tonic for the culture

walking into light

2010-10-31T09:42:00.003-04:00

It's morning and if i lie really still, i can feel something like my spirit embracing me.

I used to dread waking up. It was as if i could relax at night, and dream; while waking up meant the clanging of pots and pans, my ill-tempered and burned out mother cussing her way through a breakfast prep, and my own trepidations about whatever schoolwork i might have forgotten to accomplish.

I want to be more like the spirit that embraces me. I have been assured that this is my destiny: a reunion, of sorts, in which i and others will reconnect with the one-ness that underlies all things. Sometimes i just feel like i want to wake up one morning with that feeling. I want to wake up in light, not dread. I want to release the small attachments to invitations, iPods, fashion trends and junk mail - virtual and actual. When was the world so invited to communicate to me at every second like that?

I feel like despite my desire to connect with the one-ness, i spend most of my time putting up walls: no, we are not friends. no, i don't want to subscribe. no, i won't buy your special cooking gadget. no, you can't stay with me tonight. I want to connect with a better offer. More light. Less hype. I am, frankly, longing for light. Not the sunny kind, i've got that, but the inner lamp. I want to be, and feel, lit up. Yeah.

What is your signature?

2010-10-26T12:37:00.007-04:00

Some of my best understandings come not as i read sacred texts or ponder the greatness of the ALL, but later -- over tea, or ironing. When I stop seeking, i find amazing things.

This morning, I wrote to a friend to reply to an invitation she made, with all her enthusiasm, about various events occurring, and coming to light, regarding extra-terrestrial activity. I'm open to these things, but as a person who is open to a lot of things, it's easy to get pulled all over the place, it's easy to become over-stimulated by the flood of offerings on facebook, on linkedin, on chat, on groups, etc., etc. I love her excitement but it doesn't resonate with where i define center.

Without meaning to, I think i landed on my soul's signature. I blurted it out as a contrast to what i felt was information coming at me, "my central purpose is to help people open to the unique expression of their love."

My friend Leandra uses a great piece of wisdom which i share here, "All that is not love will be revealed and healed." There is this weird irony, in which the quietest cup of tea (or coffee) is accompanied by this great, collective spin-down process, where ideas, projects, hopes, dreams, relationships, money and commitments are disconnecting or being altered in surprising ways. The very ground of our life scripts is being shaken, and it can be a hairy experience. The spin down, though, is exactly as it should be, taking out anything that is not essential to who we are, anything that prevents us feeling self-sustaining, self-knowing, self-loving. We are truly walking into the dressing room of "Change or die."

So, with my unique little prods and projects, i make some strange magic to help people more gently shake off the non-essentials and reveal their soul's fingerprint. How can we appreciate what we cannot clearly see or know? How do we hear the song of someone whose voice has been muted through years of adaptation to local conditions? It's time to sing out the new song of our emergent arrangement with the sacred soup of Life herself. The "Great Mother" people speak of resides not just in the earth we love, but in the matrix of the Earth that is possible. She is the fabricator, according to our shared evocation.

And now, for a second cup of tea.....

Love Lights

2010-10-21T09:51:00.003-04:00

So I'm sitting at a place called The Admiral. It looks like a night time fantasy of every joint i've ever dreamed of launching. A marine blue ceiling is punctuated by cognac-colored, upside down lampshades whose warm lights spill onto waiters, trays, movement.

There's a really sexy red lamp at the front on an entry table. Is this a little tiny red light district? Seascapes - oil paintings of garage-sale quality - adorn the walls while taverna-style lanterns dangle from chains on either side. It's easy to be here. All are welcome.

They love their meat here: I've chosen a mushroom ragout, but the bartender tells me, "Really, it's nice, but if you choose the meat you'll see why we're so popular." The man next to me is telling his date, "This is the tenderest pork i've ever tasted in all my life."

A younger bartender, farther down, is swiping the counter while singing along to "You can't hurry love." It's strangely gratifying to hear hip, bearded young folks connecting to Motown, and who sing it aloud, in chic restaurants. Over all our heads, more lanterns. I feel I am safely in harbor, while the reality is that i am in the mountains of western north carolina. Wherever i go, i still find the sea, and tiny harbor lights.

In the esoteric teachings, there is a prayer about "bringing to light the love that underlies the happenings of the times." Are these little lanterns love-lights, or am I drinking?

I wonder if that's o.k. -- like, is this the cozy cave of the Great Mother? I mean, if i were the Great Mother, and I had a cozy cave, what lanterns would i choose? What drinks would I serve? How do I display my love?

Love includes, but is different from, attachment, which involves a cloying, clinging kind of feeling. Love is an enchanted appreciation. Love is something you bring offerings to. Love is something that makes time drown under the power of appreciation. And yes, you can have it on your back, if you like. Or you can float, or roll, or dance.

Love is a way of radiating universal appreciation, while noting the exquisite particulars.

These words come out when i am well fed: Love, light, nourishment, appreciation. Mmmmmm.

Sicko

2007-06-24T09:27:00.000-04:00

Michael Moore has done it again. I think he's topped himself, really. Perhaps i'm reacting this way because health psychology was the field of my original training. I don't know.

But now I'm angry. I just resent the fact that here in the u.s., we go on and on (especially on the congressional floor) about what a great country this is, but in fact, it's just a boastful country. America is going to the dogs. Perhaps we should give those dogs a name......

Here are the kinds of dogs that thrive in America and thus name it a great country: Lawyers, who get paid to fight, no matter who wins, or whether justice is served. Congresspeople, who get bought and paid for by lobbyists, and who make it their job to look good and cast a sunny image, so that they can get re-elected. HMO executives, who make more money the sicker we get, and the more accustomed we get to receiving less and less, in exchange for paying more and more, for healthcare we don't receive. Then there are the finance dogs, who get paid TONS of money to manage money. That's a game that has other people - the non-money-manager types - making less and less on their own money. People forget that banks make money because of their clients' deposits! And now the banks pay next to nothing, and then go use the funds to make real money through trading various debt instruments or investments. So.... the person with the savings account gets the shaft, while the banker makes the money! Finally, let's not forget that America is the land of promise for mercenary armies and weapons manufacturers.

