Constructing Courage

Heading east at a brisk pace along E. 71st Street en-route to work, I see a line of fireman behind a bright red truck. Looks like they're deploying a huge firehose. I look around to gauge the situation. My head is saying, "keep moving." No time to stop and ask.

Even so, their presence stops my feet, calling attention. These guys are ready to respond. Present to the changing circumstances, present to each other, and to everyone in the vicinity; their subdued clothing is accented by bright strips of yellow-green fabric sewn on in various locations. They must be visible to function. At the same time, their understated presence communicates an admirable quality: courage.

Minutes earlier, zipping through Central Park, I hear a woman say assertively, "Come here!" I stop as a fluffy, black-white terrier runs towards her and haltingly comes to a stop. The woman bends down and attaches the dog's leash. She says in a lower-pitched tone, "That's the end of your freedom."

Days later, I enter a darkened movie theater in Battery Park City to see Green Lantern in Real3D. I sit down, gaze up, and follow the instructions on the screen, "Put on your 3D glasses." The hero's journey quickly commences. Hal, the hero or as he's identified early on, the "chosen one," must grapple with two juxtaposed energies: fear and "will." A green-hued alien tells him that green light, being the "color of will," transforms energy into "constructs" that serve. The stronger one's will, the more effective the construct, presumably in serving the greater good. Contrarily, the color of fear is yellow. Its constructs point in another direction entirely.

Hal arrives on the scene as a rather irresponsible daredevil who learns to face his fears and appreciate the power entrusted to him. This is classic superhero storyline. Yet something in the construct of "will" grabs me. Hal lives in his dad's shadow. Actually, the shadow is half fantasy, revealed in a memory-moment when Hal's dad, a test-pilot, says to his tween son, "it's my job not to be afraid." As the film progresses, his dad's espoused fearlessness is questioned, posing it perhaps as a strategy to cope with a fear of powerlessness.

Days earlier, my weekend journey begins by boarding a 2am bus to Boston. The bus is packed, this being close to July 4th. We arrive shortly after sunrise. Bleary-eyed, I walk through chinatown to the Public Garden. I enter the gate, and am captivated by the full-spectrum presence of green from every direction. I instinctively follow the path as it curves towards the pond. As birds chirp and ducks waddle by on the pond, I plop my tired body down on a bench in the shade, lean onto my backpack with a camping pillow in hand, and drink in the calming loveliness. Sunshine sparkles off the water and a light breeze welcomes.

After a much-needed nap, I awaken to bright sunshine on my face. Time to move on. I slowly make my way to the T (trolley) and from there to my mom's house in the suburbs. I'm here with a purpose. My mom and stepfather are moving to a smaller house. I'm planning to sort through the last of my boxes stored in their basement. Their nest is emptying. Years earlier, after my mom remarries, she and my stepfather adopt two babies: my younger sister, now age 23, who lives out of state, and my younger brother, now age 19, who is heading to college in August. My older sisters and I are more like aunts than sisters to them.

I am determined to reduce twelve boxes to a max of two by the end of the day. These boxes are a diverse collection of sizes and content. Coming here to do this is yet another step in deepening my relationship with my family and particularly my mother. Visiting with her is not always easy. We continue to move through communication barriers and heal injuries from the past. Our relationship is complex. Today we are joined in purpose. She encourages me by phone and email, declaring her confidence that I'll be able to get through these boxes in the one day set aside to do so. Our plan is to have some holiday fun the following day.

Getting off the T, I stop en-route for a matcha milkshake. The frosty green hue is a fitting match for the lightly sweet grassy taste. It tastes of summer. By the time I arrive at the house, I'm awake and ready for action.

I begin with what's difficult first and thus pro-actively engage my propensity to procrastinate.

I revisit boxes of photos and slides, many of which have rotted due to water damage from flooding. This offers no option but to let go. This quickens the pace and offers an opportunity to let go of the next batch in "good shape." Gazing at the images, I see stories, and experience these as chapters in a larger story. Each of these moments, each relationship, now appears as a complete step in an ongoing life path. I notice a quality of release, a easing of tension and slowing of breath. I am not grieving. I am appreciating flow.

I save one photo from a batch of 36. One photo. One "roll" of film. One is sufficient. One tells the whole story. This feels great.

Then I see a box labelled "daddy 1". Immediately my chest tightens. Eighteen years earlier, my father lies dying in a Pulmonary Care Unit. No longer able to speak or sing, he smiles when I enters the room. A complex man who during his life alienates at least as many people as he inspires, this action reveals movement in intention and realization. It's his way of connecting. It draws me to sit beside him and do nothing. Just sit, just be close. Many questions unanswered, many feelings surfacing in me but I can't go there. Too painful, too confusing. Even so, sitting there beside him, with nothing to do but breathe, something in me shifts enough to feel an embracing presence connecting us. I close my eyes and rest.

Sitting now beside a box of his belongings, I locate my father's high school yearbook and his photo in it. Age 16 and a senior, I notice that hardly anyone signs his yearbook. Beside his photo, I recognize his handwriting. The words are few and poignantly piercing, "To myself with love." His facial expression is anything but smiling. That same year, he draws a self-portrait, entitled "myself," which I now hold in my hands. A fragile pencil-sketch, it is stunning in its reflection of sadness and longing in his eyes. He seems terribly alone.

Many years after sketching it, he is diagnosed as bipolar and soon after, with multiple sclerosis.
I feel the tightening in my chest more keenly. I put the book and sketch back in the box. I pause for a single breath and then continue sorting.

The tightness increases and within minutes I have to stop. I'm seeing a flurry of images from different times all jumbled in mind. This boy in the yearbook is a different person from the dad who, when I'm 7, swaggers quickly across our kitchen, doing his hilarious impersonation of Groucho Marx. Or the one who a few years later, disappears for weeks on end. Or the one who, soon after re-appearing, explains Einstein's theory of special relativity to me with voracious simplicity at my grandmother's kitchen table and with no other tools than a sharpened #2 pencil and a large lined, yellow pad of paper.

Moments surface and recede as I sit here sorting. Like my dad who disappears and resurfaces in my life until his body begins to collapse and his mind tightens its grasp on constructs. Looking through this collection of artifacts, I'm sliding through time with more questions than answers.

At the age of 12, sitting at that kitchen table, my dad tells me, "Einstein invented C, the speed of light, to explain his new theory. Just as Newton invented calculus to be the language of his new physics." I'm enthralled and listening attentively.

Now, sitting beside a box of belongings, I wonder about that conversation, about those constructs of necessity. Do they construct reality or describe it? Which brings to mind a more fundamental question: what is real?

