about a centaur

Two days ago (which, because of the screwy way this blog works, refers to the post that follows) I touched on the topic of ”woundedness” as it applies to our life story. And how it comes into play—if we can become conscious of it—as we endeavour to offer our full presence to others. While I often write in the context of palliative/hospice care I believe that woundedness is part of all our close relationship. As a concept it is rooted in Greek mythology, so let’s start there. My apologies to you scholars and lovers of ancient sagas as I take liberties with details and may even confuse one god for another.

Chiron was a centaur. One day Hercules accidentally shot a poisoned arrow into his horse leg. To his surprise and embarrassment, he was unable to treat his own wound and retreated to a cave wishing to die. But, being half-immortal, he was forced to live. Unlike the primal emotional wounding in his youth, Chiron’s adult wounding was physical. More specifically, it was to the lower half of his body, to his knee. The arrow’s poison festered relentlessly in the wound.

Being half immortal, Chiron could not die but was trapped instead with the unhealable wound. This mortal wounding brought Chiron’s reluctant attention to his lower half. In contrast to his upper half, which revealed parts of himself he liked and felt proud of, his lower half confronted him with parts of his nature that he deeply feared and effectively disowned. 

As he looked at the gaping wound he saw, as if for the first time, something he has successfully managed to avoid all his life long: his body—the hairy, smelly, sweating body of a horse. With this, his primal wound was awakened.

Stay tuned.

wounded?

“Those who are willing to be vulnerable,” writes the poet Theodore Roethke, “move among mysteries.” Sounds good; easy to say yes and nod to. Reads well on a greeting card or fridge magnet. But what does it mean, to be vulnerable?

Ahh, to be exposed to the wind, to possible ridicule, to naked viewing, to seeing and feeling things I’d rather avoid, not show, not let anyone see. Even myself would rather not be witness to That Part of me. So why do it; why expose parts of me may be unpleasant to the eye and ear. Why look at parts of my behavior, why open myself to honest feedback, why look in the mirror or at a candid photograph? 

“To be vulnerable to the mystery of our life as it presents itself,” says Roger Housden, “requires forgoing our hopes and fears for the future and being willing to taste what is here before us, in all its poignant bittersweetness.”

Quick, the dictionary: 1605, from L.L. vulnerabilis “wounding,” from L. vulnerare “to wound,” from vulnus (gen. vulneris) “wound,” perhaps related to vellere “pluck, to tear.”

There is, first in Greek mythology (Chiron et al) and later the work of C.G. Jung, the concept of the ‘wounded healer.’ It raises the question of whether a caregiver—be it a relative, volunteer or professional—can fully care for others who’re wounded spiritually, emotionally, and physically, without first addressing trauma they may have experienced in their own lives.

R. Housden (2004), Seven sins for a life worth living, p.23. image: “Wounded Healer” by UK sculptor George Blair.

Rainer sez

On Sundays–and more often if it seems right–I post a poem. I’ve just returned home from the Spiritual Care Conference and feel steeped in the kindness of people who attend to the dying and live with hearts wide open. Now, with an occasional glass of 7* Metaxa at my side (medicinally soothing!), I open the book to the words of Rainer Maria Rilke:

As it happens, the wall between us
is very thin. Why couldn’t a cry
from one of us
break it down? It could crumble
easily,

it would barely make a sound.

source: Rilke’s book of hours: love poems to God, translated by Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy (1996, p.52). image: drawing by Paul Cézanne.

on becoming a teacher

One of my great teachers is Carl Rogers. Through his books he helped shape my early teaching/counselling philosophy and behaviour (in the 70s and beyond) and continues to guide me with his insights and humility. The following quote summarizes his (and my own) experience as teacher and facilitator: “In my early professionals years I was asking the question: How can I treat, or cure, or change this person? Now I would phrase the question in this way: How can I provide a relationship which this person may use for his [or her] own personal growth?” 

All this comes to mind as I prepare to meet a group of adults at the 16^th Annual Spiritual Care Conference organized by Victoria Hospice. For the first time I’ll be able to lead an assembly of 130+ conference participants in a guided meditation as they shift from one presentation to another. In the afternoon I’ll be working with a group of 42 during a hands-on “bringing mindfulness to the bedside” workshop. What a wonderful opportunity to be of service, to learn, to be in relationship … and, by extension, to help bring mindfulness to end-of-life care.

4131 hits later

This blog’s been running for six months now, with an average of 23 visitors a day. I wonder who’s reading these words. If it’s you, I’d be glad to hear from you sometime. Writing here has become a practice of service for me. As I take on sense responsibility for making it interesting for both of us, I also note my own quirkiness as I scurry from topic to topic. 

Deep bows of gratitude to all who visit here.   

image: Coming out of silent retreat at Doi Suthep Monastery near Chiang Mai (Thailand) on Christmas Day. photo by Erin Grace.

imagine if everyone …

If I cannot change how elections are fought, politics play out, and corporations manage the world … what is there for me to do? “Look in front of you,” wise teachers suggest. Or “right inside yourself.”

