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Category Archives: compassion
What can COVID teach us?
I was thinking today about perceived reality (again and again). For many, there has never been the sense of waiting for something ‘out there’ growing and coming closer. For many, their lives have been predictable, safe, and they believed that their survival was due to their own merit. “I did this” was a shared delusion.
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And then there are others who have known this current sense of the ominous wait, this sense of fate, the out of my control formation of some new future.
There are those who lived through the depression and knew food scarcity. My mother’s family had six children and owned 2 pairs of shoes for their offspring. Daily, everything changed as they used up their resources and had to adapt for survival.
I remember clearly sheltering at home when school was done as I watched polio spread in my home town. The pool, the movie theatre, the parks were all dangerous. I lost friends. People were deformed for life or laying in an iron lung. It was out there… the unimagined threat. It could not be controlled. And so we waited. We were careful.
As a schoolchild, we heard the school PA go on and at the yelling out of the word “flash” at random times during the day, we huddled under our metal and wood desks. Across the river was a major port. We were told, when the bombs were dropped, it would be close to us. And so we waited and ducked.
One day at noon, I walked into the vast school cafeteria and it was dead silent. We were eating lunch with dry mouths. The Cuban missile crises was underway. A teacher told me it would all happen within 15 minutes. The missiles would be released to cripple the country in which I lived. The missiles would seek out the important ports and melt the area flat. Hundreds of us sat at the tables with our knees pressed against the underside of the table tops. We remember the flash training. We ate our lunch waiting to die.
When a group of people have had an unthreatened existence there is imprinting within them. They begin to think that it is through some merit of their own that they are healthy, that they can predict their own future. And the wounding it leaves on their psyches is that it destroys their compassion. They no longer understand “the greater good.”
They have never experienced the moments of ominous waiting for something that is formulating in the moments of hung time.
Covid is bringing us back to that feeling. We suddenly see that through no fault of our own, we could cease living or for some, even worse, be the one who carries death to others around us through our actions.
We are experiencing what all of those who have lived on the face of the earth have experienced in what we call “uncertain times.” Attacking tribes, sudden famines, plagues, homeless masses of people dislodged and migrant, economic disasters are all the same experience. We are thrown out into an unpredictable world. We see that it is not our own merit that protects us and gives us a good life. We see with stark outlines that it is our ability to react to the inevitable onslaughts as a united group that is, finally, our only protection.
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Is this a time to be conflicted?
We are between two stools, sitting on two fences, contorted into a new yoga shape that is more Chinese acrobat circus than a pose that has a name. Shouldn’t we be more clear with ourselves than just walking around the gallery of funhouse mirrors watching our projected sense of self morphing into grotesque and incredible shapes.
“That is not me,” we say.
Where do we stand when the floor is lava, the once green and calm back yard is thrust up by earthquake? Where do we stand when the very topography of our reality has changed beyond any name we could dial into our label gun? What do we believe in a time when all beliefs are suspect? Who are we when the nicely-created cattle runs that separated us no longer work? What is our purpose?
I ask who are these people around me when I see a post on social media. A friend boldly emblazons in the status space, the idea that autistic children should be killed because of the drain on society and, you know, the gene pool?
How did we get here wherever here is now? But it all changes first in the dismantling of old systems. It all changes as we have to adapt our behaviour to the new threat to our continued existence. And what I, personally, can feel right down into the marrow of me is that we are just beginning to end it.
I see in my mind’s eye the depiction of an old method of killing an individual who contravened some subtle law drafted with the hope of maintaining a structure of beliefs for some perceived goal. ‘Death by bricks’ is what comes to mind. An individual lays down and is under a board. Weights are gradually added until all the life is pressed out of the person. And for so many that is exactly what it feels like now.