Peter Bergmann, a colleague of Einstein's and author of the classic textbook, "Introduction to the Theory of Relativity" (being the book my father references in teaching me, though omitting many of the complicated details), as Dennis Overbye writes in Bergmann's obituary:

"collaborated with Einstein on attempts to construct a so-called unified field theory to explain all the forces of nature. Among the attempts was a 1938 paper, building on a notion ... that suggested that space-time was not four-dimensional [time being the fourth dimension], but had a fifth dimension that was not ordinarily perceived because it was very small. Although Einstein and his collaborators subsequently turned to other ideas, the notion is now at the center of modern attempts to create a theory of everything."

He adds,

"Bergmann and Einstein were the first to explain how the fifth dimension could be real and on a par with the others but just smaller, said Dr. Witten of Princeton's Institute for Advanced Study. "It is a very modern idea."

In the same box, I pull out my father's Ph.D. thesis, which connects with this theory.

At the age of 12, sitting beside my dad, I am utterly drawn into that reality. Later that same year, I construct what I call a "spaceatarium" out of a huge cardboard box for my eighth grade science project. Painted black with a door cut out, dozens of tiny holes are lit up from outside so they shine like stars on the inside. Kids cut class to get in the queue as a long line forms of those wanting to sit inside and listen to the audio track I compose telling the dramatic story of the birth and death of stars. My goal is for the person inside to experience deep space directly, to experience the stars' lifecycle intimately, to feel themselves as these stars, to be there.

As these moments resurface, the tension in my chest and shoulders is calling attention. I stop what I'm doing and breathe into these spaces. Then, I return to another time, also when I'm age 12, though later that same year. Walking home in the Bronx from school by myself, I stop to help a stranger. I am footsteps from my family's apartment home and one block from my grandmother's. The hood of the stranger's car is up. He asks me to get in and gently step on the gas so he can test the engine. I get in.

Suddenly, I feel a knifepoint at my throat. He tells me to get in. I slide over to the passenger side. Minutes later, after driving through this neighborhood and sexually molesting me, he stops the car. As he lets me out he says, "I know where you live. If you tell anyone, I'll kill you." Until we move to Manhattan the following year, I live in a constant state of terror, always looking over my shoulder while walking to and from school. I walk quickly.

Now, sitting in my mother's home now beside a box of belongings, the flood of images slowly ceases as I continue to breathe into the stuck spaces. Slowly, the light in the room softens. The tightness loosens its grip and I feel the wet flow of tears. I instinctively wrap my arms around my torso. I hold myself, that part of me, that girl who dreams of outer space and terrified and terribly alone, longs to be close to her distant father.

I sit in the silent flow of being with him in moments, then of being alone with no idea of where he is or when he'll return. I embrace that girl in me who doesn't understand, who sits confused, afraid, and alone in the dark.

Slowly, I sense a shift and am able to continue with the work at hand.

Hours later, as sunset approaches, I have accomplished my goal. All these belongings are now held in two medium-sized boxes. One contains my belongings, a mix of photos, papers, and other memorabelia. The other contains my dad's belongings.

My mom and I decide to celebrate by going to Woody Allen's new film, "Midnight in Paris." First, I go for a walk. Realizing the next showtime is around when my mom usually goes to bed, I call her to check in about plans. I ask her, "is it too late?" She replies, "no, it's not too late. I really want to share this with you."

A couple of weeks earlier, she calls after seeing the movie, and recommends I see it, saying "I think you'll really enjoy it."

Now, back at the house, we head for the car and arrive around 9pm in Brookline. We park by the newly renovated, historic landmark, the Coolidge Corner Theatre. Sitting beside my mom in that darkened space, I gaze over at her as the film plays on the big screen. She's smiling with such delight, drinking in the nuances and wonderment of the story and its characters.

The movie's lead character, Gil, an aspiring novelist, obsessed with a "golden age" of 1920's Paris, enters it one night. Eventually he discovers in a pivotal moment of recognition that everyone is to some degree dissatisfied with their present because the very fact that it's real makes it dissatisfying. Gil says that even so, we want to escape what's real because it can be painful.

Ultimately, he chooses reality over fantasy.

As I watch, savoring a locally crafted mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, I feel another cooling presence. My mom and I are in flow. Years of difficult interactions melt away.

I leave the theater fully present. I remember something Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hahn writes in No Death, No Fear, referring to his retreats with veterans of war. He says one can be "reborn in the past" by relating differently to the construct called "past." This centers on feeling remorse for past harmful actions and (even if imagined) from those who have harmed you. Then, what he calls, "the ultimate dimension" is experienced where past and present are co-existent. This experience is distinct from a notion of linear progression or "historical time." He describes this as freedom and writes:

Freedom is the basic condition for you to touch life, to touch the blue sky, the trees, the birds, the tea, and the other person.

As we exit the theater, my mom and I take our time walking to the car and then driving home. I slowly press on the brakes and stop as a traffic light shifts from yellow to red. In contented silence, we breathe beside each other. The light turns green. I gently step on the gas. We continue on.

That night, I sleep out on the deck. I experience the night the way Walt Whitman refers to it in his poem, entitled, A Clear Midnight:

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, and the stars.

I wake up to birds chirping and sunshine warming my face. I get up, pillow in hand, and open the back door. I step into the kitchen. A familiar voice, asking if I slept well, welcomes me home.

Pursuing Possibility

Walking on a sparkling Sunday afternoon through Manhattan's East Village, I stumble on what looks to be a community treasure, the First Street Garden. Through the fence, I see a poem painted on a wall:

"In the name of the Bee, and of the Butterfly, and of the Breeze. . ."

I read a nearby sign, which says the poem, by Emily Dickinson, is painted by children in the neighborhood as a poetry outreach project.

Two weeks later, I'm chatting with a middle-aged woman who calls herself Megalicious. We're sitting at a relatively new tea joint in Soho called In Pursuit of Tea. It is nearly literally a "hole in the wall," beautifully rustic by design, with just enough space for essentials: a counter to prepare tea and display a few homemade treats. Seating consists of two wooden planks atop short, rough-timbered logs. Outside a bare wooden sign hangs high. It says, "TEA." First appearing as a "popup shop" a year ago, I can still count on one hand the number of times I've been here.

The name "Pursuit" seems fitting. One has to be paying attention to notice the sign. It's easy to walk right by this treasure of a teahouse without ever seeing it. On this Saturday afternoon, an eclectic mix of patrons wanders in and out of the open door as I sip "Wood Dragon," a tea steeped from roasted Oolong twigs with a sprinkling of leaves. The fragrance is sweet without being cloyingly floral. I'm enjoying the cool breeze and amber hue of the brew when this woman arrives and orders the very same tea.

Seeing me pour from a large paper cup into a tiny porcelain one, she asks about it. And so begins our conversation. She picks up a tiny cup from a nearby tray, pours tea into it, then sips and smiles, lingering with the beauty and aroma. Introducing herself with a chuckle, she says, "call me Megalicious," adding that her first name is Meg. She hands me a flyer for a gathering in the neighborhood. She says it's to talk about changing regulations, which prevent many people from living here legally. It's organized by "Soho/Noho Action Committee."

