Pictures: Big and Small

Carlton referenced the I Ching teaching on "The Taming Power of the Small" in a recent conversation. The teaching includes gems like

...the force of the small--the power of the shadowy--that restrains, tames, impedes...

...a configuration of circumstances in which a strong element is temporarily held in leash by a weak element. It is only through gentleness that this can have a successful outcome...

...The situation is not unfavorable; there is a prospect of ultimate success, but there are still obstacles in the way, and we can merely take preparatory measures. Only through the small means of friendly persuasion can we exert any influence. The time has not yet come for sweeping measures...

...an individual, in times when he can produce no great effect in the outer world, can do nothing except refine the expression of his nature in small ways...

...the power of disinterested truth is greater than all ... obstacles. It carries such weight that the end is achieved, and all ... fear disappear[s]... (excerpts from Richard Wilhelm's and Cary F. Baynes translation "I Ching: Or, Book of Changes")

Carlton's reference was timely. Yesterday, beneath the weight of accumulated frustration, I collapsed into a tirade. The situation was precisely as the I Ching describes--"a strong element ... temporarily held in leash by a weak element"-- with me as the weak element. I was anything but "disinterested" and my "unrefined" expression only served to produce fear and disapproval in most of the witnesses.

The concept of "seeing the big picture" has also come up in recent conversations. In the various gatherings of people engaged in the Gulf Coast recovery, impassioned speakers often take the floor to advocate for their point of view. We are like the proverbial blind men standing around an elephant, each touching a different part of the great beast and taking it to define the whole. For a variety of understandable reasons, we lose sight of the larger picture, the larger story in which we are all players.

Within minutes of leaving the scene of my explosion, my perspective on the situation broadened and I recognized that I had "done it again": blindly clinging to the part of the elephant closest to me, I hurled my vehemence.

We swing back and forth along a continuum of sightedness: one moment suffused with epiphanous insight, in the next we begin the gradual slide toward blind ignorance. And Ego guides us to staunch inflexibility at every point between these poles. Awakening to the inescapable limitations of our point of view is an aspect of transcendence; maintaining this awareness promotes evolution of consciousness--my own and the greater Consciousness that breathes all life, what I think of as The One Story or The Big Picture.

My own ability to stay focused and responsive to the Big Picture seems to diminish the longer I am in direct relationship with people or places. Intimacy and familiarity seem to behave somewhat like narcotics where consciousness and cognition are concerned. The longer I know a person or place, the more likely I am to become focused on "small pictures," to take things personally, to obsess or drone on particularities.

An arguable blessing is the capacity to remember, to step back (or "out"...or "up"....) into an awareness of the inescapable limitations of my perspective--a capacity eternally compromised by Ego. Sometimes I remember on my own. This is not precisely true: always there is the Big Hand, the ancestors, the deep-running "still waters" of Mystery guiding and inspiring me into wholeness. And even while intimacy and familiarity sometimes produce psychic dullness or short-sightedness, often enough I find a reminder or encouragement toward a return to wholeness in interaction with familiar others.

We are a symphony, each playing our part. Through our impassioned focus--oboe and cello and drum, violin, cymbal and bassoon--the marvelous, elaborate composition is expressed. Song of the universe, song of Time. The unique harmonies and vibrations of Life, from Forever to Now to Tomorrow -- a cosmic chorus that holds, informs and sustains us all.

When experience is viewed through an egocentric filter, we fall out of rhythmic, harmonic and melodic alignment with the great song. We hear cacophony and mistakenly believe it comes from outside ourselves but in fact the dissonance originates in our myopic subjectivity.

How do we avoid this straying? Or, if it is impossible to completely avoid it, how do we find our way back to harmony.

We touch the tail or hoof or tusk of the elephant and integrate our learning on that level. We know what we know. And we remember we are blind. We listen. To the voices within and the voices beyond. To the song within and the surrounding song. And then beyond that to the Song into which all songs flow. We feel our song flowing into the Song. And we remember we are blind.

The Hem of Her Garment

But for Katrina, where would I be today?

