Joy Rising

Saturday night in lower Manhattan, the Hudson river offers a marvelous, unexpected display: fireworks on the Jersey side.

I've just arrived. Not alone in amazement, a woman also standing beside the guardrail turns towards me and remarks, "what a surprise! I love fireworks. They're one of my favorite things."

She pulls out a camera to record the scene. I already have mine out. I notice a difference in how we approach what's happening. Her eye is focussed exclusively on the view through the camera. I am holding it a distance, and thanks to its video monitor, am aware of seeing through its lens and at the same time, not losing sight of what my whole body is experiencing.

It is a dance dynamic by nature and interactive by intention. I play with the settings on the camera, allowing "mistakes" in so-called "clarity" to reveal the next movement, next setting, next time to click the release button. This happens over and over again. Click, click. click. I don't know what I'm looking for.

Then it happens. The camera, slightly slow on the uptake and saturated with what it's seeing, discovers something new. I stop. I'm seeing a creature of light flying beneath a waxing moon. The buildings soften in that light. Distinction recedes in to the background. In that instant, something amazing happens. What the camera is seeing becomes what all "my" senses experience: expanding, body pulsating, heartbeat strong and at the same time breath softening. This quality of sensing with more than what eyes see shifts as swiftly as the colorful shapes and shadows.

The night whirling builds in intensity while the cool air and slow moving river steady the flow.

My body shakes as sound builds to crescendo. The reverberating crackle of the crisply breezy night is oddly calming. For a moment, we who gather here stand immobile in awestruck silence. Auspicious this moment, not a special occasion by cultural standards. Not a holiday. Was it even advertised? Many locals are out of town. The riverway is sparsely populated.

Attuning, I sense a shift. Without thinking, I let out an exuberant cheer. Others begin to clap. Soon, we're celebrating the moment at full volume. We look around at one another. There is a shared recognition. Soon enough, sound dissipates as we disperse and allow this flow to continue through us.

What is it about the unexpected? Why is sharing such a moment significant? My body senses the significance though words inevitably fall short. The Japanese tea master Sen no Rikyu describes the experiencing as "ichi-go ichi-e" ("one time, one meeting.")

Earlier that day, I am resting in the Cuxa garden of The Cloisters, a museum of medieval design in upper Manhattan. Pink-hued marble encloses the space and provides a softly cool place to sit and gaze out at the lovely plants and flying creatures enjoying them. The scent of lavendar soothes as does the sight of an occasional bumblebee. The scene is heavenly. People from all over the world pass through. I hear snippets of conversations.

My ears prick up in hearing a little girl begin to cry. Her father comforts as her mother asks, "which color?" pointing to a bandaid. "Pink," the girl says, stopping her crying instantly. He remarks to his wife in a near whisper, "I told her to be careful with that blue pin but she played with it and cut herself." I realize he's referring to the round clip-on pin we are all wearing as a sign of admission to this place. Cameras are in steady supply. People are snapping photos from every angle. I hear the buzz of multiple languages spoken at the same time. Clouds drift through blue sky overhead.

One week earlier, my friend and fellow chaplain passes from this life. Harriet Huber, a beacon of kindness and compassion, has been living with cancer for over a decade. Several years earlier, I meet Harriet in the Chaplaincy Services office at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. Her eyes sparkle as she shares the joy of volunteering one day a week to visit with patients and their loved ones. I share with her an idea, a vision of caring, creativity, and community. I say, "Sensing Wonder." Her eyes get big and she brings her face closer. With a full voice she says, "I love it!" We laugh. We talk about many things. Each and every moment with her sustains me through difficult moments, which follow. She offers cheerful confidence to continue to connect and envision what cannot always be seen.

Going home that night, I light a candle given to me earlier this year by the widow of a client whose memorial service I officiated. Feeling his presence and Harriet's, the space expands and my body seems light, like at any moment I could take flight. Standing there, tears come. Waves of sadness and gratitude interfuse. I breathe deeply and slowly sit down. Gazing into that light, I see her smile, bright-eyed and direct. I see that confident smile joining with that of others I've known who, preceeding in passing through this precious life, lift up what matters most. Amazed and comforted, I realize that I too am smiling.

Writing on the Ball

Heading from the subway to work on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I see a woman carrying a big beach ball. She smiles as I snap her photo and stops to share that she has "big plans" for the ball. She is hosting a party and wants to invite guests to write on the ball. I walk with her to the corner. Then, she turns and disappears into a supermarket. The heat affords no time for lingering. I tuck away my camera and keep going.