She speaks of local history, mentioning painters including Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollock, who flock to this area in the 50's seeking studios, which can fit their large canvases. Now, she says, "you can only legally live here if you are a 'certified artist'." She says even this categorization applies to certain types of artists and excludes many forms of expressive arts. She goes on to advocate that anyone who wants to live here ought to be able to do so.

Just then, I gaze out the window across the street, noting the reflection from the large-paned industrial windows that speak of a bygone era, aware of its interior now re-purposed. I overhear the woman serving at the counter tell a customer that if they need a restroom, to go across and down the street to Bloomingdale's. This store is also relatively new to the neighborhood, having arrived a few years ago. The complexity of this context leaves me grateful for the simplicity of the tiny cup in my hands. I place it down and pour. I offer Megalicious the new Potluck Tea Party card. The design includes a stunning background of blue sky with various shapes of white clouds. She smiles. We continue sipping in silence.

A few days earlier, I'm sitting at Baja Fresh, a chain eatery, in Times Square. I'm enjoying a hefty serving of black beans and rice on a compostable plate. The price is right at $2.99, especially considering the fixins bar is free. Sitting on a tall barstool at a small-ish round table, I'm facing a bigscreen TV. A baseball game is on. I note the uniforms and recognize a name, then a face. Ortiz. David Ortiz of the Boston Red Sox. The other team? The NY Yankees, playing with "home advantage." As Ortiz steps up, bat in hand, I notice two guys, maybe late 20's, at a table to my right. They're also munching and watching the game.

One man on base. Then, after a swing goes nowhere, he tries again. He takes his time. We all pause for a breath. Then, I watch as ball meets bat meets sky. It soars and is quickly gone. Ortiz rounds the bases as the Sox score two runs. I sense a resonance though it takes a moment to register. Then it comes like an electric surge through my body. Seven years ago, I'm watching the twelfth inning of Game 4 of the World Series. David Ortiz hits a two-run homerun and the Sox come back from a 3-0 loss to the Yankees. Watching in a friend's livingroom, we jump to our feet from the couch. "Yeah, go Sox!" The Red Sox go on to win the Series. Both moments coincide for an instant, which brings out the juice of now being a whole new ballgame. Different context. Different connection. Yet something remains the same. What is it?

I turn to the two guys watching the game and ask, "are you routing for one of these teams?" One answers in a hushed tone, "the Red Sox." I ask if he's from Massachusetts. He says, "I'm from Rhode Island" and asks, "how about you?" I say, "not from there but lived there a long time." We all nod our heads to acknowledge this connection, unrecognized until now. Something in this exchange satisfies. Naturally, we return to eating and the game.

Three days earlier, I board BoltBus to Boston. Arriving just in time at 7am, I'm the last passenger to get on. I hadn't planned for the A-train to go local, delaying my carefully planned arrival time. Stepping up, my eyes register that there are no empty seats. And not all are filled with people. The seat beside every person riding solo is occupied. Scanning the bus, I see bags, laptops, knapsacks, and other such items scattered among these seats. I ask a woman sitting in the one directly behind the driver, who looks to be in her 60's, if I might join her. She quickly moves her pocketbook from the seat. I take off my shoes, place my knapsack on top of my shoes and my sock-covered feet on top of the knapsack.

The driver gets on. A fellow who seems like he's also a driver for this company sits in the other front seat. They chat, then as the bus pulls away from the curb, the driver announces, "This is the bus to Boston. If you're not going to Boston, come to the front row. Otherwise, we'll be in Boston in four and a half hours if no traffic or construction. So relax and enjoy the ride."

My ears scan the bus. A sea of voices is speaking louder than is comfortable for me and louder than I recall on past rides. This includes the driver and his buddy who resume their conversation after he makes the announcement. A young couple behind me are speaking loudly enough to be heard more than several rows back. The woman beside me, reading The New Yorker, astounds me in her capacity to focus amidst the myriad streams of conversation around her. I do my best for a few minutes. Then I put on sound "protection" headphones, which I use on daily subway rides. The difficulty is that wearing them for long periods of time hurts my ears. Imagining over four hours of this is agonizing. I notice myself growing increasingly agitated.

I close my eyes and attune to the flow and rhythm of my breathing. I check in with where I'm feeling tension, my shoulders and neck. I breathe into the sensations while maintaining awareness of my body as a whole. Feeling centered, I take off the headphones, turn to face the young man and woman behind me, and introduce myself. As I speak to share my concern while affirming their freedom and our mutual partnership in riding together, my body feels the resonance of this same dynamic many months ago on another bus at another time. Same and yet different.

This time I notice the tension is nearly gone, and I'm able to speak more comfortably. Sharing that the volume at which they're speaking is, for me, distracting and uncomfortable; I ask if they might be willing to adjust their volume. The woman looks annoyed while the young man responds with genuine empathy and understanding, "I'll give it a shot." His tone indicates willingness even as it registers mild irritation. This mix of emotion is subtle and encouraging to register. I sense this as a visceral tingling sensation, one of shared presence. It's enlivening. Not necessarily seeing eye to eye yet able to hear and respond authentically and with care. I smile and, say, "hey, thanks alot. I'm glad we're finding a way together." He nods his head with a hint of a smile to acknowledge this shift in connection.

I turn back and sit back down, facing the front of the bus. I check in again with my breath and sit silently for a few minutes. Then, leaning in towards the driver, who's still chatting with his buddy, I interject, "Hi." He stops speaking. I continue, "I'm kinda uneasy right now because it seems a bit loud on the bus, at least for me, especially because would like to rest. Would you consider asking passengers to be mindful of volume during the ride when comes to conversations and using electronic devices?" He responds, "I usually don't do that." Then he says to his buddy, "is she talking about us talking?" Then he asks me, "are you noticing something being a problem?" I reply, "yes."

He says, "I don't like to tell people what to do." I say, "I understand that. I wouldn't want to do that either. I see it more as working together." I affirm his authority, and the importance of freely choosing. I also mention the importance of safe and respectful, adding, "I've noticed on previous rides that when a driver states this precaution, asking people to be mindful, it's pre-emptive, preventing problems down the road." At this point, the driver's buddy says to him, matter-of-factly, "hey, just announce it. She's right."

The driver picks up the overhead mike without delay and says, "hey everybody. I usually don't make this announcement." He pauses then continues, "when using your cellphones or listening to music, be . . ." He pauses again, then adds, "be mindful of your fellow passengers and keep it down. You can still use your phone and whatever. Everybody have a pleasant ride." I thank him, and sit back, closing my eyes and soon falling asleep. As I'm dozing off, I'm aware of the woman beside me continuing to read. I wonder what she's reading. And what she's feeling.

