.jpg)
To get to the other side
and earn my wings…
The mantra kept me going.
Through the dark night
I dreamt of what colors would decorate my wings
after the transformation
What might it feel like
to fly…
And land on a flower?
I will stay in my cocoon
Until the moment arrives
for the transformation.
I can be patient
and earn my wings…
I tell myself as the tears fall.
And when the tears stopped falling
And the night in fact ended,
I looked for the transformation.
But no color was found
and I still couldn’t fly…
Or glimpse an other side.
Always a caterpillar
And never a butterfly
I now get used to saying.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
DEATH, ART, LOVE, & SEX
“Letting go is one of the sexiest and most pleasurable things known to humanity.”
--- Eric Francis; writer, photographer, astrologer (see planetwaves.com)
I woke up from a really good dream this morning, full of all of my favorite dream themes—a handsome man, feelings of desire, sexual tension, a feeling of being truly loved, and images of myself being free and spontaneous. The dream was so pleasurable that waking up brought a sense of profound sorrow. I wanted to hold on to it. To make it my reality. And then to hold on to that reality and never let it go.
This is one of the reasons I write: To capture an experience in an attempt to give it some form and permanence, even though I know that the most the words can do is to point to something that can never be captured fully, something that disappears just as quickly as the words hit page. Still, it’s all I have, and I therefore accept that this is enough. I woke up feeling as though I wanted to hold on to my dream forever. Writing about it, though, will have to be enough. And this further requires a letting-go. Still, the longing remains.
I have often thought about writing, and art more generally, as a form of making love with the world. This is not an original idea, likening creativity to sexuality. Many, many others have made this link before me. One way of understanding this widely-made observation is that making love, like making art, can be about this oscillation of holding-on and letting-go. The passion of some sexual encounters is fueled by a desire to hold on to a feeling, to embody it, to ex-press it, and to give it form. The desire that rages within needs expression, which in turn offers it a reality, a form, a sort-of place within the world which then, just as it’s expressed, disappears. Moreover, the very act of expression (i.e., what we do in an attempt to hold on to the feeling in the first place) itself requires a letting go or giving-over to the experience itself.
I wonder if life is “just” a series of moments of embodying something and then letting go. Embodying something and then letting go. The impulse to hold on to something, to embody it, is an essential part of creating one’s life and giving it a particular form. Letting go is equally essential. Imagine, if you will, not having the letting-go part. Imagine having to have the same experience continuously. In truth, holding on to an experience continuously, however pleasurable it may be in a moment, is a sure form of torture, though it’s what many of us try to do, in a way. Imagine always eating chocolate cake, a never-ending kiss, or a runner’s high that goes on forever. The person eating the cake would never get to have the kiss. And the runner couldn’t eat chocolate cake, while the kisser couldn’t run. It is the letting go which allows us to be open to the next experience: The next… sexy dream, tender moment, encounter with another, feeling, thought, walk outside, accomplishment, failure, piece of art, trip to the post office, day, season, phase of life….
Letting go is what allows life to move. The French word for orgasm translates as “little death.” Sex and death are the ultimate in letting go. Living life as a series of letting-go moments is then akin to making love to the world, with the full experience of orgasm; or of dying to the world, with the full potential for rebirth. Eric’s quote, above, captures this well. So, too, do tantric philosophies which espouse beginning with one’s desire and making love to the world, each on the way toward a kind-of metaphorical rebirth. Springtime is ripe for such a way of living. In certain parts of the world right now, rebirth is all around us, as are opportunities to desire the world. I encourage us all to try to grasp these opportunities, even as we let them go.
--- Eric Francis; writer, photographer, astrologer (see planetwaves.com)
I woke up from a really good dream this morning, full of all of my favorite dream themes—a handsome man, feelings of desire, sexual tension, a feeling of being truly loved, and images of myself being free and spontaneous. The dream was so pleasurable that waking up brought a sense of profound sorrow. I wanted to hold on to it. To make it my reality. And then to hold on to that reality and never let it go.
This is one of the reasons I write: To capture an experience in an attempt to give it some form and permanence, even though I know that the most the words can do is to point to something that can never be captured fully, something that disappears just as quickly as the words hit page. Still, it’s all I have, and I therefore accept that this is enough. I woke up feeling as though I wanted to hold on to my dream forever. Writing about it, though, will have to be enough. And this further requires a letting-go. Still, the longing remains.
I have often thought about writing, and art more generally, as a form of making love with the world. This is not an original idea, likening creativity to sexuality. Many, many others have made this link before me. One way of understanding this widely-made observation is that making love, like making art, can be about this oscillation of holding-on and letting-go. The passion of some sexual encounters is fueled by a desire to hold on to a feeling, to embody it, to ex-press it, and to give it form. The desire that rages within needs expression, which in turn offers it a reality, a form, a sort-of place within the world which then, just as it’s expressed, disappears. Moreover, the very act of expression (i.e., what we do in an attempt to hold on to the feeling in the first place) itself requires a letting go or giving-over to the experience itself.
I wonder if life is “just” a series of moments of embodying something and then letting go. Embodying something and then letting go. The impulse to hold on to something, to embody it, is an essential part of creating one’s life and giving it a particular form. Letting go is equally essential. Imagine, if you will, not having the letting-go part. Imagine having to have the same experience continuously. In truth, holding on to an experience continuously, however pleasurable it may be in a moment, is a sure form of torture, though it’s what many of us try to do, in a way. Imagine always eating chocolate cake, a never-ending kiss, or a runner’s high that goes on forever. The person eating the cake would never get to have the kiss. And the runner couldn’t eat chocolate cake, while the kisser couldn’t run. It is the letting go which allows us to be open to the next experience: The next… sexy dream, tender moment, encounter with another, feeling, thought, walk outside, accomplishment, failure, piece of art, trip to the post office, day, season, phase of life….
Letting go is what allows life to move. The French word for orgasm translates as “little death.” Sex and death are the ultimate in letting go. Living life as a series of letting-go moments is then akin to making love to the world, with the full experience of orgasm; or of dying to the world, with the full potential for rebirth. Eric’s quote, above, captures this well. So, too, do tantric philosophies which espouse beginning with one’s desire and making love to the world, each on the way toward a kind-of metaphorical rebirth. Springtime is ripe for such a way of living. In certain parts of the world right now, rebirth is all around us, as are opportunities to desire the world. I encourage us all to try to grasp these opportunities, even as we let them go.
LETTING GO IN LONG TERM RELATIONSHIPS
Half of all marriages end in divorce. This is now a well known statistic.
I often wonder: Of those marriages that survive, how many are generally happy ones? How many are healthy? And what defines a healthy relationship in the first place?
I believe that all long-term relationships—be they romantic, friendly, collegiate, or familial, as well as relationships within and between groups and organizations—can be vessels for profound transformation. I believe these same relationships can also be dangerous, which I realize is a strange description for all long-term relationships. The potential danger, it seems to me, is that long-term relationships tempt us to be stagnant. The mark of a healthy and happy relationship, then, is the extent to which the parties involved can face this danger head-on, thereby creating a vessel that is strong enough for transformation.
Easier said than done.
Letting go is what allows life to move. It is also what allows relationships to move. But they can stop moving, and when things become stagnant, the individuals within the relationship are in danger-- in danger of resentment, bitterness, boredom, depression, anxiety, apathy, and not fully living.