As Tropical Depression Twelve evolved in August 2005, I sat in Colorado Springs contemplating my "next move." I was still "living nomadic" and had begun, again, to entertain one of the central questions in the Wanderer's life: is it time to move on?

During the two or three weeks since my arrival, I hadn't been very productive. I spent a good deal of time sitting on the beautiful deck of my friend's home watching the sky, writing on my laptop and occasionally playing guitar.

I slept on an air mattress in the living room. My hosts allowed me to rearrange the furniture to create some "private space" in what was essentially one large room that served as both living room and dining room for me and the other three residents. It was comfortable but there were moments when I looked at the little nest and wondered "What am I doing here?"

When one of my temporary roommates announced she was joining a caravan traveling to Crawford TX to join Cindy Sheehan's vigil outside W's ranch, I decided to go along. Cindy's response to her soldier son's death in Iraq moved me; I could easily imagine myself responding the same way if I was in her shoes. I wanted to meet her. I wanted to spend time with her. And perhaps in closer proximity, I thought, my telepathic attempts to talk sense to George might prove more persuasive than they had been to date.

On the 24th, as our caravan set out, the tropical depression became a tropical storm and was given a name: Katrina. Just outside Dallas-Ft. Worth we were caught in a major traffic snarl. On the radio, reports about Katrina's personality and path had begun. A woman in the caravan had family on the Gulf Coast. She was listening intently. As traffic flow reached standstill, the radio reports came more frequently and began to sound serious. I remember thinking I'd never been in a traffic jam of that magnitude.

A car in the next lane burst into flames. It was a spectacular sight: tall, angry flames against the diamond-bright night lights of Dallas-Ft. Worth. I thought about Baghdad. We crept along for the better part of an hour to discover the source of the tie-up: another conflagration--this time a truck. I thought, "More fire! The road to Crawford is like the road to Hell."

By 28 August, we were making plans to return to CO. Katrina had already dealt her first deadly blows. There were final ceremonies at Camp Casey that night, lots of embraces and group singing and tears. Driving back to our hotel that night, our vehicle caught fire. The next morning our caravan buzzed: someone would have to stay behind with the ruined vehicle, maybe someone should stay with her? The woman with the Biloxi connection was freaking out: she couldn't reach her family by phone. Maybe she should go directly to MS from TX. Maybe someone should go with her. Cindy was setting off on a cross country bus tour--maybe someone among us could go with her?

Decisions were made and I joined the smaller returning caravan. On 29 August, the day Katrina made landfall and the levees broke, I slept late after the long drive from TX. My friends don't have a TV and I didn't turn on the radio or read a newspaper that day.

Over the next few weeks, I explored the neighboring village of Manitou Springs. A tiny village at the foot of Pikes Peak where art-making is the primary occupation, I began to think about making a space for myself there. Through overheard snatches of conversation and radio reports (my friends don't own a TV) I began to hear about Katrina. The first snows came to Colorado Springs. And Halloween.

And I grew more restless and moody. One night I walked to Manitou Springs, tears streaming, railing against my stupidity. Massive arms of snow-heavy fog draped and caressed the mountains. In Manitou Springs, I stopped in a bar to warm up. "The band'll start playing soon and they're pretty good" the bartender offered. I ordered a drink and stayed. The band was very good. And I met someone from New Orleans...

******************

Not long after this night, I heard from a friend who'd already made the journey to Louisiana. He'd made it as far south as a FEMA trailer camp in Baton Rouge. "Alex, you must go," he urged. "All the time I was down there, seeing what I saw, I kept thinking 'oh, Alex could be of service here." As soon as he spoke, I knew I would go. I knew I had to go--although I didn't know then (and still don't know for certain) why. I fought the feeling for a day or two--I was afraid of going.

Ultimately, I went. I eased into it: joined my friend in Memphis for his brother's wedding and then traveled with him to Baton Rouge. After a couple of days, it seemed that Baton Rouge might be only a way station on my journey south. On 4 November, his last day in Louisiana, we decided to drive down to New Orleans to see what we could see. We drove around for a few hours, stopping here and there to take pictures and explore the remains of a few deserted houses. (It is strange to me now that I had no hesitation entering a stranger's house and touching the ruined artifacts of their life...)

