Grief Lessons

Bedroom Door, Santa Fe, NM

As I began to write my blog this week, the story of the break-up of my first marriage, the subject of my last blog, came tumbling out. I knew I wanted to write about grief and this was certainly about grief so I just surrendered to the process. What came up were some interesting insights -- about myself and some of the life lessons that come with grief.

It was in the fall of 1984. My first husband had recently moved out of our Santa Fe apartment and I was coping as best I could. Still working, still breathing. Suddenly, I awoke one night with intense abdominal cramps. At first I thought it might be my period, but abandoned this notion when I began to vomit and the diarrhea hit. A violent purging ensued which continued into the wee hours of the morning. I remember being so disoriented at times I didn't know whether to be on the toilet or at the sink. When everything inside was out, I collapsed into my double bed, formerly OUR BED, and slept an empty sleep.

The next morning I could barely get up, let alone navigate the stairs to the kitchen --- or to the telephone, had it occurred to me to use it. I felt completely alone and helpless. I cried. Buckets. I had been holding it together, being strong, being brave. The sudden illness and helplessness cracked me open.

The bodily purging, ostensibly due to food poisoning, was, I understand now, part of my reaction to the loss. From a symbolic viewpoint, I was not able to digest the reality of my eleven-year marriage being over. At the same time, through the purging, I released it.  Grief is a time when the body and emotions are so clearly intertwined. The emotions are so heightened, they cannot be ignored; but if you do ignore them, as I tend to do, the body will bring them to the forefront in a way that demands our attention.

When my wits returned, and my strength, I realized that there were friends I could call for help. I even called one to confirm it. This act required a major readjustment in my thinking and a subtle shift in the nature of my friendships. I had never had to reach out to a friend like that before. There had always been my husband and my family. But now my husband was gone and my family was on the other side of the county. Any person who has lost a life partner will, at some point, have to address this essential social need and reach out to create a new safety net. It is important to seek help from others and to not suffer alone. One's thinking during grief is not always reliable. Grief leads us to do strange and sometime dangerous things. Social connection is essential to one's health, even one's survival.

After the food poisoning, I began to lose weight. I was training for a marathon at the time, so that might have been part of it. But grief, I am sure, took it to another level. Some people react to grief with loss of energy and inability to do anything, becoming a recluse and sleeping; others get hyper-busy. That was my route. Both are ways of escaping from the incomprehensibility of the loss. You can either go off line, or become so active there is no time to think. Either gives the griever time to get some distance from the loss, to allow it to seep in.

I trained all fall and into early December, when I flew down to Phoenix to run in the Phoenix marathon. It is an easy race, if a marathon can ever be described as easy, because it is mostly down hill. I was in top physical shape at the time, better trained than for either of the two other marathons I had run. I made, however, a strategic mistake that greatly impacted what happened. 

I had arranged for my husband, now living in Phoenix, to pick me up at the airport and drive me to the motel where I would spend the night before the race. On the ride we spoke of mundane things. Careful. It was so strange to know him so well and not at all. He stopped at a street-fair to pick up a present for his new sweetie. It was kitschy, not something to my taste, and I wondered at who this woman was and who he had become. Next we went to his new apartment. He showed me around then told me SHE was going to be moving in. "Huh?" When my husband had moved out of our home, we had talked about it as a "trial separation." Some trial! "He's no longer mine," I reminded myself, "I have no say." I said nothing.

I didn't eat that night, skipping the usual carbohydrate loading of the marathon runner. I couldn't face going out to a restaurant alone. Nor did I eat the next morning before the race. As arranged, my husband picked me up and drove me to the starting line. I could have taken the transport bus an hour earlier. It would have taken me to the start without having to see my husband again, without remembering the past -- all the times we gone to other races together. When he offered me the ride, it seemed logical, more convenient . . . more cared for. Oh how the newly singly miss that care, that convenience of the other.

Last Race - Sandia Peak, NM 1985

I started the race at a 7-minute-a-mile pace. It was downhill all the way-- unfortunately not in the way I had hoped. It was downhill in energy, in emotion, in self-belief, and in heart. Each mile, I ran slower and slower. Mile after mile -- a nightmare in slow motion, people passing me, the end farther and farther away. When I finally did straggle across the finish line, I was just happy to have it all over. My time was disappointing, slower than either of my previous marathons. But I didn't think about that until I was back on the plane flying home. Then I beat myself up for wasting three months of training. How could I have been so stupid? Grief made me stupid!

Actually, grief was making me a little smarter. It was showing me my habit of discounting my feelings and the costs of that disregard. Grief was teaching me to be selfish, in a good way.  It was forcing me to be more respectful of my feelings. Otherwise they would get out of control.

That Christmas I went to my second Sufi Workshop, this time in New York City. I stayed at my sister's apartment, an easy walk to the workshop space at the Little Red Schoolhouse in Greenwich Village. Although no longer training for a marathon, I now weighed in at 111 pounds. 111 pounds on a 5’8” frame. It felt quite wonderful, actually. I was light and ethereal -- perfect for spiritual work. Having grown up with a mother hyper-vigilant about weight, my new detachment from food felt gloriously empowering. And power was something I seriously lacked.

One evening, about halfway through the ten-day workshop, Adnan, our teacher, played a recording of one of his talks on fasting. We had been chanting for about forty-five minutes prior to this tape and were all very high. The idea of fasting ignited me. I could do this. Oh, I could so easily do this! I mentioned my plan to a more experienced Sufi student. He looked at me curiously and then suggested that I consult the teacher. Up I went to Adnan and said, somewhat shyly, "I'm thinking about fasting." He gave me a long hard stare and then said, "Don't fast." I interpreted this as: You are already there. YOU don't need to fast. That felt good. So I didn't fast. I was a good student, used to following directions. But I was tempted. Each time I ate something, I thought, "I could easily go without."