Like with many things in life, the positive benefits of something are one side of a coin, the opposite-side of which is the potential danger. When a relationship exists over time, we slip into patterns, which themselves may be marked by an easiness and comfort. In relationships with established patterns, we can take for granted that he’ll always do x, y, or z, and this allows us to do A, B, or C. If these arrangements work for both people (or both organizations/ groups), then we achieve a welcome sense of security, comfort, and peace. Human beings find security in knowing what to expect; we experience comfort when we can depend on someone else; we are often peaceful when things are calm and predictable. At best, these kinds of interactions are like a beautiful dance in which two or more people move fluidly with one another, creating something that feels familiar and spontaneous all at the same time. The experience of such a dance is one of the many benefits of long-term relationships. Before we know it, though,—and, if we’re not vigilant, just outside of our awareness—the other side of this coin shows itself. This same dance can become rote, empty, and lifeless. We wake up one day to the realization that patterns within our relationships, which we’ve helped to create, hold us back. And worse, that these arrangements are similar to the patterns that have always characterized our lives, from the time we were very young.
This is where the relationship’s potential as a healing vessel enters the picture. We can use the relationship, with the comfort and security that has been established thus far, to work through these patterns. To change. To transform. Instead of running away, we stick with the difficulties and develop an awareness about how they have been created and what we can do differently in the future to prevent the same difficulties from arising, again and again.
Easier said than done.
Therapy for the individuals involved and for the relationship itself can be very helpful. Transformation within relationship requires at least several elements, all of which can benefit from the support of ongoing therapy. Respect for oneself and for the other person is necessary. Assuming responsibility for one’s own part in the patterns is also a key element of potential transformation. It is never one person’s fault. Stepping away from blame and replacing it with compassion and understanding for how the relationship got to be where it is now is usually helpful. Perhaps most importantly, the capacity for courage and the willingness to take some risks are essential.
The greatest risk is that of awareness, and so the first question of risk goes something like this: Am I willing to open my eyes (and heart) wide enough to acknowledge that certain patterns are not working? If you get this far, the next questions might be: Am I willing to let go of some of the safety, security, and ease that my patterns offer in order to gain back the life and spontaneity that has been lost? And am I willing to risk losing the relationship as it exists now and maybe altogether, in order to possibly experience its rebirth? I am willing to risk letting go of something of who the other person is to me in order to allow him the freedom to become something more? Finally, am I willing to risk losing something of who I am in the relationship in order to possibly become something more? More simply: Am I willing to let go in order to create something new?
In truth, letting go is one of the most challenging experiences many human beings face, and the reason for this is fear. We tend to repeat the same patters and have the same experiences because we cannot trust in something new. Because we’re holding on to what we know. Because we cannot tolerate the not-knowing. Because we fear letting go, and changing, and the discoveries we might make in this process.
If you are feeling stuck in life, stagnant in your relationships, or fearful of an intimate relationship in the first place, it might be helpful to ask:
What might you need to let go of?
Where do you need more trust?
What are you most afraid of losing?
What goals are you willing to take risks for?
What you are holding on to, and why?
What is the price of holding-on and is it worth it?
Can you allow yourself to die to one experience in order to birth another?
What feels most scary about this?
Can you die to one identity so that you can experience others?
What is your biggest fear around losing that identity?
These are admittedly very difficult questions. They are, though, the questions we need to ask if we wish to risk changing for a fuller life. The important place to begin is asking these questions in the first place, and then thought-fully answering them. There are many reasons that a person would not want to take such risks, and sometimes not risking is the right answer for a particular person or situation. Likewise, not all relationships can be saved or renewed. What is essential, though, for anyone who wants to avoid the many dangers listed above, is to dare to ask the questions and to then answer honestly, rather than avoiding ever facing them in the first place.
I often wonder: Of those marriages that survive, how many are generally happy ones? How many are healthy? And what defines a healthy relationship in the first place?
I believe that all long-term relationships—be they romantic, friendly, collegiate, or familial, as well as relationships within and between groups and organizations—can be vessels for profound transformation. I believe these same relationships can also be dangerous, which I realize is a strange description for all long-term relationships. The potential danger, it seems to me, is that long-term relationships tempt us to be stagnant. The mark of a healthy and happy relationship, then, is the extent to which the parties involved can face this danger head-on, thereby creating a vessel that is strong enough for transformation.
Easier said than done.
Letting go is what allows life to move. It is also what allows relationships to move. But they can stop moving, and when things become stagnant, the individuals within the relationship are in danger-- in danger of resentment, bitterness, boredom, depression, anxiety, apathy, and not fully living.
Like with many things in life, the positive benefits of something are one side of a coin, the opposite-side of which is the potential danger. When a relationship exists over time, we slip into patterns, which themselves may be marked by an easiness and comfort. In relationships with established patterns, we can take for granted that he’ll always do x, y, or z, and this allows us to do A, B, or C. If these arrangements work for both people (or both organizations/ groups), then we achieve a welcome sense of security, comfort, and peace. Human beings find security in knowing what to expect; we experience comfort when we can depend on someone else; we are often peaceful when things are calm and predictable. At best, these kinds of interactions are like a beautiful dance in which two or more people move fluidly with one another, creating something that feels familiar and spontaneous all at the same time. The experience of such a dance is one of the many benefits of long-term relationships. Before we know it, though,—and, if we’re not vigilant, just outside of our awareness—the other side of this coin shows itself. This same dance can become rote, empty, and lifeless. We wake up one day to the realization that patterns within our relationships, which we’ve helped to create, hold us back. And worse, that these arrangements are similar to the patterns that have always characterized our lives, from the time we were very young.
This is where the relationship’s potential as a healing vessel enters the picture. We can use the relationship, with the comfort and security that has been established thus far, to work through these patterns. To change. To transform. Instead of running away, we stick with the difficulties and develop an awareness about how they have been created and what we can do differently in the future to prevent the same difficulties from arising, again and again.
Easier said than done.
Therapy for the individuals involved and for the relationship itself can be very helpful. Transformation within relationship requires at least several elements, all of which can benefit from the support of ongoing therapy. Respect for oneself and for the other person is necessary. Assuming responsibility for one’s own part in the patterns is also a key element of potential transformation. It is never one person’s fault. Stepping away from blame and replacing it with compassion and understanding for how the relationship got to be where it is now is usually helpful. Perhaps most importantly, the capacity for courage and the willingness to take some risks are essential.
The greatest risk is that of awareness, and so the first question of risk goes something like this: Am I willing to open my eyes (and heart) wide enough to acknowledge that certain patterns are not working? If you get this far, the next questions might be: Am I willing to let go of some of the safety, security, and ease that my patterns offer in order to gain back the life and spontaneity that has been lost? And am I willing to risk losing the relationship as it exists now and maybe altogether, in order to possibly experience its rebirth? I am willing to risk letting go of something of who the other person is to me in order to allow him the freedom to become something more? Finally, am I willing to risk losing something of who I am in the relationship in order to possibly become something more? More simply: Am I willing to let go in order to create something new?
In truth, letting go is one of the most challenging experiences many human beings face, and the reason for this is fear. We tend to repeat the same patters and have the same experiences because we cannot trust in something new. Because we’re holding on to what we know. Because we cannot tolerate the not-knowing. Because we fear letting go, and changing, and the discoveries we might make in this process.
If you are feeling stuck in life, stagnant in your relationships, or fearful of an intimate relationship in the first place, it might be helpful to ask:
What might you need to let go of?
Where do you need more trust?
What are you most afraid of losing?
