Crystallization of Conscience

I approach the colossal complex known as The Riverside Church, which covers two city blocks and is situated in one of the highest points in New York City. Sound spills out from its bell-tower located some twenty stories up.

My body resonates with its pronouncement of the hour mark. I enter through heavy revolving doors into a long hall of stone, which helps to shape the soundscape and reflects history made here. Everything feels big and at the same time small. Intimate nooks and crannies suffuse the many rooms and corridors. This intimacy permeates the space, made famous and to some, infamous, as a springboard for spiritually-attuned, social activism.

Walking down the main corridor, one room stops me. Its name, "the nave." In this room in April, 1967, The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivers a speech, "Beyond Vietnam," in which he calls for an end to the Vietnam War, saying,

"The time has come for America to hear the truth about this tragic war . . . There comes a time when silence is betrayal . . . Millions have chosen to move beyond the prophesying of smooth patriotism to the high grounds of firm dissent based upon the mandates of conscience and the reading of history. There are those who are seeking to equate dissent with disloyalty. It's a dark day in our nation when high level authorities will seek to use every method to silence dissent. Something is happening and people are not going to be silenced. The truth must be told. "

Standing here, a great stillness of silence washes over me. I am here by invitation, asked to serve as a commissioner along with dozens of others. The gathering is called a Public Hearing of the "Truth Commission on Conscience in War." Considering the invitation weeks earlier, I hesitate, not sure if this type of gathering rings true for me. I speak with Ian, one of the organizers by phone. Our conversation relieves my concerns as he describes an event, whose format invites dialogue.

We are meeting on the second day of Spring. Following directions, I round the corner and together with several people board an elevator. We ascend to the ninth floor for an orientation (meet, munch, and mingle) for commissioners. Before the mid-afternoon meal is served, we hear about plans for the evening's four-hour program. We briefly introduce ourselves. I scan the printed program. The primary speakers are veterans who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. They will be "testifiers" this evening, reflecting on their experiences with war and conscience.

The program also lists other speakers, who will reflect on several themes including that of "Just War." While attuning to the underlying intention of this phrase, the words confuse me. I ponder them as pointers to truth and so, question the meaning of each word in the context of its relationship with the other. I scan my body. My chest begins to tighten. 

Our host for the orientation invites us to eat. After getting some food, I sit at a table next to a woman who asks if anyone at the table has heard of the term, "Just Peace." No, a commissioner from Texas and I reply. She tells us that "Just Peace" refers to situations when use of force serves like a police force rather than a military force.

Now I'm really confused. My chest hurts but as I breathe into it, the muscles relax.

I'm thinking of a book by Vietnamese Zen teacher and peace activist Thich Nhat Hahn, entitled, "Keeping the Peace - Mindfulness and Public Service, and of what he says in an interview titled, This is What War Looks Like,

"When we hold retreats for war veterans I tell them they are the flame at the tip of the candle. They are the ones who feel the heat, but the whole candle is burning, not only the flame. All of us are responsible."

Thay (or "teacher" as he's known to many) also spoke at Riverside Church, on September 25, 2001, urging non-violence and reconciliation. In 1966, he encouraged Dr. King to speak out concerning the war in Vietnam. Dr. King, in 1967, nominated Thay for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Someone once asked Thay in an outburst of rage,

"What are you doing here? Why don't you just go back to Vietnam?"

He shares that,

"I had to breathe in and out many times before I could respond to such a question. . . After feeling calmer, I said, "if the roots of a tree are sick, it will not do any good to water the leaves. You need to water the roots. It's the same with Vietnam. The roots of the suffering in Vietnam are here in the West. That is why we are here."

I leave the room and catch the elevator down. I sit in the balcony above the nave and reflect in silence. Then I head outdoors. It's 3:30. The program begins at 4. I head towards Riverside Park, several blocks away. I hear sparrows chirping. I sit down on a park bench. I let go of all the thoughts and listen. My shoulders release and my breath deepens. The air feels fresh. I check my watch. Time. I walk back to the church and head back up to the ninth floor. We head down as a group and slowly assemble to enter the nave.

As we enter, many people are already seated. My eyes meet theirs in mutual acknowledgement of the importance of showing up today.

The program begins. A former soldier tells us that when he applied for Conscientious Objector (CO) status, he was asked, "when was the moment of your crystalization of conscience?" He says that this was a pivotal moment for him as he realized that "crystalization" did not fit his experience of conscience continually evolving, being a fluid process. Listening, I imagine this visually. What happens to a fluid crystal? It grows. I remember this from high school.

At the time, I'm working in a lab at City College assisting a physics professor in charge of a crystal research experiment. He shows me how to grow crystals. Dipping the crystal over and over again in a solvent, it changes. The process requires great patience and attention to detail.

As one researcher describes it,

"All crystallization methods change the physical state of a material by transforming the system from some non-equilibrium state toward an equilibrium state."

Back in the church nave, the next testifier, also a veteran, speaks of not being able to reconcile Jesus' charge to "Love one's enemy," and "Turn the other Cheek" with his assignment to interrogate prisoners of war in Iraq. He speaks of being with a prisoner, who challenges his beliefs, caught between a rock and a hard place.

The next veteran speaks of the inconsistency between military recruitment films and his experience in Afghanistan. He speaks of the unspeakable, relating a heartwrenching scene in which children move in front of his tank. The soldiers have been told not to let anyone block their path. Anyone could be carrying a weapon. And yet. . . here he is. Here they are.

As I listen, I am there, there in that moment of not knowing what to do, when instinct and conscience become meaningless words and the only reality is now now now. I feel my chest tighten. He goes on. He says that his story really begins after he completes his military term of four years. In 2005, he starts to encounter memory. He goes to college and begins to learn other perspectives on Afghanistan and Iraq, on war.