Later, on my way home, I stop in Chelsea and browse at a small video store. Even though I could download films online, there's something about going into the store, and the conversations of fellow browsers and the folks who work there, that is joyfully intimate. Turning a corner, Breakfast at Tiffany's, the 1961 classic based on a Truman Capote novella, catches my eye. Watching it the next day, one scene tugs with renewed poignancy. Holly Golightly, the lead character adoringly animated by Audrey Hepburn, remarks as if sharing a revelation, "nothing bad can happen to you at Tiffany's." I feel her hopeful pulse in my body.

The next day, reading the NY Times, I learn of the passing of Elise Boulding, sociologist and Norwegian-born Quaker, age 89, whose writings (as Bruce Weber reports):

"[about] conflict resolution in both personal and global relations. . . helped establish the academic field known as peace studies."

Unaware of her until now, I am drawn to her story:

". . . nominated for the 1990 Nobel Peace Prize. . . She often said her path in life was determined by World War II. When she was a girl, she recalled her mother had been homesick for Norway and young Elise conceived of that country as a haven, a place to hold in reserve as a retreat, where she would always be safe. That vision was shattered in 1940 by the Nazi invasion of Norway."

Of this turning point in her life, Elise writes,

"And that was when I realized that there was no safe place on earth"

She continues,

"and I knew that I had found my life's mission."

Sitting with the paper in hand, I am fascinated by the interplay of hope and purpose in these women's lives, one fictional and one "real," and how they are shaped not so much by concepts of safety as experiences of peace activated by kindness.

Continuing to read the paper, a photo of a girl's face and specifically, her two big eyes, jump off the page. Having turned to the Fashion and Style section, I read about the latest trend among teenage girls: larger than life contact lenses known as "circle lenses." Available in a wide assortment of colors and patterns, these lenses cover not only the iris. They also extend into some of the white of the eye. Originating in Korea, and infamously worn by Lady Gaga in her "Bad Romance" video, the lenses are rapidly becoming popular in the U.S.

As reporter Catherine Saint Louis states,

"The lenses give wearers a childlike, doe-eyes appearance. The look is characteristic of Japanese anime and is also popular in Korea."

She writes that this anime (pronounced "a-nee-may") look is now popular with American high school and college students. Many young women integrate the lenses in their makeup ritual even as eye doctors continue to view them as unsafe.

Putting the article down, I wonder what drives someone to wear these lenses when they are considered unsafe. Do they offer a different kind of safety? How might playing with look, playing with identity and perceptions of beauty and "real"-ity meet an underlying need for authenticity and creative autonomy?

What troubles me is the bigger picture. When do I forget safety because of a driving impulse for self-expression? How does this impact those around me?

Thich Nhat Hahn in a book entitled, "no death, no fear - Comforting Wisdom for Life", offers a powerful image,

"You are just like a firework going off in every moment. The firework diffuses its beauty around itself. With your thoughts, words, and actions, you can diffuse your beauty. That beauty and goodness goes into your friends, your children and grandchildren, and into the world. It is not lost and you go into the future in that way."

He adds,

"You are present in the consciousness of everyone you have touched. This is real, not imagined."

A week earlier, as the sun begins to set, I head out into a stream of tourists and locals along Canal Street in Manhattan's Chinatown. My destination is the Hudson Riverway, a park beside the river.

Inclined to step back from the main traffic, I walk west along a different street. I'm surprised to hear a melody, which sounds like it's from a nearby piano. Indeed, crossing the street and entering Tribeca Park, I see two upright pianos. Both are colorfully decorated and painted on the side of one are the words, "Sing for Hope." I move closer and notice a man getting up from one of the piano benches. I approach and sit down. Along the front of the piano are more words, "Play me, I'm Yours."

This international public art project, conceived by artist Luke Jerram, brings 60 pianos outdoors all over New York City, from June 21 - July 5. Players and listeners alike are invited to post their impressions with words, photos, and videos uploaded to a central website.

I listen to what a woman is playing on the other piano. While I can't see her fingers moving on the keys, I hear and feel the notes. Attuned impulse guides my fingers. We're harmonizing. A few people listen attentively. Ten minutes later (the requested limit), she gets up and silently moves on. The time together seems complete. I get up and resume my river-bound trek.

I cross the West Side Highway at a point where the park turns into two lanes on which people travel by foot or bicycle. As I'm walking, I notice a man jogging by. His gait looks different so I turn my head. He is wearing a prosthetic leg from the knee down. His face looks filled with quiet determination. Is it a "real" leg? Is he expressing creative autonomy? Kindness? Hope? How is he impacting those around him? I can only speak for myself. I am inspired and greatly encouraged. I move at a brisker, livelier pace.

