The Invisibles

Scientist say that we humans only see 4% of what’s out there.  4%.  All the rest is hidden or invisible to us.  Of course, that includes the ig things like Black Holes, Black Energy, galaxies that are far, far away.  But there are a lot of invisible things so much a part of our lives that we don’t even think about them as invisible.

Right now, sitting in my lovely backyard, there’s a gentle breeze caressing my skin, shimmying through the grass, making the leaves fall from the trees like golden petals from a flower.  I can’t see it, the wind is invisible.  But it touches our live in many ways.  Sometimes it may be as it is today, a calming, pleasant experience.  But in a hurricane or a tsunami it is able to push things with extreme and destructive force.  And yet, we never see the wind, only its results.

The words that we speak to each other in a conversation cannot be seen.  But they also have a very powerful effect.  Words of love and encouragement help to nurture the growth of children, the relationship between spouses, communities of education, faith, civic or nations.  Words of hate and anger do the opposite.  They engender more hate and anger, separate people and make them feel poorly about themselves and their communities.  The childhood ditty I learned when I was young: “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me”, I think has it all wrong.  In my mind it should be “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can hurt forever.”  The power of words said to us is part of the baggage we carry with us into adulthood.  And yet, we never see the words coming out of people’s mouths, we only experience the results.

I breathe in the air around me, which sustains my life but which I can’t see.  The air goes into my lungs, feeds and nurtures every cell in my body.  When I breathe out it is transformed into something else: carbon dioxide, which feeds and nurtures plants.  We have a symbiotic relationship going on, vital to both the plants and the humans, and we can’t even see it.  But we see the results.

And music.  I don’t see it.  But it resonates in my ears, in my body and in my spirit.  It speaks to me in a different language than words and touches me deeply.  A classical guitar, a voice, a symphony, all use notes, vibrations, and sound waves to communicate with an audience.  But we don’t see what is being transmitted.  We only feel the results when they touch our ears, our bodies, our souls.

I turn on my cell phone and get messages from around the world, or watch a hockey game which is playing in another city.  I can call or skype or watch a movie on this tiny little rectangle.  And yet there are no wires though which the information passes.  They all come – invisibly – through the atmosphere to my phone.

Sometimes the visible is invisible!  An experiment psychologists Christopher Chabris and Daniel Simons show in a video (available on line) includes a group of people throwing ball which you are told to keep an eye on.  Because your eye is ‘on the ball’ you don’t see the very large gorilla cross the room!  But when they play the video back, it’s clearly there.  Our eyes were just focused on something else and thus the visible was invisible.   How often does that happen in our daily lives?  We’re thinking about something that happened that morning, he said-she said; or we’re focused on the car that’s pulling ahead of us in the other lane, or what we’re going to say to so-and-so when we get home.  So we miss the sun dappled light shining through the copse of trees by the side of the road.  Or the glimmer of a bird flying past.  We don’t see our child accomplish his/her first bowling strike – without bumpers! – because we’re looking down at our phone.   We miss a genuine moment of communication with another because we’re rushing off to do something.

And then there are the things we cannot see because our eyes are not capable of seeing them.  Such as colours! According to a story on NPR Radiolab, We only see about 98 of the more than a million colours that exist because of the limited number of eye receptor cones that we have.  A sparrow would see more than us.  Butterflies see far more colours – “colours we don’t even have names for!”  And mantis shrimp – which look beautifully coloured themselves -- have 16 receptors allowing them to see more colours than any other creature in the word that we know about.  What would our world look like if we were able to see those colours invisible to us?

Religious traditions recognize the value – and mystery -- of the invisibles. In the Christian Bible it says:

“While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:18)

In the Quran, talking about G-d and the Prophet Muhammed, it says of G-d:

“He is the One who knows the unseen, and He reveals His unseen to no one except to the messenger He is pleased with… (72.28) 

In Hinduism, the Infinite Spirt of all Existence, Brahman, can never be seen.  It temporarily dwells in each one of us as it temporarily dwells in each statue of a deity.  It can be expressed in the sound of “Om”, a sound that is heard, temporarily, but never seen.

Buddhism often represents the Invisible by the idea of emptiness, sunyata.  There is no is-ness, no self, no thing that one can say exists.  Therefore, some forms of Buddhism show an empty circle instead of a statue of the Buddha.

The shamans of indigenous cultures are always in touch with invisible spirits.  They say it is those spirits that provide them with the knowledge of medicinal plants and provide them with the powers to heal.