What goals are you willing to take risks for?
What you are holding on to, and why?
What is the price of holding-on and is it worth it?
Can you allow yourself to die to one experience in order to birth another?
What feels most scary about this?
Can you die to one identity so that you can experience others?
What is your biggest fear around losing that identity?
These are admittedly very difficult questions. They are, though, the questions we need to ask if we wish to risk changing for a fuller life. The important place to begin is asking these questions in the first place, and then thought-fully answering them. There are many reasons that a person would not want to take such risks, and sometimes not risking is the right answer for a particular person or situation. Likewise, not all relationships can be saved or renewed. What is essential, though, for anyone who wants to avoid the many dangers listed above, is to dare to ask the questions and to then answer honestly, rather than avoiding ever facing them in the first place.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
NEVER ENOUGH
Suffering
Floating away in a cloud
Leaving space for the tulip to spread its petals
Dying already
The impending death overshadows the beauty
And the tulip never tastes sweet enough
I think he is sweet enough
And so I sit, and wait, and long for his entry
A raging wish to be devoured burns me up inside
He is in me already, but I want more
My eyes, hands, and tongue… My heart
Ache and break to touch him and it is never enough
Before I notice the tulip has died.
Floating away in a cloud
Leaving space for the tulip to spread its petals
Dying already
The impending death overshadows the beauty
And the tulip never tastes sweet enough
I think he is sweet enough
And so I sit, and wait, and long for his entry
A raging wish to be devoured burns me up inside
He is in me already, but I want more
My eyes, hands, and tongue… My heart
Ache and break to touch him and it is never enough
Before I notice the tulip has died.
CRANES
I wrote the following column—about why I love cranes—three days before a crane collapse in Manhattan. Because “why I love cranes” is such a random topic, and because I don’t believe in coincidences, the whole thing freaked me out a bit. Here I was, touting the beauty of a piece of machinery responsible for the death of several people in a nearby, beloved city. What was the meaning or message in this “coincidence,” I began to wonder. After several days of sitting with this question, this is what I’ve come up with: Things, people, and events can be beautiful and destructive at the same time. Indeed, there was some hint of this observation in my original column, though I didn’t quite get to a place of unity between beauty and destruction prior to hearing news of the NYC crane accident. Still, intimations of it were there.
This observation has been a liberating insight for me. I had recently been told (and this probably wasn’t the first time) that my problem in life is that “I’m never satisfied.” I was beating myself up about this, trying to will myself into satisfaction, even as Steve Earl’s and Mick Jagger’s lyrics were each, in turn, blaring from my car stereo (from songs titled I Ain’t Ever Satisfied and Satisfaction/I Can’t Get No, respectively). Then something clicked. Yes, this dynamic that lives within me may be somewhat destructive, but there is also something beautiful about it. My lack of satisfaction has led me to continue to strive, to not give up when it would have been the easy thing to do, to make some things better, and to make other things happen—period. With song lyrics supporting me, I began to embrace this fault, error, or pathology that lives deep within me and then to feel free, which is the one state I actually find better-than-satisfying.
The end of the life of any individual is tragic for those left behind. This is especially true when death comes, literally, by accident—unexpected and untimely. Death itself, though, is beautiful if we can truly embrace it, as are our “pathologies” when we can embrace and respect them for what they are. Below is the column I originally wrote—now dedicated to the many individuals who work in the construction industry.
Steel Lace
Steel lace. That’s the thought that came to mind on the day I first fell in love with cranes. They’re strange objects to fall in love with, especially for someone whose only connection with the construction industry is a brother who was an Iron Worker for a brief period of time. I find it difficult to know why I love them so much, and believe the pictures tell the story better than I can. I love the way they seem to bridge the sky with the earth; I love their confidence—standing tall and as if they own the space they inhabit; I love their strength, a delicate and careful strength that, interestingly enough, mimics the kind of men I have also found myself falling for!
There is something so alluring to me about the juxtaposition of opposites, particularly that which is vulnerable, delicate, or fragile, adjacent something strong. I came across a gorgeous rustic, large, sturdy, dark fruitwood coffee table in an antique store recently. Though most people would see this as a total anomaly in my living room, I haven’t stopped dreaming about how perfect it would look in front of my velvety-soft, pale-green, feminine-looking sofa. I believe this kind of tension, and its potential beauty, exists in all of us, not just in cranes and living rooms.
What determines whether the potential for beauty is realized is how we manage the seeming contrast. Most of us have known individuals who identify completely with their strength, or with a hard exterior, hiding or pushing away any vulnerability deep below the surface. And others who seem unable to step into their own strength or power, presenting themselves as less capable than they in fact are. Of course, we develop these strategies for good reason. We tend to overdevelop those parts of ourselves that seemingly allow us to get our needs met easily and/or seemingly allow us to keep hurt at bay. A certain beauty emerges, however, when we can acknowledge and accept all that we are—vulnerability, power, and everything in between. It’s the beauty of inner radiance that emanates outward. It’s the look of a delicate confidence, of strong vulnerability, of humble pride, and even proud humility. It’s the beauty I see reflected in the lace-like patterns of steel that are capable of lifting tons and of doing so with careful precision and a delicate respect for their power of destruction—a dynamic which also renders them humble. Back to the human world, it’s the beauty of working toward full self-acceptance.
And this brings me to the second reason I love cranes. I love how they represent a work-in-progress. Maybe it is too obvious to need stating: Cranes take their place on a job-site during the construction phase, as something is being built. Or dismantled, though I would say that destruction is also a part of con-struction. Sometimes we need to clear-out the old in order to make room for the new. In either case, cranes represent the meeting-ground of vision and realization, of ideas and materials. I love this meeting-ground much more than the finished project. I love the works-in-progress, and it is this function of steel lace that reflects what may be our primary task as human beings—that of creating ourselves through vision and enactment, through dreams and their realization, through the work of self-acceptance and the joining of strength and vulnerability. In doing so, we build something of lasting value.
The next time you see a crane you may wish to allow the image to linger and ask yourself where you feel strong and where you notice vulnerability. Ask how these two might work together. How strength and appropriate power are actually born from accepting one’s vulnerability. How vulnerability is more easily accepted when we can also step into our power, our creative talents, and our unique place in the universe. Ask which side within you needs increased acceptance. Ask how you envision yourself and your life if that acceptance were to be granted? What do you need to enact in order to build that acceptance? Then harness the powerful image of a crane to help you to get there.
This observation has been a liberating insight for me. I had recently been told (and this probably wasn’t the first time) that my problem in life is that “I’m never satisfied.” I was beating myself up about this, trying to will myself into satisfaction, even as Steve Earl’s and Mick Jagger’s lyrics were each, in turn, blaring from my car stereo (from songs titled I Ain’t Ever Satisfied and Satisfaction/I Can’t Get No, respectively). Then something clicked. Yes, this dynamic that lives within me may be somewhat destructive, but there is also something beautiful about it. My lack of satisfaction has led me to continue to strive, to not give up when it would have been the easy thing to do, to make some things better, and to make other things happen—period. With song lyrics supporting me, I began to embrace this fault, error, or pathology that lives deep within me and then to feel free, which is the one state I actually find better-than-satisfying.
The end of the life of any individual is tragic for those left behind. This is especially true when death comes, literally, by accident—unexpected and untimely. Death itself, though, is beautiful if we can truly embrace it, as are our “pathologies” when we can embrace and respect them for what they are. Below is the column I originally wrote—now dedicated to the many individuals who work in the construction industry.