Buddhist monk and Viet Nam veteran Claude Anshin Thomas travels the world, reminding us that “I cannot think myself into a new way of living. I have to live myself into a new way of thinking.”

In his memoir he says: “Peace is not an idea. Peace is not a political movement, not a theory or a dogma. Peace is a way of life: living mindfully in the present moment … It is not a question of politics, but of action. It is not a matter of improving a political system or even taking care of homeless people alone. These are valuable but will not alone end war and suffering. We must simply stop the endless wars of rage within. …. Imagine, if everyone stopped the war in themselves–there would be no seeds from which war could grow.”

a single garment of desitiny

I’m just back from the big country where the primaries are in full swing, each “side” spending precious millions to persuade voters that they’re the one to be trusted and that the others are suspect. Voters are “targeted” according to race, religion, age, sex, sexual orientation, along party lines, economic groupings, and electorial boundaries. Candidates are packaged, incidents spun, voters profiled, messages targeted, events rehearsed, encounters staged. States and debates are “won” and “lost.” “Armies” of volunteers are out to “capture” votes. This is, of course, not peculiar to this election or that country; with media consultants and spin doctors available to anyone with money to spend, no place on earth seems safe from so-called democratic elections.

“For all its virtues,” writes* C.R. Johnson, “this necessary process, which the media frequently presents as a highly competitive ‘battle’ or ‘war,’ can fuel the most ugly partisan passions, fears, frustrations, [and] incivilities … If perceived through the distorting lens of conflict-laden language and concepts that deliberately pit one citizen against another, politics divide people on election night into ‘winners’ and ‘losers,’ and creates bitterness and attachment that can cloud consciousness and cripple spiritual development ….”

Martin Luther King Jr. offered an alternative approach when he spoke on the day the 1956 bus boycott ended in Montgomery, Alabama: “We must seek an integration based on mutual respect. As we go back to the buses, let us be loving enough to turn an enemy into a friend.” He spoke of the interrelatedness of all life, and said that we are all “caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

What does all this mean to you and me? Affecting political elections is beyond our grasp, the least (and for most of us, the best) we can do is be informed and show up to vote. But what of the process, of the adversity and divisiveness, the phony promises, empty slogans, and cursory handshakes among the chosen few? What lessons are on offer as we watch the circus come and go?  What aspects of our lives are apt to create or rely on divisiveness? Can you see an opening to “turn an enemy into a friend”? How can you bring a bit of peace to the world right in front of you, to your places of work, worship, play, and everyday living?

* Charles R. Johnson is a novelist and scholar who combines Buddhist practice with a deep understanding of the Afro-American struggle. The quote is from an essay in Mindful politics: a Buddhist guide to making the world a better place (Boston: Wisdom Publ., 2006, pp.29-30).

in/side/out

There’s a line in James Joyce’s book Dubliners  which has been on my mind recently. ”He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances” (1914, “A painful case”).

I read this line two ways. One, he lived outside of his body, not aware of his breathing and being alive. Detached to the point of out-of-touch. Disconnected so as not to feel and have to think about life’s “whole catastrophe” (in Zorba’s words).

Two, he knows very well what goes on inside and outside his body (and mind and heart). He views it all consciously, moment by moment, aware but not enmeshed. He regards things with the eyes of the witness, the “pure observing Self” as Ken Wilbur puts it, [whereby you] simply ‘push back’ into your awareness, and you dis-identify with any and every object you see or can see” (A brief history of everything, pp. 252-255).

What does Joyce’s line say to you?

is that enough?

Yesterday’s poem invites us to pay attention to what occurs in each moment: trees, water, rushes, boat, companion, wind, motion, stillness, movement, breath, thoughts, memories … It reminds me to let go of the life-long habit of gauging my worth by some external standard and measurable outcome.

Don’t get me wrong: these are essential components of living in the world, of meeting obligations, paying bills, “making a living.” It’s when they dominate and we lose contact with a simple blade of grass, our own breath, and the joys and pains of those near us – then we’re in danger of becoming an alien to ourselves. Fortunately, the gate is right there: turn towards it now. Sit still for a bit. Find your breath, notice your abdomen’s rising and falling. Be a witness to your own life at this moment. 

“Becoming mindful has to do with letting go of ambitions to control, solve problems, or achieve anything. Instead we choose to bear witness. A witness … is passive in the sense of deliberately not manufacturing anything. Rather a witness is willing to observe, be receptive to, and learn from whatever arises. … We enter into the confusion and mystery of whatever is happening with a curious, experimental attitude, not knowing what might be discovered, but welcoming, appreciating, and savouring what is. We slow down, and let go of automatic reactions that normally tell us what something is and what it means.” –Greg Johanson & Ron Kurtz. (1991). Grace unfolding: psychotherapy in the spirit of the Tao-te ching. Belltower, p.13

slow travel

This morning our boat left the
Orchid bank and went out through
The tall reeds. Tonight we will
Anchor under mulberries
And elms. You and me, all day
Together, gathering rushes.
Now it is evening, and see,
We have gathered just one stalk.