What else do we not see?  Are there spirits of the dead around us, helping or watching us, we don’t see?    Is there a G-d – or bodhisattvas that are around and guiding us that we don’t see?

We walk – and run – through the tangible world as if it’s the whole story.  As if we know what we need to know because we see it, touch it, smell it, hear it.  But there’s so much more.  So many invisibles around and in us that we take for granted.  Perhaps if we focused on them a bit more, we would have greater appreciation for the unknown that is knowable and that which is not.

REFLECTIONS ON DEATH AND LIFE

Don't get scared!  There's no 'bad news' on the horizon (that I know of!)  But at this time of year, with Halloween and the Day of the Dead just past, it seems like a good time to post this reflection on death and life:

The rain has stopped.  The clouds are moving swiftly by.  I watch them from the infusion room while I get my chemo for Stage IV pancreatic cancer.  I watch the parking lot as the rain turns to steam.  And I remember what we in our techno-driven society so often forget:  that the water that falls from the clouds and nurtures our plants will evaporate and return to the clouds.  Clouds that appear solid are really just a moving, changing collection of water molecules that temporarily coalesce into shapes and then dissipate.  Similar, said the Buddha to our lives.   We are five strands, skandhas he called them, that come together while we are in this life, changing all the time, and then dissipate when we die.  To the Buddha, just as there is no solidity to the cloud, there is no ‘self’ to our being.  Instead, we are a constantly changing, collection of atoms that will be recycled into other life forms at a later time.  Just as those rain drops became mist, then clouds, then rain, then roots of plants, then flowers, then mulch, which received rain, which went to the clouds.

Apparently, just before the Buddha died, he looked up and said “Be like light.”  Perhaps because even more than the clouds, light is both existent and non-tangible.  There is ‘no-thing’ that is light, no core, but it’s here and it exists.  It moves, it vibrates.  Sounds and wind as well.  Why not us?

Our problem, said the Buddha, is that we want to see ourselves, our lives, our relationships, this world as unchanging, as having substance.  So we cling to the notions that there is permanence and independent, autonomous entities when there are not.  And that ‘clingingness’ to our misperceptions, that need to have things stay as they are is what makes us sad and frustrated because all existence constantly changes.

There is an organization called Urban Death which is trying what I see as a very Buddhist approach to death.  Instead of trying to maintain the body as it is with all kinds of chemicals and embalming fluid, they are building a human composter for dead bodies.  This appeals to me as I like the idea of my body transforming into useful mulch.  There is the recognition of change, of life renewed, of death just being another stage in the continuum of existence.

And yet, I know that I have a paradoxical view, both Buddhist and Western as it is hard to let go of an idea that there is a ‘me’ that will continue.  When my father was very ill and close to death we were having dinner together and he turned to me in all seriousness and said, “You know, I just can’t imagine this world without me, Stanley Baron in it!”  I have a different take on that for myself.  I can very much imagine this world without me in it.  I have a harder time imagining me not existing in the beyond --some world, somewhere, as something.

When I think of my own death, I imagine it like holographic seed pods where all the energy will flow out of this body, each particle of energy containing the whole of my existence, as it floats – like the clouds or like light – in separate directions until these energy ‘pods’ find homes elsewhere.  Maybe some will be ghosts, entangled particles called back or still connected to the living.  Maybe some will go into other life forms or other universes.  Maybe some will become transformed in ways I cannot even imagine.  Or perhaps they will all dissipate into nothingness. 

In any case, I feel calm about death.  Even somewhat excited to ‘see’ and experience what it will be like, what will be on the ‘flip side’ to this life.

But meanwhile, just as one become more appreciative of a place as one is about to leave it, I have become more appreciative and aware of this life, as I become closer to death.  Every moment and view becomes precious and valuable.  I feel as the poet Mary Oliver wrote in her poem “Death”:

“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

If I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

Or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”

                    (Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, p. 10)

It is that engagement with and love for the world that makes for a satisfied death at the end, the sense that I’ve had a good run and now it’s time to move on.  And that’s okay.  There’s a Greek word, eudaimonia, which means, according to the positive psychology movement today: “a state of having a good indwelling spirit or being in a contented state of being healthy, happy and prosperous. In moral philosophy, eudaimonia is used to refer to the right actions as those that result in the well-being of an individual.”  (http://positivepsychologyprogram.com/eudaimonia’).  And that sense of well-being comes from finding meaning in one’s life through the relationships and activities that one does, being married to amazement and taking the world into one’s arms.  I am always reminded of the words of Martin Luther King who imagined what he wanted said at his eulogy and which, at the request of his wife, Coretta were played at his funeral:

“…I'd like somebody to mention that day that Martin Luther King Jr. tried to give his life serving others. I'd like for somebody to say that day that Martin Luther King Jr. tried to love somebody.