Steel Lace
Steel lace. That’s the thought that came to mind on the day I first fell in love with cranes. They’re strange objects to fall in love with, especially for someone whose only connection with the construction industry is a brother who was an Iron Worker for a brief period of time. I find it difficult to know why I love them so much, and believe the pictures tell the story better than I can. I love the way they seem to bridge the sky with the earth; I love their confidence—standing tall and as if they own the space they inhabit; I love their strength, a delicate and careful strength that, interestingly enough, mimics the kind of men I have also found myself falling for!
There is something so alluring to me about the juxtaposition of opposites, particularly that which is vulnerable, delicate, or fragile, adjacent something strong. I came across a gorgeous rustic, large, sturdy, dark fruitwood coffee table in an antique store recently. Though most people would see this as a total anomaly in my living room, I haven’t stopped dreaming about how perfect it would look in front of my velvety-soft, pale-green, feminine-looking sofa. I believe this kind of tension, and its potential beauty, exists in all of us, not just in cranes and living rooms.
What determines whether the potential for beauty is realized is how we manage the seeming contrast. Most of us have known individuals who identify completely with their strength, or with a hard exterior, hiding or pushing away any vulnerability deep below the surface. And others who seem unable to step into their own strength or power, presenting themselves as less capable than they in fact are. Of course, we develop these strategies for good reason. We tend to overdevelop those parts of ourselves that seemingly allow us to get our needs met easily and/or seemingly allow us to keep hurt at bay. A certain beauty emerges, however, when we can acknowledge and accept all that we are—vulnerability, power, and everything in between. It’s the beauty of inner radiance that emanates outward. It’s the look of a delicate confidence, of strong vulnerability, of humble pride, and even proud humility. It’s the beauty I see reflected in the lace-like patterns of steel that are capable of lifting tons and of doing so with careful precision and a delicate respect for their power of destruction—a dynamic which also renders them humble. Back to the human world, it’s the beauty of working toward full self-acceptance.
And this brings me to the second reason I love cranes. I love how they represent a work-in-progress. Maybe it is too obvious to need stating: Cranes take their place on a job-site during the construction phase, as something is being built. Or dismantled, though I would say that destruction is also a part of con-struction. Sometimes we need to clear-out the old in order to make room for the new. In either case, cranes represent the meeting-ground of vision and realization, of ideas and materials. I love this meeting-ground much more than the finished project. I love the works-in-progress, and it is this function of steel lace that reflects what may be our primary task as human beings—that of creating ourselves through vision and enactment, through dreams and their realization, through the work of self-acceptance and the joining of strength and vulnerability. In doing so, we build something of lasting value.
The next time you see a crane you may wish to allow the image to linger and ask yourself where you feel strong and where you notice vulnerability. Ask how these two might work together. How strength and appropriate power are actually born from accepting one’s vulnerability. How vulnerability is more easily accepted when we can also step into our power, our creative talents, and our unique place in the universe. Ask which side within you needs increased acceptance. Ask how you envision yourself and your life if that acceptance were to be granted? What do you need to enact in order to build that acceptance? Then harness the powerful image of a crane to help you to get there.
Midlife and the Emergence of Soul
The fields of Psychology and Spirituality often make a distinction between Ego and Soul. The Ego is the part of us that assumes various roles in life, or what we might consider to be our identities. When you identify yourself as artistic, achievement-oriented, laid-back, or hard-working… as the jokester, the caretaker, the leader, or the shy-one… or as any number of other roles you play, you are in the realm of ego. The ego develops over time; first within our family and peer relationships and later through our work relationships and adult friendships.
In some ways the ego is like the mask we wear out in the world, and everyone’s mask will be unique in some way, depending upon what has “worked” in our particular situation. The ego marks a way-of-being that has helped us to survive very difficult circumstances, gain approval from others, and/or identify a unique place for ourselves within our families, and then within our larger worlds. A little boy who is the youngest of four children notices that in order to get attention from his parents, it works best to be very funny. A young girl finds that she plays the role of peacemaker when her parents are fighting, and then they begin to calm down and she feels better. Another young girl suffers physical abuse when her father is tense or unhappy and so she learns to be as invisible as possible and to stay out of the way. These children then grow up to be the class-clown, peacemaker, and “good girl” respectively, and each may derive some fulfillment from these roles that they are now very good at (we tend to become expert at those things that work well for us). And because we become expert at these identities, and because they may help us to win approval from others, developing our egos may also help us to develop a sense of self-esteem, effectiveness in the world, and purpose; all of which will be more precarious for some than for others. For most of us, though, regardless of the exact nature of our developmental history, our egos have a way of keeping us moving along in the world. For the first half of our life, this is usually a pretty good thing.
Then, around mid-life, something happens. In one way or another, our egos start to break down. It no longer feels so satisfying to be the class-clown. Being the peacemaker begins to cause trouble because one’s own needs are always put on the back-burner. Being the good girl starts to feel boring, or enraging. For some, the break-down can happen as the result of a crisis—an illness, job loss, or relationship difficulty, for example. For others, a vague dis-ease marks their awareness, a sense that they just don’t feel happy or fulfilled. Still others may wake-up one morning feeling as though their life is just wrong. In these ways, a mid-life crisis begins; or, stated another way, the Soul emerges. I see the emergence of Soul and mid-life crisis as different sides of the same coin; and sometimes even the same side of the same coin. But why would the emergence of Soul be a crisis? It sounds like such a good thing...
I think we have to go back to the part about ego development to understand this well. We learn that in order to receive love or connection or approval, we must be this way ____ (fill in the blank for yourself). And so we develop, that way. But, “deep down” we are also so much more than this. And the needs and desires and talents and propensities that don’t fit with what becomes solidified as ego (and what we often call Shadow Material) get left out. Furthermore, because essential parts of who we are get left out, a tension develops—very slowly and over time. And at some point, usually when our internal sensor knows that we can handle it and around mid-life, the tension no longer holds. Our souls gets louder and our egos, less satisfying.
If you are awake and aware and a little lucky, your soul will whisper to you and you will listen. If you don’t listen it will grow louder, and louder still, until the tension is unbearable and something gives. The soul can speak in the form of a crisis, a feeling of discontent, or a compelling sense that a change is needed. At some point, though, it will speak, and the sooner and more carefully we can listen, the sooner we can begin to experience freedom. But it is hard to listen to Soul because it often asks us to give up our attachment to Ego—that mixture of identities and roles that has allowed us to survive and sometimes even thrive in the world. We come to love our ego, and the Soul asks for its death. This is why it is so challenging, and why many of us don’t listen to the whisper. Fortunately, the Soul is pretty relentless. The message of what needs to die in order that something more fulfilling can emerge will come to us again and again. And when we do listen, change and transformation and death and rebirth all become possible. But change is hard, and the emergence of Soul can mean changes to relationships, our life’s work, and even day-to-day activities. The friendships we have counted on for a long time may no longer serve us, marriages may break-up or require intensive re-formation, a career change may be in order. For these reasons, mid-life crises can be experiences that we go through alone—not necessarily without support, but alone in the sense of deciding for ourselves, and maybe for the first time, what we really love, who we really are, where our values and priorities lie, and how we wish to be connected with something larger than ourselves. Thus, the challenging path is not without its rewards. Relationships, our life’s work, and our day-to-day activities become more fulfilling and more real. The emergence of Soul, which requires the death of our attachment to Ego, results in an Authentic Life. And this is a reward worth dying for.