–Anonymous, translation from Chinese by Kenneth Rexroth

be curious

We must be willing to let go  / of the life we have planned / so as to have the life / that is waiting for us.  –Joseph Campbell

I plan to be at the monastery in Oregon till Sunday–visiting with friends and re-charging my mindfulness batteries. Meanwhile and always, May your eyes and ears be open to the small wonders of your everyday. May you find happiness amidst life’s uncertainty. Peter

individuation

C.G. Jung wrote: “Individuation means becoming a single homogeneous being, and, insofar as in-dividuality embraces our innermost, last and incomparable uniqueness, it also implies becoming one’s own self. We could therefore translate individuation as coming to selfhood or self-realisation.“

east and west

Rob Preece has written a book that I’ve been waiting for. Drawing on Buddhist teachings and Jungian psychology, he charts the path of ‘individuation,’ the coming into our own which C.G. Jung saw as our becoming a psychological “individual.”

To my naïve ears, Buddhist practice (Zen in particular) emphasizes letting go and emptying in order to free ourselves from suffering. It offers a path but not a process. As trainee practitioner we joke about an ancient master’s exhortation to “Die on the cushion!!” and another’s that “sitting is the way.” In short: just you meditate long and hard and you’ll get there. After eight years of practicing, the “how” and the “where” are still vague notions to me. [I'm showing my ignorance very nicely, thank you.]

Fortunately I have sat with compassionate and wise teachers over the years who generously offered tools and techniques, but resisted my longing for “more psychology.” I probably missed most of what they gave me since I was (am) preoccupied with sorting through the messy mess of being human.

As a practitioner in the Tibetan tradition for 35 years and a psychotherapist for 22, Preece points to the important difference between a path and a practice. “We could say that a spiritual path is more structured and doctrine-centred, while its underlying psychological process is more organic and person-centered. While these two are radically different, they are intrinsically interwoven.”

Preece situates the process of individuation “at the heart of the path of the bodhisattva, one who dedicates his or her life to attaining buddhahood for the welfare of all sentient beings. Although not couched in terms of individuation, Buddhist understanding offers a path of practice that profoundly supports the process” (p.10-11).

Rob Preece (2006). The wisdom of imperfection: the challenge of individuation in Buddhist life. Snow Lion Publications. Click for the author’s website.

wishing for some inter-faith

Readers of these pages are aware of my interest in (and occasional rants about) inter-faith practices, my longing for ways to understand and to soften the barriers of religious beliefs. Wherever we look–abroad or right next door–there are conflicts, often brutal and bloody, in the name of one god or another. Always without winners.

My vow for this year is to take a more active stance by bringing people from different traditions together in reflection and gentle dialogue. I try to this by writing this blog and now wonder how I might organize a face-to-face retreat close to home.

In the past I’ve participated in a silent retreat with Fr. Pat Hawk who is both a Catholic priest and a roshi (Zen master). Hogen Bays, senior teacher at my home monastery in Oregon regularly conducts a workshop-retreat on the Catholic mystic St. John of the Cross in a Zen context. The Minnesota Center for Ecumenical Spirituality offers retreats in the US and abroad to “foster mutual understanding among religious faiths through shared spiritual practice and dialogue.” If you know of other examples, please let me know.  

time out

It’s Sunday morning here on Galiano Island (9:16), already evening in Hildesheim (19:16), barely Monday in Chiang Mai (0:15) and Melbourne (4:15). Waking up on Sundays is different from other mornings. But, the voice asks, isn’t the view out the window the same as the one I saw yesterday? Aren’t the seagulls crying as they always do? Isn’t the morning cup of tea just another routine ritual?

What, if anything, makes Sundays special? Is it, perhaps, an ancient longing for stock-taking and thanks-giving, for resting and not rushing? Do you know this sensation, this unspoken wish for a sabbatical?

Few of us can afford to take the day “off” entirely; too many responsibilities and commitments, duties and habits, wants and oughts. And yet … our body remembers, our soul does. They recall days of not-toiling, of worshipping and communal feasting — which might well translate into modern-day sleeping-in, staying-put, walking in the park, brunching with friends, lazying about the house, watching the game on the box, and letting computer and cell phone be the gadgets that they are.

Enter the poet. In “Love after Love,” Derek Walcott writes:

The time will come
When, with elation
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror
And each will smile at the other’s welcome.

And say, Sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you.

All your life, whom you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott was born on Saint Lucia, one of the island of the Lesser Antilles, in 1930. A poet, novelist, and visual artist, he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1992. image: “Another Life” painting by Derek Walcott.