When we arrive in Boston, I thank the driver and he says with a friendly grin, "hey, no problem!" I laugh and move on.

A week earlier, I'm watching a new movie called, "The First Grader" at the Village East Cinema. I heard of the movie from Sam Feuer, its producer, when he stops by on Mother's Day for Potluck Tea Party in Central Park. "Enthused" is an understatement for how he feels about his first production. He encourages me to see it and "spread the word." Days later, I post an announcement of this on Sensing Wonder's new Facebook page.

Weeks later, tired of editing in IMovie, I go online and read that the film's director, Justin Chadwick, says in an interview with CBS News that online word of mouth "is completely vital. The only way that interesting films that haven't got a big studio behind them survive is because of people spreading the word."

I make a mental note as I return to the task, putting final touches on "Growing, In Brooklyn," a musical slideshow of a recent Potluck Tea Party, which is also the first one held in Brooklyn. I'm planning to upload it to youtube and then share it through various social media along with the now "old school" method of an email "distribution list." I don't know precisely how any of this works. The Web seems inconceivably complex. And yet, staring at a single frame, it's clear what is the next thing to do. This frame. How many seconds? This transition. How long does it last

Learning as I go. Diving in. Trying it out.

Now, watching, "The First Grader," I'm drinking in the arid setting in rural Kenya, and the increasingly multi-layered unfolding of its lead character, 84-year old Maruge. He has survived brutal torture in colonial days decades earlier at the hands of the British. He is learning to read for the first time beside fifty kids in a ramshackle schoolhouse in the countryside. Conflict ensues as educating a man his age is not the intention of the government when it announces, "Free education for all."

Later, advocating for the teacher of this class with government officials, he states,

“We have to learn from our past because we must not forget and because we must be better.”

He adds,

"We reap what we sow with our children."

Back in Boston, heading on foot to the bus station in the late afternoon, I'm walking through a Greenspace, which has grown as part of the aftermath of the urban renovation project known as The Big Dig. I walk by a slew of kids and adults moving very strangely. As I get closer, I see what's happening. A whole lotta hoola hoops are twirling around hips and torsos of all shapes and sizes. I see a sign that says, "FIGMENT Boston - Free Participatory Arts Festival."

I keep walking along the footpath, noticing all kinds of unexpected displays of human creativity. Lots of kids are lying on the ground with adults joining them. They're all staring up at the sky, and looks like they're watching clouds float by. Since I'm on the move, no time to ask. I keep walking, soon passing by a big metal geodesic dome. Someone's draped inside a long blue cloth hanging from the dome's frame and twisting about as if preparing for a circus act. Nearby, three women are powering what look to be music amps with a bicycle-like contraption. Across the way, a fellow in a tent is drawing on what looks to be an IPad, projecting the screen image of a colorful animated-on-the-fly fish on the tent wall. Back outside, five sailors walk by in crisp white uniforms and stop, posing on request for a photo.

Later, I read on FIGMENT's website, that it is happening in three cities (Boston, New York City, and Jackson, MI) and that

"FIGMENT intends for everyone who comes to the event to be a participant, so that FIGMENT itself can be seen as one large collaborative art project. No one is a spectator. We are all connected and we are all creators. . . FIGMENT is completely free. It's a grassroots effort, organized and run entirely by volunteers as a gift to our cities."

I keep going and soon arrive at South Station for the bus ride back to NYC. This time travelling on Peter Pan Bus Line, I arrive with plenty of time and boarding, sit beside a passenger towards the middle of the bus. Conversations are happening all over the bus. Amazingly, everyone is speaking at a volume, which feels comfortable all around. I sense a calm humming throughout my body. The driver gets on, welcomes everyone and announces precautions for the trip including being aware of fellow passengers. As we pull out and move along, the rhythm of the road and the changing scenery is all it takes to settle in.

I close my eyes, content to go along for the ride.

Sheltering Beauty

A softly bright hazy sky comes into view as I climb up a narrow flight of stairs and exit the Subway station at 72nd Street and Central Park West. I wait as the light turns green then cross the street.

Before setting out for a brisk romp through the park en-route to work, I scan my phone for "personal" email to see if any need immediate responses. All these movements are carefully choreographed, a schedule neatly planned to get me to work refreshed, focussed, and on time. I can't afford to be distracted.

Standing beside a fresh bed of pastel pink tulips, I pause to breathe in their gorgeous scent and attune to the chirping of nearby sparrows flitting among budding branches of a young tree.

I pick up my Blackberry and open a message from a friend living in Oregon. It says, "Saw Alex Rudinsky yesterday. He's within a week or two of dying."

The words hit me like a bolt of lightning. I stand frozen for a few seconds, unable to absorb what's happening. My mind goes blank. My feet take over and phone in hand, I walk towards the tree-shelter canopy that marks the entrance into Strawberry Fields. I put the phone away and walk the short distance to the Imagine Circle. Eyes register "Imagine" set in gray mosaic tiling.

I slowly step back then turn, facing east and keep going. Within minutes, I feel the air moisten as first drops begin to fall.

A year earlier, Alex and I reconnect at a Memorial Day buffet. It's offered by Zen Community of Oregon at its residential training Center called Great Vow Zen Monastery. The place is anything but cloistered. People are a'plenty. Alex is telling me with great enthusiasm about his daughter Anna now in her early 20's and living in New York. He and I go back over a decade, having shared many moments of "spiritual practice" as members of this Community. I have been visiting twice a year since moving.

Alex's eyes exude kindness. His smile is gentle and direct. He's the kind of guy who when he's smiling, you just find yourself going along for the ride. You feel better just standing there with him.

Now moving through Central Park, the rain connects me to a terrain 3000 miles away whose touch is familiar as it is comforting. When I finally arrive at work, sitting down and just before emailing our mutual friend; I notice my agitation. Attuning, I sense below the surface, through what feel like bubbles of rage bursting and rippling out to diffuse their energy. As this happens, I begin to feel pain, sometimes sharp and as this spreads out, the tightness in my chest feels more achy. It hits me, first the recognition of having been completely unaware until today of Alex being sick. And I'm just beginning to feel his presence in that state and realize my helplessness. A queasy hollow-like sensation courses through me. I stay there for some time attuning to its rhythm as my pulse and breath settle.

Days later, I'm standing at the post office, finally finding words to write in a card. I feel Alex's presence. A moment of being with him feels like it's happening now all over again. He is standing, painting in the Jizo Garden at Great Vow (as it's affectionately known).

This garden is actually set in a forest. It is a place to rest and reflect and be with loved ones who have passed on. Everywhere are tokens of remembrance, slowly disintegrating, hanging from whatever is within reach. Poems and artwork, small toys, and bits of fabric sewn together, accented by beads or whatever strikes the fancy of the one remembering. Throughout this place are a sprinkling of old growth trees among younger varieties, Some are evergreens, Doug Fir being the most common. These form a sheltering canopy while still welcoming in sunlight or rain in soft streaming ripples.