(P.S. Notice that it is the death of the attachment to the ego, and not necessarily the ego itself, that is required. Those roles and identities that helped us to thrive or survive and that we become so expert at don’t need to disappear. We just need to learn that it is not all of who we are--- in fact, it’s not even close to all of who we are.)
In some ways the ego is like the mask we wear out in the world, and everyone’s mask will be unique in some way, depending upon what has “worked” in our particular situation. The ego marks a way-of-being that has helped us to survive very difficult circumstances, gain approval from others, and/or identify a unique place for ourselves within our families, and then within our larger worlds. A little boy who is the youngest of four children notices that in order to get attention from his parents, it works best to be very funny. A young girl finds that she plays the role of peacemaker when her parents are fighting, and then they begin to calm down and she feels better. Another young girl suffers physical abuse when her father is tense or unhappy and so she learns to be as invisible as possible and to stay out of the way. These children then grow up to be the class-clown, peacemaker, and “good girl” respectively, and each may derive some fulfillment from these roles that they are now very good at (we tend to become expert at those things that work well for us). And because we become expert at these identities, and because they may help us to win approval from others, developing our egos may also help us to develop a sense of self-esteem, effectiveness in the world, and purpose; all of which will be more precarious for some than for others. For most of us, though, regardless of the exact nature of our developmental history, our egos have a way of keeping us moving along in the world. For the first half of our life, this is usually a pretty good thing.
Then, around mid-life, something happens. In one way or another, our egos start to break down. It no longer feels so satisfying to be the class-clown. Being the peacemaker begins to cause trouble because one’s own needs are always put on the back-burner. Being the good girl starts to feel boring, or enraging. For some, the break-down can happen as the result of a crisis—an illness, job loss, or relationship difficulty, for example. For others, a vague dis-ease marks their awareness, a sense that they just don’t feel happy or fulfilled. Still others may wake-up one morning feeling as though their life is just wrong. In these ways, a mid-life crisis begins; or, stated another way, the Soul emerges. I see the emergence of Soul and mid-life crisis as different sides of the same coin; and sometimes even the same side of the same coin. But why would the emergence of Soul be a crisis? It sounds like such a good thing...
I think we have to go back to the part about ego development to understand this well. We learn that in order to receive love or connection or approval, we must be this way ____ (fill in the blank for yourself). And so we develop, that way. But, “deep down” we are also so much more than this. And the needs and desires and talents and propensities that don’t fit with what becomes solidified as ego (and what we often call Shadow Material) get left out. Furthermore, because essential parts of who we are get left out, a tension develops—very slowly and over time. And at some point, usually when our internal sensor knows that we can handle it and around mid-life, the tension no longer holds. Our souls gets louder and our egos, less satisfying.
If you are awake and aware and a little lucky, your soul will whisper to you and you will listen. If you don’t listen it will grow louder, and louder still, until the tension is unbearable and something gives. The soul can speak in the form of a crisis, a feeling of discontent, or a compelling sense that a change is needed. At some point, though, it will speak, and the sooner and more carefully we can listen, the sooner we can begin to experience freedom. But it is hard to listen to Soul because it often asks us to give up our attachment to Ego—that mixture of identities and roles that has allowed us to survive and sometimes even thrive in the world. We come to love our ego, and the Soul asks for its death. This is why it is so challenging, and why many of us don’t listen to the whisper. Fortunately, the Soul is pretty relentless. The message of what needs to die in order that something more fulfilling can emerge will come to us again and again. And when we do listen, change and transformation and death and rebirth all become possible. But change is hard, and the emergence of Soul can mean changes to relationships, our life’s work, and even day-to-day activities. The friendships we have counted on for a long time may no longer serve us, marriages may break-up or require intensive re-formation, a career change may be in order. For these reasons, mid-life crises can be experiences that we go through alone—not necessarily without support, but alone in the sense of deciding for ourselves, and maybe for the first time, what we really love, who we really are, where our values and priorities lie, and how we wish to be connected with something larger than ourselves. Thus, the challenging path is not without its rewards. Relationships, our life’s work, and our day-to-day activities become more fulfilling and more real. The emergence of Soul, which requires the death of our attachment to Ego, results in an Authentic Life. And this is a reward worth dying for.
(P.S. Notice that it is the death of the attachment to the ego, and not necessarily the ego itself, that is required. Those roles and identities that helped us to thrive or survive and that we become so expert at don’t need to disappear. We just need to learn that it is not all of who we are--- in fact, it’s not even close to all of who we are.)
LONGING FOR A LULLABY
“There’s a piece of Maria in every song that I sing.”
From Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby – The Counting Crows
There are many song lyrics that I count among my favorites. This is one of them. It’s lifted from a song about the ghosts that haunt us with our unanswered desires. For me, this song, and this line in particular, capture the experience of longing—a feeling with which most of us have some familiarity but few of us have the language to describe. Longing depicts a state of yearning, hunger, aching, or wanting. It describes where we find ourselves when a deep desire remains unfulfilled. We might long for another person, a particular experience, an imagined feeling, or the past; and the longing we feel is often as painful as it is passionate. It holds the hope of pleasure, even as its fulfillment remains at bay.
Just imagine how Adam Duritz (lead singer and songwriter for The Counting Crows) must have once (always) felt toward Maria such that she is now a part of every song he sings. Imagine how he must have felt himself transformed by her presence (real or imagined) that she now appears—in some way—in all that he manifests in the world. That’s a formidable woman, and an equally potent yearning!
There is something ironic about longing, though, and herein lies it pain. It’s the proverbial dangling carrot. It holds the promise of a compelling pleasure, which nevertheless remains out of reach. The song quoted above goes on to say that “the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings.” To the extent that it remains unattainable, what we long for brings sorrow. This is true when we long to recreate the past—as memories tempt us to do, and it is true when we yearn for an imagined future. Living with longing requires that we experience our sorrow, that we let it run through us, clearing space for something new to emerge. Or, it morphs into an obsession to possess its object, inviting us to avoid the sorrow: Stay focused on the unattainable prize and the sorrow is kept at bay, even if tenuously. So how does one let go of what one aches for (if that is indeed the goal) when the promise of its attainment is there, in the longing itself? Alternatively, how does one live constructively with a heart and soul that ache, want, desire? Can the obsessive quality of longing be useful in some way? More simply put, what do we do with our unanswered longings?
I don’t have the answer, though I think it has something to do with singing for Maria. It’s as though the yearning itself, out of sheer necessity, creates something Other. Some of us can find a way to allow this creation to emerge, to use our longing to infuse our actual experiences with the passion and hunger we feel. Laurence Hillman, in his book, Planets in Play, suggests that wrestling with longing may be essential to the creative process and that this is the role of the Muse. She inspires, yet “requires that you never get to the part where you embrace.” A sorrowful state indeed: The embrace, never-to-be-had, etched into our memories forever. I don’t know if Maria is real or imagined. I don’t know if Adam ever embraced her—if what he longed for was an embrace never-had or an embrace remembered and never-to-be-had-again. Nor do I know if Maria is also Mrs. Potter, the title character of the song, to whom he pleadingly admits that he “burns for [her].” What I do know is that listening to the song helps my own sorrow run through me, even as it evokes a longing within to be Maria, or Mrs. Potter, or the longed for Muse of someone, somewhere.
From Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby – The Counting Crows
There are many song lyrics that I count among my favorites. This is one of them. It’s lifted from a song about the ghosts that haunt us with our unanswered desires. For me, this song, and this line in particular, capture the experience of longing—a feeling with which most of us have some familiarity but few of us have the language to describe. Longing depicts a state of yearning, hunger, aching, or wanting. It describes where we find ourselves when a deep desire remains unfulfilled. We might long for another person, a particular experience, an imagined feeling, or the past; and the longing we feel is often as painful as it is passionate. It holds the hope of pleasure, even as its fulfillment remains at bay.
Just imagine how Adam Duritz (lead singer and songwriter for The Counting Crows) must have once (always) felt toward Maria such that she is now a part of every song he sings. Imagine how he must have felt himself transformed by her presence (real or imagined) that she now appears—in some way—in all that he manifests in the world. That’s a formidable woman, and an equally potent yearning!
There is something ironic about longing, though, and herein lies it pain. It’s the proverbial dangling carrot. It holds the promise of a compelling pleasure, which nevertheless remains out of reach. The song quoted above goes on to say that “the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings.” To the extent that it remains unattainable, what we long for brings sorrow. This is true when we long to recreate the past—as memories tempt us to do, and it is true when we yearn for an imagined future. Living with longing requires that we experience our sorrow, that we let it run through us, clearing space for something new to emerge. Or, it morphs into an obsession to possess its object, inviting us to avoid the sorrow: Stay focused on the unattainable prize and the sorrow is kept at bay, even if tenuously. So how does one let go of what one aches for (if that is indeed the goal) when the promise of its attainment is there, in the longing itself? Alternatively, how does one live constructively with a heart and soul that ache, want, desire? Can the obsessive quality of longing be useful in some way? More simply put, what do we do with our unanswered longings?
I don’t have the answer, though I think it has something to do with singing for Maria. It’s as though the yearning itself, out of sheer necessity, creates something Other. Some of us can find a way to allow this creation to emerge, to use our longing to infuse our actual experiences with the passion and hunger we feel. Laurence Hillman, in his book, Planets in Play, suggests that wrestling with longing may be essential to the creative process and that this is the role of the Muse. She inspires, yet “requires that you never get to the part where you embrace.” A sorrowful state indeed: The embrace, never-to-be-had, etched into our memories forever. I don’t know if Maria is real or imagined. I don’t know if Adam ever embraced her—if what he longed for was an embrace never-had or an embrace remembered and never-to-be-had-again. Nor do I know if Maria is also Mrs. Potter, the title character of the song, to whom he pleadingly admits that he “burns for [her].” What I do know is that listening to the song helps my own sorrow run through me, even as it evokes a longing within to be Maria, or Mrs. Potter, or the longed for Muse of someone, somewhere.
Music and the Moment
I’ve been working with this guy, Robert, who I’ll call a spiritual mentor. Through sharing his sharp insight, he helps me to be as honest with myself as possible and to cut through the illusions and delusions that my ego sets up, often in a distorted effort to protect me. With his help, I have learned a lot and have taken some sizeable risks, faced some fears, and made some difficult choices. I am growing. My guess, however, is that he’s a bit exasperated with me at the moment. At the very least, I’ve become a bit exasperated with myself. My resistance has gotten the best of me. It’s not only this spiritual mentor but also all of the books I’ve been reading about detaching from the objects of my desires, understanding that everything I’m searching for is already within me, emptying myself through meditation etc. etc. that has provoked an erection of my walls. “But I want my desires!” I cry. “And I don’t want to give up my striving for something better. Or, the fear that drives me to strive. This is how I’ve lived for thirty-plus years. I can’t settle now. Living in the present moment feels like settling. What if I settle into it and then a better opportunity passes me by? Or someone takes advantage of my vulnerability? I can’t let my guard down. And, by the way, if everything is already within me, why don’t I feel it?” The inner protest can go on ad infinitum. In other words, my walls are up, and they are strong and tall. At least they had been. Then I started listening to some good music.
Music has always served the function of pulling me out of myself. I stop thinking about all that I wish were different in my life. Stop obsessing about where I want to go. Stop indulging in self-pity. And instead, just sit (or dance) with the present moment. What I have discovered is that for me, at this time, intellectualizing about following a spiritual path is not the way to go, especially because I am so afraid that this would mean losing my desire, passion, and intensity. Much to my surprise I have also discovered that I don’t need to intellectualize about spiritual teachings, nor do I need to understand or even agree with them. The thing is, I found the present moment (and, I think, some of what I’ve been searching for spiritually) when I was not looking or understanding or protesting. I found it while following my heart’s desire: While writing, listening to music, taking care of flowers, and talking with clients. Robert has been inviting me to appreciate and embrace what is right in front of and all around me. I’ve be screaming “No,” for all the reasons the Voice of Resistance articulated above. Yet, when I wasn’t looking I started appreciating. And it started with settling into my desire for good music.
Here is how it happened: Instead of the self-pity I’ve been know to indulge in, I sought what I needed and asked some friends and colleagues for music recommendations. I received a lot of good suggestions, and after a trip to the book store, arrived home with several new CDs. I listened to one very sexy R&B album for most of the night. “This should have come with one of those warning labels,” I mused. (I readily admit to not having the greatest sense of humor, but the fact that I was cracking jokes to myself, even bad ones, indicated a loosening up of the resistance.) The next morning I woke up and enjoyed a cup of tea as I got lost in the beauty of the bright sun, and still visible full moon, shiny over the Hartford skyline. I found myself looking forward to the day and to the opportunity to listen to other good music. I was also happily anticipating the several hours that day which I set aside for writing. I felt grateful for the beautiful space in which I work. I was appreciative of the spirit showing itself from within each person I saw in therapy that day. And on my way out to run an errand, some very friendly guy in the parking lot told me, in the most cheery and sincere way, to have a very great day. My coffee even seemed to taste better that day. “Maybe this is what Robert was talking about?” I wondered. Ironically enough, I couldn’t see it until I gave up trying. I didn’t find the secret of being-in-the-moment in a book. Nor did I find it in my own intellect. And it certainly wasn’t there in my striving or in the walls I erected. Instead, the secret was in the good music, and in everything else that followed from it.
Music has always served the function of pulling me out of myself. I stop thinking about all that I wish were different in my life. Stop obsessing about where I want to go. Stop indulging in self-pity. And instead, just sit (or dance) with the present moment. What I have discovered is that for me, at this time, intellectualizing about following a spiritual path is not the way to go, especially because I am so afraid that this would mean losing my desire, passion, and intensity. Much to my surprise I have also discovered that I don’t need to intellectualize about spiritual teachings, nor do I need to understand or even agree with them. The thing is, I found the present moment (and, I think, some of what I’ve been searching for spiritually) when I was not looking or understanding or protesting. I found it while following my heart’s desire: While writing, listening to music, taking care of flowers, and talking with clients. Robert has been inviting me to appreciate and embrace what is right in front of and all around me. I’ve be screaming “No,” for all the reasons the Voice of Resistance articulated above. Yet, when I wasn’t looking I started appreciating. And it started with settling into my desire for good music.