A small part of my mind was in observer mode, probably the result of the Sufi workshop. An insight arose inside. Suddenly, I understood the seductive and most dangerous aspect of anorexia. Low weight suppresses the natural appetite and also gives an amazing almost euphoric feeling of empowerment. Probably it's chemical. Certainly our cultural adoration of thinness plays into the mix. I felt a kinship to all those anorexic teenage girls who felt so out of control in their lives that not eating became their last line of resistance. It's a slippery slope, an internal feedback loop that, if left unchecked, will eventually kill you. That was not what I want. I started to eat again with the intention of gaining weight.

A few months later and a few pounds heavier, I did go on a fast. I was not trying to kill myself. But I was certainly drawn to the edges of experience. Perhaps it came from a desire to escape the grief through a more intense sensation. Have you ever noticed that you can't really feel two pains at the same time? If you have a toothache and you stub your toe, for a while the toothache goes away. I once read about a mountain climber who said he climbed in order to quiet the demons inside. The demands of the trek required such intense survival focus there was no room for negative thoughts.

The first thing I discovered about fasting is that it is not compatible with running. No fuel = no energy. I could not keep up with my runner buddies. The second thing I discovered is that it's really difficult to stay warm when you have no body fat.

The weekend of my fast I decided to go to a spiritual retreat at the Hanuman Temple in Taos. Steven and Andrea Levine -- famous experts on conscious dying, who were completely unknown to me at the time -- were giving the workshop. I was going because I had an important decision to make about a job I had been offered as a counselor at a mental hospital. It would involve moving to another town, away from my friends. The institutional feel of the hospital seemed ghastly. Also it would mean not going to Sufi camp in summer, something I had been looking forward to since the Christmas workshop. In the past I would discuss such big decisions with my husband. Now it was all up to me. I thought the weekend retreat would help me get clear. Logic dictated I take the job. It would advance my career and was good money. I had been out of a job for several months. But the Sufi work had begun to change me and I was starting to listen to my heart.

The first night in Taos I was ok, since I had just started my fast. By the second night I was having trouble staying warm. It was March and still pretty frosty at night with snow on the ground. I had learned from a previous experience that when I get to a certain chill level, no amount of blanketing would help. I needed to bring the body temperature back up artificially. So I got up from my sleeping bag and took a long hot shower. After about fifteen minutes, my core temperature had risen enough that I was able to sleep. At dawn, I was cold again. I got up quietly so as not disturb the other sleepers and went into the empty temple room. It was peaceful and serene in there with a huge statue of Hanuman, the monkey god, beaming down on me. I sat and breathed, in and out, listening to the delicate sounds of the waking morning. Soon I was clear that I would not take the hospital job -- a job I had struggled three months to land. I couldn't. I wouldn't. My body recoiled at the idea. No. I would stay in Santa Fe, get a temp job and go to summer camp. That was as far ahead as I could think. The weekend workshop, all about compassion, had fulfilled its promise.

Later that day, we were instructed in an eating meditation. Each of us was given a single raisin to slowly and mindfully eat. I can't begin to describe the impact of that raisin on my tongue -- a tongue that had not tasted food in three days. After exploring the wrinkled texture for a few moments, I slowly bit in. Sweetness engulfed my mouth in a cascade of flavor. As I slowly began to chew, a soft stickiness spread throughout my mouth, catching on the surface of my teeth, and giving my tongue delightful moments of renewed sensation as it dislodged the clinging fragments. Fasting had made eating new and rich.

Sept. 1984

Grief has some similarities with fasting. Everything seems more intense and at the same time less real. It is as though you are observing reality from a different dimension or plane. You feel more sensitive, more vulnerable; and you feel a need to protect yourself from overstimulation. If you can get past the judgment about how awful it feels, the discomforts and the desires for something else, if you can stop thinking about how great it was before and how empty it is now and may be in the future, if you can just allow and observe and experience everything, from moment to moment -- there can be amazing, mind-blowing revelations. You can discover a whole new landscape, new feeling, and new life inside and out. 

Grief is a hero's journey. Like Orpheus, you go into the underworld, into the shadow and the dark, to retrieve what is lost. You think it is the person who has died or gone away, but in reality it is yourself.

Blessings,

Michelle
Secrets of Life and Death

A Breath of Heaven

Last week, I spent several days revising the follow-up emails to my complimentary grief guide, Essentials for Grieving Well. I had decided that people would be more likely to read the emails if they were shorter. So I broke up the original long emails into bite-sized bits. The email The Way of Breath spawned seven baby emails. That's a lot of emails about something we usually do without thinking. But the breath I wrote about is a very different kind of breath -- a breath with transformational potential.

Focused breathing is what saved me, 28 years ago, during the crash and burn of my first marriage. For two horrible months, while my husband vacillated about leaving, I tried everything to keep us together. Each morning, I would wake to the brilliant Santa Fe sun full of possibility. Then Wham! I would remember my marital situation. From heaven to hell in an instant! I didn't do much breathing in those difficult days. It was as if by holding my breath I could hold my damaged world together. Sometimes my breath-holding was punctuated by hysterical crying. Which got me some oxygen, I suppose, in a hyperventilated sort of way. Then I met Sufi Master, Adnan Sarhan.

Adnan came to Santa Fe from his summer camp in the Manzano Mountains east of Albuquerque, NM. My husband saw the workshop flyer and suggested we go. Adnan taught every evening for two weeks, and two full days on the weekend in between. There was little talking at these workshops, just hypnotic middle-eastern music, slow movement, and breath. My over-active left-brain full of panicked voices was silenced. I entered a magical present where neither past nor future exists. My worries and confusion were replaced by a profound and delicious peace and an all-encompassing love. 

This love was very different from the human love I knew -- fraught with expectations, demands, and disappointments. This divine love was an expansive, chest-stretching, heart-filling feeling almost too big to contain. It was so huge; it brought tears to my eyes. This kind of love is what I think of when I read the heavenly descriptions of near-death experiences by writers like Anita Moorjani or Eban Alexander.