We drove back to Baton Rouge. In the hours before he left, we scrambled to find lodging for me in Baton Rouge. There was no place to be. No vacancies in any hotels in town. I called my friend in Colorado Springs. She had no contacts in Baton Rouge but was able to locate contact info for Common Ground Relief in New Orleans. I reached them by phone and they offered lodging beginning the next day. For that night, we would drive back to New Orleans and I would stay in Jefferson Parish with generous, flexible friends of my traveling companion.

And so I was delivered to New Orleans. And thus to Gulfport. And thus to this day. Katrina's anniversary. My opening question is not unique here. Everyone down here feels that Katrina changed their life. And, in a way, I guess a lot of people here are also entertaining the sojourner's question on this two-year anniversary: Is it time to move on?

Friendship, A Third Look

Every now and then, I do a purge on my address books. The "s" on the end of that word catches my attention just now. As a kid, I didn't have an address book; I held names, telephone numbers and addresses in my head. (Zip codes were not widely in use in those days.) Somewhere along the line, probably around the same time carrying a purse became a necessity, I started recording addresses in a book. For a short while, I still knew the contents by heart but over time I became completely dependent on the address book to contact anyone beyond my immediate family.

Eventually, I added another address book to my collection: this one lived on my desk. In general, I took greater care maintaining the accuracy of the desk book.

With the popularization of personal computers, I added a computer version to my collection and later, when email really caught on, a "Contacts List" was added. In 2004, when my life as a sojourner began, I got my first cell phone and gained one more place to store addresses and phone numbers and more.

The address book in my purse fell into disuse over the years and since coming to the Gulf Coast, I have abandoned it all together.


So, periodically, I purge my address books: the cell, the computer, the email accounts (yes, there's that 's' again...) and the desk copy. It's not a regularly scheduled task. Waiting to catch a plane, I might purge my cell phone directory. Adding a new Contact or taking a break from other computer work I might prune my email directory. I run down the list--sometimes in alphabetical ascension, sometimes the other direction--and start deleting entries. If I don't remember the name, OUT. If it's a number I have never dialed and the owner has never called me, OUT. In most but not all cases, if the person is deceased, OUT.

Then there's another kind of purge. It involves entries who in their minds or mine are "friends" and I perform it with either tears in my eyes or a frown in my brow. My heart hurts during this purge. I am provoked to it when I'm lonely or depressed or trying to make a difficult decision. I'm reaching out. I'm in need of a "friend" rather than a "contact." I browse the list and realize there is no one on this list who could be with me in a way appropriate to the way I'm feeling in that moment. I am faced again with the daunting reality of our essential aloneness.

The purge criterion: If three or more of my last calls were never returned, OUT. If the vibe was weird or the enthusiasm waning in our last encounter AND we've haven't made an explicit commitment to doing the work of relationship together, OUT. If just looking at the name or number I feel abandoned or disinterested or cold, OUT.

This practice, or at least the way I talk about it, strikes some people as disturbingly clinical, hard-hearted even. A simple drifting apart, with no words spoken and no overt gestures made, is the more popular method for friendship to end. You know someone and then some time passes and you begin to refer to them as "a woman I once knew." Friendship is a mythical, romantic concept and "end of friendship" has inspired much heart-wrenching art and poetry, painting and song.

Any measure of intentionality attached to the end of a friendship is distasteful and disturbing. No one wants to go there. We don't want to be rejected and we don't want to reject someone else. Pulling a brush drenched in White-Out over a line or clicking "delete" on the computer is intentional. When I mention my purges to others, it's common for one or both of us to try to make a joke of it. It feels too heavy otherwise, I guess.

This weekend I heard from four people who've been out of touch for awhile. Two of them had been purged from my files. My heart leaped and giggled to hear from them again. I got their info and re-recorded it in my Contacts list at Gmail.

One of them, I'll call her Liz, shared a story about the recent ending of a lifetime friendship. Liz had inadvertently offended her friend who said nothing at the moment of offense. She sent Liz an email a week later, venting her hurt and anger and announcing the official end of their friendship.

