We expect a lot of ourselves we humans, especially in times of ostensible defeat or difficulty. When we stumble, are knocked down and fall on the ground, we tend to expect the universe to be normal and safe when we get up and move on. When our hearts are broken, we often brush ourselves off, and will ourselves to return to normal as soon as humanly possible so we may find love again. When we fall into disagreement with someone we often grit our teeth and summon our determination to prove ourselves right. Our mind works so hard trying to run the show, driving us forward to be normal and good, to prevail, do the right thing, and be in control. But when someone we love dies, our brains don't find it that easy to cloak the heart so we can simply soldier on. Death - one of the few unavoidable truths of human life - does this to us, helping us crack open in the face of what is real. It shows us, I think, that the heart and not the brain is our essence.
I recently learned of a degenerative condition in my right ankle that has been brewing for some time and will change the way I move out into the world in the future. It appears there will be no long hikes in Africa, or exploration of Tibet, or squash playing, or just plain marching up and down the hills of San Francisco... Arthritis is a disease (I first called it a beast) that usually affects those "of a certain age" and is in a way symbolic of the aging process. Here it is in front of me now, and I can feel my heart and mind contracting in response, as though to forbid its presence. No such luck, of course. It is alive and present in the body and cannot be cut away or made to disappear. So, what is one to do? Can I welcome it as an another "guest," as Rumi wrote in his classic poem? And just how is it possible to welcome something that makes you wince when you take some simple steps? I am not sure. What I know is that my problem solving brain is working overtime to try to figure out how to walk and move about in a different way, and what supplements or aids might be effective in diminishing the pain, and whether the great bug-a-boo of surgery is actually an option for someone in my position. I do know that a few glasses of wine soften the body in a strange way and momentarily blur out the physical stress, but so does a good movie, talk with a dear friend, or a nice meal lovingly prepared. And still ... there it is... While my mind is working away with the laundry list of solutions, I feel my heart shrinking around this new assault on my person. The heart withers and the brain goes on to imagine a dark and dingy trajectory of disability and limitation. It dares to tell me the story about becoming seriously disabled. Yes, it is a story, and it lives in the future which of course is not known. And instead of comforting my vulnerable body and forgiving myself for getting older, I get caught in a whirlwind of doubt and anxiety.
I experienced loss of another kind this last week. A dear friend of mine who lives in my old home town of Taos, New Mexico, has died after a valiant battle against late stage ovarian cancer. When I received the news I remember feeling a warmth and a softening in my chest, an ah-ha moment that reminded me of the preciousness of human life. I have no idea where my mind was - perhaps taking a well deserved rest - and that was a good thing! I recalled my last evening with this beautiful woman and the radiance I felt coming from her as she bravely offered her heart and mind through a long evening with close friends, wine, and conversation. She was very clear about where she was on her journey and didn't need to talk about it. Candles flickered and glasses were raised and life was all around us. Now she is gone. This is what happens to all of us. And the mystery of it all defies the powers of mind ... When I think about this lovely lady who was a shooting star in the sky, I realize that we all are just that: shooting stars or comets or great soaring birds winging our way across the heavens. We are fragile, we humans, and life is uncertain, whether we are seventy, thirty, or sixteen.
If I could see myself as a magnificent shooting star making its way through the air, then perhaps I could hold my physical difficulties with compassion and love. And why not? This body has done a great job getting me this far and it is unclear how long we'll be doing this together ... it's only fitting to show it some respect. Show it my open heart, not the twisted cruel one that resents my mortality. I am now taking refuge in my house that overlooks the grand and mysterious Pacific Ocean and there are snowy egrets in the creek foraging for fish, deer in the meadow beyond prancing through the brush, and as I look out at that landscape I come closer to seeing myself as a very small piece of the grand puzzle, one little player who searches for grounding, acceptance, and peace of mind. And none of this has anything to do with the power of the mind. I am grateful. I thank the universe.
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