After two weeks of immersion in this glorious state, I was ready to let go of my marriage. I recall the exact moment. My husband and I had just returned to our car after seeing a movie about a marital breakup. Great choice, huh? He was in the driver's seat, describing his options to stay or move to Phoenix where his new lover lived. I sat huddled in the seat opposite him, hardly breathing, my body trembling, my hands clinging to the handle of the door. Suddenly, I saw myself from an observer's viewpoint. I saw with clarity the difference between the peace I had gained from the workshops and the misery I felt in that car. It cracked me wide open. No! I don't want to be this way! I breathed out and let it all go.

My husband moved to Phoenix a few weeks later. The following summer, I began a 25 year study with Sufi Master, Adnan Sarhan -- a study that continues to this day. Did it take away the grief I felt at the loss of my 10-year marriage? No. There are physical and energetic adjustments to loss that cannot be by-passed no matter what you do. But the workshops certainly made the process more bearable. What is more, they brought me into connection with my true self--lovable and full of possibility. The key is in the breath and the present moment. They connect you to spirit, your essence, and your heart. Everything is livable in that place of clarity and peace.

Do you need to learn how to breathe from a Sufi Master, like I did? Or from a coach who knows about these things? It couldn’t hurt. They can guide you to the place you want to be with their own energy and breath. However, breath is available to us all the time. It is our birthright. It just takes some practice and commitment to use it in this transformative way. I hope my follow-up emails with their tips on breathing help those who need it. 

To download the complimentary grief guide with its follow-up emails, click here: Essentials for Grieving Well.

For another blog on breath mediation see: May 2012.

Don't forget to breathe.
 

Michelle Peticolas

The Right Channel

by George Brooks

About twenty of us were squeezed into the living room of a small Brooklyn apartment awaiting the counsel of Laurie Lamb, a New York trance medium. It was 1986 and my life was in shambles. I had moved back home from New Mexico following a failed marriage, and was currently sleeping on a therma-rest pad in friend's apartment in Park Slope. I felt confused, disoriented and adrift. I'd try anything.

After a brief introduction, Laurie closed her eyes and went into a trance. She returned as a gruff authoritarian male admonishing us to get our acts together least we send the world to rack and ruin. This manifestation was followed by a kindly old lady who dispensed instruction like a daily advice columnist. Other entities also made an appearance -- a Native American shaman, a bawdy, flirtatious dame, an upper-crust matron -- seven or eight in all. They were so colorful and diverting, I found it difficult to attend to what was actually said. The diagnosis of a small lump on the back of my neck, never actually examined, later proved correct -- undigested milk fat. However, all in all, I left the event, skepticism intact.

Ten years later, I met with my second trance medium, Robert Johnson, at his apartment on the upper west side. I was interviewing him for a segment of On the Edge, a television show I produced, bi-weekly, for Manhattan Neighborhood Network. Robert was a hypnotherapist as well as a channeler for a group of otherworldly entities called "The Tutelage of Alpha Centauri." A plump, middle-aged man with a shock of white hair, a jacket and a necktie, Robert looked more like the car salesman he once was than any new age guide. However, I found his soft, confidential tone disarming and grew to like him as I learned the details of his unexpected spiritual journey, including a talking statute of Saint Jude and the discovery of a hidden talent for visions.

At my request, the Tutelage of Alpha Centauri was channeled for me and the cameras. Shirt loosened at the collar, tie gone, eyes lids lowered and speech somewhat clipped and archaic, the entity greeted me. What actor, I thought, could not have easily accomplished such transformation? I greeted the entity in return. He spoke with clarity and wisdom. I suspend judgement and listened.

The Tutelage told me about my own work, about how this show I was making that night would be aired more than once -- which it was, and that I would eventually have a production company -- which I did for my film series, Secrets of Life and Death. I was pointedly told not to seek perfection as there is no such thing -- an on-target bit of advise as perfectionism has long been a failing of mine.

To the general audience the Tutelage advised regular meditation. It was explained that there are three elements to a human being: the body, the soul (the autonomic nervous system) and the spirit. The body creates a wall that makes it difficult for the spirit to penetrate with its wisdom. Meditation lowers the wall and allows us to receive inspiration through our soul, the body's intermediary. This bit about the soul reminds me of PMH Atwater's research on the after effects of Near Death Experience on the mind -- in particular the limbic system, which is part of the autonomic nervous system. Apparently it gets a big boost from celestial encounters (See Chapter 20 of Near Death Experience: the rest of the story). A similar message about the important of meditation is currently being encouraged in a new YouTube video titled Awaken. Side note: I have some issues with the manipulative feel of this film, but not with its message.

Robert, not the tutelage, shared an interesting insight about channeling, which has stayed with me all these years: We All Channel! Channeling is not a special gift of the talented few. We receive wisdom from the divine all the time. We just fail to recognize it sometimes. For example, when I do a tarot reading or consult the iChing, I am channeling. In meditation, when I am flooded with ideas, I am also channeling. I no longer fight these thoughts in order to achieve an empty mind space; I accept them as a gift. When I am in my dream group or grief coaching, similarly, I receive insights and inspirations. Often they are stunningly on target. While my ego would like to take credit, I know I am simply a conduit for a deeper wisdom.

My biggest hesitation about channeling has been its susceptibility to fraud. See my early blog post on this. We all hate to be fooled, deceived or hoodwinked. So we are cautious when it comes to these arenas so difficult to verify. Are we not more inclined to believe the report, for example, of neurosurgeon and near death experiencer Eben Alexander regarding the after life because he was so steeped in medical science and such a disbeliever at the start? Disinterest and disbelief are the best credentials for credulity. However, when we relate to channeling as divine inspiration, it no longer matters whether Laurie Lamb or Robert Johnson are "really" being inhabited by spiritual entities. What matters is the quality of what is revealed. Do the words make sense? Are they life-enhancing and wise? Do they resonate with our hearts and souls?

I suspect that some channeling frauds may have begun as true transmitters of wisdom. However, fame and fortune can enlarge the ego, which invariably lead to folly.

