Through the Looking Glass

Walking along Battery Park Esplanade in lower Manhattan on a recent Saturday night, I turn to head back to "civilization" of city streets and elusive (in these parts) subway stops. Perhaps that's why I am drawn to such places as the Hudson River. I feel a clean and safe vibe, which helps me open and experience space as incomprehensibly vast. The transition "back" fascinates me. Signs of urban planning elicit their share of criticism. What I experience as "safe and clean," others might call "exclusive" and "antiseptic." This tension of views encourages me to explore. I head east towards the West Side Highway, a stretch of road one crosses as if traversing a mighty river. I have learned to proceed with caution. 

I approach the highway, following a flurry of headlights and tail-lights. With few people in sight and unsure of how to cross over, I see a tall figure approaching. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I ask, "Do you know where's the closest subway stop?" "Come with me," he replies in a confident tone as his tall frame resumes moving at lightning-fast pace. I match his stride, struggling to keep up with my much shorter legs, thankful to be wearing hiking boots. As light spills out briefly from a tower of apartments, I notice the red/blue striped shirt draped over his shoulders. Crisp, neat, and with an understated elegance; he glides along, his cropped brown hair bobbing just so below his ears. 

He asks if I'm new to the area. I reply, "no, though I am new to this part of town." What I mean is that in one sense I am very familiar with the terrain AND there's always something new to discover. These subtleties are swept away as we move. I ask him, "Have you been here a while?" figuring the question is sufficiently open-ended. I hear an accent, European though not quite familiar. He says, "I'm from Bulgaria," and has been here less than a year. "I live down here and work down here. I like it."

As we get to the highway, the "Walk" light flashing red, he says with emphasis, "Let's make that, quickly." I feel comforted and keep stride, thinking here's someone who knows where he's going, or at least where he's heading. "Bowling Green," he interjects as we get to the other side. My mind scans for a reference. Context informs. This must be the name of the subway stop. His cell phone lights flash. In the swirl of night traffic, I don't hear the phone ring as we continue to move and he speaks, "yes, you're in the Honda. I'm 100 yards from you." He listens, then updates his report, "Yes, yes, now 80 yards." He hangs up and continues, "Bowling Green - it's where they tore down the statue of George III." He notes my quizzical look as I sift through memory banks for a clue. 

He clarifies, "In Bulgaria, we learned American history. During the American Revolution, Bowling Green and the Boston Tea Party. . ." "Tea," I think to myself encouragingly, now you're speaking my language. My mind flashes to that harbor, imagining the rebellious taste of that bitter brew. His pace leaves little space for musings. "There used to be a wall." Again I'm confused. "Wall Street. It's named for that wall. They used it to keep the animals in, also for protection but they didn't really have to worry about that." Noting our location, blocks south of Ground Zero, I pause even  as our pace quickens. "What animals?" I wonder, picturing something akin to Noah's ark arriving at these shores. Dutch accents. Two by two. How did they navigate the cobblestones? Or did that come later? 

My newfound friend stops as we arrive at a street corner noticeably quieter and darker than where we've been. He points east, "There. Go straight 100 yards. Don't go left. Don't go right. Remember." I promise I will, nodding yes. "Bowling Green," he says one final time.  "Thanks," I reply hurriedly. "OK," he says then turns and is gone as quickly as he arrived, leaving what feels like a wake moving through me. There, in a moment where wilderness and civilization meet and time resonates with itself as history, I stand still in awe. Then much slower now, I make my way to the station and get on a train heading north.

The next evening, I return to that river, following an instinctual impulse to catch the final rays of a spectacular sunset on the walkway slightly uptown of Battery Park.  Soon after, I notice a man finishing up construction work and ask if he knows where's the closest subway stop. He points to a man standing beside the highway who's waiting for the light to change. "Go with him. He's going there." When I get to the light and share my request, this man smiles and introduces himself, "My name is Joseph," in an accent, which I place as West African.

He says he's from Ghana has been here nearly five years. When I respond, "that's a long time," he replies, "not so long" and remarks, "When I get here, I see on the train, everybody looks up. I look up too. Nothing there. In Ghana, people look at each other, look when they see something they like, what's beautiful. Here nobody looks." "People read, listen to music," I add, "or look down." Joseph affirms, "yes, or look down." He turns to face me as we walk at a brisk pace. I remark, "it's cold here," guessing this is a factor in his pace. "Yes," he responds, "it's the wind from the river." He asks if I'm a tourist. I tell him, "I'm a traveler." He laughs.