Needing inspiration, I recall something Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said,

"A religious man is a person who holds God and man in one thought at one time, at all times, who suffers harm done to others, whose greatest passion is compassion, whose greatest strength is love and defiance of despair."

The next young man tells his story. He writes after coming home, on and on, a novel, then an analysis. Anything, he says, "to keep me in the action" of Iraq. His body is home but he is not embodied, he tells us. Finally, thanks to feedback from several friends, he realizes that his stories do not connect for those reading them because he is not embodied when he writes them. That's when he shifts and begins to feel the pain and confusion. His writing shifts. He speaks in public, unscripted, filled with emotional turmoil. His authentic voice emerges at last. That's how he truly comes home. As he speaks now, I see his fellow testifiers shaking their heads in silent acknowledgement.

The evening goes on but my head and heart are full. I need to digest what I've heard.

Just then, I notice an older woman approaching the microphone. Her tone is soft-spoken yet firm with conviction. Her voice quivers, like solid ground shifting. Her son, she says, was a national guardsman. He died in Iraq. He enlists before 2001, assuring his mother that his unit will likely never be deployed. "No national guardsman has died since WWII," he tells her while also voicing his committment to serve his country beside his fellow guardsmen should the need arise. Then Sept. 11, 2001 happens. The towers collapse. His unit is deployed in March. In April, he becomes the first national guardsman to die since WWII.

Her story is a complex tapestry of contradiction. Born to pacifist parents, their son enlists. What was his truth, I ask myself? As his mother goes on, I feel the son's presence, his torn-ness, and his family's agony and anguish.

It's in the small details that I join their story. My chest is aching.

The evening goes on. Other speakers follow the testifiers. Music intersperses, a man bellows out, "Stand by me."

After the closing words of the event host, we begin to move from the room, many approaching the testifiers. I sit for a few breaths and then, move towards the mother who spoke earlier. I thank her, our eyes meeting. I say, "what I appreciate about what you said and how you said it is that you told what happened without taking away, without simplifying the complexity." She chokes out in a near-muted voice, "it is so complex." Tears are in her eyes. I say, "that's how I could feel your son, his torn-ness, his confusion, the love you shared and which continues. It makes it real. Not easy but real." Feeling the heat of tears running down my face, I continue, "That's why I'm crying." We stand there and hold hands, tears meeting tears. We embrace.

I turn and slowly walk back down the long aisle. I hear the dissonance of many voices reverberating in the room. At the same time, listening attentively, I feel a quality of vast space permeating the vibration in my body, resonating as silence.

Becoming free

Finally, some paying work. I exit the subway train at Columbus Circle and enter Central Park. This is my way of getting in "nature time" en route. The last vestiges of Winter continue with snow on the ground even as birds return and chirp in the crisp morning air.

I quickly move on, making my way east and hop on a downtown 6 train. I'm headed to a midtown hospital, where I'll be providing "coverage" as a "per-diem" clinical chaplain. Today, I'm going to a required training about caring for patients who are deaf or hard of hearing. Our instructor tells us that there is a difference between "deaf" and Deaf," in that the latter word defines a culture of identity in which sign language speaks to the present tense and a particular way of storytelling becomes the foundation for all interactions. 

As I listen, I'm wondering, "how much of this is generalizing?" Even so, I'm fascinated enough to stay open. She tells us that if you ask, "so, when did you first notice the pain in your shoulder?" a Deaf person might sign, "Well, three days ago, Joe calls me up." Then the person becomes Joe and signs, "Hey, want to meet at the gym and lift some weights?" and so on. Only after the story is told this way, does the moment of "pain in your shoulder" get communicated.

Then she adds, "You have to be patient. Also, know that an interpreter's job is to as precisely as possible become the person telling the story." She tells us that a translator is someone who works with written words, bridging one written language to another. An interpreter works with spoken language or sign language. This means also expressing the nuances and expressiveness of body language. If a patient is angry, the interpreter's job is to voice that anger, in the first person. A patient might be saying, I'm furious that I've been pushing this call button for an hour and no one's responded!" 

Just then, a nurse in our training class asks the instructor, "you mean if a patient's screaming, you'd scream?" Our teacher responds, "no, though you can communicate the urgency and tone at a lower volume."

As I listen, I begin to wonder about how this might differ from acting. What I'm really asking is, "what does it mean to become another?" and below this, "what do I mean by becoming?"

My mind shifts to a moment a few years ago. I'm visiting a man dying in a hospital room. His friends and mother are sitting nearby. One friend suddenly gets up and walks quickly out of the room, her face filled with agitation. I slowly follow her out and offer support. She tells me, "I can't stand this anymore." I say, "looks like you want to scream." Her eyes widen and she says, "I really do."  I invite her to join me in a nearby empty room and ask, "how about a silent scream?" 

She looks at me, intrigued. I continue, "Picture where you want to be right now, about to scream." She immediately replies, "Oh I know exactly where that'd be." I ask, "where's that?" She says, "right in the middle of the road!" I'm aware of the nearby city streets being filled with cars, busses, and trucks whizzing by. I say, "OK, now watch me." I close my eyes, clench every muscle in my face and then release, my whole body focussed in this one action of open mouth shaking itself outwards. My face is flushed by the effort." I stop and turn to her, "now you." She closes her eyes and screams, soundlessly, her whole body shaking. After a minute or so, she stops and opens her eyes. She smiles. I meet her in that smile. Then she turns and opens the door.

Riding home lately, I encounter a lot of screaming. Sometimes it's a homeless man reeking of urine and booze, pleading for "anything you can spare." Sometimes it's the woman whose refrain is forever etched in the minds of fellow travellers, "It ain't no joke. I'm broke." She shouts this out to the monotonous beat of her makeshift drum, a round plastic container.