Jeffery A. Marks, the next guest appearing on the teleconference series, The Mystery and Magic of Life, is not a trance medium, he is a psychic. That is, he is not inhabited by an otherworldly entity who takes control over his body and dispenses wisdom. Rather he receives visions and feelings that he has learned to heed and interpret and which turn out to be remarkably accurate. He obtains his information from the spirits of deceased human beings.

Robert Johnson explained in his interview that the entities he channels are of a higher order -- like angels. Other channeled entities such as Abraham, Seth, Ramtha, the Pleiadian Collective, God, etc, claim a similar higher authority. This is important to keep in mind as we begin to open to communications from the other dimensions. The view of heaven provided by people who have had near death experiences or by the newly departed souls in Jeffery's study will reflect some of the limitations of mortal beings -- augmented, of course, by their heavenly experience. Do not expect them to have all the answers.

Returning of the Light

Christmas, the winter holiday I've celebrated all my life, conjures up rich memories -- the swirl of snow flakes in a Christmas tree lot; cold toes, flush faces and the mist of warm breathe; unpacking hand-made tree ornaments and disentangling knotted lights; the tantalizing aroma of baking turkey and pumpkin pie; colored lights dancing off silver ice cycles and the tingling anticipation of unexpected gifts. As I have grown older, moved away from family and shifted my spiritual beliefs, I have, at times, found it difficult to live up to the Christmas of my youth. Unable to recreate all its elements, I have inevitably fallen short in recapturing its childhood wonderment and joy.

I remember the first Christmas I spent with my in-laws. As my own parents had recently died, I decided not to make the trip across the country to join my orphan siblings in what I assumed would be a diminished affair. And some of us were still reeling from the quarrels that come with significant loss. This new, ready-made family gathering was anticipated with pleasure and relief.

Alas, nothing seemed quite right. There was no Christmas caroling around my sister's piano on Christmas eve; no ritual opening and careful placing of family heirlooms on the holiday tree. Presents were handed out almost all at once, rather than in that time-stretching rhythm of one-at-a-time. I felt home-sick, confused and sad. This was not MY Christmas and my parents were dead. I called my sister later that day trying to extract long-distance the Christmas in my mind, but it was not to be found.

This experience taught me that rather than try to reproduce the elements of Christmas past, i.e. fixate on its outer form, I do better to focus on the meaning within -- the returning of the light, of grace, of hope, and new possibilities. Mindful of this more spiritual approach, I offer four holiday wishes: celebrate, rest, reflect and give. It is my guide for a gracious season.

Celebrate: Latin, celebratus -- to observe with respect, festivity or rejoicing. My new attitude toward Christmas has greatly freed me up regarding celebration. It's ok to try new things because that is part of the message. I like to get together with friends and create new rituals based on the old, full of life and wonder --- like seeing the Christmas light display in Alameda or decorating the ficus. My creativity and inventiveness are inspired.

One year, a friend came over with those old fashion Christmas cookie forms. We spent all day artfully decorating our white sugar goodies with colored frosting. Birds, santas, reindeer, suns and moon. They were so enchanting they were difficult to eat, but gradually they disappeared, one slightly less beautiful cookie at a time.

Making and sending Christmas cards is an old family tradition, although it morphed over time into the Christmas letter. It was a chatty affair full of family achievement. I still have most of them -- a record of my family's life. With the ascendance of the computer, I receive fewer and fewer holiday cards. Everything is digital. So now the old becomes novel. Truth be told, I like making Christmas cards. It gives me pleasure. And that is another important element of celebration -- doing what you enjoy, what makes you happy.

The envelopes for my cards are too small for my printer, so they must be hand-addressed. It's time consuming, but I don't really mind. Celebration is not about efficiency and speed. It's about immersion. When I stay present and don't rush, I can momentarily enjoy the relationship recalled by every names. Can they feel my thoughts from afar? I imagine what delight they have when they receive a real card with a personal message amid the postal junk. How old fashion! How quaint! How utterly refreshing!

I miss the caroling. The YouTube video of people breaking out in Christmas songs at a shopping mall made me cry. I don't sing enough. Singing is good for the heart and soul. Just watch the birds. My mother loved to sing and Christmas gave her free license. Racing down Route 1 on last minute holiday errands, she'd suddenly break out in song, just like on the video. "Oh Come All Ye Faithful . . ." We of course joined in, fillings our lungs with air and are hearts with Christmas spirit. On Christmas eve, we gathered together, my oldest sister Kip playing the piano, my father on guitar and sang our favorites carols. None of us were all that good. We seemed to be competing for who could sing the loudest. Then magically we would blend together in unexpected harmony.

Relax: French, relaxare -- to loosen, open. What a good idea for the returning of the light -- to be open and receptive, to embrace the new. My all time favorite relaxation is a hot tub and a good novel. Simultaneous entertainment and sensual pleasure. Unfortunately our new house has only a shower, so I have had to find other ways to relax -- like taking turns reading the Arabian Nights aloud with my husband at bedtime or taking an evening walk.

Relaxing, I have learned, can really be practiced all the time. But it does take practice. In heavy traffic on the highway, or waiting in a long line, or when you discover your plane has been cancelled and the next available flight is 6 hours away -- perfect opportunities to slow down and notice the world. Surrender to the moment. Ahhhhh --- like magic, time expands.  I meet new people, enjoy the moment and become cognizant of the surprises of life.

Reflect: Latin, reflexionem -- to bend back. With the coming of the light, not to mention the 26,000 year Maya Calendar world shift, now is a good time to bend our minds back to see from where we've come and to make plan for what comes next. I've taken on a lot of new things this year -- a new business as a grief coach, a monthly teleconference series, a new website to be launched any day, an awesome training program, and many new and wonderful friends. These accomplishments fill me with joy and gratitude. It is not so much WHAT I've done that's great, but HOW I see it. For some strange reason, I feel extremely hopeful and positive. Possibly its the effect of this millennial world shift or the influence of my new friends. I truly believe that everything will work out in the end, and as the Indian guy said in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel: "if it's not working out yet, it's not the end."