The virus is not real. COVID is only in some foreign land and surely the border mark made in the invisible marker will keep it isolated to hurt only the not me people. COVID is shutting down access to the shiny distractions that have kept us running in place. The second brick is that we can no longer just run in our lives the same pathways we have always run. The third brick is the economic distress now dispersing like ink dropped in a pan of water. People are struggling with fear of the virus while some refuse to believe and are hosting happy COVID spreading demonstrations.
Alone with self
And then we are alone
We no longer have the distractions, the drug of the usual, the mindless actions that we have invested so much time and energy into the building.
And then we are alone with ourselves.
As we sit like those arrested and sent to the involuntary walls of the monastery, we endure the results of climate disruption. Thousands endure storms. Spain has snow. Earthquakes continue. Mountains, we are suddenly reminded, are volcanoes await the moment of release.
As we are like those who are trying to adapt to the weight of the bricks. We see political chaos. We see that which we cannot believe.
But we are getting better and better at absorbing shock. The concept of “It is impossible. It will never happen,” fades away.
The vaccine is created. The virus mutates. The storms throw trees through houses. The crews show up to return electricity.
The stock market keeps track of how happy the corporate rich are in any given situation. And we are envious. We are envious of their invested point of view.
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Our very sense of self erodes. Who am I when I am at home? That is a British saying I have always loved. When you are not involved in the performance art of assuming a character in the eyes of the world, who exactly are you?
When your sense of self is built in the spaces between the restrictive pillars of society, of family, of your role at work, of your star-like coming down a stairway in your costume then who are you?
As we sit at home we are mightily irritated by the sense of being conflicted, of being confused and, may the saints help us all, ignorant.
“I did not know that!” is the beginning. It is where we all become submissive to the idea that what is manifesting in the future will be unlike what our past experiences have lead us to believe was reality.
“I don’t know what all of these bricks of fear are doing to me.” We say this to ourselves as we release expectations.
Some will find it too crushing. Some will decide that it is too much to stay with the transition and to keep creating space within themselves. Some will not make it through.
But others can, at least, build their skills at surrender.
“Yes, I believe two things at once. Yes, I was wrong in my perceptions and I might be wrong even now. Yes, I allow myself to transform.”
And so the old life gets crushed out of us as we teach ourselves to stay loose. We teach ourselves to breathe deeply and not ask for assurances.
The greatest teachers for us are our ancestors. They went through periods wherein the very paradigm of reality shifted. The earth was no longer the centre of the universe. The upstart middle class refused to be slaves to the lord of the manor. Cars and horses shared the same streets. Black death, smallpox, polio swept through towns and villages. Thousands starved because of food emergencies. Wars brought the harrowing Vikings, knights, warriors that decimated the work of generations.
I look at my ancestors and know that in each of us there is the ability to survive even as the very nature of our concept of reality is destroyed. They rebuilt. Those that survived were more creative, more energized and more likely to bring forth an unforeseen future.
I look to my ancestors to understand that what is happening now is simply a new formation of something we don’t understand yet.
The bricks will not kill us. The events will not end our curiosity, our creativity and our desire to participate in a new way, in a more mindful way in the life that is arising.
Embrace the conflict. Shout loudly, “I don’t know. Yet.”
The Dream Map. Awakening After Reading Jung.
As I come out of the enfolding sleep, a hear a phrase in my mind. My eyes slide along the crack between the blinds and the windowsill. The sky is obliterated again. There is just the thick sickly blended muddy color that the burning world has filled in where the sky once was. My nostrils feel swollen, assaulted by smoke. The fires are everywhere, persistent, threatening.
But the word stays clutched in my thoughts. “Substance”. That is the primary idea I cling too. And as I slowly awaken more of the words tied to the first become clear. “Substance and strength”, I hold onto that.
shimmer of energy
I focus on the entire narrative that wants to disappear into the unremembered dreamfield and pull tightly on the connecting thread. I follow it. There is something there, I realize.