As I walk along the newly shaped path through these woods, I see a figure wearing a moderately broad brim hat, paintbrush in hand, facing an easel. He is standing in a wild mess of tall ferns. The canvas is filled with varying shades of green, each one reflecting a quality of light, which draws me closer.

Just then, my feet step onto a dry branch, which crackles loudly enough to draw the painter's gaze. He turns and seeing me, breaks into a broad albeit subtle grin. I'm smiling too. We meet in a moment as ordinary as it is intimate, perfectly at home in this forest garden.

Back at the post office, I place the card, crafted of handmade paper with a light green hue, in an Express Mail envelope. I bring it to the counter. The woman helping me asks, "Oregon. How many hours difference?" "Three," I reply. She says, "Oh, same as Nevada." I ask, "Do you know someone in Nevada?" She replies, "No, I'm from Hong Kong originally. I was just visiting Death Valley." I feel my legs go soft and place my hands on the counter for support. I say, "It must've been amazing." She says, "Oh, yes. The name sounds scary but it's not. It's very beautiful."

I look at her in wonderment and say nothing.

The next day just before leaving work, I call the residence where Alex has been living and say, "I'm a friend of Alex Rudinsky." The woman answering the phone says, "he died this morning." My stomach sinks into something deeper and the queasiness returns. I immediately call one of his daughters to offer condolences. I get off the phone. I leave the building and do what comes naturally. I walk. I feel the air on my face.

When I get home, even though it's late, I can't sleep. I light a candle and place Alex's photo beside it. I sit there a long time.

The next morning I go to Village Zendo for a day-long retreat. Being with friends in a mostly silent container of time and space allows me to flow with a shifting interior landscape. That forest garden becomes a stronger presence and in moments I feel myself sitting there. Afterwards, I walk to Ten Ren Tea. I pour from a large cup into a small one a rich dark brew of an earthy tea called PuEr. Over and over again I pour and sip. The woodsy aroma and taste take me back to days at Great Vow and other gardens among friends. Our hands dig into moist soil mixed together with fresh compost. This is fertile ground for new seedlings we are transplanting from the greenhouse where they've germinated.

All at once, almost before I realize it's happening, tea in hand, tears spill out. I can't hide them though feel awkward crying openly in this teahouse. Cindy and Anna, friends who work here, offer space and gentle care, bringing over a small cup of Oolong, placing a light hand on my shoulder then stepping back to their work. When ready, I tell them what's happened. Each offers comforting words and a brief, heartfelt hug. Something in me shifts as I'm held. I feel safe. I sense that this moment too is precious and these people dear to me. And it all seems so incredibly ordinary. The lack of seeming drama in the midst of a multitude of emotion allows me to relax. Able to integrate the hurt and sadness, the confusion and regret, I return to appreciating who is here now. An inner warmth moved out as quiet joy arises in me unexpectedly.

As preparations begin to close the teahouse for the night, I head out and wander through the side streets of Chinatown as the sun sets. Stumbling on a prayerful scene, I see Pakistani or perhaps Afghani workers pulling out pieces of cardboard and prostrating together. My mind flashes to Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center and walking by its renovated chapel. A friend and colleague, Imam Yussuf Hassan, joins with staff, patients, and their family members in prayer. They spread out small colorful rugs and prostrate, facing east towards Mecca.

Days later, I call Sybil, a 70-something friend and writer whose compassionate way is subtle as it is imaginative. I mention Alex being "only 54" yet having lived fully. She says, "sometimes I think it's like people are all kinds of carpets. Some are meant to be prayer rugs instead of wall-to-wall." This hits home and I feel the relief of a few tears running down my cheek.

Back in Chinatown, I turn towards the river, heading west. I hear voices singing. Following the sound, I enter a Catholic church and see an Easter vigil. Holding white candles, Chinese parishioners stand as the choir sings. The candlelight resonates with the end of Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, on this, the fifth day of Passover. It is a time, which marks the transition from rest to activity. I stay briefly then keep moving.

Nearly a week earlier, I sit at a long table in Soho for a lively Seder with friends and their family. They get the power of togetherness. Deena is founder of Communal Table and Musho is an artist whose whimsical creations include a colorful cast of characters. The haggadah storybook we use is called, “A Night of Questions.” When it's time for the ten plagues, each of us dips a pinky in our wineglass and removes a drop, one for each plague. Opinions vary on why this is done. A popular explanation is to acknowledge that we do not rejoice at the suffering of the oppressor. Rather, we celebrate being freed from the yoke of oppression. "What's the difference?" remains a question debated at many a table.

Now, standing on the edge of Tribeca, I wait for the traffic light to change. The sky has darkened considerably. The light turns green. I keep going. When I get to the Hudson river, the flow of water soothes and the streetlamps' glow washing over its shifting surface comforts as it refreshes.

The next morning, I reset my makeshift music studio and toss whatever does not seem to be essential. Later, as evening comes, I head downtown to Bluestockings Bookstore to hear Nina Revoyr read from her new novel, Wingshooters. I hear about Nina from my friend Tomomi. Nina is her daughter.

A group of thirty or so eager listeners gather. Homemade cookies sit on a nearby table.

Nina's novel deals with complexity of character and relationships, engaging difficult themes including racism, and is being compared to To Kill a Mockingbird. Nina comes up to the mike. She reads a passage, which beautifully captures a moment where the story's nine-year-old protagonist heads out to the baseball field with her grandfather:

"Something about stepping out onto a baseball field that always gave me a thrill, as if some energy source, some element in the grass, entered my feet and moved up through my body and set off an extra charge in my heart. . . Batting is about muscle memory and repetitive motion, and you have to get to the point where you're moving perfectly and acting without thought. . . When players get into a slump, it's often because they're thinking too much, breaking down the various parts of their swing until it becomes a series of separate, fallible mechanical actions instead of a unified expression of grace."

She adds, "When I did connect, when the ball hit the center of the barrel of the bat and flew out into the field, I felt a sense of joy and freedom as powerful and true as anything I've ever experienced. . . Hitting a ball is like catching a piece of the sky and sending it back up to itself. It's like creating your own crack of thunder. And stopping a ball-especially a grounder you have to reach for, or a line drive that should have flown past your glove-is like catching a bolt of lightning."

As she reads, the sky explodes with a bright flash and soon the crackle of thunder, quickly followed by a downpour. We feel it through the bookstore's open door as a rush of moist wind. During the Q&A, which follows her reading, Nina responds (as best I'm able to hear) to a question:

"Much like a good parent, I give characters enough structure (foundation) then trust. Characters lead you and become the story. Sure, I want people to think about complexity, about racism, but if I wanted to write an opinion I would have written non-fiction. Fiction has to have real characters. What's it like for someone to be neither all good or all evil?"