I want you to say that day that I tried to be right and to walk with them. I want you to be able to say that day that I did try to feed the hungry. I want you to be able to say that day that I did try in my life to clothe the naked. I want you to say on that day that I did try in my life to visit those who were in prison. And I want you to say that I tried to love and serve humanity...”

                                                    (Martin Luther King, “The Drum Major Instinct”)

I am no Martin Luther King by any stretch of the imagination.  Nor have I had the courage to live up to the words of the prophet Isaiah who he references in that speech.  But in my own way, as a teacher, as a mother, a friend, a wife, a person, I know I have touched and helped others.  They have also deepened and enriched my life.  It is the connection to others beyond our own little selves that enlarges our own lives and gives it meaning.

Furthermore, the beauty of this world gives me a sense of amazement and wonder that fills my spirit.  Sitting in our backyard with multiple variations of green, sun-dappled and shady, gives me great pleasure.  Watching the stars at night or a far vista of mountains gives me a sense of awe.  Sometimes, even driving on a busy highway in a metropolis, one can see a beautiful bird or the light of a sunset on the bricks of a building, or a grove of trees shimmering in the morning sun.  All those moments of seeing the world also enlarges my life and gives it meaning.

I am also so very lucky to have so much love in my life – from my family, friends, colleagues.  It nurtures me and pleases me tremendously.  And it makes me a more loving, healthy person in return.

And so I have a deep sense of well-being, of a contented state, of eudaimonia.  And that makes facing death and the mystery of it, far easier.  With role models and guides such as The Buddha, Mary Oliver, Martin Luther King, as well as Jesus, Muhammed, other poets, authors, family, friends, mentors, I am not afraid of death and I am enjoying life.  What could be better?

ROSH HA-SHANA & YOM KIPPUR

I guess it's been awhile since I posted anything here!  This is something I wrote many years ago, but still resonate with me.  Enjoy!

Why does Rosh Ha-Shana, the new year, take place at this time of year?  This is not a time of new growth, of new life like in Spring.  It is not a time when the days begin to get brighter with more light and the sap begins to flow like the new year in January.  It is not even the first month of the Jewish calendar -- it's the 7th.  So why does the Jewish New Year take place at the beginning of the end -- as the light begins to lessen, the leaves begin to die, the wintry signs begin to appear?

    I think it's because we are at a most precious time of the year: the time between.  We are between the newness of summer and winter's death.  We are between the newness of our own lives and our own death.  We are between the indolent days of summer and the bustle of a school year.  And so we become intensely aware of life.  Rosh Ha-Shana takes place at the fullness of life.  The harvest is abundant.  The fruits and vegetables mature and ripe.  Life is at its peak.  It is ripe for the asking and the future lies in the seed.  Passover, which will come in the Spring, celebrates the budding and flowering of life.  Everything is new then, everything is possible.  Yom Kippur -- here in only 10 days -- reminds us that we shall die.  We don't have forever.  But Rosh Ha-Shanah reminds us that life, like an apple, is now ripe, juicy and full of flavour.  Savour it well and remember that ripe fruits bear seeds for the future.

    The bible readings for the days of Rosh Ha-Shanah remind us that fruitfulness and continuity come from maturity.  The story of Sarah tells us she was over 100 years old when she had her first son from whom the Jewish people came.  Hannah, who desperately wanted a child through out her marriage, finally bore a great son, Samuel, when she was quite old.  I think these women were the source of so much greatness because of their age and maturity -- not inspite of it.  And I think that's why they're read on Rosh Ha-Shanah.

    But you don't need to be 100 years old to be fruitful.  We're all older and wiser than we were.  We are all aware of how quickly time -- at least summertime -- passes.  So it's good for us all to appreciate the sweetness and vitality of life.  Because death, like winter and Yom Kippur, does come to us too soon.

