Life lines and extinction

A discomforting thought poked me in the head the other day; an unwelcome awareness that I have an ancestral line that dates back as far as can be imagined. I have had ancestors alive at any point in time. The simple testament of my existence declares that by blood has been here through the ages. People I can credit my existence to were breathing in the1960's, the 1930's. They crossed an ocean and settled in the US. Even fought a few wars here. And before that, I am sure they fought battles in Europe. They were on one side or the other of a revolution. Changed religions. Built things that have long since disappeared. And quite probably a few things that have not. They were carving out a life somewhere while Jesus walked the Earth. They were part of the movement away from hunting and gathering to agriculture. They were a part of evolution as we know it. They had to have been. Because I am. And to survive it all is both astounding and horrifying. 

I watched a match burn down. The fire slowly moving towards my fingers. It was beautiful and gave me pause. But just like human innovation, it soon consumed all that sustained it.  

I drifted off in a meeting today, undoubtedly with that vacant look on my face, the hallmark of boredom, or so I've thought. I came back to reality feeling a little sheepish, trying to decide whether my mouth was hanging open, and immediately began to criticize myself for not being able to engage the material. Each time I drift off now I try and trace my distraction to its root. And each time, I find that I veered off shortly after hearing something interesting. Thought provoking, in fact.

I recently heard that our brain sleeps a lot during the day. I knew that while we slept our brain went through cycles, but I did not know that those cycles continue through the waking hours. I notice these slips in and out of consciousness when I am reading and go a few pages before realizing I have no idea what I've read, or pulling into the driveway and having no recollection of the journey, or sitting in a meeting and realizing I am thinking about rabbits instead of progress reports. While our bodies continue to function unconsciously, we lose conscious thought.

As we are able to look at the functioning brain in new and exciting ways, neuroscience is teaching us that sleep plays a function in processing information. We cannot remember what we have learned the day before without sufficient sleep the proceeding night. I read a study before that suggested that dreams are survival tactics - dogs run in dreams because they are learning how to survive the challenges of their day. Humans dream they are naked so they know how to get out of church when that happens. I don't know. The ideas connect in my mind - daydreams are opportunities throughout the day to process what we are learning.

So there I am, sitting in a four hour meeting, paying attention with the best of them, learning good things, when suddenly I have drifted off into some fantasy. I am ok with that. Children use play as a way of making sense of their world. It stimulates their brain and creates the necessary synopsis to grow and develop. I think play time is just as crucial for adults. We need play to make sense of our experiences. We drift into fantasies of saying something brilliant or chewing someone out or running away to Thailand, or bunnies, and something about the process and the white noise and turning off conscious thought and control helps us incorporate what we have been learning.

What I really want is to not take myself so seriously. Learning takes humility. It takes letting go. Maybe it takes a jaw ajar during a meeting. I want to have grace with myself. At my best, I am an untamable mystery.

Retreat

There is a beautiful gazebo across from our yard. Everyone who visits comments on the beauty of this gazebo. They ask who owns it and how often they use it. No one ever uses the gazebo. It was intended as a spiritual retreat. It is a retreat for the groundhogs I chase from my garden. Today, though, I saw a brilliant orange passing through the trees and into the gazebo. Our neighbor’s relatives are in from Laos for a wedding. One, a monk, found his way to the gazebo. It made me realize that quiet rest and contemplation are practices. They take practice.

What the duck?

Ducks gather by the crick running through my back yard like travelers gather by the pool at a resort. Only the ducks are not vacationing. They are being ducks. I wish I were a duck. 

I saw the remains of a duck by the side of the road, torn to pieces by something. I guess that is the price you pay for sitting by the water all day instead of building walls around yourself.

The other day I sat looking at the gathered ducks. There were three distinct groups. Since most of the female ducks are sitting on nests, the largest group consisted of lone males, glistening green at the top like bottles of champagne. One male sat off from the group with a female duck. I have heard that ducks mate for life, and this site filled me with romantic thoughts of my partner with his own fancifully feathered head. The third ‘grouping’ was a single duck – female. She sat alone between the others. Separate. I look at her and imagine the blanket of feathers and duck parts by the side of the road. I wonder if she lost her mate.

I wondered about the ducks. I like to think the single-mate notion has merit in nature outside of human invention. But does their social life mirror our own in any other way? Does the male duck sitting with his partner feel disappointed to be separated from the other males? Does the female partner feel guilt for the nature of partnership? Is she infertile? Does she feel guilty about that? Does the lone female feel lonely? Does she look at the partnered female with envy? Does she hate the other female? Does she hate herself without a mate to give her some reason not to? Do the males sitting in a group ever get tempted? Do they look longingly at the smooth brown feathers of both the partnered and widowed female duck while their own mates sit on nests, hatching their progeny? Or are they just ducks? 

Why can't we just say "easel"?

The words we unconsciously use reflect the society we have constructed. The words we chose can dismantle that society by making thought conscious again. 

Working Habits

Life is so prescribed, and increasingly so with age. There is an order to my day forged by centuries of civilization. To lose yourself to it is, simply, to lose yourself. A habitualized life maintains the status quo. The concept of seizing the day isn’t about being a go-getter at work; going above and beyond the call of civilized duty. It is about awakening to choice; to the opportunities in every moment to make your own way. This is very difficult to do in civilized society. It is impossible to do in a cubicle. 

An Integrative Life

For my birthday I received two bracelets – one with beads from Turkey, and one spun from grass. Looking down at my wrists was a strong visual of the ongoing tension I feel between exploring the world and setting deep roots to land and community. The tension is punctuated by my partner’s departure for Nepal in a week and our visit to a sheep farm last month. The idea of each path titillates me as I punch out a life in suburbia. But I strongly believe in living an integrative life. I know what it is to trek through Nepal, even though I have never been there. I know the stimulation of new sights, sounds, smells, tastes, oh how I love the tastes. I know the hospitality of others. I know the richness of new cultures. But life happens now. And right now, I can show that hospitality. I can incorporate rich traditions into my own day with incense and gongs and hugs and generosity. I can see and hear and smell and taste things anew with mindfulness. Likewise, I can know and care about what is in my backyard. I can experience the elements in an acre lot. I can work my body and grow my food and wash my clothes. I can invest in my community and get to know those around me and share life in little ways. I’m not saying I wont eventually follow a path to the Turkish beads or spun grass. I have heard that those who are faithful with little will be given much. But the much in my hands right now is this living moment wherein I can integrate where I have been and where I am now.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a

raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore

and then run?

Does it stink like rotten meant?

Or curst and sugar over

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sages

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

--Langston Hughes