These are the dogs that have taken over our country. And yet politicians are going to line up again this fall, proclaim their love for children and family, their opposition to crime and drugs, and that's going to be the ballgame. This has become the ultimate gaming ground, a place where democracy is a word used to allow childish adults the voting option between bedtime at 8, or bedtime at 8:15. Either way, the dogs are going to take the candy out of our hands, lie us down, and screw us while we sleep.

really, it's time for better, bolder dreams

2007-02-12T09:19:00.000-05:00

I do a reasonable amount of leadership consulting. Enough to get my kids through college and leave me room to become my highest self. I indulge in lots of continuing ed, inner strengthening, and time to get clear, so that while my client people feel muddled, i can help them feel less so, and connect them with mastery they didn't know they could achieve.

In the course of that work, a "mission, vision and values" phase is practically inevitable; and that's where the trouble starts. What troubles me, as i move from world to world (some big, fancy and established; some scrappy and well-wired; some reverent and dusty) is that people dream very small dreams. They want to be better than the guy before them. They want a nickel. They want to not starve. They want to not lose their jobs. They want to make, or - gasp! - exceed their quotas.

These are dreams that make the muses and the soul say "why bother." These are classroom dreams, served up for the teacher. These aren't dreams, these are tired hopes that the weight of soullessness will somehow be magically lifted, and the boss will get off their back.

I don't mean to judge my clients, but i am troubled because we are creating our future by investing our hopes, dreams, vision, focus, motivation and commitment into one direction or another. I see a lot of people committing themselves to a life of brown suits and fluorescent lights, with fake plants and desks made of something mysterious, covered over with bad veneers. Everything is so shallow, and so fake, that the whole environment conspires to take people down into a matrix of plodding and pressing. This, in turn, requires copious amounts of coffee in the morning to jumpstart, and alcohol in the evening to wash off the tension.

Meanwhile, our greatest ambition has been to put a man on the moon. If we can put a man on the moon, can we please begin to serve nutritious food to the 150 million or so kids in school? Can we liberate learning from the desk and the multiple choice form? Can we teach financial planning and conflict resolution and farming and tracking skills? Can we allow room for art and openness? Can we, please?

I dream of a day when people dare to set their sights higher. the irony of this whole dilemma is that if you dare to set your sights higher, it is actually liberating. People feel fresh, and alive, and are willing to say "yeah!" or, "Hell yeah!" if you give them an idea that really pleases them. inspiration IS energizing, vitalizing. we need dreams that inspire us. please.

Just thinkin' about investments

2007-02-08T19:26:00.000-05:00

I'm sort of obsessed with our investment system, and the way that it's divided between all-profit on the one hand, with publicly held companies doing whatever - anything - to increase profits while the CEOs are paid absurd sums; and charity on the other hand, where cash goes into businesses that do their best to relieve social pains and address tragedies and injustices.

I feel like there's this gap in the middle, i keep seeing businesses that wouldn't necessarily scale, and yet are doing o.k., but it causes the founders a lot of personal stress to stay on the for-profit side of the line. With grants and support, they could really expand their reach; but they don't qualify.

This is irksome! And yet i don't know which powers-that-be could help me solve this problem. if you're one of the people reading this blog, please help me solve this puzzle. 'night.

The tricky thing about goldfish

2006-12-15T18:21:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time I took my three young children to the State Fair of Texas. Not all state fairs are fantastic, but the Texas one is - natch - huge. A panoply of overdressed chicks, new gadgets, expensive rides, colorful games and animals of every stripe. While doing the gaming booths, one of my brood won the grand prize: a pair of goldfish. Live ones. In a Ziploc, for Christ's sake

We were so excited to have these LIVE things as souvenirs. More excited than we were about the turkey legs, cotton candy and stuffed animals that are ubiquitous at these events. So, fine.

We walked the four miles back through the parking lot and made it to the pet store, where we spent about a thousand dollars on a bowl, some rocks, fantasy fish furniture, bubbly things to keep the water clear, and of course, fish food. These goldfish were going to have a great address. One thing you should know about me, i like everybody to live in a beautiful, nurturing environment.

We put the fish into the Better-homes-and-gardens bowl, filled with fresh water from the tap, and watched them awhile. Then i did what i always do: find dirty dishes and food products to manage. By the time dinner was ready, our prize fish were belly up.

Sometimes i just don't ask the right questions, and in my detailed investigation of aesthetics and the nuance of fish beauty, i overlook other details: turns out, goldfish have a really, really hard time with temperature change. like, a fatally hard time. Terminal time.

Even little changes are really really hard when they involve our daily environment. Sudden change, that's a bitch. But i learned something then: invisible things matter a lot. And patience really is a virtue. We couldn't save those fish, but we did better with a second set. I think humans are more resilient, but often in my professional work i see people suffering in their daily environments, while their leaders give them all the food they know how to give; but it's not the same. The right environment is sensitive, subtle, and balanced. It's not about more, it's about fit. Fish, and fit. Makes for better swimming time.

The Fork in the Road

2006-08-02T10:21:00.000-04:00

We're coming to a fork in the road, does anybody else feel it? It's like this: either we continue doing what we did before, working away and not noticing the world events unfolding around us, assuming it's someone else's job to get the government to wake up, to get the companies to clean up, and to get the schools to shake up; OR... we decide that we have to be working towards something better, something with more LIFE. More TRUTH.

I used to be a fence-sitter. Fence sitting is a temporarily superior place to be, where you just observe, analyze and criticize others' work. That way, you never have to be imperfect yourself, because you're not actually doing anything creative, just pointing out the frailties of another's position. No more.

I've had it. I don't want to be a part of the problem, and i don't want to be a priggish commentator. i want to be a part of a healthier future. for me that means saying, yes, i believe that spirit impacts the world, if i let it. yes, i believe in the saints and demons. yes, i believe in science and scrutiny. and yes, i believe in freedom and license. all things in their time.