    And what of Yom Kippur?  It is the holiest day of the Jewish Year, the day of Atonement.  We stand before God and ask for forgiveness.  We ask that we be remembered in the Book of Life.  We fast.  In the late afternoon, feeling weak with hunger and the lack of caffeine, we solemnly chant that we are like sheep coming before the shepherd, before the slaughter.  The time of judgment is now.

    Yom Kippur is like a scheduled death.  This is the appointed day.  You know it ahead of time, you can't will it away, you must now be ready to meet it.  Rosh Ha-Shanah, coming 10 days earlier, is akin to a the "5 minute warning" I give my children before they must leave something they are enjoying.  But now the time is up, the moment has arrived.  There are no extensions.  We are confronted with those questions that are inescapable:  Have I done what I'm supposed to?  Have I done the best that I can?  And if I haven't, have I recognized where I have failed and made up for it?

    Elie Weisel tells a story that as one of the sages approached death he was afraid.  His followers said, "But Rebbe, why are you afraid?  Your life has been as good of that of Moses!" "Ach!" replied the Rebbe.  "That is what I am most afraid of.  When I die, God will not ask me why wasn't I more like Moses, God will ask me why wasn't I more like myself!"

    But there's the rub.  For how can we truly know ourselves?  How can we knowingly be truthful about ourselves?

    Human beings have an amazing ability to turn a blind eye to the truths that stand in front of them or are part of them.  The alcoholic knows he or she is drinking, but doesn't see a problem.  The torturer of political prisoners will commit unspeakable atrocities to other humans yet hug and kiss their own children and kindly feed their dog.  How many times do we all say -- with utter conviction -- "Well, it's not my fault..." or "I didn't know..."

    Denial of our failings is strong.  And while it is strikingly easy to see the wrong doings of others -- we complain about them all the time -- it is far more difficult to see our own.  In the Christian Gospels Jesus warns his followers to take out the log in their own eyes before they attempt to take the splinter out of their neighbors.  Yet, how easy it is to "see" that splinter without ever noticing the log!

    So Yom Kippur comes along, forcing me to look at my own wrongdoings and failings and to forgive those of others.  But I am like the biblical character Jonah who we read about on Yom Kippur.  Jonah is called on by God to do a job and goes to great lengths to avoid doing what he should.  I, like Jonah, go to great lengths to avoid telling the truth and taking the consequences.  It is on Yom Kippur that I have the chance to finally be honest with myself.

    So here I am.  I celebrate Rosh Ha-Shana by appreciating the fullness and sweetness of life because I am aware that a good thing doesn't last forever -- it will come to an end.  As I approach the end I can ask myself these questions:

Am I truly appreciating and living my life to the fullest?

Am I truly being myself?

Am I truly being honest with myself and with others?

Am I truly willing to forgive myself and others for wrong doings in the past?

Am I willing to try my best to do good in this New Year?

I may not be able to answer completely, but it's very good to have a period on which to honestly think about and reflect upon the questions.  May it be a sweet New Year for us all.  L'Shana Tovah

WHY I AM A JU-BU

Humans in this time are paradoxically becoming either more or less insular in their world outlook and practice.  Some are becoming more orthodox in one, particular tradition and seeing it only from that perspective.  Others, such as myself, are becoming more eclectic, choosing practices and ideas not just from one tradition, but perhaps from a few.  I know a Catholic nun in her 80’s who practices a form of Zen Buddhist meditation every day.  I myself consider myself a Ju-Bu, or Jewish-Buddhist.  I draw strength and wisdom from both traditions and find that they don’t conflict with one another.  To the contrary, I think they complement and enrich each other.  Here’s what I get from each and the two together.

Judaism is the religion of my family.  It connects me, through blood and family tradition, to a community that goes back 5,000 years.  And the narrative of that community, passed down ‘dorot v’dorot’, generation to generation, has themes that resonate with and formed my values: remember that we were the outsider, the down trodden and thus, be kind and helpful to those who are the outsiders and the downtrodden.  In fact, more than just being kind, it is an obligation to show justice and mercy and, in the words of the prophet Isaiah:

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?  Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?? (Isaiah, 58.6-10)

Another major theme in Judaism that speaks to me is the idea of being in relationship to ‘The Other,’ traditionally called G-d.  I may not believe in the traditional Jewish idea of a G-d that intervenes in human history, but like the Reconstructionist branch of Judaism, I believe there is an energy that is the source of life, love, spirit. When we recognize that this energy force, while inside us, is also beyond us we are forced to step outside of our ego-centered view and be in an I-Thou relationship with the world and beyond.  We need to listen with love to ‘The Other’ who is both transcendent and also in the person next to us.  “Hear, Oh Israel, the Lord your G-d, the Lord is one.”