Give: Old English, giefan -- bestow, allot, grant, devote. Neuropsychologist, Rick Hanson, tells us that we are wired to give. The primate part of our brain, the cortex, focuses on creating attachments.  Possibly this has something to do with the length of time it takes for a primate baby to become self supporting. Primates not wired for years of selfless baby care quickly die out. A study at the University of British Columbia confirms that giving to others makes us happy --- actually more happy than giving to ourselves.

Giving creates relationship. It binds us together. When we are bonded with others we live longer and stay more healthy. Ten years ago, I invited my dance group buddies to my wedding. They bought the carrot wedding cake, a delicious confection, and shared my celebration. This transformed the quality of our connection. We became closer. They were no longer associates, we were friends. I am noticing the same kind of things happening with the two new friends we discovered this year. We have progressed from restaurant dates and movies to trading dinner invitations -- the giving of personally made food. Our attachment is growing like a small vine, like a love affair. And love is the essence of light.

Giving to charities and spiritual groups has a different quality, an energetic binding to an idea or vision. We are not friends, yet we are still connected. We direct our energy together and in so doing create a more powerful force that can transform the world. I think of this every time I send a check or sign an on-line petition.

Writing this blog is another form of giving. I am hoping I give something of value -- a unique way of looking at things and a bit of myself. When you respond, send me an email or post a comment, you give back to me. You fill me with a joy I can't describe. I feel connected.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Rejoice. The light is here!

Dazzled by Aging

At home in Indiana

Back when I was in graduate school in Indiana, I traveled to Cleveland to attend a weekend Gestalt Therapy group as part of my dissertation research. What I remember most about that event was feeling awed by a young woman who spoke of ten years of experience -- of what I can't recall. At the time I was barely 24 and ten years was nearly half my life. I was dazzled by the idea of accumulating that much life experience and wondered what it would be like when I too could look back that far.

Fifteen years or so later, I found myself at a bar in New York with colleagues from the documentary production company where I was working at the time. In the course of our conversation I described a range of experiences I had had in my still rather short life: teaching college in Minnesota, running a group home in Las Vegas, working on the Navajo Reservation in Ft. Defiance, AZ and studying with a Sufi master in New Mexico. The young man to whom I was speaking was astounded by all my adventures and asked how I had accumulated so many. I smiled knowingly and told him I was older than I appeared. That was probably one of the last times I felt so thrilled by the fruits of aging.

In my forties, I began to get glimpses of what was really in store. My 20-20 vision began to slip away. First I ignored this. Than I resisted. I even tried one of those eye exercise charts, but the squinting was giving me line. For a while I kept three of four readers planted throughout the house because I kept misplacing them every time I took them off. Finally, I got tricked into seeing an optometrist. I thought I was going to an eye doctor-- a precautionary move in response to a friend's unexpected diagnosis of a detached retina. At the end of my examination I had a prescription for corrective lenses. Five hundred dollars later, I was wearing progressives without rims. The optician assured me that Baby boomers love these because they were almost invisible. Not really. I still don’t recognize myself in the mirror when they are on, which is most of the time. I can, however, see.
 

Diane and Me on hike in Manzanos Mts.

The next physical change I noticed was in body resiliency. It was on a hike with a group of people from Sufi camp in Torreon, New Mexico. We were climbing one of the easier peaks in the Manzano Mountains, more of a saddle between the real peaks. About a half-hour after reaching the summit, one of our number decided he needed to get back to camp for a phone call. I offered to go with him. We skipped, jumped and raced most of the way down. It was exhilarating in the moment, but when I got to the trail head my knee was hurting. It was the same knee I had trouble with in a marathon five or six years before, but at the time had chalked up to running on pavement after training on dirt. This new manifestation of sore knee startled me. It was in that moment that I realized my body had changed. I was no longer young. A few months later, I went on a hike from Mill Valley to Stinson Beach with a much younger woman. The round trip was about 16 miles up and down mountain trails. I felt vindicated when I left her in the dust on our return. And she was no couch potato either.

Was this reaction to the first signs of aging, ego or intelligence? I try not to judge too much, although I smile at myself in retrospect. Shortly after my fiftieth birthday I road my bicycle all the way up the Arlington, a long steep road in the hills of Berkeley. Prior to that day, I would pack my bike in my car and parked most of the way down the hill before taking a ride. Following this break-through bike ride, I went backpacking in the Three Sisters Mountains in Oregon and then in the Wallowas.

I think it is good to continue to test our limits. Muscles respond to effort and stay serviceable much longer if we work them. At the same time, awareness is in order. We might not want to push ourselves too far lest we seriously damage our bodies and put ourselves out of commission. Or maybe we do, because that is the only way we can know for sure where the limits are. And, well, being out of commission has its own life lessons.

This Western culture of ours is not very helpful regarding the way we should handle aging. We are pressured to keep youthful and healthy for as long as we can. Elders are not revered. They are ignored, hidden in gated communities or exported to Florida. Rather than equate advanced age with experience and wisdom, we see it as a loss of capacity, utility and market value. So we resist the signs of aging with creams, supplements, surgery and exercise. Then we cheer when the 80 year old lady dances up a storm with a younger man on a Youtube. “Yes, honey, you go for it!” The result is, we live longer and stay more fit and active. And because of economic downturn, many of us take on second careers. So perhaps this approach to aging is not all bad.

In the end, however, fighting aging is a losing proposition. Human bodies are programmed to deteriorate. It is the natural cycle of things. Yes, there are scientists who promise that the elixir of lasting life is on the horizon -- some ingenious pill whose composition they are still working on that will turn off the aging mechanism in our cells or at the very least, retard it's progress. But is that even desirable?

Aging helps us die. "Can't walk, can't see, can't hear, lost my taste, hurt like hell, life sucks. . . I'm out of here!"  Death is good. It gives intensity to our lives, like a time clock at a chess match. Death clears the old and makes room for the new so we don't overpopulate earth. And death provides us with a whole new adventure or, at the very least, one of the biggest mysteries of life.

