Learning to Love

It has been one week since the mass shooting in Connecticut. An untold number of words have been spilled in response to that event. I am under no illusion that I can add heft to the already unbearable weight of what happened, but I have my own take on the matter, and an urge to offer it into the mix.

I am in awe of the selflessness and sacrifice that all 28 of those beings showed by taking on the task that they did.  To come into this world as a team, a group of life-teachers and way-showers, in order to dramatically focus the world's attention on "everyday" violence was a tremendous service. But what else would you expect of such highly evolved beings?

In the system of belief that I have cobbled together during my time here, this makes complete sense to me. I can picture these "entities" in the between space, having incarnated together in various constellations many times before, planning this lesson. The world, as we perceive it, is a classroom, a series of lessons from which we are able (or not) to learn and evolve. Karma is not a punishment, it is a completion. We are at liberty to choose our path, choose to engage or play hooky, choose to prolong our separation or move toward the light of oneness. And always, ALWAYS, it is a game, a play, a school, an illusion.

So there they are ---- I'll use human images because we're so familiar with them ---- hanging out in the ether, reviewing that last go-round and designing the next. They're not children, they're not adults, they're not troubled or pure or saints or sinners. They --- we --- are seekers and learners. They're concerned about the Earth's children, their compatriots, who are struggling so much with separation and violence and cruelty and shame. They know, because there is no us and them ---- everyone has shared that experience of alienation. Some have moved beyond the necessity for playing it out over and over. Some have even reached the point of being able to transcend the illusion of death and use corporeal life to teach a startling lesson. And what could be more startling than the slaughter of innocents?

They develop the scenario and agree to play their parts, incarnate with that exact intention, though once in the heaviness of this world, those memories disappear. Each entity has, as we all do, the ability to back out, make a new decision, use free will. But this band of brothers and sisters have stuck to their agreement and in due time the horrific events of last Friday take place. Word spreads with lightning speed across the globe. Men, women, children, leaders and mothers, fathers and followers, stop and watch in horror as they imagine themselves and their own precious children taken away in a gruesome, wholly unexpected manner. It defies comprehension.

Blame is cast in all directions. Voices cry out in bewilderment, fear, righteousness, piety, sorrow, longing. When will the carnage end? they ask. Where is God? they wonder.

Gradually, in bits and pieces, through all the many mechanisms that human beings have developed, a new consciousness begins to grow. It has been here always, but held down and weakened by a belief system that gives much more weight to darkness than light. A spark here, a feeble flame there, disparate people come together to learn from each other, to teach and learn another way, a peaceful, life-affirming way. And the lesson for which so much earthly agony was endured, completes itself.

Will this be the last time? It could, if the will is strong enough. Love is a powerful force. It remains to be seen.

No, all of the people in this tragedy did not remember that they had taken on the solemn task of riveting the world's attention. Not until they moved into the light, beyond the reach of pain, remorse, shame or fear, did they remember. Perhaps they huddled together, amazed at what they had done, struck by the enormity of it. Maybe they were jubilant that their lesson was taking hold, at least in so far as getting the needed attention to cruelty, violence, innocence and love. Maybe they gathered in a talking circle, reviewing the parts they played and how that would inform their own spiritual development.

I know this is an unorthodox view. To some people it may sound trivializing, minimizing the horror of what happened and the effect on families, community, individual lives of those who remain on this plane to deal with the after-effects. For me, it is completely the opposite. These twenty-eight individuals gave themselves over to the lives of others, gave up the joys that this physical life has to offer in order to help heal the world. It is the only way in which it makes sense to me, the only way to hold not only the lives of those 28, but the untold number who live and die in hunger, pain, misery and fear every day.

There are many lessons to be learned, to be held in the hearts of unknown, distant others who hear the stories, see the pictures, imagine or remember the losses in their own lives. If there were any more evidence needed, cannot this be yet another way that we remember, that we know in the depths of our being, that we are all one?

Luddites Unite!

I have heard Luddites defined as people who eschew technological change, but I didn't really know the origin. Turns out that there are several unreliable stories about a fellow in the late 18th century named Ludd or Lud or Ludlum or something else altogether, who broke a stocking frame to pieces in a fit of rage. Thereafter, when people would emulate his behavior they were said to be doing a Ned Ludd. But it wasn't until about 30 years later that the Luddites became a more organized group of unhappy workers who called on an apocryphal "King Ludd" to justify the destruction of machines that were taking away their jobs.