Here is how it happened: Instead of the self-pity I’ve been know to indulge in, I sought what I needed and asked some friends and colleagues for music recommendations. I received a lot of good suggestions, and after a trip to the book store, arrived home with several new CDs. I listened to one very sexy R&B album for most of the night. “This should have come with one of those warning labels,” I mused. (I readily admit to not having the greatest sense of humor, but the fact that I was cracking jokes to myself, even bad ones, indicated a loosening up of the resistance.) The next morning I woke up and enjoyed a cup of tea as I got lost in the beauty of the bright sun, and still visible full moon, shiny over the Hartford skyline. I found myself looking forward to the day and to the opportunity to listen to other good music. I was also happily anticipating the several hours that day which I set aside for writing. I felt grateful for the beautiful space in which I work. I was appreciative of the spirit showing itself from within each person I saw in therapy that day. And on my way out to run an errand, some very friendly guy in the parking lot told me, in the most cheery and sincere way, to have a very great day. My coffee even seemed to taste better that day. “Maybe this is what Robert was talking about?” I wondered. Ironically enough, I couldn’t see it until I gave up trying. I didn’t find the secret of being-in-the-moment in a book. Nor did I find it in my own intellect. And it certainly wasn’t there in my striving or in the walls I erected. Instead, the secret was in the good music, and in everything else that followed from it.
INTIMACY AND FREEDOM
“There's a need to be separate and a need to be oneAnd a struggle neither wins” From Sky Blue and Black – Jackson Browne
It seems as though the struggle to find balance between these two states is all around me these days. Intimacy—or the need to be one, on the one hand; and Freedom—or the need to be separate, on the other. I notice this theme in the books I’m reading, the songs I hear, conversations I have, and in my internal dialogue. Is it possible to be intimate with someone and maintain one’s freedom at the same time? Many people find themselves closer to one or the other of these poles, with an intense craving for closeness that can look like dependency, or with defenses that keep others out and supposedly protect freedom. Yet, most of us also want both. We want to be free enough to be ourselves, to be who-we-experience-ourselves-to-be without inhibition, without the need to wear a thick mask, without the worry of what others will think of us or whether we will threaten them with our independence. We also want to experience feeling close enough to someone that we then feel known and understood by them.
Despite the fact that so many experience this dilemma in one form or another, in truth, it is freedom that is the condition for real intimacy. And the reverse may prove to be true as well. What this means is that it is not only possible to have both, but that a person cannot truly have one without the other. I have to admit to falling on the side of freedom myself. I’m a total lover of freedom. My nephew just got his first tattoo—“Faith” printed on his forearm in huge black letters, in honor of my dad. I loved it as soon as I saw it because to me it was about freedom. The freedom to be who he is, which is in part a sensitive kid who feels a strong bond with his grandfather and who himself has a ton of faith, even if he hasn’t yet figured this out. The thing is, the freer he is to be himself (not an easy task when you’re 17), the more likely he is to experience true intimacy. And this is true for any of us. How can we expect to really feel close to another if what we are sharing with that other isn’t completely honest and free? Real intimacy requires really being seen, really being heard, really being known. When we short-change our sense of freedom, we short-change the potential for closeness with others as well.
Eric Francis, an astrologer and writer whose work I love, wisely observes that “honesty leads to intimacy” (see his work at: www.planetwaves.net). Being honest and experiencing intimacy go hand-in-hand, especially if we are talking about lived honesty—about integrity. In order to achieve true intimacy, we must first be honest with ourselves and be courageous enough to live that honesty in our day-to-day lives. This includes bringing this honesty into our relationships. Think of times when you have felt most free. When you have been able to reveal yourself in all that you are. It is likely that these times also mark experiences of true intimacy, with yourself and/or with others. It is one of the reasons that most therapies feel quite intimate at times—we find ourselves in a space of self-revealing freedom, allowing someone else to know “the real” us. This, quite simply, is one definition of intimacy, and it is predicated upon freedom.
Francis has been writing a lot about the concept of compersion lately, compersion being the opposite of jealousy. Compersion is about loving another in all that they desire and holding a space for them to explore this; i.e., allowing them to be free. Can we love and support a partner in his passion for watching and playing baseball, for example, or do we need him to be something different for us? Can we allow a romantic partner to write love poems, even if these are inspired by love-objects other than ourselves? This is a challenging task for many and quite different from how most people live-out relationships. We tend to want to mold people to fit our own needs and to create arrangements that minimize our own fears. When we do this, we diminish others, and diminish ourselves as well.
The other side of this coin of compersion is being a person who can ask for this space from others, and even demand it. And a person who can claim this space for themselves. It’s like saying “This is who I am and I want to be close to you from this honest place. I would like you to support this. I insist on being free.” Again, a challenging task, particularly if we are worried about being rejected because of our demands for freedom. We tend to imprison ourselves, preventing anything like freedom from emerging. Our fears keep us in that defensive posture—keeping others out, or they keep us hanging on to others for their permission to be free. I think it’s time that we grant this freedom to ourselves.
Another writer/ astrologer whose work I admire describes the changing landscape of relationships in the Age of Aquarius, stating that in this new century we are being asked to “enter into equal partnerships -- not from dependency, but out of interdependency. The image of Aquarian relationship is of two trees standing next to one another, their branches intertwined, even leaning against one another in places, but each has its own separate root system, its own internal supports. We're the pioneers for this new age” (Dana Gerhardt, personal communication, www.mooncircles.com). I love this image: Two tall, strong, rooted trees standing side-by-side and even leaning on one another in some places, without losing their rootedness. We are responsible for growing our own roots, for asserting our own freedom, for disclosing who we really are to the world. When we do this, we can find ourselves intertwined and side-by-side others (i.e., in intimacy) without danger of losing ourselves.
It seems as though the struggle to find balance between these two states is all around me these days. Intimacy—or the need to be one, on the one hand; and Freedom—or the need to be separate, on the other. I notice this theme in the books I’m reading, the songs I hear, conversations I have, and in my internal dialogue. Is it possible to be intimate with someone and maintain one’s freedom at the same time? Many people find themselves closer to one or the other of these poles, with an intense craving for closeness that can look like dependency, or with defenses that keep others out and supposedly protect freedom. Yet, most of us also want both. We want to be free enough to be ourselves, to be who-we-experience-ourselves-to-be without inhibition, without the need to wear a thick mask, without the worry of what others will think of us or whether we will threaten them with our independence. We also want to experience feeling close enough to someone that we then feel known and understood by them.
Despite the fact that so many experience this dilemma in one form or another, in truth, it is freedom that is the condition for real intimacy. And the reverse may prove to be true as well. What this means is that it is not only possible to have both, but that a person cannot truly have one without the other. I have to admit to falling on the side of freedom myself. I’m a total lover of freedom. My nephew just got his first tattoo—“Faith” printed on his forearm in huge black letters, in honor of my dad. I loved it as soon as I saw it because to me it was about freedom. The freedom to be who he is, which is in part a sensitive kid who feels a strong bond with his grandfather and who himself has a ton of faith, even if he hasn’t yet figured this out. The thing is, the freer he is to be himself (not an easy task when you’re 17), the more likely he is to experience true intimacy. And this is true for any of us. How can we expect to really feel close to another if what we are sharing with that other isn’t completely honest and free? Real intimacy requires really being seen, really being heard, really being known. When we short-change our sense of freedom, we short-change the potential for closeness with others as well.