When I was 27 and 29 I gave birth so I remember when I lived in Vernon, B.C. Two women befriended me. Maureen was a fighter, a person who was deeply connected to the power of women, to what liberation should look like. Kathy on the other hand had a stone like strength. She showed me that setting your jaw and trusting your own power could be quiet, persistent, effective. What both of these women demonstrated for me was a deep substance in the way they chose to live. They were wives and mothers, yes. But they read, they had a life of the mind which meant they were always adding to their store of knowlege
Now the connections were showing up for me. I was seeing the lesson in my dream state. I lay still so as not to lose the wisdom delivered as I slept.
My eyes begin to itch with irritation. The body knows when it is being poisoned.
Usually, when I first awaken, I orient myself. I check my body. I feel into space between sleep and waking. I see if the pain is with me today from disintegrating vertebrate or if I have emerged whole and free.
But today the words stay in my mind. I realize I have taught myself something about my very nature this night after an entire day of being lost.
My north star, my purpose, my yearnings have always been for my life to mean something. The days are heavy at times and yesterday I didn’t want the spreading map of the hours to unfold before me in the morning. I didn’t want the vast expanse of the morning until night because I could see nothing on the surface of the day that engaged my interest.
“Everything is falling in on itself,” I thought.
The dream reminded me of the moments in which I felt most engaged in my own journey.
The trivial repetitive actions that support my continuing to exist, the eating, the preparing of food to eat, the planning of the preparation, the procuring groceries, the maintenance of the car in order to purchase and store the packages and plants, the earning of money to exchange for a method of keeping the body alive. All those hours and habits and actions have used up much of my 76 years.
The moments that have a shining intensity as I look out over the map of my life, are the moments in which I was a seeker.
Questions are answered by quests.
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Lately I have been revisiting C.G. Jung. As the pandemic is enclosing the world into a second state of paralysis, the deepening consequences of mankind’s accumulation of thoughtless repetitions of destructive actions are encircling us. We can no longer escape the pay off.
The fires burn and fill the air with tarlike flakes of the destroyed forests. The failure to understand COVID is resulting in more and more individuals falling ill. Winter is moving toward us and the sun will be a mere memory soon.
Without the hypnotic trance of the trivial, what will we become? Who will we become?
I realize I have used up my life in what I was used to.
My north star, my way out of the dark night of my childhood that more closely fit a narrative of a hostage taking than a time of nurturance has always been to find examples of people who were seekers.
The books I curled around in my bed were stories of heroes. Madame Curie, Eleanor Roosevelt, Golda Meir, Isadora Duncan informed me. No matter what the current culture’s formulation of restrictions and limitations on the efficacy of a single individual, these individuals did not refuse to step into power.
I needed to know that there was more. I needed to see that the scope of human curiosity and attention was magnificent.
My eyes opened and the swollen eye lids told me immediately that it would be another day of thick obstructed skies. It would be another day of each breath being ladened and laboured.
But Jung had reminded me that we create our own mythology. We look into our own dark well of the subconscious mind to see our creation story.
We can choose to feel abandoned, bruised, invisible. It is a childlike narrative that begins to be whispered in our ear when the outside world refuses to give us a map to follow.
I have hundreds of hours of storing biographies and autobiographies of people who faced crises and like early explorers simply geared up and went into the wilderness. What kept them whole, what kept them strong was a clear sense of their own purpose. They found out who they were as a result of knowing why they were on the journey.
My dreams were talking to me. My dreams showed me two women I once knew who were strong in their own specific and opposite ways. My dreams reminded me that I need to get back to my own myths, my own symbols of power and push into my own wilderness.
It has always been thus, Jung reminds us. We are each essentially alone and responsible alone for our manner of being. As I move through the world, I become more and more who I am. I can see that as I lay still in bed waiting to start again.
I cannot depend on the exterior existence of others to protect me from the task of defining and birthing myself, That is and always has been up to the individual. The second next worth is self, I realize. Substance, Power, Self.