Another friend returned to his hometown this summer after a long time away. He spent some time with a friend from the old days. When he returned home, he received a scathing email from that old friend outlining his disappointment and outrage to see what he'd made of his life. The email contained several threatening insinuations that the friendship was over.

A couple of years before I left the Bay it happened to me. Rhonda wrote me out of her life. It hurt all the more because we had made explicit promises to always be friends and she had pried a promise from me that in my entire life I have made only once, to her: no matter how bad life gets, I promised not to kill myself without contacting her first. At the time I made the promise, her willingness to accept and hold such a vulnerable, intimate vow felt like a huge act of love. In retrospect, given that her brother's suicide several years before we met had been a singularly crushing event in her life, her insistence that I make the promise was likely driven by more selfish needs. She cared about me and she was also likely taking care of herself.

In the end, nothing happened. There was no dramatic event. No misstep or obvious mistake that she ever shared with me. She sent me an email saying she could not see a purpose for going forward with our friendship. Goodbye.

I suspect I purge to get the jump on rejection: I "delete" you before you delete me. I also purge because clutter, in any form, distracts me. I purge because I don't want to hold onto anyone in a bald attempt to stave off loneliness or for the pathetic comfort of having more marked pages than blank pages in an address book or a longer Contact list in my email account.

Ultimately, I purge because, where "friends" are concerned, I don't like loose ends. Maybe Rhonda doesn't either and she was just tying up loose ends in her way. I am patient to a point. I can go a long time without hearing from a "friend." Then, my stomach gets nervous and my scalp starts itching. I have to know: are we doing this or are we "over"?

I dial their number or drop them a card or an email. I report my discomfort and pose the question: do you want to keep going?

It takes the edge off and I grow patient again.

But it's only a matter of time. I will purge again. I will run down the list and see their name and remember: I never heard back from him or her.

Usually, OUT.

"If you love someone, set them free."




Note: An inspiration for the current blog was finding a huge stack of business cards in my desk drawer. You can watch my re-discovery of these cards at my new blog, Cards

Where have I been?

I Google-d "good rain" to find an image for this post. It was hot, hot, hot on the Gulf today--as it has been for...a very long time. But in my soul, it rained today. I feel refreshed and interested in life again. Throughout the day I took some of the first long, deep breaths I'd taken in weeks.

I guess it's hard to write when it's hard to breathe.


At least once a day, every day since I last wrote, I thought of writing here. Always there was either nothing to say or more to say than I had words to express.

To write

my heart is breaking
i am numb and empty
i am afraid


To ask

am I depressed?
did I fail?
what comes next?


in a blog.

It is a very strange thing even to contemplate. People are blogging about shoes and pencils and nail polish. Clearly "anything goes" where blogs are concerned. It reminds me of playground days in the fifth and sixth grade. Twice a day the protocol of lines and quiet and assigned tasks would disappear and I would find myself surrounded by the chaos of kids in the throes of reckless abandon. All around me, kids were screaming and chasing each other and kicking balls. Here and there small groups stood, heads together, telling dirty jokes or whispering secrets.

Standing on the sideline or trying to join in, I was self conscious. "What are we supposed to be doing? a voice screamed inside my head.

I'm sure my discomfort was due in part to my deep appreciation of the beauty of order. And in part due to social immaturity resulting from the highly ordered and controlled environment of my childhood home. But as with the reckless abandon in evidence in the blogosphere, the playground scene baffled and embarrassed me.

So, for a couple of weeks now, some kind of perverse politeness in me has demanded restraint.


In New Orleans last weekend, I heard about the horrible murder of a smart, beautiful young woman. She was an African American woman and I think, in retrospect, I identified with her. But it was really too horrible to think about very closely. I suppressed my thoughts and feelings about it and/but for the rest of the weekend, termites of grief slowly, silently, ate away at my soul.

On Sunday, I had good talk with Pallas and Jaimie in the morning and that funny Kathy and Mo film at Jaimie's in the evening; but numbness and sadness (deciding to leave my job and Gulfport) and fear of rejection (job hunting....aargh!!! there's nothing more distasteful in the civilized world) and bafflement (the "news" ...Mississippi ...George Bush...my coworkers... my life) had been slow-cooking in me for weeks.