Every few minutes, the conductor's voice reverberates at a deafening volume, announcing, "if you see something, say something,"  followed soon by, "Passengers, please be advised. Backpacks and other large containers are subject to random search by the police."

Riding to work, it's somewhat different. Fellow passengers find ways to cope. Orthodox Jewish men and women read from Psalms (Tehillim) in Hebrew. A woman holds a rosary while across from her another reads from a small Bible. Kids turn up their mp3 players, some playing games on small screens of cellphones. A man pulls out his macbook and types away.

Then there are the ones reading books and newspapers. Hard to tell fiction from non-fiction. 

A few carry on conversations. A few eat their breakfasts, sip or slurp from plastic and paper cups. Occasionally, someone's carrying a mug or a sandwich from home. I notice the little kids. They're the ones who don't know the rules. They're the ones twirling around poles or turning around in their seats to watch the underworld whizzing by.

At night, it shifts. At night, the rules are known and ignored. Rules become meaningless. Survival is the basic instinct. Freedom is the undercurrent. Creativity becomes its driving pulse. 

I'm tired. I notice those who are too. Tonight, two men get on. They're carrying big drums. They begin to play. At first, I'm irritated, my shoulders tense up. As the beat builds and sounds fill the space, my shoulders release. One of the drummers says, "we're here to bring joy." The other adds, "it's time to smile." 

They finish with a strong crescendo. They stand up and move around, holding out an upturned hat. I check my wallet. I just gave away my last dollar bill. All I've got is a bit of change. I look up. I hear one man thank a woman saying, "God bless you." He sees me. He smiles. I smile. I give him some change.

Tired as I am, I say the only thing that seems to matter, "Thank you." He nods his head, acknowledging this simple heartfelt gesture. He gathers his drums and joins his friend as they quickly find their way out. 

The doors close. The train moves on. 

I glance around the car. For an instant, our eyes meet. We see one another. The train picks up speed. The train arrives at the next station. The doors open. Some people get out. Some people get on.

I close my eyes and listen. The rumble shakes me loose. I still feel tired. Only now feeling tired feels free.

Feeling for the Organism

The freezing wind blows fiercely on Chambers Street in lower Manhattan. I climb the stairs and follow the directions from hopstop.com. My destination: Battery Park Regal Cinema. The day before, I'm talking with my buddy Edward at Ten Ren Tea and he tells me about a new movie called Avatar. The word sounds remotely familiar.

(Cosmic Dancer by Judy Seicho Fleischman)

I surf to Wikipedia and read:

In Hinduism, Avatar or Avatāra (Devanagari अवतार, Sanskrit for "descent" [viz., from heaven to earth]) refers to a deliberate descent of a deity from heaven to earth, and is mostly translated into English as "incarnation", but more accurately as "appearance" or "manifestation".

The free online dictionary offers:

2. An embodiment, as of a quality or concept; an archetype

3. a movable image that represents a person in a virtual reality environment or in cyberspace

Intrigued, the next day, I make my way downtown. Exiting the subway in the vicinity of Wall Street, I hear loud hammering sounds in the distance. As wind and bright sunlight flood between canyon walls shaped by skyscrapers, I feel revived. Everything seems big and small at the same time. Everyone is moving, all of us absorbed in the pulse of activity.

Barbara McClintock, the famed geneticist who discovered that genes are transposable (can move around) and thus play a critical role in the development of an organism; described a quality, which resonates with my experience today. She spoke of this quality as "a feeling for the organism."

She wrote:

"It never occurred to me that there was going to be any stumbling block. Not that I had the answer, but [I had] the joy of going at it. When you have that joy, you do the right experiments. You let the material tell you where to go, and it tells you at every step what the next has to be because you're integrating with an overall brand new pattern in mind."

What comes to mind right now is very simple. Keep moving. Stay warm. Walking by a flurry of construction in the vicinity of Ground Zero, I hear a man bundled in sweats call out to one of the workers: "Hey, what's this one gonna be?" I can't hear the response as the wind picks up. I see the thumbs-up from the curious passerby as he rebundles and hurries on.

The cold brings my attention to bare essentials. I wrap my scarf tightly around my nose and mouth and keep going. I check for street signs. Finally, thinking I'm close yet still not seeing the goal, I ask for help. Entering a Bagel store, I ask the person behind the counter. She replies in a tone, which indicates she's heard this request before. She says, "it's the next door down."

I thank her, exit and walk over as she directed. Now I see it.

The place is empty. I'm the only one in line. Monday matinee. I head up the escalator into an expansive atrium. I sit on a comfy bench covered in leatherette beside a sleek subtle pool of water, which softly gurgles as water spills over its edge. Beside it stands a small grove of bamboo extending 10 feet high and climbing, imperceptible though this might be to human eyes. Huge as this atrium is, the ceiling is nowhere in sight.

Through the gigantic windows, I see the Irish Hunger Memorial, which is dedicated to raising awareness of the Great Irish Famine and as the Parks Conservancy describes, "a reminder that hunger today is often due to lack of access to land." Someone is walking out there along an uphill path by what looks to be ruins of a stone cottage. Gazing out, I wonder, "What is it about a place that draws you to it? What is native habitat to a traveler?"

Seeing folks heading towards the theater snaps me out of mind musing. A sequence of escalators leads us to our destination. I enter and sit down. The lights darken. The film begins inauspiciously without credits. I only realize this is the film and not a trailer when I see fellow travelers putting on their 3D glasses. I put on mine. The vivid images and expansive sound quickly draw me into the story, or more accurately, into the world presented.

I enter that world. I feel my breath shifting, my eyes widening, my heart beating in sync with those of characters and the environment, which they inhabit. This is like no film I have experienced before.