The Easy way or the Difficult way.
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The Struggle is Not the Point
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Background Trauma Sounds
Like a martial drum beating, the sounds of shuffling feet from some invading army still unseen over the hillside, we can hear it. There is a sense of a lined up, designed, patterned chaos that is coming at us. We don’t have words for it. We don’t have words for the shivering anticipation that we are feeling in our bodies. And like a person in an abusive relationship, many individuals have become overwhelmed and collapse in a heap.
“What can I do?” we ask. “How can I stop any of it?” we cry out on social media.
The battered wife is so exhausted by just dealing with the next and the next inevitable attack that she loses the ability to remain in even a fight or flight stage. That was months ago. That sense of urgency of activity is long sense gone for most of us. We are now just frozen.
My brother and I used to play frozen rag on the front lawn on summer nights. He would grab my arm and fling me into the darkness and as soon as a car came past flooding the moving person with light, we had to stand in place. The car’s headlight were a ray that made us into an inhuman stone-like form. I remember holding on tight to the paralyzed shape that the sudden headlight rays had created of me.
If we fell or could not keep our balance, we were dead. The lawn had transformed into some lethal contact zone that would dissolve our very person.
As I scan the social media posts and see 500 fires in California, dismantled post offices, the history of the connection to beauty obliterated in the Rose Garden at the white house, two tornados headed to the south, and locally two fires nearby creeping the hillsides, I feel like that child on the lawn. I have been thrown. I am off balance and moving through the darkness. The sudden flash of car lights would freeze me in space. I don’t want to be frozen in this time.
Can I keep my balance? Can I find a way to hold my shape, my person, my hopes without falling on the dark ground?
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Someone said on social media, “What can happen next?”
His friend answered, ” Don’t even ask that question.”
So now we need to reconnect to the sense of our own bodies; the bottoms of our feet where we can stand; the small decisions in our daily lives. We have our breath; our practices of self-care; our intentions.
And as the loud sounds of the cracking walls of the old system fill our space, we are called on to trust. The only thing left is to trust that we have the ability to stay undisturbed and centred. We have the ability to disconnect from the childlike urgency of expecting more powerful people to protect us. We have this opportunity to strengthen the sense that the universe supports us.
We choose our actions. We choose our emotions. We choose to stay focused on becoming the person we desire to be. It is more difficult when there are no pats on the back, no outside validation routines. But there is also greater freedom. Having the structure collapse means that we are now not walled in with rules and rewards. We choose to not be thrown across the black night lawn and frozen in fear by the next event.
We seek out our own expression of self. And throughout history, we know for a fact that following chaotic events such as plagues, the collapse of nations and warfare, there is a period of great creativity. New social classes emerge, new forms of artistic expression, new methodologies and cosmologies are created. And it is because of those who choose to see an opportunity arising as the old restrictions fall away.
Refuse to be flung off balance and forced into a state beyond action. You are creating a new way of life. Dare to trust yourself.
Data Pixels: This much is true
I don’t know where the days disappeared to, what place at the back of time, what dimension. Were they even present in my present? They just went somewhere as if there was some universal zoomba grinding around all of my surfaces of recognition picking up the dirty particularization specks of time or large fallen fetuses of leaves curled tight which are constantly peeling off of my bare feet as I enter the house. The leaves that were once attached distinctions now wind-blown disconnections. They have come down, down to the ground. Nine days of heat and entropy. Nine days of explosive change. Nine days of amnesia.
In this now moment, I sit on the deck and speculate about a bird that just flew low down over me and squawk chirped. The bird-shape individualized and milliseconds behind it the shadow trailing. I saw them and I thought, “Is it always like this?”
Is there the event, the action, the sense of being real and at the same time a trail of who we are?