Her words reverberate throughout my body as I briefly mingle, then head out the door. Time to go home.

It's late. I pick up my electric guitar, already plugged into an effects box, and put on the attached headphones. I step on the pedal to shift sound effects. My fingers start strumming, then slow down to pluck single strings. Hearing the delay of the signal, it sounds like rain falling through that broad forest canopy. I adjust the delay and attune. My body loosens its taughtness and falls in with what's flowing.

The flickering candle light casts dancing shadows across the wall, magnifying the silhoetted shape of flowers nearby. I feel my breath and pulse. Over and over fingers pluck away. I get up and move through the room as far as the cord will allow. Slowly lyrics come. I sing them softly given the hour:

"I'm standing with you. I'm standing with you in a forest garden. And the rain's comin' down. the rain's comin' down. It'll turn you around. It'll turn you around."

I feel the wet warmth of tears streaming down my cheeks in the night glow, choking through the refrain of "rain's comin' down."

My fingers strum harder now and faster. I step on the peddle and the effect, the grit of the sound building. I feel that forest floor squishing beneath me and the sheltering embrace of that forest canopy. It feels so good to play. I feel free, freer than I've felt in months. I play until my fingers shake and eventually settle. The last thing I do is record the snippet of song using my phone. No time yet to setup the recording part of this studio. I finally release into a restful exhaustion.

The next day I send the recording to my friend Naomi. She texts me within minutes, "Wow. . .it's beautiful. You should play in the public. Seriously."

My immediate and visceral response on reading this is palpable, a new interplay of joy, relief, and all of it most intimate. Not so much the being seen for who I am (an ongoing storyline). Rather the ability to express and have this connect for another. Meeting in the moment.

Days later, I check my email. Another friend in Oregon and resident at Great Vow, writes, "We'll have Alex's memorial ceremony here today. I visited Alex the week before his passing. He had big, bright eyes."

I go onto Facebook. I visit Alex's photo albums and am drawn to one of his colorful landcape oil painting of a forest scene, entitled, "Shelter." I then return to the previous page and scroll down to see his comment to friends. He's talking about the relationship between "posting" and "sharing":

"I guess I have no idea how this works. I thought anyone could look at these photos just by going to my fb page and clicking on which photo album they wanted at any time. So the difference is when I edit it, then they are "posted" and go out to everyone as when I "share" something?"

He then writes,

"And so the advantage is people don't have to think. It just visually appears in front of them, and they are happy."

Nearness

A sunny Sunday afternoon. I'm standing on Broadway in Manhattan's Soho, just south of Prince Street, carrying a large colorful poster, which reads, "Help Japan with Love." Beside me is Naomi Namba, Japanese immigrant, artist and fellow server at the Potluck Tea Party in Central Park's Strawberry Fields. Today we're joining a large Taiwanese Humanitarian Relief organization named, Tzu Chi, in fundraising efforts.

A week earlier, the world shifts. An earthquake, then a tsunami, then nuclear disaster. Something shifts in me and I need to do something. I don't know what so I do what a lot of us do. I go online to connect with my "Social Network." I'm looking for what five decades earlier, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., calls, "the Beloved Community." What I find are many news stories and blogs, which vary wildly in what they report. The people and communities affected directly tend to put a different spin on events than those at greater distance.

I also locate lots of ways to donate online. It's confusing. Who can be trusted to get the funds directly to those in need? Do I go with familiar organizations or others, which offer matching funds, or which espouse ideologies more aligned with my own? After an hour of surfing, I am overwhelmed. My shoulders are hunched and tense. My face has moved alarmingly close to the screen. All at once, I stop. I feel my feet on the floor and come back to my breath. I get out of the chair and step back from the screen.

I leave the room and sit in a quiet place. I follow my breath until it settles as does the rest of my body. Then, it comes to me. Whom to call. Within minutes, I'm speaking with Chuck, a new friend and volunteer with Tzu Chi's office in Manhattan's Chinatown. Weeks earlier, I meet him by phone while planning an upcoming retreat at Village Zendo whose theme is immigration. The plan, as a later video I'mMigration shows, is to explore our inter-relatedness by engaging the urban environment including visits to neighbors such as Tzu Chi.

Speaking now about Japan, Chuck tells me to meet at their office on Sunday. Those of us volunteering are dispatched in groups of three or four to the streets of Soho. he tells me that days earlier in Chinatown, volunteers meet with resistance from some locals, who say emphatically, "hey, don't you know your history? Don't you know what the Japanese did to us?"

Today, I cross Broadway as the Chinese-American woman, herself an immigrant, heading up our group of four urges us on, saying, "more people will be on the sunny side of the street." Walking beside her is a young man, a high school student. She's carrying a makeshift cardboard box with a big slot cut on top and lovely artwork pasted on the front. The rest of us carry signs or flyers stating our intention, "Help Japan with Love."

My resistance starts from the outset. The scene feels like the Salvation Army. It is not exactly my cuppa tea. We are asking out loud for people to contribute. The young fellow says, "come on, show some love. Give a dollar. Help Japan."

Each time someone puts money in the box, the woman bows and says, "thank you." So does the young fellow and soon enough, so do Naomi and I. We catch on. Still, I don't know what to say. I watch as most people walk by. Quickly, I'm getting seriously annoyed. Why aren't they stopping? Why aren't they offering something?

My impulse is to say something. But what? A man walks by, late 20's, seemingly "Caucasian," and well-dressed. He's carrying what I imagine to be a $5 latte from Dean&Deluca, an expensive gourmet market at the corner. I hear myself say, "for the price of that coffee, you could help someone who has no water to drink. Give $5. Save a life." My tone is anything but inviting. He quickly walks by. Next I see a woman in her mid-30's wheeling her toddler son in one of those fancy strollers that can do everything but fly. I say as she goes by, "what if it was your child?" She gives me a look, rightly so, indicating her displeasure and confirming that this strategy is not gonna fly.

Increasingly desperate, I start a refrain, "think of the children, think of the children. please help." Folks keep walking by. Now I'm really angry and it shows. I say as a new refrain, "do you really need that dollar in your pocket?" As I'm saying it, a homeless man looking pretty dishevelled and down on his luck, walks by. He walks slower than others and his eyes are downcast. He keeps moving.

All at once it hits me. Here I am. Passive aggressive. Judgemental. Trying to connect. Not a great recipe for success. I check in with my body. Tense. Tired. Migraine tinges surging. Hungry. Cold.

Pissed off.

I stop.

Because I am suffering.

Why am I suffering? I don't know.

A Zen koan (dialogue) from The Book of Serenity, speaks to this. It's an exchange between two Chinese men and is called,

Case 20: Dizhang's Nearness:

Dizhang asks Fayan, "Where are you going?"