The question is, what do we need now? More war? I think not. More weapons? I think not. More coverups and exposes? Good grief, can we get past the he-said-she-said thing? We need more forgiveness. We need less irony. We need more serenity in the face of disturbances. We need more internal conviction and less external protocols. We need more power to stretch and bend the arms of love, and less power to hold back the will of people to be free. we need more compassion. we need less disdain. We need fewer self-important executives, and more self-respecting moms. We need tools for change and transition. We need sanctuaries where we find the balance of elements and the integration of spirit. We need models and examples of hope and commitment that weather the storms of public unrest. We need more politicians who actually work for the public good. We need fewer politicians-by-Disney.

We have come to a fork in the road, and we need help to get clear about investing the energies of our lives differently. the choices are becoming clearer. i choose spirit. i choose life. i choose that loosely woven fabric of relationships qualified by goodwill. I'll leave cornering the market and saving the world for democracy to the dinosaurs. i choose magic.

everyday alchemy

2006-07-30T17:35:00.000-04:00

I've been doing this experiment for the past few months, changing some of my internal attitudes. I have these demons (doesn't everybody live with at least one?). Basically, it's that stern little voice inside that says, you're stupid. Everyone else already knows that. What you're doing doesn't matter. If you do something useful, you do it at the expense of your children; you can't win. Let's see, what else does it say? Oh, you are hopeless.

Anyone else have a voice like that? I have a few different ones - one that is more like a judge, another more like some bad-fantasy girlgroup, approving or disapproving everything i do. Mainly disapproving. I tried ignoring them. I tried doing the opposite of what the demons would dictate. I tried deep breathing. I tried reason.

All of these attempts were reasonably useful. And then i landed on this other thing. Don't laugh, but it works better than a lot of the other exorcisms i tried. I decided that self-loathing was a sacrifice i would make to God. I was going to use every day as an opportunity to give up using my energy against myself, and convert it to energy to serve myself and others. I thought of it like a trade-in. I didn't think that God would reach out and change my life or lift away my challenges. That's just not how it works to me. What i did believe, however, is that i had not lived up to all that i could be by mistreating myself. And really, all that sternness was just a copout from being functional. And then, i got sort of pissed off at myself in a healthy way: I had a handle on doing things differently!

So here's my strategy: every day in the morning i recommit to a life of openness to possibilities, and to using my gifts positively. I mean, if some sort of divinity created me, surely it wouldn't want me beating up on it constantly! So... during the day, I have to remind myself to be gentle with myself and everyone else, and wait to see what happens. It has put me into a lot of "not knowing" categories, because the safety of pessimism is you get to be smart, and right: whatever it is, it'll never work. It's so damn tempting, if one has taken a bunch of beatings, to assume that "the whole world" is like that. What a load of self-perpetuating crap!

Well, so here's the semi-happy ending: I have a lot more energy, because I'm not turning it against myself. AND I have spent enough time being kind to myself that i actually am feeling stronger, and clearer. Which makes me better at making decisions. It's not perfect, but now at least i can know the difference between self-support and the sticky spots. I think, in many ways, that's what we're all fumbling towards: can i dare to be fully myself and still be loved? The answer is decidedly yes! Turns out, kindness to self is a really great thing, and it sure makes it easier to BE yourself. Turns out, kindness starts at home. The inner home.

Now i've created inner advocates - characters whose input just takes the place of the former, less inspired ones. I don't know yet what the outcome of this experiment will be. I just keep tuning into the healthy committee, and those other voices get thinner and smaller. And i carry myself with more dignity and respect. It makes daily life a much, much nicer experience. ahhhh.

brotherly love

2006-06-14T16:50:00.000-04:00

This is a personal story, about wealth and worth.

This is a story about wealth management.

This is a story about decisionmaking.

I live in Woodstock, NY. Home to rebels, artists, utopians and visionaries. And more than a handful of aging, ragged hippies.

My oldest brother – a full 17 years older – is a rib-munching, opera-loving, republican-voting, churchgoing good-ol’-boy who loves nothing so much as a quick flight to Argentina in his KingAir, five days of solid dove-shooting, and nights full of rich meals and tango.

Together, we’re in a family limited partnership, land-rich, and which constitutes about 90% of our shared net worth.

We have this little problem: my brother, bless him, doesn’t really like to pay attention to bad news. Bad news is stuff like, no, I don’t want fried bacon sandwiches for breakfast. And, well, he likes to get his way.

Now me, I believe in universal brotherhood and unconditional love. Living in Woodstock will do that to you. But personally, with personal brothers, it’s so much harder! Universal brothers, in theory, are much easier to love. Utopian brothers.

Repeatedly, when I visit the ranch, my brother shows up and violates the home with his dog or his loud habits. I can’t change him; and of course, suggesting that he needs to change violates his mantra – “no bad news.”

What do I do? How do I love this guy?

This little case illustrates the way that a big house can be brought down by small things. Everyone in my family is clever, creative, and successful in their own ways. And yet: we’re also leaders, with strong opinions about “how things should be done.”

What do we do?

Supported

2006-04-06T11:12:00.000-04:00

I'm writing you from my new and improved desk chair (Henry Miller). I've adjusted everything - arms, seat, seat height, back angle, lumbar support - the works. YAY! In addition, I'm learning about this other, more internal support system. In the nether regions of my consciousness, i've been doing a little spring cleaning.

Like most of us, my childhood was an imperfect one; and i am a recovering perfectionist. Through bodywork, therapy, insight training and art, i have begun to dismantle the armour i used to navigate a hostile world of impossibly high standards. Naturally, my own standards were the most punishing of all.

Now that i am learning to take myself less seriously, i can stop aiming for the stars and accept support and useful feedback from people around me. As soon as i threw up my hands and decided that my contribution to humanity would have to be sandwiches and the odd pot of chicken soup, new opportunities to share and inspire opened up. I should give up more often.

Perhaps the support i was looking for was waiting for me to let go my deathgrip on impossible expectations, so that i could open my hand and accept the possible. Nature is wiser than i; i don't know why the fatal attraction to planning and control. Nature is the God that shows up, and she is pretty darn clear about what works. I am learning to look for support in ways that work, rather than in theories and constructs that don't adapt to reality. This is the new lumbar support in my world.