The living roundness of a living entity appears and too soon for the eye-mind to register, the shadow appears but not like the bird. It is shifted by change in the precise moment of being cast, created. The intensity and direction of the phantom of the bird which could be perceived in a second to be ‘ this one thing’ is more of less saturated darkness. The sun’s direction, the interference of wind in leaves, the stately sailing ships of clouds, the cast shadows of other objects defying the sun, the star dark of the deck umbrella all interpret the flat black and white appearance of the bird itself as it moves low down so only my left eye registers this passage of bird riding on the wind dragging its shadow like a second home.
I spun out, was pinwheeled by the events last Monday. Saturday and Sunday were given over to pacing and muttering the monologue I have tried to memorize previously. Why is it so difficult to commit other’s words to memory for me? I add to the list while I am abusing myself: You can’t do math, understand flat pack instructions for assemblage, learn new technology without agony. The suffering is part of the imprisonment of a slow mind.
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Is it because I find so many things in my life easy? I can grasp new ideas about cultural, emotional, scientific or physiological discoveries as quickly as a toad whips out its astonishing length of tongue and zip it into my self. It becomes disgested. It becomes my new view of the world with unbelievable speed. I can physically feel it settle into my being. Yes! I see it. I swallow it and digest it. It is now part of me.
As I prepare the monologue for an audition, I am now more like a baby strapped into a high chair than like a lightning quick toad. The bib tied onto me, no matter how expansive, cannot protect me. The spoon of mashed up something which looks predigested moves toward my mouth and my lips are clamshell locked. The concept, the system, the monologue is forced into my face by sheer persistence and it is simply spewed back. I don’t absorb this new information. I wear the mess of it upon my person. The failure is like mashed peas slowly creeping down my front, my face, my arms and some ends plastered in my hair.
I have gone from the Fast Train to an old truck on a pockmarked road. I hit an area of cognition that has lain dormant for years or maybe for this entire lifetime. The level of contrast between instantaneous absorption of far-reaching concepts and the infantile attempts to close the thumb and index finger around an item of information is dumbfounding, It snaps my head back every time.
A bird flies low and both it and its shadow exist but in different worlds. Nothing is simple. There is no one thing. Ever.
I am shifting. Time is shifting. The world is rebooting itself. It is a time to be curious, to simply watch and ask questions. We ask, “What is true?” And we wait.
Virtue Signals and Promises
On social media, I have observed a hair pulling and kicking in the knees caps type of fighting. One person calls out another with a snarling tone. “You are virtue signalling,” the troll that lives in feeds says in a deep, accusatory voice.
Beware those who have the unmitigated gall (or any other ancient tribal name such as Celt or Galli) to brazenly state that they are not face down in an alcoholic daze during COVID. They will be attacked.
Shut in
The social fetish with victimhood, suffering, repetitive self-destructive behaviour has become more fashionable during the COVID retreat for some. Post that you are day drinking, have put on ten pounds, no longer comb your hair or can’t stand the smell of composting armpits when you lift your arms and the congratulatory messages come flowing in like a waterfall under your Facebook status comment.
Some are applauding paralysis and dysfunction as if it were a superpower. It is, indeed, a strange time. It is an open competition for those who can be the most worst. It reminds me of a bicycle race where the person who stays upright and has covered the least ground is the winner.
Virtue signalling has saved my life. Each time I chose not to tumble down the cactus-covered hillside because I wasn’t watching my steps, I start to trust myself more. Each time I look at my options and ask the question, “Who do you want to be?” Or visualized the person my actions will create, I become more gently optimistic about my own ability to run my life.
When I work out instead of binge-watching Netflix, I talk to myself. I will say, “Look at you go!” I will keep track of my walking, my eating, my sleeping, my reading, my meditating so I can clearly observe my growth. It is a necessary part of my personal growth journey to virtue signal to myself and to others as well.
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There is another way, another path, another reality to step into when I pay attention to my small, mundane choices. Every decision creates an entirely new world. The tiniest act is powerful.