Given that aging is inevitable and unstoppable, and let's assume for the moment it is, what other ways might we handle it besides fear, denial, exercise and resistance?

  

Mom and Dad

My mother provided me with a hint. In her youth she was a stunningly attractive woman. Birthing six children did not do much to diminish her beauty possibly because she spent a good deal of time cultivating it with eye pencil and lip-liner. However, in her fifties she developed a brain tumor. Although a benign one, it left her deaf in one ear, blind in one eye, and a lopsided face. How does one cope with the loss of beauty, especially a beauty so consciously maintained? "Well," she said, "you don't look in the mirror any more." But her real strategy was to let the inner beauty shine. When the light is bright enough, people tend to overlook your physical flaws. She was generous, affirming, enthusiastic and kind. No grocery store cashier, pharmacy clerk, or nurse's aid was too lowly to escape her notice and regard. She learned their names and followed their life stories. Also, instead of hiding herself and her facial deformity, instead of giving up on life and becoming a recluse, she wore a black patch over her blind eye, dressed in red, white and blue and used a red striped broom handle as a cane. Her brilliant wonkiness caught people's eyes and her attention, their hearts.

A friend of mine, a wise elder, gave me another tip on aging. Treat every change as a new adventure. She told me that she had recently been having difficulty with her teeth and been forced to eat her meals pulverized to the texture of baby food. Instead of bemoaning her loss of the joys of chewing, she opened her mind to this new challenge -- how to obtain a gourmet experience from food the consistency of gruel. Perhaps she will write a cookbook. It could be a hit in a few more years.

The most important lesson in both these examples is how you spin the story. Change happens. Are you defeated by the change or is there something new to discover?

"Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form." -- Rumi

Last year, I regularly visited an elderly man with a serious heart condition. He had a pacemaker and often struggled with heart failure. He was a sweet man with a social calendar more full than my own. He did not believe in life after death and so he was making the most of his remaining time. On one visit, not the last, but close to the end, he had so little energy that it took him nearly ten minutes to open the front door. We sat in his living room and talked about what was happening in his life. He spoke slowly and there were many pauses. Someone was coming over that night to fix him dinner -- ever the social butterfly! As the sun faded into that magic light of dusk, he suddenly stopped talking and just looked past me. I started to wonder if he was all right. Then he said, "The interesting thing about slowing down like this is that you see things you never noticed before. Like that robe on the end of the couch and the vase of flowers." The barest of tears sparkled his eyes. I turned to see the turquoise silk robe thrown over the end of the oatmeal couch and the rich red roses in the cloisonné vase on the table beside it. They formed the elements of a still-life, painted in the golden light. "Yes," I said, "You got it. Whatever happens, there's always something new to discover." I am told that in his final days as he lay dying, a friend asked what he wanted and he smiled an elfin grin and said, "More adventures!"

Me and Jay with peanut

Time Warp

Hobji Watches Time Fly

I can’t believe it’s almost Thanksgiving! The impending holiday has me thinking about the way we experience time -- speeding up sometimes, slowing down at other times. For example, it drag when I am standing on line for a movie, especially when it’s cold, but it flies by when I’m stuck in traffic and trying to get to an important meeting. Remember when we were children how time passed during summer vacation? At first those long free months seems to stretch on forever. Then, sometime around early August, the date for our return to school came at us like a runaway locomotive.

This time warp seems to be the rule with vacations -- slow at the beginning and fast at the end. I suspect this is partly due to the fact that our minds return to work before our bodies do. Two days before the end of vacation and I’m already thinking about my “to do” list and what’s waiting for my return. I wonder if this rehearsal actually helps with my transition or just robs me of the last few precious moments of time off. When I actually do get home, I immediately start to unpack my suitcase, sort the mail, listen to phone messages and check the plants. What is this rushing about? It’s almost as if I’m trying to erase any evidence of having been away. Is this vacation guilt?

I recall one occasion when I actually managed to stop this speed-up effect at the end of a trip. I had been visiting a friend in Barcelona for about a week. On our last day together, we visited to an old Spanish village, the type with red roofs tiles, white stucco walls, and laundry blowing in the breeze. It was as though we had stepped back in time. Next we headed out to the shore for a skinny dip in the Mediterranean Ocean. It was a Navajo turquoise blue and warm like bath water. This was followed by a light picnic lunch, on the beach, of apples and salad. Finally, we took a leisurely drive on a tree-canopied back road, past old farmhouses to a remote train station in the middle of nowhere. Everything was novel, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the quality of the light. I held on to each precious moment resisting my mind's impulse to get on that train before it arrived. Even on the platform, I took time to taste the sea air and feel the afternoon wind on my cheeks. I had no camera. I had accidentally broken mine in Paris and I had to return the one I had been borrowing from my friend. So I photographed the images in my mind. When the train arrived, I said good-bye and went through the door. No tears, no regrets, no thoughts of what lay ahead, or what was left behind, just wide open.

I wish I could be like that more often. Usually, when I take my morning walks through the Hillside cemetery; I am listening to coaching tapes on my iPod. I think it’s an excellent use of time. I’m multitasking! But because of this, I often miss the beauty of the morning light as it catches the edges of the tombstones and washes across the grass. I might fail to notice the brave bouquets of flowers resting on the graves or the tiny veteran flags proudly flapping in the breeze. I am plugged in and tuned out. My workday has begun and it's not even 8.

Consciousness is a way to slow time down. By attending to all the lovely details of our experience -- the smells, the flavors, the colors, and the sounds -- we can open the moment and expand the time. This is what meditation is really about. Meditation is not just sitting in one place and emptying our minds. It is what we do when we are fully conscious of our selves and our surroundings. It’s “mindful meditation.”