Fayan says, "Around on Pilgrimage."

Dizhang says, "What is the purpose of Pilgrimage?"

Fayan says, "I don't know."

Dizhang says, "Not knowing is nearest."

Why are people here? Who are these people? What's their purpose?

I don't know.

The woman with the stroller. Maybe she's overwhelmed, trying to manage her full-time career with the responsibilities of motherhood. If she's fortunate to be in a loving partnership, maybe she's in a hurry, on her way to meet that person, maybe more kids, and have some precious family time together?

Or how about the latte guy? Maybe he donated online. Maybe he's been working his tail off all week and this is his one chance to relax. Maybe he's been savoring this moment of enjoying a latte all day. Maybe it's what he needs to keep going.

Finally, the homeless guy. He might be unaware. He might need to keep his focus very narrow, focussed on survival. He moves slowly through the terrain. He takes his time. Maybe he is offering something just as significant as money. Maybe a reminder.

Stopping to consider all this, my body relaxes.

I stop judging. I stop suffering.

All because of practice. The simple so-to-speak practice of coming back to the breath, the body, and my intention.

In that moment of stopping, of inner silence, a song comes to me, a refrain. I start to sing what I hear internally. It's a familiar melody, written by John Lennon, and sung by The Beatles.

"Love, love, love"

As soon as I begin, Naomi turns to me and smiles. She starts singing. We start a soft dance shuffle, holding our signs.

"Love, love, love. . . it's easy"

People around us slow down as they walk by. They're smiling. I sing at a volume I didn't realize I'm capable of. It is heard even with lots of mid-afternoon auto traffic:

"All you need is love"

The next line comes out so loud seems like folks on the other side of the street can hear.

"Everybody now!"

Naomi's singing louder too.

"All you need is love"

Then a new line comes out of my mouth. I make it up:

"We need your help and how."

I laugh. So do people walking by. They start to put money in the box, in our hands. Bows and "thank you"s keep a steady rhythm for the tune.

We connect.

A few days later, during the Urban retreat, visiting the offices of Tzu Chi, our host tells us that street-based fundraising efforts are intended to be grassroots efforts. She says, "On the street, it's great if people give a dollar. Frankly, we raise more money online. It's not about the money. It's to awaken the heart of compassion."

Back on Broadway, I feel compassion for the people around me. They feel it.

Compassion and dollar bills flow freely. We continue to sing, to laugh, to dance, and bow.

A man who operates the nearby food-vending truck wants to contribute. The woman with the box gladly walks over and lifts up the box as he puts in a dollar. She asks him where he's from. Smiling with great pride and dignity, he says, "Bangladesh." They bow.

I snap photos and hand Naomi the camera, she snaps a few. I ask a stranger passing by. Another volunteer from Tzu Chi arrives. He snaps a few. We're having a grand time. We return to Tzu Chi headquarters and warm up. Chuck offers me and Naomi sweet red bean soup along with the rest of the volunteers.

I go home. I feel compassion for myself. I want to share it. I make a Flickr slideshow and post the link and a photo album on Facebook. I tag a few people in the photos. Within hours, Naomi posts on my wall, saying, "It was fun. People gave us a lot. Thank you!" She emails me hours later and says that her friends in Japan saw the slideshow because I tagged her in a few photos. She writes, "they were deeply moved."

I'm reminded of a verse from a long, meandering Taoist poem, entitled, "Shodoka" or "Song Verifying the Way":

I have had no reason for joy or sorrow

at any honor or disgrace.

I have entered the deep mountains to silence and beauty.

Consumed

Three squirrels are zooming around a tree as I enter Ft. Tryon park in northern Manhattan. Their tireless pace captivates me and a whole lot of folks passing through. The temperature outside is markedly warmer than it's been. Everybody's coming out it seems.

Two weeks earlier, and footsteps from here, my cellphone is stolen by two teenage boys, could be age 14 or maybe 16. Coming out of the subway, I ride up an elevator to street level. The teenagers and a middle-aged woman are also riding. I see the boys glancing at my Blackberry but am consumed, typing an email message to a guy who lives 3000 miles away. He and I meet one year earlier and are now in some kind of ambiguous intimate relationship. I am planning to visit him in a few days.

I type with a heightened sense of urgency due to confusion and impatience in wanting a response. I think I'm checking in but actually the impulse is more like checking out, not taking in what's really going on. I'm exhausted with my head painfully pounding. Another day of too much activity, too much outflow, and not enough of what nourishes.

Over a year earlier, I sustain physical injuries from such active inattentiveness, which connects with similar fixations. Some part of me is irritated and compulsively thinking that someone else is not responding as I want them to. I don't feel heard. That night, I trip and take a nasty tumble, breaking a tooth on impact with the pavement. Tonight, under different circumstances, my unconscious body registers a resonance but can't stop.

As the elevator doors open, the boys walk ahead of me as does the woman. Alone, having completed the email text, I step out into the night air, holding the phone in one hand. I am about to go up the two flights of stairs, which lead to the sidewalk. Suddenly, the youngsters come back and towards me. One says, "hey, I dropped something back there, think I lost something. Did you see anything?" I reply, "no, you might want to check back there."

They do not move. That's when I sense danger. I turn back towards the elevators, cellphone still in hand. One of them quickly grabs the phone. Then, both of them bolt up the stairs and turn, heading towards the park. I yell, "hey, stop, give me back my phone. stop, thief, someone stop them!" and race up the stairs. Up on the sidewalk, seeing them far away now, I realize the futility of my effort and also the potential for escalation of the situation. Someone at the top of the stairs, holding a cane, asks what happened. I tell him briefly. He says, "oh, that's too bad." I'm enraged, not knowing what to say so nod my head, turn and move quickly down the street. All I want to do is get home.

Minutes later, I enter my building, and a neighbor, Carlos, who happens also to be a clinical chaplain, greets me, heading out to walk his dogs. He offers empathy and tells me there has been a surge in this sort of crime in our neighborhood recently. I tell him what is most of concern to me is confidential info on the phone, contacts and such. He assures me that the young men likely will toss away the SIM card and wipe the phone of other info.

Then I tell him that I'm upset about the conditions contributing to this, and my outreach efforts. He tells me about working with incarcerated youth at Rykers prison, gang initiations, and various issues affecting "our kids" in the inner city. Then, as I'm about to move on, he says, "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you." I see his eyes filled with compassion and care. I feel tears in my eyes. He's struck a chord. I'm hurting. We hug for a few breaths and then I go upstairs.

By now, fifteen minutes go by.

I take a quick shower and swallow two Advil capsules. "Quick acting pain relief." That's what I need. Only then do I call the local precinct and report the crime. Then my cell provider. Shortly thereafter, two officers arrive at my door. One of them is annoyed that I didn't call sooner and that I didn't call 911. "We might have caught them," he says. I offer empathy but recognize that am still in shock and don't have a simple response.