There are also the holidays that literally bring home – because most of them are done in the home – the messages of the tradition.  Friday nights, when we light the candles and say the prayers over the wine and the bread before we have a special Shabbat meal reminds us to appreciate the gifts of the earth that sustain us as food.  And the symbols represent the power of transformation.  Because it’s not just grapes or wheat that we eat, or the waning light of the day that we use.  It is things that have been transformed from what they were to something new and beautiful: wine, bread and candlelight.  And, with a day of rest we too will be transformed into something new and beautiful, ready to deal with the rest of the week as transformed beings.  Rosh Ha-Shanah, Yom Kippur and the 10 days in between remind us of the swiftness of life from birth to death and the need to make meaning and forgiveness important parts of the journey between. 

Passover is a way to remember all of the themes in Judaism.  We bring the family together, giving the children a part to play so that they will be part of the stories continuum and pass it down to yet another generation.  We say in the seder:  “You shall not oppress the stranger, for you know the heart of a stranger, seeing that you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23.9).  We thank a force far greater than us for transforming us – like the matzah and wine we use – from slaves into a free nation.  And we recognize both the importance of the past and the hope of the future as we sit in our homes and recount the tale dorot v dorot, from generation to generation.

The Dalai Lama, head of a form of Tibetan Buddhism, once asked a group of Jews how they managed to keep their religion and culture alive over so many years of living in diaspora, a problem that he and the Tibetans are facing now.  The answer was that the religion had become home-centered and child-centered rather than a hierarchal, top down synagogue centered religion.

So what wisdom and strength do I get from Buddhism?

The historical Buddha was a human being, not a god, who went from one extreme of pampered wealth to the other extreme of aesthetic punishment until he heard a musician tell his student “If you make the strings too tight they will snap.  But if you make the strings too loose, they won’t make a sound.  It was then that the Buddha, the Awakened one, realized the importance of balance and moderation.  From his experience of meditation, sitting, breathing and emptying his mind of the distracting chatter, that  he came to articulate four ideas for living that appeal to me greatly.  They are: the importance of compassion, the acceptance of change, the awareness of things as they are, and the interconnectedness of all life.

The Metta Sutra, believed to be a saying of the historical Buddha, says to treat every living creature “with a boundless heart” as if they were your child, your only child.  Practicing that unconditional love is hard.  And yet, I have found that when I pretend that someone who really bothers me is my child, my only child, something shifts in the way I see and act toward them.  They may be like a child who needs to be corrected or disciplines, but there is a concern and love for them that makes my approach toward them different and more positive.  This also changes how they respond to me, and our relationship invariably improves.

 The idea that everything changes, that nothing is permanent, allows me to stop clinging to my desire – or fear – that things are going to stay as they are.  Buddhism teaches us what quantum physics is beginning to teach us: that what seems tangible is really more like clouds, amorphous, moving, and nonsubstantial.  This material and personality which is me has come together for a period of time and, like a cloud, it will dissipate and become part of something else when I die.  This recognition helps me to understand and accept my death – or change – into some other form of energy.  My children, who were such cute little baby boys, have become adult men.  And no amount of my wishing they were still toddlers kept them from becoming who they are and eventually the old men they will be. Nor can I stop summer from becoming fall which becomes winter and turns to spring. I cannot control life.  It is alive because it changes.  So I need to breathe in and out – without even holding on to the breath -- and let change, and thus life, happen.

With the acceptance of change comes awareness: seeing things as they really are, not my preconceived notion of things as I wish they were.  Instead of forcing a relationship (say with a friend, a daughter, or my spouse) to fit into my expectations or desires, I see them and the relationship as it really is.  Furthermore, I become aware of the feelings and responses that I and others have rather than deny or ignore them.  As a result, I can see more clearly and respond more genuinely.  There’s a great deal of freedom and honesty in that view (when I can really live up to it!)   

In Buddhism the focus is how to live a compassionate life in the here and now.  By treating all creatures as if they are your child, recognizing that everything is change, becoming aware of things as they are, one begins to see how all life is interconnected.  The words that I use, the actions that I do have an impact on others around me, and they have an impact on others, and that’s how we get the butterfly effect.  Further, if the material and energy that is me now becomes something else later, then all energy and matter is kin. 