When the film ends, my body feels the sensation of travelling without having physically moved from the seat. It's not just technology. The experience of sensing motion and stillness simultaneously continues when the movie ends. It reflects a shift in me. I feel happy, vibrantly calm, and connected. I feel the stirring of thoughts, questions arising. These I notice with a curious alert openness, which doesn't need to pursue them. I'm drawn instead to walk briskly outdoors, which I do for some time.

Later that day, my sister tells me about controversy surrounding the film, notably its portrayal of indigenous people. As we talk, I realize the openness remains as I attune with no need to defend a position. I feel free.

Days after this, I am visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see an exhibit, closing soon, entitled, Art of the Samurai. The description speaks of the distinction between the outer tools of the warriors, such as their armor and weaponry, and the inner tools, so to speak, expressed through their practice of tea ceremony and meditation. Walking and hearing people's impressions, I am troubled by what appears to be contradiction. For me, making peace with the warrior and more precisely, with war, is not easy.

Three days earlier, sitting in a class entitled, "Be the Change," I'm practicing a method called, "Non-Violent Communication," developed by Marshall Rosenburg, Ph.D. It is offered jointly by Thom Bond, trainer with The New York Center for Non-Violent Communication and Rick Ulfick, Founder of We the World. We are gathered in small groups called "empathy circles" practicing how to identify feelings and needs. Thom tells us that with practice, "what changes is the depth of relationship to feelings and needs. You can just care for them without needing to fill in the blanks. We can start acting based on that consciousness, in congruence with our values."

I share a moment of great difficulty, which keeps troubling me. Friends in circle offer empathy. They're not caught in the story. They're naming feelings and needs. While helpful, nothing truly resonates. Then, a man sitting beside me asks as he meets my gaze, "Are you feeling overwhelmed because you're needing compassion?" My eyes widen. "Yes," I reply. The tension in my chest, suddenly pierced, now loosens as the sensation of tears arises. Amazingly, crying is not necessary. The sensation expands into open awareness which holds all the people who had been locked in a story of mind including "me." The release is spontaneous. Now able to experience compassion for everyone, "they" and "I" seem like a dream. All that's real is the sensation of breathing as vast space itself.

After class, I head downstairs, joined by friends. The night is cold. We say goodnight. I bundle up and head where my feet are leading. Entering the video store, I browse and on an impulse, rent a film I've never heard of before, drawn to its title, The Snow Walker, and the photo of a man running with a herd of caribou.

Days later, after seeing the Samurai Exhibit, I go home and watch this film, which is based on a short story by Farley Mowat, entitled, "Walk Well, my Brother." Two strangers, a man and woman, walk together, struggling to survive in Canada's vast tundra after his plane crashes in the early 1950's. The man, a WWII veteran fighter pilot, is transporting a very young Inuit woman who is ill with Tuberculosis after her family pays him with two treasured Walrus tusks. He is haunted in a recurring nightmare of the moment he dropped bombs on a city. In a pivotal scene, portrayed poignantly in the movie, they are trying to communicate, knowing only fragments of one another's language. She tells him that night, "all things..." and gestures, exhaling. He responds, "breathe? Everything breathes?" also exhaling. She nods yes and continues, "when you die," and says a word, gesturing. Based on events earlier that day, he guesses, "you need your tools" as she gestures to indicate the same thing.

Much later in the journey, he finds himself again in the dream. This time, a hand reaches out to hold his just as he's about to push the bomb-release button. He drops the mechanism. His eyes meet hers. She is sitting beside him as co-pilot. He wakes up. Out on the chilly tundra, she's shaking him and handing him a makeshift spear. Together, they run towards a herd of caribou. She falls, too weak to hunt, and urges him on, shouting and pointing. He runs with the pack and kills one, then another, three in all. The meat and hide provide the food and garments needed for the rest of the journey.

I sense no hatred, no confusion, no distance. He's right there and so am I.

After the film ends, I sit in the darkness and open to stillness.

No questions remain. I am home.

Free Fall

Sitting in Dr. Zachary Bregman's office for the first time, I am intrigued by the focused intensity of his gaze, which seems to be saying, "I care deeply. Let's not waste time."

This message is punctuated by the unusual items in the reception room. Minutes earlier, wondering what time it is, I look up at the circular-shaped clock. There are no numbers visible, only the two stick "hands" to mark the minute and hour. One word appears repeatedly around the clock face: "Now. Now. Now."

This is a man who realizes time is precious. 

As we meet, he asks about my profession and employer. I tell him I recently became unemployed. He asks where I worked. When I tell him, his eyes light up. He tells me of his long-standing relationship with the organization, Housing Works, the nation's largest minority-run social service and advocacy agency for people living with HIV. He says with great enthusiasm, "I want to show you something," begins to search online, then turns and asks, "have you got time for this?"  I smile and say, "sure."

He tells me he was doctor to one of the organization's founders, Keith Cylar, who "passed away" five years earlier. He is trying to locate the tribute he wrote for the man, which had been on the website. As the conversation shifts, he begins to share his perspective on spirituality. He then turns his chair towards the computer, brings up a web browser, and begins to type. Then he turns back towards me and says he wants to send me a book and, "you have to promise you'll read it." I ask, "how long is it?" When he tells me and sees my expression, he adjusts his request to what he sees as key sections. I agree to check it out. The title, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. The author: Julian Jaynes. At home later, I go to Wikipedia and read:

"In psychology, bicameralism is a hypothesis which argues that the human brain once assumed a state known as a bicameral mind in which cognitive functions are divided between one part of the brain which appears to be "speaking", and a second part which listens and obeys. The term was coined by psychologist Julian Jaynes [who] theorized that a shift from bicameralism marked the beginning of introspection and consciousness as we know it today. . . A rash of unexpected situations and stresses required ancient minds to become more flexible and creative. Self-awareness, or consciousness, was the solution to this problem. This necessity of communicating commonly observed phenomena among individuals who shared no common language or cultural upbringing encouraged those communities to become self-aware to survive in a new environment. Thus consciousness, like bicamerality, emerged as a neurological adaptation to social complexity in a changing world. Jaynes further argues that prayer arose during this breakdown period in an attempt to summon instructions from the "gods" whose voices could no longer be heard. Jaynes's hypothesis remains controversial."

