was amused thinking about the tendencies of countries (the US included) to turn events to their own favor.  But, I gave it more thought and came to the conclusion that is was, actually, the American war.  America was the aggressor.  America was the richest country in the world.  Viet Nam was a developing country.  America attacked a poor, developing country.

I can hear the push back now...'The Communists this...funding from this country and that...'  But it was Vietnamese people - mothers, children, grandmothers, fathers, brothers - who were killed, who lost their homes, who saw their crops devastated, who witnessed the long-term affects of agent orange in their bodies and water and food and children.

As I make more and more friends, many of whom have personal memories of the American war, I grow more and more amazed that I, NOT ONCE, have met a person who has been unkind or acted with anger toward me.  And, you can't look anymore American than do I, what with being a good foot taller than Vietnamese women, white as can be and wearing a head of white hair!  Even people I don't know are kind toward me...a stranger in their country, once an enemy and now a welcomed guest.

And the longer I am here, the more I realize what a monumental fact it is that I have been invited by the Vietnamese government into their institution of higher learning.  Know this...the Ho Chi Minh Academy for Politics and Public Affairs (HCMA) is the premier university in Viet Nam for training ALL of its political leaders.  Since its inception, it has been a closed institution, even to many in Viet Nam, and especially to foreigners.

Yet, I write this post from my room on the HCMA campus and soon I will eat my supper in the HCMA cafeteria.  I am on contract with HCMA.  They invited me and they are paying me from their own coffers.  This has NEVER been done before.  The enormity of this move on the part of the Vietnamese government can not be overstated.  And while I would love to bask in the glow of self adulation, the heroes of this story are the Vietnamese people who ask me daily to help them with English, and a government with the  foresight to know that strategic partnerships are critical to its future, the wisdom to find compassion for its enemies, and the courage to reach out in friendship to the very country that just a few years past wrought devastation on this fair land.

I am thankful for the incredible capacity of the human heart to open toward another, the deep well of compassion within each that holds unbounded grace and ability to forgive, and the quiet eyes and gentle demeanor of a people so wiling to welcome someone from a land that  has hurt them so deeply.

So, why was it that America saw fit to fly half way around the world and attack a poor, developing country?  Can any of us remember...really remember?  Perhaps more importantly, can we find in ourselves the unbounded capacity to love all peoples in this world?  And can we find the wisdom in our hearts to re-set our course as a nation?  It is not too late.

We can not continue to hoard and scavenge the world's wealth, nor can we continue to attack (either with warheads or with the WTO) countries that refuse to give us their resources .

Rather, to be truly and fully human (which I believe we are), we are challenged to find in the heart of our nation, compassion, forgiveness, respect and honor, a willingness to share the wealth, the courage to live with 'less', the openness to welcome others into our homeland, and the foresight to see that only together can humanity move forward.

We can do this thing.  We must do this thing.

the rains

This is the most gorgeous time of day.
I awake early here, 3-4am.
In the dark just before dawn, all is still.
Even the birds haven't yet recognized that a new day is emerging.
I open the door, letting in the fresh night air,
filling my room with the stillness, the quiet.
Then, the stillness is pierced with the first birdsong,
gentle, precious...as if in thanks that there, indeed,
is new life beyond the dark of night.
Within minutes, other birds test their voices against the dawn.
Soon, they sing, one to the other, creating a chorus
that surrounds me in the stillness and the dawn.

Then, all becomes silent,
and in the stillness, I hear the gentle rapping of isolated tears from heaven.
Soon, it is a light, steady, quiet rain,
barely visible but, oh so fresh!

Now, the heavens open and the light rain
turns to a drenching, steady downpour.
The rain, though, comes straight down,
unhindered by wind
and the sound swells to fill the stillness.

The beauty in this moment is astounding,
so very awesome.
I am so honored to live this moment,
in this place,
witness to the elegance and brilliance
of nature,
caring for us,
calling us,
reminding us that
we are one with this earth,
we are one with each other.

In bearing witness to the astounding beauty around us,
we honor the precious life
given so freely to us.

a bit of research

For my zesty friends out there...
Here's a little research project.  Use chopsticks and a small spoon as your only utensils to eat for at least one full week.  Two full weeks would be better, so that you would have more time to get the feel of things.
At the end of that time, consider how your eating habits have changed.
I'd love to hear the results of your experiment!
My own results have been quite interesting!

It's the humidity!!

Today, I woke up sweating.  It wasn't even all that hot and it was only 4:30 in the morning!  By the time I had finished yoga and walking, I was overheating and still, it was only 7am!  So, I checked the weather.  It's only 71 now.  But, it's 94% humidity!  The temp will rise to 84 today...and I am officially giving up on growing my hair long!  Where's the Vietnamese hair dresser?!?

The Eyes

By her looks, I would guess
  that she was nearing the life expectancy
  for a Vietnamese woman,
  especially one whose life may have been harsh.

Squatted low on the ground,
  she became almost invisible.
But, I felt her presence
  and heard her whisper up to me.

Glancing down as I strode past,
  I saw into her eyes -
    light, dancing, hungry -
  watched her hand raise to me -
    wrinkled, brown, small, hungry.

Yet, even as she smiled up at me,
  a knowing smile, loving eyes,
  I strode past her.

I strode past her...