I've had to grieve a bit for the relationships i HOPED would work, but wouldn't. I've had to mourn some for the mistakes i made, causing others pain and dislocation. I've had to make myself soft and vulnerable, which can definitely send up fears! But only by trying again, with more trained radar, can i open to the subltler impressions from another sphere, always seeking to guide and support, that i couldn't feel when i was all well armoured. Harder than anything, i've had to risk the pain all over again, when every cell in my body is saying, WHY Would you do that? Another thing to give up, oh well.

Now that i've done all that giving up, i can see better. I feel better - like, more skillfully. I feel what i am, and what i am not. I am in touch with a more authentic configuration of whatever is the center of me, without all those trappings of aspiration and posturing. I'm smaller now, reduced by all this giving up of armor and falseness. But i feel the touch of support, and that's a fine thing. Thanks to friends, therapists, and Henry Miller's people for teaching me about support.

nickel and dimed

2006-03-16T16:05:00.000-05:00

Does anyone else notice that all our big companies, in an effort to just make that next quarter's earnings, are selling us less and less, for more and more? Let's take my preferred airline, XXXX. At XXXX, they used to give you hot food on flights. Then they gave you cold food. Then they gave you snacks. Now they sell you food.

They used to award free flights after so many miles travelled. They still do this, but now they charge a "processing fee." Is that a free flight? Now they also charge you for a "telephone ticketing service." You're supposed to do it yourself.

I know this is a cranky thing to write about, but sometimes, when the phone company wants to bill me for this and that little thing, and the credit card company wants to raise their fees, and my investment manager wants to raise his fee (since when do i get charged for giving them my assets to work with?), and my airline wants to bill me just that little extra for taking the trouble to sell me a ticket, i feel bitten. Not served. Not sold. Nipped. And I don't have the energy to chase down every $5 option out there, so they get away with a lot of it. Still, it creates a funky environment for humans.

muses and myths

2006-03-08T08:22:00.000-05:00

I am fascinated by crafts, and craftsmanship. Here in Woodstock, there are two strong traditions: the Byrdcliffe Arts Colony, and the Maverick Arts Colony. Their names suggest the distinction.

Byrdcliffe was founded about 102 years ago by somebody-Whitehead, the disenchanted son of a prominent industrialist. Influenced heavily by Ruskin and William Morris, Whitehead believed that industry was the sinking of human dignity; and that the means to raise the human spirit was through arts and crafts (hence, arts and crafts movement). He and his wife built this compound where artists were to work hard, show their output, and support each other in the production of beautiful things inspired by nature. And, indeed, there were lovely prints for fabric, etched glass, carvings, etc.

Naturally, there arose trouble in paradise. It seemed that Whitehead was the only judge of merit and commitment - which always creates trouble. In reaction to the exactitude (near-industry?) of Whitehead's approach, this guy Hervey White founded the Maverick. As its name implied, this was a place with a more libertarian bent. There was free lodging, free love, much revelry, and some debauchery was a welcome part of the artistic life.

Which one was right? They both were. These reflect the classic struggles within man, outlined so long ago in mythology. Apollo was the sun god, lover of order and refinement. Dionysus was the god of revelry and chaos. In fact, both are needed to keep artistic currents fresh. Too much order, and the culture grows stale, starched. Too much chaos, and the culture grows corrupt, directionless. The tension between apollo and dionysus is an instructive one. Which aspect of yourself needs fleshing out?

The joy of little tikes

2006-03-03T09:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday my neighbor asked me to take her daughter to preschool, as she had a doctor's appointment. No problem. I love this kid. In fact, I love little kids a lot. I confess they love me back. We understand each other.

This one, mature before her time, admonished me at the door: "You're real late!" she says with a smile, while her housekeeper zips her parka so close to her neck i think she'll choke. Yup, she's right. It's 8:48, and i was due at 8:45.

Sasha, my little friend, is strawberry blonde, her parents English, all fair and creamy, and she's decked head to toe in purple. She looks like a berry with fuzz on top. "Do you have airbags?" she asks. I stare at her.

"Uh, yes, i think i do, honey. Why do you ask?"

"My mom won't let me ride with anyone who doesn't have airbags. But also, I can't ride in the front if you have airbags up there."

I'm about to tell her that they are side ones, and then i think wait a cotton-pickin' minute: she's three.

The clash of adulthood and youth one encounters in the preschool world is grist for whole novels. Anyway, my point is that i was so excited just to have this one little call of routine, so primordial - launching kids as the starting shot of the daily race - that i organized myself into a pretty fabulous state before 8:30. A little kid can do that to you.

And then at the entry hall of the preschool, i encountered the Other side. In the entry, i meet one of those moms who, having completely merged with the Motherhood persona, only speaks in 1st person plural now; and in a voice that must be hers, but sounds like Elmo: "How are we all today? Isn't this the sun-shiniest morning for all the wee ones? Aren't we feeling chirpy about this special day, most special in all the world?"

She's looking at me. I've never met her, but now we're a "we." I want to give her a jar of Gerbers and ask her who eats it in the morning. I wonder what her husband thinks.

Ah, Preschool. The wonder of it all.