Back in the doctor's office, we re-focus on the reason for my visit. First, I am a new patient referred to him by a friend, and here for a check-up. More immediately, I am here because I am recuperating from a fall in late October. 

On that difficult Saturday night, through a light drizzle of rain, I head at a brisk pace towards the subway. Driven by a surge of urgency while walking, I check my cell phone for email. I am anxious to hear from a friend regarding plans for the next day's Potluck Tea Party. Suddenly, I feel my legs slip out from under me as I trip over some low lying object, which rips through my pants clear to the knee. I fall forward. I feel a sharp force on my front teeth as they make contact with the pavement. Stunned, I stay on the ground as my tongue surveys the interior scene. I can feel the broken tooth, just left of center. 

In that moment, all words disappear. The voices are silenced. No one to admonish, "pay attention!" No one to lament or cry out in anger about the injustice of it. The only relevant word for what is happening is completely devoid of personality. That word resounds though I don't hear it as a word. I experience it as my whole body shaking.

 "Now."

Lying beside the tree, I also feel my body tensing with recognition of its fragility.

Just then, I hear two male voices, quickly followed by their arms reaching towards me to assist. "Are you ok?"  I slowly scan my body and decide to sit up. I look around. I'm sitting beside a large tree. Surrounding it is a foot-high mesh fence, painted black. One man sees me gazing at the fence and pointing to it, says, "that was an accident waiting to happen. Who can see that?"

I look up, keenly aware of the large tree, which minutes earlier, I did not see it at all.

The man locates my cell phone and hands it to me. It is undamaged, thanks to its protective shell. I call my friend Marjorie, who amazingly, helps me locate an "emergency dentist," Dr. Isaac Dakitashvili. A few hours later, he provides immediate care and helps me plan next steps for dental treatment.

The next day, my chest feels as if someone is standing on it. Fortunately, at a walk-in clinic, I learn that I have only sustained minor cuts and bruises along with what that doctor refers to as inflammation from the impact. This is causing the pain. Days later, I still feel woozy and achy. Everything I do is slowed down.

I stay close to home and inquire about possible jobs. On a friend's recommendation, I make an appointment to see Dr. Bregman the following week.  A few days later, I go to Harlem for the NY State Department of Labor orientation for the newly unemployed. I fill out forms along with everybody else. We sit in a room for some time, waiting. No one seems to know what's happening next. Many folks click away on their cell phones. 

Now in Dr. Bregman's office, he confirms that other than dental damage (the treatment of which is a story in itself), I am recuperating quickly.  He says, "Look, you had a minor accident. You just lost your job. You had a lot going on. You were distracted.  You can't afford to be distracted."

The words shake me. My mind shifts to the day when I had just heard the news of my termination. I ask Cesar, my psychotherapist colleague, to walk outdoors with me. We move at a brisk pace. Strong waves of reactivity keep surfacing. I suddenly stop and face him saying, "I need to focus. I feel anger and hurt. I hear the stories, but right now, I need to focus on what's important. I want to connect. I don't want to label anyone as a villian or as a victim. I want to say goodbye in a meaningful way." He says to me, "that's right. You can't afford to be distracted." We smile and head back.

Around mid-November, I contact Diana, Director of Creative Arts Therapy at the Center, and offer to visit on Thanksgiving. She texts me in response to my asking if they have hired a chaplain, "no, we just have your ideas." I arrive at 11:45am. The place is decorated manificently. At the entrance, pasted to a transparent glass wall is a painted cut-out of a broad-branched tree. Small white lights glow around it, inviting in everyone who walks by.

As I enter, many clients and staff approach. We exchange hugs and well wishes. Susan, the Executive Director, greets me warmly. She asks if I'd be willing to offer a meal blessing before we begin the feast. I say I'd be happy to. She introduces me as a "special guest." I notice a quality of energetic ease in my body. I begin, then stop, not sure what to say next. Then I hear myself say, "We pause for a moment to appreciate all the effort that brought us this food, to appreciate this precious life, to appreciate our efforts, that we show up, that we participate in this healing community." Many people are holding hands. There is a palpable stillness in the room. 

Hours later, leaving the building, my body feels free. Making sure that my cell phone is carefully tucked away, I walk towards the river. An image flashes into my mind. 

Days earlier, in Queens, I am tutoring a young woman in physics. The subject is gravity. Staring at equations in the textbook, she tells me how confusing the problems are. She asks me to explain free fall. I paint her a picture in words. "Imagine what it might be like to stand at the open doorway of a plane flying thousands of feet above the ground." She looks towards me with newfound excitement. I continue, "Now, with your parachute strapped on tightly, you move one step forward and let go." I add with a mischievous smile, "or maybe you jump out." She laughs. "Before the chute opens," I say, "what do you suppose happens?" Her eyes light up. She says with full attention, "free fall." I get that she gets it, feels it in her body. The details soon fall into place. She checks the back of the book. She got the right answer.

Moving On

I am drawing smiley hearts on the back of small wallet-sized cards. On the flip side of these cards, typed over a background pattern of blue sky and white clouds read the words, "Healing Ourselves, Healing Community."