This last idea, that everything is one in the universe, is the opposite of Judaism which separates sacred time from everyday time, sacred space from everyday space, and the Holy one, God, from the rest of us.  And yet, I like the paradox.  It’s sort of like Schrodinger’s cat or the wave/particle duality.  We are both everything AND there is a higher power beyond us.

Judaism then gives me the responsibility and obligation to act with justice and mercy, to help others, and to be part of a community that is in conversation with others and the transcendent.  Buddhism gives me a way to live calmly, act with compassion, and breathe more easily.  Both are important.  Both help me to be a better person.  That’s why I am a Ju-Bu.    

Of Two Minds

Recently a friend took me to visit a spiritualist she knows, someone who has helped and influenced my friend’s life.  She is an older woman from the Dominican Republic, bedridden, her face the like polished walnut wood shining with an internal beauty despite her pain.  Both she and my friend claim that the Catholic Saint Michael, who fought for God against evil, enters into her and speaks through her from another plane even while she is conscious and her ‘self’ while we talk.

Yes, she was able to describe things about me, my dead mother and our relationship, my husband and our relationship, that were spot on.  As someone who thinks that both indigenous shamans and quantum physics point to the existence of other realms in which time and space boundaries don’t exist, I think that such communication and knowledge is probable.  But as someone who is the skeptic that I am, I can’t help but wonder if my friend – even unconsciously -- alerted her to this information beforehand.  Which is true?

Scientists have demonstrated that entangled particles, no longer connected to one another, still move in sync with one another.  When one changes the direction it spins, the other does at the exact same moment, even though they are separated and miles apart.  Scientists are also suggesting with String theory that there are multiple universes all existing at the same time.  So the idea that people who’s lives were entangled could still be effecting one another from a distant time, place, or multiverse does not seem far fetched.  Further, anecdotal evidence from every time and culture – including ours – suggests that there are doors and windows to other planes of existence through which people communicate all the time.

And yet, and yet.  Do I really think my mother was in that room communicating with me?  No.  The Western, rational, separatist me finds it easier to believe she spoke in generalities, got cues from my friend, says this to all of her clients who want to believe.

And so, I don’t think I’ll light a candle for 9 days and lift it higher each day for my mother.  But I may do a spiritual cleansing of my house (although it could benefit from just a really good tidy up!)  And yet, and yet.

 

GO FORTH!

“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the
person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell.
There are no maps of the change. You just …come out the other side.”
(Stephen King, The Stand, p. 449)

This was the experience of many religious leaders such as the Buddha, Jesus, Muhammed, Lao Tzu and one of my favorites, Moses. This passage by Stephen King struck me because, as we approach Passover, I've been thinking of the story of the biblical character Moses, the people of Israel and the journey they took. They are at the end of the story so very different than they are at the beginning of the story. And the Moses at the beginning of the story is like you or me.

I am an American in the 21st century. All around me – not in the palace of my suburban house or street, but certainly in my community and throughout the world – there are people suffering from the abuse of power, the cruelty of enslavement, the grind of inhumane living conditions. And yet, my daily life as a princess of the world continues with warmth, love and comfort. Yes, surely I try to “do my part” to alleviate some of the burden of others. But at the end of the day, I really just want to be snug as a bug in a rug with my family and friends.

Moses was similar -- until he stepped out of his box and, in a moment of passion, without premeditated planning or excuses, he acted to right a wrong. His intention was not to take on the whole system. Not at that point. That came later. At this point he was just reacting to a particular situation. He wasn’t even thinking of the consequences. But having done the “right thing” and as rationality began to sink in making him realize that he could “lose his job” as well as his place in society, he retreated. He “gave it all up”, went out to the country and lived off the land.

It was there where he comes into contact with the power of the universe, that which we call G-d. And Moses came into contact with G-d because he took the first step by turning toward the burning bush to listen. That’s one of the things about Moses – and the whole story – which often gets lost in the telling. The liberating freedom and change only came when Moses and the people went forth took the uncharted steps with "no map of the change." But like so many of us, they did it kicking and screaming. Moses comes up with a lot of reasons why he shouldn't be the one to lead. And the power of the universe just keeps saying "go, go forth, go."

It really is remarkable when you read the book of Exodus, which means to go forth, how often the verb 'to go' is used! Go, go, go…And I don't think it's accidental that the story begins with the details of his birth. Because birth itself is CERTAINLY a going forth, kicking and screaming, without knowing the consequences! So this regular guy – who tried to get out of being called because of his perceived weaknesses -- went back and took on the greatest power structure of his time even though it wasn't comfortable, safe or easy!