Feelings - the final frontier

2006-02-28T08:25:00.000-05:00

In the 90s, we had the decade of the brain. The brain, it seemed, held all the answers to our concerns about intelligence, or the lack thereof. Then came Daniel Goleman, with his landmark book, "Emotional Intelligence," which at least began to shift the meter in the right direction.
We have forgotten the real value of feelings. Emotional expression in the workplace is considered childish. In fact, any emotional display by a person over 21 - other than weddings and funerals - is considered, well, a sign of weakness. Emotional people are considered a bit inferior to intellectual people. You can't get a Ph.D. in emotional mastery. Artists, whose careers are based in the felt relationship with the sea of possibilities, are somehow not as "legitimate" as the smarty pants running the show in our governments and our companies.
Interestingly, this one feature of human experience - feeling - holds the key to a lot of our problems. We tend to think of emotions as some disturbance to the order of life. In actual fact, it's just the opposite: emotions help us navigate. Whenever i work with clients, i know i've gotten to the heart of the matter when there are tears. Tears are the clue to what touches people at their core. I noodle around with them, not seeking catharsis, but movement. I want to know what moves people.
Think of it this way: e-motion. Feelings are all about motion. Feelings tell us what we want more of and what we want less of, period. Aversive feelings, like fear and anger, send us seeking more distance from a person or situation. Pleasant feelings like joy or wonder, cause us to move toward a person or situation. We are not meant to be slaves to every impulse; but the information is valuable. Often, in maturity, adults grow so accustomed to suppressing their feelings in order to manage their professiona lives or other responsibilities, that they can't remember, anymore, what feeds them. Then they don't know how to move.
But emotion is just one aspect of the feeling frontier. Feelings also show us how we relate to beauty. When we can feel, we can be uplifted by beauty. Sensitivity - the capacity to respond to subtle cues - is automatically linked to beauty. It is linked to sensuality, too. The capacity to experience pleasure is literally located, anatomically, on the same neurons that mediate the experience pain. If you feel, you have to accept both ends of the spectrum. We are meant to experience joy and fulfillment in our lives, not just the knee-jerk repetition of old scripts. In order to move toward more joy, when we are stuck in a place of staleness and suppression, we must feel our way. Those first few steps can be pretty interesting.

The ghost of Van Gogh

2006-02-25T08:16:00.000-05:00

I have to confess, probably my favorite painter in the world is Vincent Van Gogh. I love the liveliness of his lines and the freedom of his palette. I love the fact that he decided not to paint anything until he had mastered drawing. I love the fact that he wrote long letters to his brother Theo with little pictures drawn on the side - and that we still have them. And i love his daring, and love of craft, persisting in the face of utter non-acceptance of his vision. (As many of us may or may not know, he sold no paintings before his death.)

Van Gogh was the ultimate visionary, mastering a craft and expressing what he saw with such taste and exquisite sensitivity that it took our eyes 100 or so years to comprehend the beauty of it. Now his collections create stirs wherever they go: he is a posthumous rock star, with new kinds of lively lines - lines of people waiting to see his collections at museums compiling his works, as we witnessed most recently at the Met - (of NYC).

What most of us know all too well is that he cut his ear off. In fact, i wonder if we remember much else about him in the popular mind. That's just a quirk of human information processing: if it's shocking, we tend to remember it.

Anyway, i suppose, as one who has discovered the virtues of art, I have a fear of its dangers. If i dare to dream and set down my dreams, will i, too, die penniless and misunderstood? My sensible side says this is just such a drama; but some other side is not so sure. I suppose the courage of art is to step into the void and deliver something forth, without concern for the likeability of the outcome. How do artists weigh this against financial obligations? It's a mystery. But as i was recently reminded, Tolstoy had 13 children - and he wrote War and Peace. I wonder what his wife did. Hmmm.

Confessions, light

2006-02-24T08:47:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make, which is pretty silly from the outset since i'm speaking to the ethers. But this is it: i just have this longing to be of service. Everybody has their own idea of what that looks like, feels like, i suppose. Mine relates to serving what i can only refer to as the greater "Plan" - that is, helping people remember that they are sacred, that the world is sacred, and to begin behaving as such.

But whenever i get started to speak to that issue in a live setting, i'm like a deer in the headlights. It's as if the thousands of words all rearrange themselves somewhere just inside the tip of my tongue, and my brain dissolves. Sad, true. So I've learned to serve in more oblique ways - I've helped the poor, and raised children, and participated on non-profit boards, and worked in toxic corporations to turn them around, and walked out on nature's trails to appreciate her. Still the demon presses me on. Sometimes i've tried too hard, and neglected my children - well, at least in comparison to all those sweet moms out there who do the wonderful little things to let their kids know they're thinking of them.

But still, i wonder if i'll ever have the feeling of YES - I did that great thing, or YES, i've made my contribution. I hope that, with time, all these internal fires will sort themselves out, and I will wear down into something fitting, like a nice old pair of jeans, that the spirit can use well.

In praise of art

2006-02-23T08:20:00.000-05:00

Maybe i'm the last one to the party, but for the past few years, i've been obsessed by art: appreciation, craft, styles, history - the works. It seemed that everything i ever wanted to know or understand about life was encoded in a work of art. The myths, for instance, which were just stories in my childhood, taught me very elegantly about psychological forces: naivete, love, lust, power, changeability, order, fulfillment.

I left a desk job after 9-11 to pursue art. I didn't really care which kind, i just needed it, more than coffee. I was out of strength, out of courage, out of ideas, out of energy, and certainly out of joy. Living amidst thousands of mourning people, and dozens of burning manholes, and police vigilance against perceived further threats, was fundamentally exhausting.

On my first day of class, my painting teacher taught us to simply enjoy mixing oil paints with the spirits and stand oil on our pallettes. Basic stuff. What a wonderful, oozy feeling just to tease the palette knife around, waiting for the right consistency. White became off-white, and sand, and putty, and taupe. We used big clumsy brushes to capture, for the first time ever, some perspective on a seated skeleton. As one who so often rushed from project to project, I was drawn wondrously into the land of the slow. I had to stop, and notice, how DID that spinal vertebrae hook up with the rib? And how big was the pelvis compared to the rib cage? And how, exactly, did that bony hand bend at the wrist? How did the colors of the bones change subtly, according to placement and breaks of light, so that i, too, could convey their movement through space? The order, the proportion, the orchestration and symmetry gave me a surprisingly strong jolt of appreciation for the loveliness of the human form. And this was before skin! And the light! Wow! To notice the fall and shift of light and shadow! What a wondrous world! I painted and noticed. I noticed again, that all these bones needed to exist in a context. Where was the horizon line? What was the true background? What artistic license could i bring in to set these lovely bones in a useful context? What color, what depth, might show off this frail new friend? Where did those three hours go, i wondered?

Since that first class, I've been as obnoxious as a religious convert, noticing and experimenting with all the arts. Drawing taught me about shadow and subtleties of expression. Mosaic taught me about putting pieces together - a great idea after things in life have broken. Drama taught me about the flow of feeling, and the build and release of tension. Stories taught me about how fundamentally we need and benefit from scripts.