I watch a lot of HGTV and I have a clear sense that we are constructing the place we live within at this time in history. Our home is in our thoughts. And every time I rip out old inefficient wiring and have a more functioning pattern of thinking installed, I congratulate myself. And every time I rip out old inefficient wiring and have a more functioning pattern of thinking installed, I congratulate myself. And every time I rip out old inefficient wiring and have a more functioning pattern of thinking installed, I congratulate myself.
Keeping promises to my body, my health, my garden, my friends, my family makes me stronger and more trusting. I am not imprisoned by my own interior troll voice cackling gothic noises in the background.
Virtual signalling tells me, “Woman, you got this!”
It makes me stronger.
Mr. Robot
I have just “found” the Mr. Robot series and it is enlightening to view it in the face of the disruption we are experiencing in the world today. Questions arise from the story’s script such as: “Who controls me?” and “Is anything I do originating from what I think of as self?”
During the turmoil that has arisen from societal dissatisfaction with hundreds of years of inculcated cruelty, institutionalized inequality and the resultant blatant public murders of those who are deemed lesser and of no value, people have begun to vibrate at a high rate of anxiety. The questioning of self is resulting in either a defensiveness of a person’s long-held views or a denial of the reality that seems to condemn what the person holds as the truth.
People react in various ways in order to disclaim their part in the system. They have a choice of saying, “It isn’t true. It is information that is being created to control my reaction.” Or they have a choice of saying, “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know. It is too much for me, too big for me. I don’t have any power. I am just standing here passively being a good person.” Or what we are seeing on social media is a third response which is growing stronger. “The people who are killed are at fault. They aren’t like me. They somehow deserve what happened to them.”
It is fascinating to see the philosophy of the early settlers winding through our world, still, in 2020. Preachers in Plymouth delivered hellfire sermons based on the philosophy that a person’s soul was either blessed by God or under the control of Satan before he or she was born. The signs that a person was anointed by God were found in skin colour, physical beauty, wealth, and perfection of health. To ensure that the devil did not rule children, it was recommended that children have the “devil” beaten out of them if they behaved badly.
And it was well known in the religious community that the mark of Cain was punishment. At some point after the start of the slave trade in the United States, many protestant denominations began teaching the belief that the mark of Cain was a dark skin tone, Cain had killed his brother Abel and let Abel’s blood flow on the earth.
We think that we are in a world that is clear of the past and somehow balanced correctly in the now. But as we see how an inherited belief that the colour of a person’s skin is the result of some sin, some lack of being fully human, we start to wake up. We start to question everything that we have been inducted to believe in.
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An interesting example of how we view the world showed up on my social media feed. A man who understood how conditioning works explained that the map that Americans sit staring at in their 12 years of public schooling is nothing more than propaganda. The USA is placed in the dead centre of the world in order to reinforce the idea that America is special, the centre of the known universe. The other continents are not depicted in their actual sizes. The comparative size of the USA to other nations and of North America to other continents is inaccurate. Power is size. Power is being in the centre. And so the conditioning is ubiquitous. It is in every part of our social context.
What we are being driven to face is the question of what matters. Which of my actions has any inherent power? Does it matter if someone I don’t know dies of COVID? Does it matter in my life if someone is living without clean drinking water? Does it matter if someone unlike me is being deprived of social justice?
We don’t like the feeling because it forces us to understand how we are formed. Each cell is a thought we have implanted in our concept of reality. We are so very uneasy with having to question all that we consider “normal”. It is painful. It is disturbing. It frightens us to a place where we feel like unprotected children and so we react like children.
As I was weeding my garden yesterday after viewing Mr Robot, I heard a question in my mind. “Is anything you think emanating from your own mind? Is everything you think just something you were taught, conditioned to believe, planted by some societal conditioning?”
I stood up with the weeds still connected to the roots swinging in my hand. And I knew. I suddenly knew. I had no way of knowing.