I ask, "How long does it take you to get home?" "An hour," he tells me, clarifying that he lives in the Bronx. He asks what country I'm from. when I tell him which states I've lived in the U.S., he says, "Oh, you're American." He asks me about Oregon, a state I lived in for seven years. "Is it mostly white people?" "Yes, it is," I admit. "And in Ghana?" Right on cue, he says, "It's mostly black." We smile again with wry recognition and fill in details. I ask him about the terrain and seasons. "It's tropical. We have Harmattan December, January, and a little of February." I comment, "not long like winter here." "No," he agrees. I feel his sigh. 

When we get to the subway at Chambers Street, the train is right there. He flashes a smile once more and gets on the #3 train. I return that smile, "Goodbye, Joseph." "OK!" he exclaims as the doors close. I stand still. The train pulls away. Within minutes, the #1 train arrives. I get on. Riding home, a flurry of images and sensations tumble through one another. Somewhere in the midst of that collage, I feel myself settling into the rhythm. I wonder, "Whatever happened to that wall?" 

A week later, I get on a train and head to the burbs for an outdoor "camping" birthday party. It's for an 8-year old friend. As evening comes and we light a campfire, a girl her age shows me some bugs she's collected in a small glass jar. There are holes in the screw-on top. She asks, "will they live in there overnight?" I hesitate, unsure. 

Sitting by the fire as she shows me the creatures she's gathered, I think again of that wall. I smile and answer her as best I can, "I think so. I don't know for sure. What do you think?" I invite her to explore. 

She sits beside me studying their movements and starts telling me what she sees. I realize she's seeing it from her side of the glass. I'm thinking about how it might be on the other side. I start playing with her, imagining what it's like for them. She laughs. 

The next morning, I find the jar. It's empty.

Seeing Continuation

The signs are everywhere. Something to celebrate. The air feels fresh. The ground is moist from frequent showers.

Wandering a week ago in lower Manhattan, I notice an open gate leading into a community garden: the Liz Christy Bowery Houston Community Garden to be precise. 

A light breeze sets the trees in motion. White and pink blossoms sway, drawing me closer. I enter. One winding path leads to another. Passing by gorgeous vignettes of Spring in full bloom,  I wonder, "Where did Winter go?"

I.I. Rabi, a Nobel prize winning physicist, was once asked something along the lines of, "How did you get to be who you are today?" Rabi grew up in a Yiddish-speaking neighborhood in NYC. His father was a grocer. He shared this story. "When I was growing up, my mother would never ask me, "Izzy, what did you learn today?" Instead, she'd say, "Did you ask good questions?"

Back in the garden, my questions dissolve as a brilliant collage of color stops me. Daffodils and tulips rise up amidst an array of flowers I cannot name. Just then, a man passing through also stops. Together, we stand, silently transfixed. 

In Ray Bradbury's  The Martian Chronicles, he describes an "impossible meeting." Two strangers meet in the "middle of nowhere" and trying to shake hands, one man's hand slips like a shadow through the other's. The reader cannot tell, though each character has a solid opinion, of who is in the past and who is in the future. 

It's a lot like this in my work as a clinical chaplain. The only measure of healing is in relationship. Conditions and responses are interwoven. As a healthcare provider and before that as an astronomer, I ask questions, which help to identify and record measurable outcomes. At the same time, healing is experiential. Try to grasp or explain it and the healing opportunity slips away.

Visiting a client last week who is living with HIV and preparing for discharge from the hospital, I attune to the surroundings. He is recovering from surgery on his arm. The shunt placed there years back for thrice weekly (3x/week) dialysis treatments is no longer usable. His arm, bandaged in white gauze, puffs out like an eerily illuminated cloud. Seeing me and surprised, he smiles broadly. 

He shows me the Get Well balloon his grown niece brought with an image of two band-aids overlapping one another at a slight angle. He tells me with fire in his eyes, "It's a sign! It's the cross." 

I look up at the balloon slowly losing air.

He says that he sees what is hidden even as his eyesight slowly diminishes. He shares stories from earlier in his life.  He says that in "my country" (in South America), he welcomed strangers into his home and  that this made him very happy. He pauses. His eyes widen. He asserts, "I'm not afraid to die." Unspoken between us is a silent truth. We smile. I extend my hand. He offers his. We talk more. I direct him to his primary doctor and his case manager, respectively, to further explore specific concerns regarding treatment. I make notes after leaving, which help me to coordinate next steps with the team of care providers.

That evening, I light a candle to mark the anniversary of my grandmother's passing, a woman my sisters and I called Bubby. She spoke six languages. What spoke to me most was how she'd lean out the window of her sixth floor apartment and wave to us as we came or went.