I used to think that the divine was somewhere else. Now, art has taught me that i am surrounded by a dazzling array of wisdom and beauty, if i will only slow down to take part.

The view from Woodstock

2006-02-21T19:25:00.000-05:00

I live in Woodstock, New York, which is one of the most beautiful places around. Poised between the heights of the Catskill Mountains and the depths of the Hudson River, it is a charming hamlet populated with characters of every stripe. There are scholars, like the Thurmans; and celebrities. There are famed writers and intellectual pioneers. There are musicians and village knitters. And there are meadows, springs, ferns, and ancient sacred sites. I'm pretty sure there are fairies.

What many don't realize is that Woodstock is not the site of the famed concert; it was only planned here. This is a place where artists, utopians, religious figures and healers have congregated for thousands of years. This is a place where people have mountain top experiences.

I value living in the place where so many people sounded the dawn of the Aquarian Age in a daring breakthrough of art, aspiration, and plain old Dyonisian wildness. Imagine, now, that tens of thousands of people found their way before the days of the internet, to an amazing, one of a kind "happening." I think we could use a few more of those. Not just the same thing, but something - collective.

It's been forty years since that great event, and the town of Woodstock looks like a strange anachronism: known for its burst of modernity, it seems comically frozen in a flower-power vignette, complete with tye-dye, windchimes, and cute candles. Many of the original ideals faded, replaced by corruption, or just exhaustion. The hippies, when they show up, do look a bit tired. The weirdest part to my eyes are the children, so avant garde before their time. And yet.

I live in a town where the two "supermarkets" are organic ones, and i have to leave town to find candybars or fast food. I live in a town that has two hardware stores and no department stores. I like that. I live in a town where people of all ages come together on Sunday afternoons and drum in the village square. There are extra instruments - rattles or shakers - for little tikes that may not have known the ritual. Everyone gets something.

At a time when corporate pillaging has peaked, perhaps a little village like this, with a bit of dusting, could regain its star status. Even mavericks have to make succession plans. I wonder, what will the younger generation do? What will we do with this legacy? Can iconoclasts have traditions? We'll see.

What is support, exactly?

2006-02-13T18:07:00.000-05:00

Right now, I'm writing this post from a leftover chair i stole from my daughter's room. She's away at college. It's a $50 chair perfect for kids at their first desks; but not well suited to someone who works at a desk all day. It has a tiny padded back, no arms, and a serviceable seat. After a few hours, my back hurts!

Lately, i've been thinking about this whole issue of support: what it looks like, what it really feels like. It's not something i experienced in my youth. My intense focus on, and comprehension of spiritual concepts were inconsistent with family norms and traditions. When I dreamed of joining the foreign service (and actually passed the exam!), my parents' response was, "why the hell would you want to do that?" The experience of support is like a visit to a foreign country - rare, and so new it's hard to develop any expectations of what constitutes normal.

As a result i spent years making SURE I felt supported by doing just what everyone wanted of me: I attended all family functions, was an ideal daughter, was a kind neighbor and devoted student. I served on boards, sorted coats at local shelters, and collected for the march of dimes. I was like a labrador looking for a trainer. I assumed this was what it meant to be surrounded by loved ones. I supported everyone else, but didn't feel entitled to ask much for myself - that is, not much of what i really needed and wanted to feel fed. Old friends were so uninterested in the inner journey, i figured what i had to offer wasn't valuable.

Women often perform millions of invisible tasks, keeping the whole wheel of life and love turning in a very practical way, with groceries, laundry, little wiped noses and playdates, homey touches and awkward valentines.

Now, I've learned to see things differently, thank god. i have endured the thorny recovery path, strewn with the disappointments of people i used to spoil, who are not at all happy about what i'm no longer willing to take care of. In order to learn to be loving, i had to learn not to be so dad gum nice! And in my darkest moments, the brightest spots of help appeared, reassuring me that fundamentally, the universe is benevolent. I now have friends who are stronger and more skilled about the whole give and take. Still, i'm a newbie.

So, in the interest of learning what support really feels like, i'm going to start by treating myself to a decent chair!

Culture Re-creation

2006-02-13T08:25:00.000-05:00

What does it mean to change a culture? "Culture" is a hot topic in corporate life at the moment as a result of high rates of merger and acquisition events. One company dresses casual; another is tolerant of gender discrimination. One group hates meetings; the other hates email. One group is ivy league and arrogant; another, midwestern and egalitarian. These groups must jostle and adjust to accommodate the needs of new teammates. In reality, those new partners rarely feel, or act, like teammates. Nevertheless, the culture changes.

Cultural transformation is different. When a culture transforms, it literally changes its shape ("form"), its gestalt if you will - to allow a freer flow of spirit. This is what distinguishes transformation from change: this commitment to take the collective to a higher order of functioning.

Let's take public education, for example. A hundred years ago, when most of us worked by the sweat of our brow, when America was over 80% agrarian, the first forms of education were developed. It was a massive social struggle to simply mandate reading, writing, and arithmetic. Farmers were worried and resistant, knowing that less labor put their crops at risk.

What we often don't discuss about the changes between then and now, in those short hundred years, is physical activity. Back then, sitting in a classroom was a luxurious break from manual labor. People had to work to get to school, and they had to work when they returned home. Not homework, but farmwork. Or millwork. It was a hands-on world.

Now, we have laptops and cellphones and portable video games. We are living life at our fingertips. A proper school today would have kids doing farmwork, cutting timber, and building furniture (and computers). We educate the vast majority of our children in ways that create stagnation of their spirits, and do not allow proper flow of their creative (and recreative) energies. Most schools now don't even include PE daily. As a result, basic health and common sense have become optional, while working and striving like lemmings to flourish at standardized testing has become a national epidemic.