It was gonna take a lot to bring me back around.

Today felt like my "lot" finally kicked in. What turned the tide? I drove to New Orleans! What is finer than driving into New Orleans? With OZ on the radio and the sun shining and fast traffic.... the skyline and bridge coming into view. I wonder how long before returning to New Orleans doesn't make my heart beat stronger and my hips feel sexier and a grin break out on my face?


And I wonder why I don't respond to the chaos and reckless abandon of New Orleans with bafflement and embarrassment? I think it's because most of the time I can feel NOLA's heart and there is a truth and sincerity to the heartbeat that grounds me. Even the horrible and the stupid and the unjust, it really is gumbo.

I want to go home. I need to go home. The Earth is my home. I want to be in New Orleans.

Wakullah

It's still a challenge to verbalize the experience

but heart and soul in Boston is becoming visible. So far I'm finding it, feeling it, where/when some people--not all people--come together and look at each other while they're talking.

As the oldest child of four, one of my favorite pastimes was scaring my younger siblings. Jumping out from the back of a closet and yelling "boo" (why do we yell 'boo'? who chose that word?) probably stirred my adrenalin as much as theirs. I loved it.

For a couple of days now, I've derived a similar perverse and exquisite pleasure from waiting until I'm a few feet away from a Bostonian, just beyond arm's reach, before delivering a triple punch: eye contact, big smile and "Hiya doin'?" It's soooooo much fun!

It's mischief--not connection.

Over on Wakullah in Roxbury, it almost feels like Sesame Street: people out on the stoops and kids playing in the street; at least half of the residents offering a greeting in passing, even to me, a stranger in their midst. I hear a fair number of them were raised in the South, though, so it's no surprise I haven't been able to shock and startle them with the smile-and-speak-routine I've used in Jamaica Plain.

They have a community garden on Wakullah and hold an annual street party/cookout. People not only know their neighbors' names, their lives are sufficiently commingled to produce shared history and memory. They tell and retell stories about great meals and births and deaths. And it was in such a setting, when they were looking at each other and me and talking about something they all remembered, that I perceived the first glimmers of Boston heart and soul. I got this deep feeling of ... I don't know what to call it yet. It's sort of like how I imagine the first day out of prison must feel after maybe 7 years behind bars.

Or like being touched in the small of my back by a friend.

Last night, some of the Wakullah Street folk came here to Jamaica Plain, where I've been staying for several days. My hostess opened her home for a meeting and potluck for Boston-area activists and others who have a Gulf Coast connection of some kind. In the socializing after the meeting, I got another heart-and-soul rush as Monica and Karen and Derrick laughed and chatted together.

I thanked them for being there at one point because I didn't know what else to say. A non-specific sense of well-being radiated from somewhere and warmed my solar plexus and the rear of my skull as they talked. I've never done heroin but I was feeling something akin to the supreme, nodding good feeling that some users describe. I felt like everything's gonna be okay, everything is okay.

Never Alone

Sometimes you just know. Immediately. "I don't like this." You spit it out, you leave the meeting, you return the skirt to the 35%-off table.

Sometimes, you get a weird feeling but you're not sure: maybe if I add a rug and a couple of lamps and paint over the watermarks... Maybe if I study harder and tape record his lectures... You hang in there and make adjustments if you can; or maybe you just wait for things to get better.


You figure: it could just be me--I need to change. Or "this is a cosmic or spiritual lesson or test or opportunity." You remember teachings like "We create reality" and "The world around you reflects the world within you."

Sometimes you watch for signs, set up arbitrary timelines and ultimatums. "If I'm the only one on time tonight...." "If my neck still feels like this on Friday, I'll make an appointment." "If there are no window seats left, I'll know I'm not supposed to make that trip."



Sometimes you come to know. It gradually dawns on you. Or you bolt upright from a !Eureka! dream. Or you pace your way into it on the sands of the Pacific Coast. Or it comes as a resonant recognition from a film or a passage in a book or the mutterings of a mad homeless woman.

Or you say, finally, after however much internal wrangling and contemplation

Show me. I am willing to look at It now.