In my apartment the next morning, I wake up to find the candle flame nearly extinguished. Later in the day, I head to Inwood Park in Northern Manhattan, famous for its stand of "old growth" native trees. Walking among them, I see a fallen log. I kneel down and scoop a handful of the reddened wood, which is slowly decomposing. It crumbles in my hand as I lift it to my nose and breathe in the lush earthy scent.

I feel a drop of water. Soon, what begins as a light sprinkle shifts to a stronger flow.

Following the winding path, I find my way back to city streets.  Just as I arrive home, the skies now completely darkened, lightning flashes across the sky and a thunderous roar startles me. I hurry inside.

Alone in the dark, I sit beside the window until tiredness overcomes curiosity. I curl up on the couch and close my eyes, then open them as a few tears spill out. 

It's the first time I've cried in weeks. 

Feels good.

Silent Illumination

As I prepare to sort through the piles of paper and other sundry items collecting in the alleys and byways of my apartment, I wonder how they piled up. How did they get here? Not a big stretch to grasp the bigger question, How did I get here?

A line from a Chinese Zen text, Guidepost for Silent Illumination, comes to mind:

From the beginning to end the changing appearances

and ten thousand differences share one pattern.

Like a lot of folks, I get caught sometimes in anxiety and confusion, usually coming from a sense of overwhelm by details and lack of clarity about what to do next. I notice it as constriction, specifically my chest tightening and my field of vision narrowing. It could be hours or days until I realize having lost touch with the bigger picture.

Then something shifts.

Like earlier this week, walking down the street thinking about how to begin a talk I was scheduled to give that day, I passed by fifteen or so teenagers heading into an adjoining community garden, rakes and shovels in hand. I heard a neighbor say loudly, "we can start here." I smiled, then heard these youngsters laughing, poking fun at each other's clumsiness with the tools. I laughed at my clumsiness. Here they were, city kids clearing out broken branches and other accumulated debris to make way for new plantings. Here I was, doing the same.

The day before, during a group I facilitate as a clinical chaplain for folks living with HIV, called, Moving On, a client shared his experience in prison. Newly diagnosed with HIV, he wondered how he got there. He said, "That was me crying out like Jesus, Why have You forsaken me?" Right after this, another participant stated fervently, "I don't believe in God. I'm responsible for what happens to me. And those pyramids weren't built by slave labor. They were built in gratitude to Pharaoh, who was a god to the Egyptian people."

What is the pattern in such a moment?

For me, coming back to the breath and intention helps.

Like five days earlier when a patient for whom I was caring at a nearby hospital died. Standing at the funeral home days later, greeting her loved ones, I wondered how to provide a healing and widely accessible container. She identified as Buddhist. Her family and friends were a mix of secularly and religiously identified people. Some Catholic, some Muslim, a few Buddhist, and many "unaffiliated" (as I often hear this category of people labelled). Some described themselves as "lapsed" or "non-practicing." One elderly woman held a rosary.

I attuned, then spoke about how during her final days and hours, the woman they called daughter, sister, niece, aunt, or friend affirmed what mattered to her most. She had said, "to feel cared for." I spoke about how she had shifted during those days to recognizing that caring for and cared for are inter-connected. Breathing in, caring. Breathing out, caring. This became her focus. She died peacefully surrounded by family and friends.

During the funeral, I offered a song with a simple melody that expressed a form of loving-kindness meditation, which she practiced:

May all beings be free from suffering.
May all being be free from fear.
May all beings be happy.

I was surprised and thankful as most everyone began to sing along. As we sang, I felt something shift in the room. I felt her presence. People cried, then smiled. It was a moment of deep caring.

Days later, Friday evening with sunset approaching, I joined friends at a teashop in Chinatown. We celebrated a young friend's birthday and another friend's visit, a former employee who now lives in the midwest. The birthday girl blew out the candle and made a wish. We took photos and guessed ingredients in the cake. Everybody laughed.

Today at the supermarket, I saw boxes of chocolate-covered matza and chocolate easter eggs. It's in these details that I see our shared journey. Expressed in different forms, posing different questions, all of them point to what matters most.

Sitting now beside the window, questions fall away. Coming back to the breath, I listen to the hum of cars passing, kids playing, and a few birds chirping. I feel my body relaxing and expanding. The afternoon light begins to sparkle.

Who can say what this is?

Girls' Day

Yesterday was my birthday. It also was a day of celebration in Japan called Hina-Matsuri or Girls' Day. 

I knew where I wanted to be to celebrate both occasions - a beautiful teahouse called, "Cha An" in Manhattan's East Village. Cha An is tucked away along a street affectionately known as "Japan row."