At the beginning of a vacation, things are new. We navigating new places and pay attention lest we lose our way. So the time goes by more slowly. It is a little like watching the frames on a strip of movie film. If you attend to each and every frame the movie runs by slowly, but if you skip frames, if you blink, the pace speeds up. Routine is the enemy of our attention. When we are used to things, we stop seeing them, we blink, our eyes glaze, and we live more in our thoughts then in the physical world. The present disappears and time speeds past.

There are several strategies we can use to tame the rush of time. We can, for example, TAKE MORE VACATIONS!! Even though we may be buried under an avalanche of work when we return, time off is still beneficial. It allows us to be in the present and experience the world around us. We gain a larger perspective. That is, if we don’t run our vacations like we do everyday life – so jam-packed with events that we don’t have time to think. A good rule of thumb for a relaxing vacation is one day of doing nothing for every day of sightseeing. If it’s a stay-cation, you can have the same time-slowing results if you do new or unexpected things every other day and break your routine. Don’t forget to included "do nothing" days.

Slowing down your pace will also help slow time. And it has extra benefits -- like you might eat less food at Thanksgiving dinner! You might, for example, take only one plate of food and slow the pace of your eating so it last the whole meal. If you eat with consciousness, savoring every bite you are more likely to notice when you are full and less likely to eat too much.
This kind of food focus, however, is not so easily done when engaged in conversation, which is often the case at Thanksgiving dinner. What would it be like to stop eating while your talking and completely focus on the person who is speaking? Really be present. Or conversely, what would it be like to stop talking while you are eating? Completely attend to the food. You might suggest that everyone at the table observe at least ten minutes of silence to enjoy the food. Listen to the sounds and try not to laugh.

Here are a few more strategies for slowing down time:

Fasting – Strange how that comes to my mind on the heels of writing about Thanksgiving dinner! At a Sufi retreat in New Mexico, we were often encouraged to fast at least part of the day. I discovered that when you don't eat you open up big swaths of time for doing other things, because you are not spending time preparing and eating food. More time, slower time. And when you are hunger, time really slows down!

A number of times, I fasted for two or three days consuming nothing but a bowl of broth or cup of watered-down apple juice. Oh my, what flavors I would experience! I could almost feel the biochemical reactions in my body as I swallowed this small amount of nourishment. I also noticed that the “eaters,” those not fasting, seemed to move faster, talk faster and almost live in a parallel universe. I didn’t hang out with them. I stayed with other fasters or went to my tent. Faster? Hah. We should really be called a “slower”, doing a “slow” or “slowing” because fasting certainly slows you down.

Unfortunately, when I finally broke the fast, my body cells went into panic mode from what they thought was starvation. Experts on fasting advise that you take as many days to break a fast as the number of days you are on the fast. Impossible! My cells implored me to eat everything in sight! Once started, I had no idea of stopping until my belly literally began to hurt. Breaking a fast is one of those times when I realize that I am not in charge. “Biological imperative” takes on a visceral meaning. Note: you do not get this food panic attack after a single day of fasting. Well, you might, but it is more psychological than physical.

Walking/hiking -- without the iPod. Another strategy is to take a walk or hike -- a good thing to do after Thanksgiving dinner. By choosing a new location, you have to pay attention so you don't get lost. Presto! You are in the moment. However, the constant looking at maps and checking road signs can distract from the sensory delight of the walk. So you might want to go with someone who knows the way. Or you could allow yourself to get lost and put yourself into a whole new adventure. But this may have the reverse effect of speeding up time while you frantically search for home as the sun plunges towards the horizon. It is well known that the sun moves more rapidly when you are lost. Once the sun is down, however, time slows again and it will take about a decade for morning to come. The last couple of hours before dawn, when it's the coldest, time will almost stop.
If you decide to walk in a familiar place, notice all the things you like best or imagine you are a space alien taking this walk for the first time. See with baby eyes.

Visit a Museum -- Two hours in a museum can feel like a week. There is so much stimulation in such a short time. And it's all so new. Take the time to read the descriptions next to each exhibit. Really see what you are looking at. Then take a walk in a park afterward to let your mind digest. You will feel like you have done a lot and it will only be 2 pm in the afternoon.

Meditate -- This is something we can do everyday. It trains the mind to stay in the present and to control the monkey mind that likes to jump all over the place. This discipline will serve you when you are trying to write a blog and the monkey mind wants to check your email.

Stand on one foot. I’m not kidding. Try this for thirty seconds. It does some sort of positive rewiring in the brain and definitely improves your balance. Try doing it with your eyes closed. Now notice how slowly time passes. Do you remember in the Beatles' movie, The Yellow Submarine, the part where they show just how long 60 second is by having a new animation for each second? It’s slow like that.

Instead of a food fast, take a fast from multitasking -- We do so many things at once that are minds are scattered every which way. We lose track of what we are doing and often don't accomplish much because we lose our concentration and have to refocus each time we return to a task. For me this means not checking my email every few minutes. Close down the email program and finish each task (like writing this blog) before checking email. That goes for answering phone calls too. I don't get that many calls, so when the phone rings, I just grab it. More times than not, it's a call for money or political action. Skip it!

Hang out with friends without any agenda. Shoot the breeze! Catch up on news. This activity takes me back to my college days of hanging out in the student center drinking coffee and exchanging ideas. It is one of my favorite pastimes. Time does slip away but you feel very refreshed. Caution: make sure you choose friends who know how to share the talk time. Long-winded talkers can slow down time, but they do not necessarily leave you feeling refreshed

Read an engaging book for an afternoon. This is a lovely way to take a trip without moving a muscle. Use discernment when choosing your book. The idea is to feel refreshed and re-energized, not depressed or sad. I suggest light reading with good writing, some character development and a happy ending. But that's just my preference.

Dance.  We have a lovely dance event in Berkeley called Barefoot Boogie that happens once a week on Sunday evenings. For $8 or $10 bucks you can dance all night without shoes, smoke, drink or food. Two hours is a long time when all you are doing is dancing. It’s fun, good exercise and you feel great afterwards.