I can think of a number of people in history and in the world today who are similar. There are the ones who quickly come to mind like Nelson Mandela or Martin Luther King. Leaders who could have had a much easier life if they had just kept quiet. But there's also Aung San Suu Kyi, the political leader in Myanmar who was under house arrest for many, many years because she demanded free elections in her country and young Malala Youssef who was shot in the face for saying girls in Pakistan should have an education yet still continues to speak up. Or the hotel manager in Rwanda who saved over 1,000 people during the genocide in his country. There are the whistle blowers such as who spoke up about dangers at their companies. Or the imprisoned soldier who refuses to go to war because it's an unjust war. Or the cartoonists at Charlie Hebdo – who, while I disagree with their using pictures of Muhammed, bravely faced threats and ultimately death in the name of their freedom to do so. And the survivors are continuing in their footsteps. "No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell."

Even in our unheroic everyday lives it's difficult to step out of our safety zone to help others.  What about the kid -- or teacher -- who sees someone being teased, or knows that cheating is rampant, or sees an injustice in their community? Will they speak out?  What about the old woman who is sitting on the sidewalk, hungry, cold and muttering to herself?  Will we offer her shelter or take her to a shelter?  Or will we speak up for ourselves or a colleague who we suspect is being abused, sexually, domestically, or racially?

It’s not easy. We know our comfort zone even when we’re not comfortable there. To step off the edge of the abyss, not knowing what will happen, how you will fall or if you will get hurt is scary. It’s easier to stay put and put up. How willing and courageous are any of us to make change?

When Moses finally gets the people out of Egypt, when they are no longer enslaved, what kind of response do they give him? The first time that they lift up their voices and speak -- what do they say? You might think that liberation would bring joyous appreciation and gratitude. After all, Moses has gone out of his way to help, to find another way, trying to change the status quo and give them freedom. And he did some amazing things to make it happen. You might think that they had enthusiastic confidence in his leadership. After all, he’d gotten them out of difficulty already. Perhaps they would now have the fortitude and courage to take charge of their lives. After all, they had a good role model for such behavior.

Wrong. No sooner are the people free then they find themselves between a vast sea in front of them and the fierce army of Pharaoh behind them. They do what most of us would do: They complain and blame. Thanks a lot Moses, they decry sarcastically. "What a revoltin' development this is" -- and it's your fault! We would have been better off staying where we were, with what was known and comfortable than out here in this god forsaken land where we’re sure to die. As bad as the bad old days were, they weren’t as scary as being here at a moment of change at the edge of the abyss. The past, no longer accepting them but still pursuing them will do them in. The future is nothing but a shimmering pool to drown in.

But the story doesn't end there. Nor does the Red Sea just open up and separate. No, before their way becomes clear, before they have an alternative that will save them, they need to start walking into the water. They need to take the step into the abyss. They need to go forth. Only then will their lives change, only then will they no longer be hounded by the habits of the past. Only then will they find freedom.

Can we, like Moses, like the people of Israel, like heroes around the world step out beyond our comfort zone, pass-over the status quo mentality and make the changes in our lives and in this world that need to be made? It will change us if we do. Because like Moses and the people of Israel, anyone who "goes forth" on a journey to change things will be changed in the process. Which brings me back to Stephen King:

“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the
person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell.
There are no maps of the change. You just …come out the other side.”
(Stephen King, The Stand, p. 449)


So go forth, enjoy the scary journey and be courageous!

ON ANOTHER LEVEL

This is a different kind of writing than I usually post.  It's what they call 'narrative non-fiction'  (I think.) and more autobiographical.  Let me know what you think!  -- Jane

ON ANOTHER LEVEL

When I was a little girl, I loved to watch my mother get ready to go out but literally, on different levels.  On the surface I saw a lovely lady looking fresh and coiffed.  She wore her green silk brocade shirtwaist dress with gold threads that shimmered. There was a smell of face powder and freshly applied lipstick which always required some strange but interesting facial expressions.   There were the instruments of beauty lying on the dresser such as tweezers, emory boards, and, the one which seemed, even to my unschooled mind, the closest to a medieval torture devise: the eyelash curler.  There was a good smelling perfume in a lovely cut glass bottle.  And all of it glittered with the reflected light shining from the thick glass top of the dresser.  Life, temporarily, on that level, seemed suffused with the sophisticated stability of a Connecticut suburb of New York City.