I am giving these cards to clients and colleagues as a parting gift. Today is my last day serving as clinical chaplain at a large, adult day "harm reduction" treatment center in New York City for people living with HIV. Many clients are "triply diagnosed," with mental illness, substance "use" (addiction), and/or trauma history. They are largely people of color, including a growing contingent of women, with long histories of homelessness or at-risk housing. 

Multiple factors contribute to the approaching termination. Understanding how and why this is happening no longer seems important.

I am focussed on saying farewell. This is not easy. I am filled with emotion. For nearly four years, we have travelled together through some of the most moving and difficult moments of our lives. We built a healthcare program, which engages clients and staff in what could be called broadly-framed spirituality, as the foundation for healing. We offered opportunities for everyone to keep returning to essential questions:

What keeps me going? What's important right now?

These questions then become the frame through which to focus. 

I pause with a cup of tea, and draw hearts on the remaining cards. Most clients have left.

A week earlier, on a Friday, shortly before hearing the news regarding termination, I venture outdoors with fifteen clients and James, a new social worker, for a group entitled, "Be the Change." It connects with the theme of a program offered on September 11. In bright sunshine, we walk to the recently opened Highline Park. The park used to be a long stretch of abandoned railroad tracks. Now it brings people together to relax and connect while offering a poignant reminder of possibility.

We have a grand time doing just that.

 As we walk, clients share their experiences of transformation. One client tells me of his aspiration to serve others now that he is in recovery.

Arriving back at the Center, I soon learn of the termination and that my next work day, scheduled to be a Tuesday, would be my last. I advocate for an extension to that Friday, which given this half-time position, means three days to terminate with over one hundred clients as well as many colleagues. Susan, our executive director, says she'll see what she can do.

Over the weekend, not knowing if my next day at work will be my last, I ponder how to transition. After mindfully riding stormy waves of emotional reactivity, I realize that caring for myself is of utmost importance. I ride the breath and slowly focus.

I remember how each week, in a group entitled, "Moving On," I ask each client to contemplate, "How am I moving on?"

I begin to draft a letter to staff expressing what our time together means to me. I stop. I cannot write. My mind goes visual. I start making Healing Community cards. I think of an image accompanied by words, which has become a logo expressing the vision of our program. This logo evolved over time during countless "spiritual groups" with titles including, "Moving On," "Spirituality and Addictions," "Ancient Wisdom and Well-Being," "TranSpirit," and "Keeping Your Cool." I would draw a circle in the middle of a blackboard. Around the edge of the circle I'd write three words: safety, trust, respect. 

As folks told their stories, I would list in the middle of the circle core human values, which they named in responding to breath-centered contemplations:

Breathing in, What keeps me going? 

Breathing out, What's important right now?

I call this method Attuned Breath Centering.

If someone names an addictive substance or behavior, I ask, "what's important about that?" Soon enough, somebody would say, "it helps me relax," and this might lead to deeper exploration. Someone might mention "money" or "get a job." As we go deeper, they might say, "Then I'd know my life serves a purpose" or "Then, I'd feel connected," "I'd be happy."

We learned in those groups to speak the language of Non-Violent Communication, which expresses intimacy as the experience of meeting everybody's needs.

Sitting at home, it is my turn to consider all those words and put the ones that matter on this card. Sitting in front of the laptop with a "business card" template file open, I am staring at many circles with nothing typed in their centers. In the silence of breathing in and breathing out, the words come. I type,

Healing Ourselves, Healing Community

After printing these cards, I want to add a personal touch, something handwritten or hand drawn. I turn a card over and draw a smiley heart in the center of the circle. I turn it over again, seeing the blue sky and clouds. I hold it up to the light. There, shining through is the smile. 

I sit for over an hour drawing smiles on card after card. I feel a calm joy settling in.

Next, I print a poem written in the last year entitled, Prayer for the Journey. The next day, I make copies of the poem and buy heart-shaped paper clips in various colors. Back home, I begin to prepare packages of the poem and card connected with the heart clip. 

When I return to to the Center on Tuesday, Susan tells me my request has been granted and my last day will be Friday. The poignant announcement and sharings during morning staff meeting are punctuated by Susan expressing her appreciation and me expressing mine, then letting colleagues know my plans to offer a parting gift to clients, which I also plan to give to each of them. I hand one to Susan and say, "I'll need to make more for staff. For now, I would like to entrust this one to Susan and thank her for leadership during very difficult times." She is moved and we all meet in a tender space, which holds very different emotional responses to the news. It feels most intimate.

After the meeting, I stop by Susan's office to check in. Referring to the upcoming community meeting scheduled for 11am, she says, "I'm not looking forward to this. The clients will be upset." I reply, "I'll stand with you." Our eyes meet. She says, "thank you. I really appreciate that."

I walk slowly down the corridor towards our dining area where the meeting is to take place. 

I see the pillar in the center. During our fourth annual A Day of Unity, held in July, we covered the pillar with paper cutouts in the shape of hands. On each hand is a message connecting with that day's theme. On the table in front of this pillar stands the poster we placed there on September 11, entitled, "Keep the Ball Rolling: Be the Change."

I think of another pillar, which stands at the opposite end of the facility. It is composed of tiny ceramic tiles in a gorgeous mosaic, which express themes of hope and peace. Towards the center of that pillar is the image of the famous red ribbon marking the journey of living and dying with HIV. This project, which took one year to complete, was the inspiration of Diana, the Director of Creative Arts Therapies.

I realize what we all have accomplished together. We have come full circle. My chest feels warm and expansive. My hands tremble slightly.

I place the farewell gifts in a medium-sized wicker basket. Just before the community gathers for announcements including that of my imminent departure, I walk over to the "Be the Change" table in the center of the room. I place the basket there.