Tale a Hot tub.  This can be at a commercial bathhouse or in your own bathtub. Hang out for an hour with relaxing music or that engaging book. You're muscles will relax and so will your brain. One hour will feel like ages and you will feel like a new person.

Sit Vigil with the Dying. People do die during the winter holidays. Death goes with the season. And it is not unusual for the dying to set milestones like making it to a granddaughter’s wedding, or one more family holiday. Thanksgiving and Christmas are favorites. It’s amazing how well they do at keeping these appointments.

Sitting vigil with the dying will not only slow down time, it will also teach you a thing or two about life and death, or at least get you thinking about them. Read Sacred Dying, by Megory Anderson for ideas on how to make the dying space feel sacred. If you stay present and aware, time will move like molasses in January. Sometimes it can get a little boring so you could try reading out loud, singing, playing music, holding the dying person’s hand and matching your breath rhythms. See if you can hear the other person’s thoughts in your mind. See if you can send calming thoughts back. Have a mental conversation. Send lots of love. Magic can happen.

These are my favorite strategies for slowing down time, what are your? Try a few over the Thanksgiving holiday and give us a report.

Have a relaxing, replenishing vacation and don't forget to "breathe" especially when you return to work at the end. On the last day see if you can make time slow down.

The Spirit of Stuff

I have never been all that keen about material stuff. I love clear white walls, oriental rugs on wood floors and a few throw pillows. Space to quiet the mind or do a headstand. I dislike clothes shopping and go into overwhelm at garage sales, flea markets and large box stores. My thoughts are, “Oh my god, where would I put it?” as my eyes glaze over.

Parents with illustrated wall.

I suspect that my aversion to stuff can be traced to my childhood home. Stuff crowded every room and adorned every wall. When you arrived at the front door you were well advised to leave your bag, coat and umbrella in the front hall or risk their disappearance in the cacophony of things inhabiting the rooms within. It’s not that my mother was a hoarder. There were no piles of newspapers or old coffee cans. My mother was an artist and the stuff that filled her space comprised her "bone pile," the material and inspirations she used to create her art. Paper, pens, paint, brushes, magazine clippings, photographs, cameras, photo albums, and shelf upon shelf of toys and dolls filled nearly every room. She was a photographer and a toy designer and these were the materials of her life.

George's Rolodex

As the humor of the cosmos would have it, I am wed to an artist who shares my mother’s enthusiasm for stuff. A woodworker and sculptor, George has a bone pile that matches if not surpasses my mother’s. I do appreciate the magic he can perform with his stuff --the intricate designs and unique combinations that yield one-of-a-kind mirrors, lamps, desk, rolodexes, toys and clocks. He almost always has whatever is needed for a current project. What is most impressive to me is his ability to find it. Unfortunately his stuff has a way of migrating into any unoccupied space in the house and this has occasionally been a source of tension between us.

I suppose I have always felt a bit superior in my attitude regarding stuff—as though my detachment and disdain were somehow more spiritual. So it was no surprise when we recently got into a bit of a row over the inadvertent breaking of a foley mill – one of those old-time kitchen contraptions for removing seeds and skin from tomatoes or berries. I didn’t really break it. I merely lost a tiny part essential to its function. Well, I was happy to order another foley mill! Oh Nooooo! This was a special foley mill! It belonged to his mother, maybe even her mother. He had searched high and low for days to find the precise copper tube that would form the spacer bushing between handle and spring so that the mill would work smoothly. I had ruined it! I would have to fix it. No other foley mill would do! Geeez!

George Carving Wood

The next morning George explained to me his feeling about stuff. He loves the materials of his trade -- the texture, the feel, and the smell of wood or stone or paper. He can speak at length on the superior qualities of a particular piece of lumber, pointing out the closeness of its grain, the lack of knots and the hardness or clarity of its surface. Most of his own tools are either made or refined by his hand. He is a stickler for quality and craftsmanship. Everything he owns has a personal history. And when he acquires the tools or materials of someone else, he learns the stories that come with them so that he might recall them with each use.

I got it! The foley mill was not just a tool to separate tomato pulp from its skin (with a part that falls out when you wash it!) It is the gift he asked his mother to give him this year on his birthday. It is also the days he spent finding the right part to fix it. And it embodies a piece of his childhood—the blackberry jams, tomato pastes, and raspberry preserves warmly made in his family’s kitchen. He described for me his vision of future years of using it, savoring his memories each time he brought it out. Maybe he would even show it to my niece and share its story as he demonstrated its simple efficiency.

Since our morning’s discussion, I have begun to see the material world in a different way, as made up of objects with spirit. Each contains a multitude of spirits: the spirit of its composition such as the tree that gave its wood or the ground that yielded its metal; and the spirit of it maker—whether it was made in love by a craftsman or under duress by a factory worker. Then there’s the history of its existence—who has used it, when, for what, how long—and all the tales that accompany its life.

I am reminded of my 1985 Honda Civic, a good little car. I discovered her name, "Angelina," shortly after I bought her, when she helped me avoid an accident. I heard her warning in my head. My guardian angel! There were subsequent close-saves in the fourteen years I drove her. She was a reliable beast, as those old Hondas tended to be. She never left me stranded. And she came with a mechanic who knew her history. I cried when I had to leave her at the auto dismantler this past spring after expressing my love and gratitude for all her years of service.

Retrofit Library Catalog

This spiritual appreciation of stuff is so contrary to our frantic-paced world of throwaway objects and electronics that are already antiquated before you get them out of the box. I know my husband is out of place in this world with his appreciation for craft and quality. It is what I love about him and what I learn from him. People come to him to fix their most precious furniture because they know he will love it back to wholeness, often making it stronger and more beautiful in the process.

We have all heard the warnings that we are so inundated with stuff that we are destroying our planet under the weight of our discards. Perhaps a more appreciative relationship with our possessions might begin to change this. I have noticed the glimmerings of intense attachment among i-Phone owners. Might this object-love be extended to other items? What objects do you cherish?


If you want to see more of George's stuff check out: www.huttonio.com