But as much as I loved that level, there was another realm that enchanted me:  If I bent down I could look into the side of the thick glass and see into a different world.  It was like floating in a green, sunlit ocean of calm that extended indefinitely.  And yet, at any moment, with the mere lifting of my head, I could be back in the everyday world above.  Then return, then back, then return, then back.  I could watch her, and know that the other world existed just below the surface.  Or, I could be in the other world and not see her.  I would try but could never be in both worlds at the same time.

 In the same years I had special places I'd go to.  There was a grove of trees on a hill near our house.  These pines provided me with a room of solace, a place to be alone and wonder about my life, and my family.  I could pretend it was a cottage in the country where I lived alone in another era or it was a secret hideout of a daring scout.

There were two other trees that were special.  One was for climbing.  I'd jump up to catch the lowest branch, then bring the legs around, hoisting the body up and climb high into the leafy top.  There, with the breeze and the sun on my body and a view of the surrounding area, I would feel like a sea captain at the top of a mast with a sense of exhilarating freedom and mastery.   The other tree was for more contemplative moments.  Like the biblical imagery of a tree nurtured by a stream, it sat, shady and serene, with a crook in it just right for reading.  And that too would take me to other worlds at other levels.

Saturday mornings in the Spring and Summer I'd join my father at the tennis courts, though never to play tennis.  Instead, it was Doc’s snack shed set high above a child’s vantage point and the woods and stream beyond the stone wall that brought me there. In his little green hut, Doc, the calm old man with a lean and lined mustachioed face, was the Zen master of all sodas and candies.  From his perch he would patiently and quietly observe the faces of those choosing from his domain of treats.  Sometimes I had enough allowance saved up and with me to buy something on my own.  Usually it required a great deal of cajoling and plaintive pleading with my father (also known as whining) to achieve my goal.    Those times, when the sun was so unbearably hot, the game so interminably long, and the spending campaign finally successful, made the taste of a cool, wet can of grape soda or the sweetened licorice of Good and Plenty all the more delicious. 

When I wasn’t focused on Doc’s candy heaven, I would wander beyond the stone wall and venture into the woods beyond.  There, in a patch of undeveloped land probably no bigger than a city block, I found another world beyond the everyday.  Wedged between the main street and the courts, it was probably one of those leftover lots that one whizzes by, not even noticing, on major commercial roads around the country  The little stream gets clogged with trash thrown from cars or by teens walking past, but never through.  But to me, this place was a beautiful, pristine forest, the jungle, the Garden of Eden without anyone else. The sun filtered through the trees and it felt as grand and as beautifully lit as a Hudson artist painting.  Ferns and frogs abounded.  Dragonflies flitter over the water which moved so lazily.  And I was an Indian princess camped on the side of my people’s life source.  I was a fairy princess joining the dance of the little people’s fair.  I was a solitary traveler like Rip Van Winkle lost in a different time.  I was fully in another world and when it was time to come out, I felt refreshed and renewed.

I suppose those times of being in a different realm or level are similar to what one experiences with meditation or those heavenly moments of transcendence -- you go beyond everyday life, and you ‘come back’ refreshed and renewed.  But you can’t be at both levels at the same time.  If I pay attention to what's happening on the surface, I can't be in the place of calm.  Even today, when I'm snuggling with my husband or sons, it won't feel blissfully sweet if I'm thinking about all the things that need to get done.

I sometimes worry that kids today don't have places on a different level.  It seems they live in a world of veneer, without ever seeing or being beyond it. Their towns have nothing but housing tracts and strip malls.  The fields and woods that were there have disappeared and only their names remain.  Or they don't feel safe.  People wake up to the TV, rush to the car, get to the job or the school, talk whatever talk, walk whatever walk, go to organized afterschool activities, rush through dinner and chores, watch TV and social media, and go to bed exhausted.  They don't even honour their dreams, a nourishing spring that is definitely at a different level!  When the weekend comes they rush to the sports, or malls or the home improvement stores and busy themselves with restaurants and movies.  There's nothing wrong with any of that.  It's just that, it reminds me of that old pop song by Peggy Lee, "Is that all there is?  Is that all there is?"  And the answer, in my experience, is no.  There is a deeper level to life all around us there for the seeing.  We just need to stop and go there.