The meeting, called, "Living Well" group, begins. After Susan briefly shares the news, I address everyone. I explain the circumstances as best I understand them, which contributed to this termination. I mention succinctly the complex interplay of changing government and agency guidelines compounded by economic challenges for the agency. I say, "I am aware that this decision was made with sadness and careful consideration."

As I speak, I am mindful of my intention not to separate from anyone and not to cast anyone as victim or villian. I focus on healing. I focus on connecting.

I mention Dr. King's vision of the Beloved Community, which inspired our program of Healing Community and continues as each of us moves on and expresses this vision. In closing, I ask a client sitting in the back of the room to sing with me what is practically an anthem in many parts of Latin America, "Gracias a la Vida." Thanks to Life. As I speak, Mercedes de la Sosa, the Argentinian folksinger, who made the song famous and was dubbed, "the voice of the silent majority," is herself dying. 

Completely willing, this gentle man, a long-term client in this program, sings loudly and with a dignified passion. The room comes alive. We close with an affirmation of living and growing together. 

Soon after, clients come over to share hugs and say whatever they need to say. One client pats me on the back and says energetically, "that was the best goodbye I ever heard!"

As clients form a line for lunch, I go from one to the next, the basket in hand, offering this gift and showing them the heart saying, "you can only see it if you hold it up to the light." Their eyes open with a playful glint. We smile. I move on, greeting the next person.

Later that day, I write an email to colleagues. I thank them for the journey we have shared, saying:

"Journeys are endless and gardens need water to grow. Organizations need funds. People need to be sustained in mind/body/spirit. Thank you for continuing to engage creatively, for gathering this precious water and offering it freely. May our garden of Healing Community continue to grow, even as leaves turn. May we always remember that at its center is the tree of life, whose graceful branches and deep roots reach everywhere."

Throughout the next few days, I approach clients, making sure they're aware of the change. Sometimes they approach me. I tell them of changes I have witnessed in them, while affirming their wholehearted determination to keep going simply by showing up in the program. I listen as they voice a range of emotions connecting with stories of regret and disappointment, of no chance to say goodbye, and for many, of connection and gratitude. Most challenging of all, I listen attentively as they tell me how they appreciate what I have offered. 

On Friday, I venture outdoors one last time with clients, twenty or so, and James, the new social worker, with whom I set out a week earlier. 

Again we walk to the new Highline Park. At the top of the stairs, we look out. I look up and see blue sky and white clouds. Minutes earlier it was overcast and some predicted rain. I pull out a Healing Community card. I say, "Now we are all card-carrying members of Healing Community." I offer cards to anyone who doesn't yet have one. We hold them up to the light.

For a moment I feel choked up. There are tears in my eyes. 

I look out again. I see those smiles. Some are disguised as sadness and longing. Even so, as one client after another comes over to embrace, as our tears intermingle, I hear "thank you," "you changed my life," "God bless you." I recognize the smile that is always present. I feel it. This is love, true love.

By 3pm, I am beginning to feel overwhelmed. I pause for a cup of tea. Sitting at my desk, I turn over a card and draw a smiley heart, then another. I place these cards in a basket. 

Colleagues surprise me with a brief sendoff with cookies and flowers. Then, I offer the final TranSpirit group for participants in a transgender outreach program.

An hour later, walking out of my office for the last time, I hear the sounds of folks arriving. It's time for a weekly meeting of Narcotics Anonymous, hosted here "after hours."

I place the basket on a counter beside the entrance. I walk one last time to our Healing Community board, which is situated near the entrance and lists this month's theme, "Transitioning." A man walking by says, "hey, how's it going?" With tears in my eyes, I meet his gaze and almost with surprise, find myself smiling. Seeing him seeing me, I feel completely transparent. He smiles, nodding his head as if to say, "I understand." I nod, responding freely in that silence, and move on.

Walk the Line

September 11. I'm riding the subway into work, an adult day treatment center for folks living with HIV. We have coordinated an interdisciplinary program entitled, "Healing Ourselves, Healing Community." 

These words invite an experience of connecting with two significant questions: "what keeps me going?" and "what's important right now?" 

I often return to these questions and ask them with clients and colleagues alike. They are useful questions when considering another: How does one structure a healing program that has the potential to reach everyone and include everything? 

Preparing for this day, some folks tell me they would prefer to forget. Some need to grieve. Many want to look ahead while finding meaning and purpose.

I serve in this setting as a clinical chaplain. Today, I'm working closely with Diana, the Director of Creative Arts Therapies. We consider our resources. With very limited funds, we focus on the resources of creativity, connection, and community. As a cook might look in the cupboard for ingredients, we play with what and who is available.

We set up a poster with the words, "Keep the ball rolling: Be the Change." It shows a soccer ball with an image of world continents superimposed. "Be the Change," Gandhi's call to action, seems fitting in a location just north of what became Ground Zero eight years earlier.

We place a basket filled with short pieces of white ribbon. beside it is an invitation to "add your spark" along with guidelines:

"Make a healing wish, then place your ribbon, adding your spark, on the board."

Within an hour, the board is shining with white ribbons. 

Later that evening, I join hundreds of folks in a floating lantern ceremony on the Hudson River.

It is offered by the NY Buddhist Church in partnership with Families for Peaceful Tomorrows, the Interfaith Center of NY, and the Buddhist Council of NY.  As clouds drift over the moon, lanterns with heartfelt messages are set afloat on the river by the NY Kayak Club.

I sing softly into a microphone as Rev. Nakagaki rings a big bell. The melody and words float out into the night:

"A star at dawn. A bubble in a stream. A flash of lightening in a summer cloud.

A flickering lamp. . . so is this fleeting world."