A week later, on July 5, I receive an email from friends in Berkeley, California who are engaged in Mindful Peacebuilding, about their July 4 "Mindful Holiday" gathering. They are preparing for what many say could be a riot.

This connects with the pending verdict in a controversial case in Oakland. Johannes Mehserle, formerly a San Francisco Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) police officer is accused of shooting and killing Oscar Grant, an unarmed black man who is said to have been lying face down on an Oakland train platform. Mehserle testifies on June 25, 2010 that he mistakenly pulled out his pistol instead of a stun gun when he shot and killed Grant.

Friends meet to strategize a non-violent response to escalating tensions. During the holiday gathering, they explore the use of Non-Violent Communication (NVC) to offer empathy to whomever might be on the scene and in need when the court decision is announced.

Drawing on the teachings of Thich Nhat Hahn, Joanna Macy, and Marshall Rosenberg, participants renew their commitment to train in various forms of peace practice. Their focus is far from conceptual. They often write to share and process peacebuilding experiences as they envision their purpose and ways to activate it.

The next day, I visit a woman being treated for stage-4 cancer. She's been asking to see a chaplain and as I sit down beside her, says with agitation, "I want answers." She wants to know if she's being punished. She says repeatedly, "I don't understand why this is happening, not just to me but at all. If only I could figure it out."

After listening attentively and empathetically sharing what I'm hearing her say, I ask, "what keeps you going?" This stops her thinking process. For a moment, she's speechless. I invite her to focus on her in-breath and silently consider, "what keeps me going?" After a few breaths, she says with vigor, "I'm alive." The statement emerges less as an answer to a question so much as an experience of call and response. This is direct. This is contemplative practice. The method is called Attuned Breath Centering.

Tears are in her eyes. I say, "to activate your deep question, your need to understand, what would it be like right now to breathe out while silently saying, 'Understanding'." To keep it simple, I say, "Breathing in, I'm alive. Breathing out, Understanding."

Her eyes widen as she looks me in the eye, nodding her head to indicate her willingness. As she attunes, I check in with her about her experience. She decides to drop, "I'm." Now we breathe together:

"Breathing in, Alive. Breathing out, Understanding."

We sit together in this active silence for several minutes. I sense a spaciously vibrant quality of presence connecting and flowing through us. Our eyes meet. I am here. So is she. At the same time, this open awareness does not distinguish one body from another. We smile.

In this moment, the word "safety" has no meaning. As for peace, that word is extra, unnecessary. Experience speaks for itself.

As I leave her room, the words of Omar Khayyam, the Persian philosopher and poet, spring to mind as if he is standing beside me speaking them:

"The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on."

Future gaga

I'm hoofing it through Central Park, heading east from Columbus Circle. I pass by the colorful Carousel, its cheery music drawing me closer. Captivated by the swirl of horses, I suddenly notice a couple of kids laughing as they whirl by. The boy is grabbing on to a pole as it bobs up and down while the girl holds on to her horse's reigns. They look like they're having a grand time.

This cross-park jaunt is part of my mid-week routine, going from early morning math tutoring at Heschel High School to chaplaincy work at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. In both settings, optimism permeates and tends to translate into movement. Stepping onto one of the hospital floors a few days earlier, I smile towards a patient and his wife as he makes "the loop" of one time around the floor. He returns the smile, encouraged while wheeling a pole from which hangs a clear plastic bag of "meds," as he refers to it, connected to the I.V. in his hand.

Most folks here move with great determination into an uncertain future.

Earlier this morning, working with a student in the high school library, I remind him to "use the three column method," an approach I developed though there might be many versions of the basic principle. He pulls out a sheet of paper and writes "Known" then with some space writes "Unknown." He then draws an arrow from the first to the second. I say to him, "remember what goes under the arrow?" Sliding his finger across the page, he says, "what it takes to get from here to there." We grin in mutual acknowledgement. He turns back to the page and starts to write.

Days earlier, Saturday night, to be precise, I'm riding on the #1 train, heading north from its first stop at South Ferry. As the train moves uptown, it becomes increasingly filled with activity. Around 14th Street, a bunch of college students get on, mostly women, dressed in fanciful costumes. A young man about the same age, wearing a Fedora-style hat, looks eager to make contact. He introduces himself to one of the women and asks about the group's plans. I sense his nervously excited vibe even as he tries to play it cool. He asks, "hey, where are you all going?" The woman, delighted for this attention, says, "we're going to a party where the theme is the future." She pauses, gauging his response. He is silent yet his face indicates curiosity as if to say, "tell me more." She continues, "We took future to mean gaga rave" and points to her audacious outfit, a mix of silver and black satin. She lifts her eyes to meets his. He gazes towards her with a mix of longing and curiosity.