This is the heart of culture change: recognizing, collectively, that certain well-established patterns - which were once the best ideas going - have outlived their usefulness. Re-creating the definition of classroom should be a top priority. This would allow fresh creativity to flow through teachers, as well, rather than weighing them down with ever-higher standards of intellect. We must move from a culture of "smart" to a culture of "wise." Otherwise, the No Child Left Behind policy will churn out spiritless, well tutored kids whose childhood needs of fresh air, exercise, play, and creative expression were left behind.

playtime

2006-02-10T19:30:00.000-05:00

I can tell i'm aging because i reminisce more than i used to. Having lived awhile, it gives me more material! So here goes...

When i was a kid, we had fewer organized activties. We had a front door, a back door, bikes, maybe a dollhouse or playhouse, and neighbors. Those were our toys. We made weapons, water balloons, little wars, chemistry experiments (try baking soda, toothpaste and mouthwash), doll clothes, secret clubs, and kickball matches. We played hide-and-seek; we rode around, bored, waiting for inspiration.

I wonder now if today's kids know boredom, or have enough empty time to recognize their own inspiration. I notice that now, there are so many moms doing a fine job making their kids' lives full that the moms are empty, and the kids are overstuffed. This situation is aggravated by the media, with its constant injunctions to buy, or lose the glamour race. The commercial world conspires to turn us into consumers.

This is a Faustian bargain. Our sacred mandate is to be creators. And lovers. Early childhood research shows that when children feel secure in their primary love (usually mom), they explore, and play. When they don't feel secure, they're too nervous to leave mom's knee. Much energy is spent assuaging fears and reconnecting.

In a similar fashion, many kids today are not anchored well, in spirit or in nature. Their moms, either. This makes them overly dependent upon "strokes" by others, rather than a more solid well from within. In a strange twist, much of our creative energy is spent creating situations in which our value is reinforced.

Take time, and see, if a little time in nature doesn't fill your tanks. I gotta go now, my favorite tv show is on....

living by a script

2006-02-08T10:57:00.000-05:00

The world is changing, to say the least. You can almost hear the ground rumbling. Old people, old systems, old paradigms, and old storylines are falling away. We're questioning all kinds of trusted institutions like marriage, the presidency, the integrity of our marketplace, and the very security of our world. Academia is stale, healthcare is sick, and the family unit is assaulted by hyperactivity, fragility, and materialism. Tough times, indeed!

This is what we might call the "dark night" of a collective spiritual passage. We are asked to let go of old habits of being, and thus remember more accurately who we really are, making more room for ourselves and each other to let spirit flow through us. It's a lot like letting go of a stylish - or at least safe - outfit that got us needed attention, or inclusion. We mistake it for our very skin. We cling and pull, and still it comes off, and we feel stripped, naked, vulnerable. We feel that others are staring at us, judging us for our nakedness. Hmmm. Sounds sort of Biblical.

The point is, we are so busy trying to please others, or to fit in to some tired old clique, that we forget whom we're meant to be. Our souls are not vapid, winged ephemera whose presence is only palpable in the afterlife. They have specific qualities, like a recipe, that give us indications of what kind of life experiences best suit us, uniquely. Some of us are meant to be dreamers; others, housewives. Yet others, inventors or connectors. At some point, it may be time to give up the homefront for an office job - or vice versa! We may long, in our depths, to feel more complete by completing the menu of experiences our souls have designed for us.

It feels frightening to step outside the safe bounds of convention (even if you're unconventional!) and become something else. Yet the courage to do so opens new doors for a more exciting, fulfilling pathway. Beware the guardians at the gate! They are not monsters, like the myths portray; they are monstruous fears or disappointed friends, who want us to stay comfortably stable, unmoving. Can we move beyond trite scripts into a fresh zone of creativity? Try it.

Moods

2006-02-04T10:19:00.000-05:00

It's sleepy time around here. I couldn't sleep, woke up inthe middle of the night, stayed awake reading and wondering what was in store for me, having premonitions that i would be hated, rejected, scorned, and disrespected - which has already happened before, so it shouldn't really hold any unique grip on me. But i suppose all of us have the desire to feel loved and accepted for who we truly are. As someone who was heavily censored as a little kid, truthtelling has been a tricky path.

Anyway, sleep deprivation brings on serious Moods. When these moods come upon me, i usually have the greatest access to old patterns that have held me back, so i share these with you, hoping they will illustrate the shadier aspects of the path, easing the way for others.

A few years ago, I had to make some radical course corrections in my lifestyle, because everything in my living was neatly arranged to keep me alienated from spirit. For whatever reason, I am acutely aware of the signals that float around in the ethers; and i never felt safe to speak to the inner depths that were at work in me, much less use them to help others.

The course correction has not been a smooth one; it was hard to find my voice and learn to use it with any deftness. After years of relative silence, i found that as soon as i opened my mouth, there were intense consequences. Some people came towards me, others were driven away. What I noticed, though, was that i repeatedly placed myself in an environment that was hostile to that light, so i was sabotaged. Can i offer a concrete example?

Example #1: Have you ever tried to speak to your partner about ideas or feelings that were really important to you, only to have them change the subject? I noticed that when i tried to talk about my own world of ideas - the portal to the possible - other topics such as professional sports or garage needs took immediate precedence. It took years for me to understand that i was being silenced. After about a thousand of these experiences, a quiet despair settled in. Maybe my mind worked against me, but i figured, who would be interested in what i had to say if my spouse wasn't? Wiser friends knew better; but i just felt like wow, what does it mean to be intimate if your partner doesn't know you? I mean, he knew my tennis game, and my cooking skills; but he didn't know what i was capable of, and i suspect he didn't want to. What guy wants his loving wife to ease up spoiling him and go out to be all that she can be? Or at the very least, maybe she would be something HE wanted, not what SHE wanted.

Example #2: After being hired by a major New York financial institution to address the soft side issues associated with wealth, I gave a presentation at a symposium there, about worth as the vessel through which wealth could be responsibly managed. After it was over, a lady came up to me and said she liked it so much that she wanted to move her assets to - that place - immediately, and would i help her. As soon as the event was over, the person who hired me deluged me with a pile of administrative tasks, anything that would keep me out of my strength. This person declared that all of these responsibilities lay inside my job description. Really, it was just a power play. The point was to take me out of my strong suit because the power of my message was a threat to others' "glow." As I was warned, nothing threatens so much as success.