Eric Francis, an astrologer and writer whose work I love, wisely observes that “honesty leads to intimacy” (see his work at: www.planetwaves.net). Being honest and experiencing intimacy go hand-in-hand, especially if we are talking about lived honesty—about integrity. In order to achieve true intimacy, we must first be honest with ourselves and be courageous enough to live that honesty in our day-to-day lives. This includes bringing this honesty into our relationships. Think of times when you have felt most free. When you have been able to reveal yourself in all that you are. It is likely that these times also mark experiences of true intimacy, with yourself and/or with others. It is one of the reasons that most therapies feel quite intimate at times—we find ourselves in a space of self-revealing freedom, allowing someone else to know “the real” us. This, quite simply, is one definition of intimacy, and it is predicated upon freedom.
Francis has been writing a lot about the concept of compersion lately, compersion being the opposite of jealousy. Compersion is about loving another in all that they desire and holding a space for them to explore this; i.e., allowing them to be free. Can we love and support a partner in his passion for watching and playing baseball, for example, or do we need him to be something different for us? Can we allow a romantic partner to write love poems, even if these are inspired by love-objects other than ourselves? This is a challenging task for many and quite different from how most people live-out relationships. We tend to want to mold people to fit our own needs and to create arrangements that minimize our own fears. When we do this, we diminish others, and diminish ourselves as well.
The other side of this coin of compersion is being a person who can ask for this space from others, and even demand it. And a person who can claim this space for themselves. It’s like saying “This is who I am and I want to be close to you from this honest place. I would like you to support this. I insist on being free.” Again, a challenging task, particularly if we are worried about being rejected because of our demands for freedom. We tend to imprison ourselves, preventing anything like freedom from emerging. Our fears keep us in that defensive posture—keeping others out, or they keep us hanging on to others for their permission to be free. I think it’s time that we grant this freedom to ourselves.
Another writer/ astrologer whose work I admire describes the changing landscape of relationships in the Age of Aquarius, stating that in this new century we are being asked to “enter into equal partnerships -- not from dependency, but out of interdependency. The image of Aquarian relationship is of two trees standing next to one another, their branches intertwined, even leaning against one another in places, but each has its own separate root system, its own internal supports. We're the pioneers for this new age” (Dana Gerhardt, personal communication, www.mooncircles.com). I love this image: Two tall, strong, rooted trees standing side-by-side and even leaning on one another in some places, without losing their rootedness. We are responsible for growing our own roots, for asserting our own freedom, for disclosing who we really are to the world. When we do this, we can find ourselves intertwined and side-by-side others (i.e., in intimacy) without danger of losing ourselves.
A Vision of Hope
Written, Christmas 07:
Sitting around the table on Christmas Day, just as everyone was finishing their dinner, my sister clinked her wine glass with a knife-- the way they do at weddings to get the bride and groom to kiss-- and made the announcement that, to her, Christmas signified hope. She then asked everyone who was present to say what they hoped for in the coming year. This small gesture brought laughter and tears to the dozen-plus people sitting around the table, who were taking in the hopeful message of Christmas. I decided to pass with a “no comment,” as others hoped for everything from their children’s happiness to a Patriots’ win later that week. Then, when everyone had announced their hopes, the following words shamelessly escaped from my mouth: “Hope is actually the cause of all suffering.” Not one of my finest Christmas moments, I readily admit. My youngest sister asked if I were the same person who had sent the Christmas card, inspired by Albert Einstein, encouraging my friends and family to see everything as though it were a miracle. She, as a Gemini, should appreciate that this was the cynical shadow of the idealistic part of myself that chose that card for the holidays.
I went on to explain that hope keeps people wanting what they don’t have instead of appreciating what they do. We hope that our parents will someday be the perfect persons we want them to be; or that we could live without the limitations that seem to restrict us; that we could have the energy, bodies, and health we did in our younger years; or attain that well-paid perfect job without the required work and discipline it takes to get there…. I was trying to prove a mostly cynical point that had way more to do with my own “stuckness” than with any wisdom that deserved to be shared. “I just hope for financial stability and if I get there, great, if not that’s okay too.” Okay, now my little sister was really putting me in my place. How can you argue with that sweet, innocent hope? I cannot. And she proved the more realistic and wise message related to hope: It is not hope that causes suffering, but our attachment to it. She has every right and every capacity to hope for financial stability. This, in and of itself, will not cause suffering. In fact, the hope or intention may be the force that brings this possibility into being for her. What could cause suffering is an attachment to attaining this—if my sister is only focused on this or attaches her happiness to it, then she will miss those experiences that are right in front of her and what they have to offer. Even financial struggles have something to teach us. Again, it’s not the hope, but the putting one’s life on hold until the hope materializes, that leads us into suffering. Spiritual healers all over the globe have said this much, and for many centuries. I have read this, and heard this, over and over again. Still, I almost spoiled a beautiful ritual begun by a sister who has often had very little hope because I chose to stay stuck in my own suffering rather let go of my attachment to certain outcomes.
So this column is my apology—to my sister who suggested the hope exercise and to everyone else at the table. My hope is twofold: One, that I can let go of the attachments to outcomes that are keeping me stuck; and two, that I will be a better friend, sister, aunt, daughter, and godmother in the year to come.
Sitting around the table on Christmas Day, just as everyone was finishing their dinner, my sister clinked her wine glass with a knife-- the way they do at weddings to get the bride and groom to kiss-- and made the announcement that, to her, Christmas signified hope. She then asked everyone who was present to say what they hoped for in the coming year. This small gesture brought laughter and tears to the dozen-plus people sitting around the table, who were taking in the hopeful message of Christmas. I decided to pass with a “no comment,” as others hoped for everything from their children’s happiness to a Patriots’ win later that week. Then, when everyone had announced their hopes, the following words shamelessly escaped from my mouth: “Hope is actually the cause of all suffering.” Not one of my finest Christmas moments, I readily admit. My youngest sister asked if I were the same person who had sent the Christmas card, inspired by Albert Einstein, encouraging my friends and family to see everything as though it were a miracle. She, as a Gemini, should appreciate that this was the cynical shadow of the idealistic part of myself that chose that card for the holidays.
I went on to explain that hope keeps people wanting what they don’t have instead of appreciating what they do. We hope that our parents will someday be the perfect persons we want them to be; or that we could live without the limitations that seem to restrict us; that we could have the energy, bodies, and health we did in our younger years; or attain that well-paid perfect job without the required work and discipline it takes to get there…. I was trying to prove a mostly cynical point that had way more to do with my own “stuckness” than with any wisdom that deserved to be shared. “I just hope for financial stability and if I get there, great, if not that’s okay too.” Okay, now my little sister was really putting me in my place. How can you argue with that sweet, innocent hope? I cannot. And she proved the more realistic and wise message related to hope: It is not hope that causes suffering, but our attachment to it. She has every right and every capacity to hope for financial stability. This, in and of itself, will not cause suffering. In fact, the hope or intention may be the force that brings this possibility into being for her. What could cause suffering is an attachment to attaining this—if my sister is only focused on this or attaches her happiness to it, then she will miss those experiences that are right in front of her and what they have to offer. Even financial struggles have something to teach us. Again, it’s not the hope, but the putting one’s life on hold until the hope materializes, that leads us into suffering. Spiritual healers all over the globe have said this much, and for many centuries. I have read this, and heard this, over and over again. Still, I almost spoiled a beautiful ritual begun by a sister who has often had very little hope because I chose to stay stuck in my own suffering rather let go of my attachment to certain outcomes.
So this column is my apology—to my sister who suggested the hope exercise and to everyone else at the table. My hope is twofold: One, that I can let go of the attachments to outcomes that are keeping me stuck; and two, that I will be a better friend, sister, aunt, daughter, and godmother in the year to come.
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