I was originally thinking of this in terms of myself, and my seeming inability to adjust to my new smart phone. I have been sorely tempted to destroy this stocking frame of a device, and have used some rather coarse language in its presence. I have even told a couple of people that this phone and I are locked in mortal combat. So I began to think of myself as a modern day Luddite, with only a vague knowledge of what Luddism actually was.

The phone and I are going to part company. It's all over but the details. I'm going to return happily to my previous device, which is much better matched to my needs and capabilities. It has given me pause, though. Have I risen to my level of incompetence? Anybody remember the Peter Principle?

Of course, now that I looked up Ned Ludd and the Luddites, I'm struck by the timeliness of their struggle. I'm by no means a student of the labor movement. Most of what I know has been gleaned incidentally as I focus on other aspects of social history. But it has always struck me as people who were fighting the good fight, looking out for their fellows, tending to those who must work in difficult and thankless jobs to keep their families together. The one time I found myself in a (short-lived) job in the offices above the shop floor, I was acutely uncomfortable. My allegience will always fall with those who eat lunch on the loading dock.

I have watched the assault on the labor unions, and on workers in general, with growing dread. I take some comfort in knowing that there have always been workers, male and female, who will only be pushed so far before taking matters into their own hands. History has proven that. But the current consolidation of wealth and power in the hands of so few is alarming to me. And it makes no sense.

I know I'm a Pollyanna and usually try to extract the positive in almost any situation. At the same time, I'm not immune to the suffering of others. How is it possible for people to be oblivious to the transitory and equalizing fact that we are all "fellow passengers to the grave", as Dickens said? Do those who are greedily raking in all the chips while regarding the other players as marks and chumps, think they're not equally vulnerable to the limitations of life? Name one leader, despot, dictator, oligarch or boss man who has managed to elude sickness, decline and death. We are all made of the same stuff.

I know, I know, that's not the point. The Power Elite will not end their days in a refugee camp or a cardboard box. Probably. Nothing is certain. I guess it's just hard for me to imagine being so divorced from one's own humanity and shared destiny not to discern the humanity of others.

My own brushes with poverty ----- yes, I've been on welfare and food stamps before ----- are nothing compared to what millions, probably billions, of human beings on this planet experience daily. Yet somehow, there is likely to be joy, however fleeting, even in the most destitute, if they have connection to themselves or another person. When I was on the skids, what held me together was my baby. He kept me on this side of the dirt because he didn't know anything except warm milk, cradling arms, and life.

There are no new questions, no new concerns, no new cries for justice, no new grabs for power. The "Right to Work" euphemism seeks to veil the destruction of workers and their claim to a fair wage for necessary work. When it comes, the demand for decency, fairness and a piece of the prosperity will once again swell into a movement that cannot be ignored. Both sides, from their own perspective, will demonize the other, opening the way to bloodshed, heartbreak and tragedy. And the cycle begins again.

Is it human nature, inborn and immutable, for some to dominate others? For some to feel superior and entitled to take all the big cookies, leaving only crumbs for the 'undeserving'? Perhaps, since we are simply organisms that occupy a biological, ecological position on the earth, an animal among all animals, that is to be expected. But my Pollyanna nature leads me to believe that we can rise above savagery and wish for others what we wish for ourselves: the necessities of life, as well as serenity, peace, joy and most of all, love.

Pollyanna, meet Rebecca --- she's from Sunnybrook Farm.

Say, did you hear the gossip?

This quote bothers me. I don't remember precisely where I first saw it, but even then it struck me wrong. See, I like ideas as well as the next gal, but when's the last time you knew anybody who spends all their time deconstructing Shakespeare or theorizing about neurological breakthroughs? This quote, Miss Eleanor, sounds kind of pissy to me.

I have spent the better part of my 62 years thinking I was supposed to know things before I learned them, and feeling like a failure because I didn't. Nobody explained to me, back in the squishy years, that you only know what you know until you learn some more, and that the adventure is to be found in the learning. I've got some decent, acceptable gray matter, not off the charts by any means, but the ol' neurons are still firing pretty well. So that lands me solidly in the events category, according to the above rubric.

See, that's the trouble. I see something like this quote and, given my general hierarchical thinking and penchant for comparing myself to everyone else, I just don't measure up. Again. Especially because what I really like is talking about people. And that is the real rub here.

With all due respect to Eleanor, I think this is upside down and inside out. Talking about people is where it's at. I'll go you one further, and come out solidly in favor of gossip. No, not the Bad Girls kind of gossip portrayed in the teenage movies. Not the gossip that is malicious and intended to destroy another person. I'm talking about good old-fashioned over the back fence news gathering. We didn't always have the internet, you know.