Sometimes, claiming your power means identifying subtle ways in which we ourselves, or others, place us far enough outside the zone of our own strength to render us powerless. The perceptions of futility and the illusion of permanently difficult conditions are two ways to stay bound. Today, a moody day, reminds me of that suffering, and that education.

art, proportion, and psychology

2006-02-02T18:51:00.000-05:00

I was trained in stress and health, not in clinical psychology. The whole idea was that there are some special techniques that reduce stress, in human systems, such that physical health is also improved. I was only trained to teach, not to actually help anyone. I helped people all the time when i wasn't trying to; but when i tried, i just locked up.

What i just didn't appreciate at the time is that less stress really isn't the mecca anyway. Less unnecessary stress is more like it. Some algorithm of stress vs. meaning. For whatever reason, after 9-11 and a few other cataclysmic picnics, i found that deep breathing wasn't enough - although for sure, it beats NOT deep breathing.

Is it just me, or what? Why didn't anyone tell me about art? In six years of real and committed study, not one article mentioned art as a stress reliever. Why not? Now, I'm a bit of a zealot, like any good convert.

Try putting a glaze on your kitchen wall. Or tear out a few hundred bits of colored paper and glue them onto - well, something else. Or - most subversive - break some plates and put the pieces, along with anything else you want, onto a plywood board until you have something else. Sing, a lot, and imagine, and paint, and draw. Notice things. When I began to draw, i noticed things that seven years of science wouldn't begin to touch. Shades, shadow, contour, depth, beauty. My favorite experience to date has been to post, then take down, from my idea wall dozens of upsetting photos from the NY Times, just to remind me of the plight of the world. In their place, i stuck up one pretty piece that i did at an afternoon course in sacred architecture. Ah, much better.

old america, new america

2006-01-30T10:54:00.000-05:00

i have a love-hate relationship with the state of massachusetts. I hate the winter, the lack of softness, and the depression. I love the staunch, rebellious and self-righteous roots of massachusetts. I feel at home when i read about the authors of our declaration and the white guys dressed as Indians who threw a deeply subversive tea party. I could do that.

I was raised in the South, where tea parties were just that. It took awhile for me to know just how much i wanted to change the rules of engagement. Sometimes, though, it's just a little chilly up here, and I miss the daily kindnesses that are part of the air below the Mason-Dixon line. These rifts and differences cause me to drift back and forth, between old home in the expanses of Texas, where anything is possible; and the friction of the northeast, where people are watching, commenting, weaving new lines of thought in the warp and woof of our social fabric.

Today, i'm love-hating in North Adams, home of the fanciful MASS MoCA. We're going to see this awesome show by Anne-Sofie Sitel, "The Museum of the Queen of Mud." For any woman who feels a bit alienated from the main stream, and who feels she has endured a bit more emotional load than is bearable, this would be a treat. This performance artist, dressed in mud, interacts with people in the "real world" in profound and heartwrenching ways. She seems saner, in her mud coating, than do her questioners. More than anything, the exhibit causes me to feel a bit more at home as an observer, an outsider, in my own culture. She - the Queen of Mud - is coated in a special substance that will "protect her from extremes of warm and cold" so that she can travel into space and meet her destiny. Sounds wild, but not as wild as bringing democracy to Iraq through the use of armed forces from outside. America. Gotta love it.

But anyway, my partner is next to me, reading "Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln," the latest and greatest tome by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Lincoln's capacity for appreciation must have created so much hope at a time when so little was apparent on the surface of things. Try this on:

"On Saturday morning, Lincoln and his guests visited Petersburg (which had just been abandoned by Lee). At a certain spot, the marquis recalled, 'he gave riders to stop the carriage.' On his previous visit, Lincoln had noticed a 'very tall and beautiful' oak tree that he wanted to examine more closely. 'He admired the strength of its trunk, the vigorous development of branches,' which reminded him of 'the great oaks' in the Western forests. He halted the carriage again when they passed 'an old country graveyard' where trees shaded a carpet of spring flowers. Turning to his wife, Lincoln said, 'Mary, you are younger than i. you will survive me. When i am gone, lay my remains in some quiet place like this.' On the train ride back to City Point, Lincoln observed a turtle 'basking in the warm sunshine on the wayside.' He asked that the train be stopped so that the turtle could be brought into the car. 'The movements of the ungainly little animal seemed to delight him,' Elizabeth Keckley recalled. He and Tad shared 'a happy laugh' all the way back to the wharf." (p. 722)

I didn't start out to talk about Lincoln, really, but this capacity for appreciation has grabbed me, so why not tell it through one of my heroes? It's been my experience that in the darkest and most pressing times, life unflinchingly offers us solace, or at least a muse, so that we have the continued spark to move on.

Today's bright note centers on the art of Haram Kamrooz, a young Iranian artist also on show at MassMOCA, who makes his studio home in New York (natch). His glossy oils and ecstatic palette remind me of some latter-day Peter Max, only with a greater sense of restraint and Persian flourish. This lucid show is a cocktail of joyous spirit and refined artistry. And all of this from the sumptuous, wireless-enabled bedroom of the Porches. I'm in a cozy den, writing into a battery-operated laptop, with access to the deft gestures of Lincoln and the artistic daring of our latest and greatest, all while the fire warms my toes. It's a new world we life in, for sure.

remedies for ya

2006-01-27T15:49:00.000-05:00

home remedy for midwinter blahs. no, make that a theatre remedy. slavas snowshow. take two and call me in the morning.

faster than erik and slower than ron

2006-01-27T15:07:00.000-05:00

I'm in sunny Massachusetts - yes, that's right, it's winter, and it's sunny. That should tell you something pretty potent about overall climactic disturbances.

This space has been created to offer insights about the transformation of our culture. My partner Erik and I are in the same business, and Ron has come around to help us, since we are middle aged and not users of facebook or any other cool, young stuff that makes blogs easy for us.

I have beaten Erik to the punch. That should tell you something about me. hmmm.

I'm committed to the field of transformation, and i would have started this sooner but there was a terrible leak in my bathroom. tatafornow,

love,
k