I had not been there in many months. Thanks to my sister Evelyn's generosity, I had funds for the occasion. Evelyn lives in California. She sent me a card saying, "do what makes you happy" enclosed with a check.

Talking on the phone that day, she told me a story that poignantly brought that point home.

Once, as Evelyn was talking with a friend and struggling to authentically express herself, this friend put out crayons and paper. Evelyn began to draw.  She discovered (as she said to me) that, "I needed to be served those crayons." She needed this because she couldn't serve herself, offer herself the time and space to follow a free-flowing impulse.

She encouraged me to play. Heeding her wisdom, I followed that impulse and walked. Bright sunshine and a cold wind kept me moving along the Hudson River Park on through Soho and Chinatown. Then, I hopped on a subway train as daylight faded. Within minutes, I landed in the East Village at Cha An.

When I arrived after the afternoon of joyful wandering, the women working there greeted me as a long gone sister, happy and relieved to see me. I felt an impulse to share with them that it was my birthday. These dear friends showered me with affection.  We exchanged bows and in some cases, gentle hugs.

The joy in this space is palpable on any day. Even so, on Girls' Day, there was a touch of playfulness and warmth that felt fresh. On each table lay a gorgeous and understatedly elegant flyer describing the day. The origins and traditions fascinate me. One of the customs is to place straw dolls out on a flowing body of water such as a river or ocean to free oneself of hindrances and particularly with focus on protecting children. Families receive gifts of these dolls in honor of their young daughters.

On each table in the teahouse, there were two origami "dolls" reflecting another theme of the day - partnership. I watched my friends serve, these women gliding through the cozy room clothed in earth-toned uniforms, which reminded me of those dolls and of partnership. I felt an earth-meets-water pulse accompanied by a graceful, quiet dignity flowing through me. I thought about family and about community. I contemplated sisterhood and how marvelous it feels to instinctively care for and be cared for. A gift that keeps on giving.

Sipping Genmai cha, a mix of green tea and toasted rice, the texture of time and space softened. My breath deepened and the room brightened even as the light outside continued to dim.

Simplicity and attention to intention opened a door. I wondered how to keep opening, keep flowing. How to recognize home as this body, this boundless body?

Just then, the crayon moment arrived. I reached for a napkin and wrote these words:

          I open my eyes and smile.

              Love is this moment,

            dancing with sisters on Girls' Day.

Time for tea

I woke up this morning greeted by the smell of brownies lingering from last night's baking. We're having a tea gathering tonight. I'm pondering the tea selection. Lavender flowers might suit the occasion. There's something about warm treats and tea that soothes on these windy, wintery nights.  

While "tea" has come to include all kinds of beverages, the vibe of "tea time" or in Japanese tea ceremony "tea mind" continues. Traditions change and new ones emerge. Take Bubble tea for instance. I discovered this a few years ago at a lovely, no-nonsense teahouse in New York's chinatown called Ten Ren. At first I was skeptical of this Taiwanese concoction. Then the little girl in me got a taste and there's been no going back. Those goofy tapioca bubbles or "pearls" transport like Alice through the looking glass. 

You can try this too. As your eye focuses through a wide neon-hued straw, imagine diving for pearls. One slurp and you're there. Here. How many doorways open when we let them?

In so many cultures, the experience of preparing and drinking tea is a time to enjoy time itself. Whether it's with a tea bag or loose leaf, hands know what to do. Their skill and presence is a marvel if we give ourselves time to notice, to appreciate. Ears attune and the heart opens. Amazing how something so ordinary inspires and connects. 

I hear the birds singing. Spring is in the air. Or is it just this cup of tea?

The sap is rising and the sun is shining in New York City.

 I decided to launch this blog today because this day for me is all about wonder. It is Tu B'shvat, a Jewish holiday, which celebrates the New Year for Trees. With agricultural roots and mystical branches, it brings together intention and action. It's a great day for new beginnings. Some plant trees, some plant seeds of intention. 

There is a beautiful phrase (Exodus 3:14), which encapsulates the intention to flow anew and tap into what is unseen while deeply felt: "Eheye asher eheye: I am what I am becoming."

Who am I? A question that challenges me to reflect. 

Being this koan, embracing who as what and when as where, reveals what is so often unseen, especially when I get stuck in the mud of labels.  

Why this blog?

Because healing in relationship to me is an experience of being mud and roots and branches. Moment by moment, this process helps me to tap into what truly matters - you. Me and you.

And right now, me needs to eat. I hear a raw chocolate smoothie calling. . . and then a stroll through the park. . . and then, I really don't know.