Human beings are relational critters. We get all up in each other's business, and that's for good cause. It can be annoying and destructive, but it's really what kept us alive long enough to invent candy bars and washing machines. We talk about each other because it is the most interesting subject there is, and we talk about ourselves because we need to know who we are and why we're here and what we care about.

I heard part of a story on NPR recently about how tea drinking among women in Ireland was railed against as a scourge not unlike alcoholism. This was a good while ago ---- turn of the last century? ---- and there was an effort to discourage it as a waste of time and resources. The very idea of those women getting together for tea! They were probably just gossiping because that's what women do, right? They get together and they gossip about their neighbors and they neglect their children and don't get their work done and waste money on tea, which is obviously addictive and will probably ruin the family unit as we know it. 

Women. Gossip.

I'm not even going to go into men and gossip. Not being a man, I don't have direct experience, so I would only be able to perpetuate stereotypes. But I've been a woman for a long time, and I can tell you that yes, women's conversations frequently center on people. That's because people are important. Human behavior is important. We value our relationships. We talk about our own families, our own relationships, and other people as well. We pass along news of sickness, trouble, break-ups, but also joys, new babies, love. Gossip? I suppose you can call it that. But it is the thread that weaves us into relationship with each other and our wider community. If I don't know you are down with the flu, how can I call to check on you or bring you chicken soup? If I haven't heard through the grapevine that your son has been arrested for drugs, how can I offer my experience, strength and hope? 

Women have been dismissed because of "gossip" for centuries. Men do the important thinking. Women just sit around and gossip. The very idea that relational thinking and talking is what holds society together, gets little traction. And with more and more women intruding into the public sphere of ideas at the very highest levels, there seems to be a feeling among some people that men are being submerged, sidelined, diminished. However pejorative the "gossipy old woman" image has been, it seems to have been necessary to define the contrasting role of men as strong, silent, and logical. So now we have a war on women, and a war on men, and a war on fatherhood, and a war on the family.....

Human beings have developed language in order to convey ideas, to recount and plan events, and to bind people together in their joys and sorrows. We all, male and female, young and old, need all three, Eleanor Roosevelt notwithstanding. And there I can rest, with the assurance that I'm not striving for something unattainable or falling into a pit of hopeless inadequacy, I'm simply another human being sharing the planet. Yay me.

Chestnuts roasting?

First of all, there's the weather. When you can wear shorts in December, it's hard to get psyched about Christmas. The house is decorated within an inch of its life, as always. I've not only gotten used to this annual quirk in my wife's personality, I actually like it. Never in this lifetime or any other would I subject my living space to this amount of seasonal display, if I were on my own. There have been years when my tree was a string of lights mounted on the wall in the shape of a 5-year-old's Christmas tree drawing. Hey, it worked and even looked kind of artsy. I'm fortunate that Jill has developed tolerance for my grinchiness, which is really just laziness. She continues to let me top the tree with a Barbie doll.

We got our family Christmas present unexpectedly this week in the form of a little five pound furry puppy that our neighbors had rescued from an unsuitable home, but couldn't keep. They've been subjected to the exhuberent barking of our other dogs long enough to know that we're suckers for strays and rescues, so little Nana Lu has come to occupy a very large playpen in the living room and is worming her way into our hearts. Since there as been very little resistance from the existing 4-legged family members, 2 dogs and 2 cats, we're taking it as a sign that this was meant to be. Tomorrow she'll make her first trip to the vet and maybe we'll get a clue about her breed mix so we can be prepared for what's likely to come.

Everybody has their stories about holidays. When you hang out with a bunch of recovering drunks and addicts, you hear a lot of tales of woe, especially around the holidays. And that's to be expected. It's a family disease, and this time of year, when family with a capital F is being depicted in the media as perfection itself, it can be difficult. Most of us didn't grow up on Walton Mountain, after all.

But for those of us who did have pretty decent families, it can also be hard. This is the first year that neither of my parents will be with us. Three of the four kids in my family of origin live here, and we'll all be together, but I'm the only one married, all of our kids except one don't live here, so it will still be small. We go visit Mom in the Cottage, but she doesn't really know us and doesn't understand why we're there. I'll get to see my own grown kids after Christmas, which is a rare treat. I'm focused on that more than the actual day of the 25th which will be so different this year, but still laden with familiar ritual.

Maybe this is why it's good to get a puppy. She's a new life, she represents the future. She makes me get up and go outside every hour or two, since I'm housebreaking her. Her jealous big brother needs his play time too, so I romp with him. Playing with dogs, bringing up babies, reading new information on the internet about dog training, all can keep me from sliding into those tales of woe.

And really, there's nothing woeful going on. It's life continuing to move forward, and taking us all with it.