This verse from the the Diamond Sutra, a Buddhist teaching, is one of many offered, along with comforting words and music from diverse spiritual and cultural traditions. Sikh friends prepare a vegetarian dinner for everyone. Waiting in line, I meet strangers and become friends. I place my bowl over the largest soup pot I've ever seen. Looking up, a new friend meets me in a smile. We sit together and eat.

The next day, I join with friends from the Grafton Peace Pagoda in walking through Harlem. Since 2002, they walk nearly 200 miles in ten days, beginning on September 11 in New York City with a peace vigil. Theirs is a peacewalk open to anyone who wants to join, be it for an hour, a day, or the entire journey. I join for an afternoon.

As we walk, people smile. Sometimes, we bow our heads in acknowledgement. Occasionally, we playfully gesture with little kids along the way. We're a strange sight in the neighborhood. Some view us with suspicion. The process invites focus and commitment to intention. What is "peace" in this moment? How am I walking?

A song pops into my head, Johnny Cash singing, "I walk the line." He wrote that song facing addiction and its impact on those he loved. During the process, he slowly learned to love himself and turn his life around. He became deeply committed to walking his talk, visiting Folsom Prison and relating to their experience as his own. He sang his heart out.

Johnny wore black. He discovered light intermingled with darkness and met people there. Continuing to walk, I feel that sense of complete transparency, that willingness to be vulnerable to whatever and whoever shows up. 

On these Harlem streets, sounds call attention. The boom bass connects with a stream of syncopated words, latest hip hop. These sounds rise and fall as we walk into other rhythms, those of salsa and merengue.

Time change. Neighborhoods shift. What's important right now?

No time for weighty considerations. A kid maybe five years old waves to me. I wave back. The light turns green. He stays beside his mom. We move on. As we get closer to the George Washington bridge, we stop on a street corner, saying goodbye. No need for words. We all feel the pulse. The smiles come naturally. Some bow gently.

The light changes. I turn and pause for a moment. My feet remember another way to go. I cross the street and head towards the river.

Ancient Wisdom

Wandering through DIA museum in Beacon, NY, I'm aware of the rain continuing to fall outside. It offers a layer of sound, which complements the wide open space. Long corridors, red brick walls, and incredibly high ceilings remind of its origins as a Nabisco box-printing facility before it was re-purposed to hold unusually large pieces of art. Skylights and big windows contribute to the sense of spaciousness. Walking through, it's easy to follow an impulse without knowing what's around the corner.

Today I'm drawn toward an immense, curved metal structure shaped and colored like the rusting hull of a small ship. It's a sculpture by Richard Serra entitled, Elevational Wedge. Moving beside it as I circle the full shape, the sensation of flowing feels like dancing with a partner who knows how to lead and follow at the same time. Coming full circle, my body feels a slingshot effect.

Inner space opens into outer space as I'm pulled, like a spaceship as gravity swings it into a different trajectory. Finding myself going downstairs, this dance flows into a universe of Serra's expansive vision of space being time. Next thing I notice is the cooling comfort of the gigantic sculptures, which transport me to the Canyonlands of southern Utah, a region I explored with a dear friend years ago.

A week earlier, I'm co-facilitating a group entitled, Ancient Wisdom and Well Being at an Adult Day Treatment Center for clients living with HIV. Many of these folks report history of homelessness, violence, addiction, and mental illness. I serve as a clinical chaplain. My colleague Cesar, a psychotherapist, is co-facilitating. His specialization is Mindful Recovery.

Framing this session in terms of body wisdom, I guide clients in experiential exercises to pay attention to body posture while sitting and standing. Inviting reflections afterwards on this process, Cesar remarks, "I'm realizing my long standing relationship with gravity." For clients grappling with fears of abandonment, these words comfort as they educate.

One man who identifies as "spiritual" responds, "When I'm running, I feel His presence. The rhythm, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth." A woman who at the outset of the group asks, "What should I do to know ancient wisdom?" now declares confidently, "Where my feet lead, my head will follow." We all agree to practice with paying attention to posture during the week ahead.

Back in metal canyonville, sounds feel like echoes. The room, while lighted, also exhibits a dark hue. I enter one massive sculpture, moving through it as if in a maze in near darkness. I hear laughter and the soft patter of approaching footsteps. Then, two kids, brother and sister, maybe 7 or 8 years old, round the bend and stream by, seemingly out of nowhere. They run past me, giggling. Soon, more youngsters appear as I glide through new sculptures.

Each kid explores the curves, some running hands along the walls, some with hands held out as if flying. They instinctively get whatever it is that feels captivatingly natural here. Their parents, watchful mostly, seem less enthralled and more attuned to observing the scene. I feel a tinge of sadness. Then, I see a boy and girl, also quite young, listening attentively as their dad tells them stories. He invites them to touch, to feel their way. The kids ask questions. They reflect the glint in their father's eyes as his enthusiasm ignites their own.

Richard Serra writes,
"What interests me is the opportunity for all of us to become something different from what we are by constructing spaces that contribute something to the experience of who we are."

A week later, I'm back in Manhattan, curving the island's southern tip, once more hugging the riverside. The place feels different. My sense of space is shifting. Again, feet lead the head. I emerge from the Esplanade, looking for the subway station, which has been an interim structure just north of South Ferry. This evening, the temporary entrance is locked up. A man and woman walking by offer assistance. "They finally opened the new station," he tells me, "We're walking there now."

The three of us walk together for several minutes, our feet's rhythm adjusting to one another's movements. We part ways at the entrance. I head downstairs and through the turnstile. A mural on the wall draws me closer. It's part of a new installation by Doug and Mike Starn entitled, See it Split, See it Change.

Images of silhouetted trees call attention. The bare branches strip the moment down to its essence. Deep silence ripples out like water behind the wake of a slowly moving ship.

This silence remains as a rumbling sound builds and fills the space. Hearing the train approaching, I head down to meet it.