They stand there a bit awkwardly, tension building, each holding the pole loosely as the train keeps moving.

I think to myself, "when to make a move?. . ."

Soon enough, the train pulls to a stop and the group quickly heads for the door. The young fellow still smiling towards the young lady , shifts his stance. She glances in his direction. He hesitates. She keeps going. She passes through the door. He watches, frozen. The doors close.

In the minutes that follow, standing by the pole, he looks a bit lost. He slowly sits down, across from me, clutching his knapsack, and looks down.

The subway train continues uptown. I settle into my seat as the thunderous roar of the wheels meeting the tracks reminds me to put in my earplugs. By the time I get home, all I want to do is go to sleep.

A week earlier, on May 2, friends converge east of Times Square as they complete their 700-mile, two-month duration "Walk for a Nuclear-Free Future" and join a larger peace walk to call attention to the United Nations' five-year review of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. The longer walk is sponsored by Grafton Peace Pagoda community in upstate NY. I remember walking with them the previous September through Harlem (see "Walk the Line" blog posting). This time around, their walk begins in the territories of the Six Nations near Buffalo, NY, where nuclear waste and nuclear weapons have been important concerns. The poster for the walk states, "think outside the bomb."

This same May evening in Times Square, a car containing a bomb is discovered, causing the evacuation of streets surrounding the area and thousands of tourists. The NYPD Bomb Squad is called in and is able to break into the smoke-filled Pathfinder and defuse the bomb without any injuries. They respond swiftly and without hesitation. It is their job.

I'm reminded of a scene from the novel by Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, in which the devil comes to Moscow and wreaks havoc. The novel challenges notions of good and evil and lifts up the power of redemption amidst a suffocatingly bureaucratic social order.

One of the final scenes, presented with apocalyptic allusions, has the devil, named Woland, a "foreigner," as he's described in the first chapter, announcing:

"Then like the blast of a trumpet the terrible voice of Woland rang out over the hills :

'It is time!'

As an echo came a piercing laugh and a whistle from Behemoth. The horses leaped into the air and the riders rose with them as they galloped upwards. Margarita could feel her fierce horse biting and tugging at the bit. Woland's cloak billowed out over the heads of the cavalcade and as evening drew on, his cloak began to cover the whole vault of the sky. When the black veil blew aside for a moment, Margarita turned round in flight and saw that not only the many-coloured towers but the whole city had long vanished from sight, swallowed by the earth, leaving only mist and smoke where it had been."

Earlier in the novel, the devil states his position,

"But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light?

My thoughts swirl with no easy answers. Then, I remember something Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said,

"Wonder rather than doubt is the root of all knowledge."

Days later, I'm riding the train to work. A Subway preacher gets on. With fierceness in his voice, he puts out his message, asking in a loud tone so everyone can hear:

"Do you know who you are?"

"Do you know where you're going?"

Most folks are looking down, doing their best to cope with such questions while still waking up. He continues,

"I say to all the women: You are the gateway of life. Set up a good standard for all of us to follow. And you men, remember: A woman made you so treat her with sensitivity."

He pauses, then adds:

"Open up your heart.

May you be blessed."

As the train pulls into the station and begins to jerk to a stop, he approaches the door, then turns around and adds:

"I hope somebody heard something."

He gets off. The train keeps going, I reflect on what's been said but my heart feels filled beyond capacity. When I finally get out into the air and soft sunshine, I am relieved just to walk. Walking soothes me.

Days later, I bump into a friend from high school, David. We're both on our way to work, reconnecting as we head down to the Subway. He tells me about his family, happy to share that their twin girls are now age four. Then he says that he and a friend have started a new "green" business, Urban Prairie NY.

Their website states,

"We represent those products that support living plants in our environment. These products are intended to improve and beautify the urban environment and ultimately better the health of our cities and the quality of life for its inhabitants."

As David and I chat on the train, his passionate commitment to this vision and good cheer inspire me. We exchange ideas and contact info. Before you know it, the train arrives at Columbus Circle. He gets off. The train keeps going. The conductor announces, "Times Square." The doors open. Now it's my turn.

I head for the open door.

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.