The next day, I get a call from a detective. He asks me a slew of questions including a request to describe the young men. Among these details, I say they are "hispanic." Even as I say it, I question if this is accurate, and what I mean by the word. He wants me to come down to the precinct and look at photos. I go the following night after work.

The scene is very urban, and the many TV shows I've seen of such places accurately render the scene. He says more as a statement than a question, "you know how to use a computer." I say, "yes." He gets up from his chair facing the screen and has me sit there. He says, "you'll see six photos at a time. There are about 600 in this batch, all that fit your description." He continues, "you're gonna see a lot of buttons. I just want you to click on 'next'." I nod in acknowledgement. I put my hand on the mouse and am about to begin, when he adds, "listen, people look at these and go, 'he had this feature or that, his eyes, his nose, maybe looks like this...' Don't do that. Just take in the whole face and see if you recognize it."

I look him in the eye. He looks tired. I don't know what to say. I turn back to the screen. The air is musty and cloying. Stacks of papers and folders are piled all around. I focus. As face after face appears, I scan them and press, "next." I don't see anyone who looks like the young man who grabbed the phone. What I do see are facial expressions, a wide range of bewildered, numb, scared, sad, and angry. I also see a wide range of facial features, all apparently designated as "hispanic american."

My mind flashes to a moment two months earlier, at the Brain Resource Center. Then, participating in a depression study as a "healthy subject," I am asked to view many facial expressions in quick succession on a computer screen. Like that moment, right now I shift to an awareness of flow and presence with all the emotions I'm seeing. How are these affecting me? What is my response?

The detective asks if I want to widen the search and view more photos. I agree to view one more batch. After another 600 photos come and go, he says that it's different for everybody. Some people can ID and some can't. "It all depends," he finishes. I leave the station with many questions. I'm tired and sad.

I go home and read an email message, "I am glad you weren't hurt physically. Phones can be replaced. Judys can't."

The next day I fly to Oakland, CA. After a day's silent retreat at Berkeley Zen Center, I'm heading to visit with this guy I really like even as our relationship continues to be troubling in its ambiguity. En-route on the BART train, and running late, I text him with my new phone and he responds, "No problem take your time." I smile with relief. How did he know?...

After I get there, he shares how relieved he is that "nothing worse" happened to me. I tell him it's important to me to write about it, to write stories of things that often go unseen. Then I say would like to write for various media except television. His look in that instant stops me. I sense arrogance in my tone. Where is that coming from? What do I really know about television? I've hardly seen any TV shows recently.


As the discussion becomes more heated, he says, "you are consumed by the world." These words stop me as a zen koan (dialogue) fragment comes to mind. I feel a resonance and hear my teacher speaking them, "what do you call the world?"

I'm seeing images flash by including those many faces on the screen. How do I respond?

He then tells me about issues with the police in San Francisco. He tells me about his friend in Brooklyn who was mugged violently. I feel myself shaking. I'm overwhelmed. My body flinches as it is catapulted through time.

Many years earlier, in Seattle, I'm choking, trapped in a fog of tear gas as protesters to the World Trade Organization meeting gather outside. I see broken windows of storefronts, notably Starbucks. Mostly I see non-violent protests. I am here to witness and dialogue with anyone I can. I know very little of the details of the situation, having driven with friends from Oregon, where I'm living. I see police in riot gear, all lined up, moving forward. I see protesters chained to a building. I see a lot of anger and a lot of fear. We run and run until at last, find a way out.

Now, two days after being in San Francisco, I am back in New York on a bus crossing over the George Washington bridge to New Jersey. I'm heading to the Brain Resource Center for my followup appointment. When I get there, a woman again asks me to put on a funky cap with lots of wires sticking out of it. As she puts conducting gel on my head and checks the connections, hearing some kind of European sounding accent, I ask where she's from. She shares that she's from Kosovo and moved to Brooklyn 20 years earlier. I ask about her family, having met her daughter on the last visit. Her face lights up as she tells me of her daughter's fascination with storytelling and her youngest boy's fascination with science. She tells me he said to her recently, "someday, mom, I'm going to work with you."


Then she tells me that this wiring is for an EEG (electroencephalogram), which will record my brain waves during the test. She reminds me not to move except my fingers, which will respond. We begin. Facing a computer screen, faces appear quickly on the screen, bearing many emotional expressions. It's the same test (or so it seems) as done months earlier. Again, I'm asked to identify emotions and also to choose which faces I've seen before. As face after face appears, I begin to feel overwhelmed. I activate awareness of my breath and the bottoms of my feet. I don't move. I breathe more deeply. Slowly, I feel a shift in my body as it seems to expand to encompass the room and beyond. I feel flow. The sensation is both calming and energizing.

On the ride back, I remember the story of a colleague at the hospital where I work. Brother TA as he's called, visits Catholic patients, having returned from serving for 33 years in Pakistan. He's telling me about why he finally left that country. He says, "we trained to make ourselves useless, have to let go, like being a parent, hard to cut the apron strings. We'd look around, seeing improvement in conditions. [when we arrived] they were like serfs, homeless, living in lean-tos against houses where they worked. We'd ask ourselves 25 years later, 'how did this happen?' We were busy just doing the work."

Then he adds, "[finally] They wanted us to be like grandparents sitting back... I'm an activist. That's not me. I can always do something. Wash dishes, make a dessert for the meal." Then he looks me in the eye and laughs, "But also, it's not what you do. It's who you are." I see the lines on his face. I see the glow in his gaze. I feel a powerful embrace and release.

Back on the bus, I look out the window. The sun is shining brilliantly. I sit back to enjoy the ride. Within minutes, my phone rings. Even as I answer the call, I want to get off. Something drives me to respond but I keep it short. Then, I hang up the phone and turn the ringer to "silent."

I take my time walking home.

Walking the Tao

I am greeting folks in the early afternoon as they arrive at Village Zendo, set inauspiciously at the end of a long corridor on the 11th floor of a large loft building in Mahattan's Soho.

We are gathering as Chinese New Year approaches for a happening called, Walking the Tao - a leisurely tea outing. These words are inspired by a long Chinese poem entitled Shodoka - Cheng-Tao-Ko, whose opening verse reads:

"There is the leisurely one,
Walking the Tao,
beyond philosophy,
Not avoiding fantasy, not seeking truth. . ."

We are a mix of folks who have known each other for some time as well as those who have never met. Most heard about the happening online. Some, like my friend and former colleague at Housing Works, Inc., Diana, have brought their kids along. Juliette and Sebastian have been studying Mandarin in school and are in a play later in the week, in celebration of Chinese New Year.

Fifteen of us assemble. We introduce ourselves briefly and what inspired us to come on the outing today. I suggest we might call ourselves "tea tao-ttlers." This garners a few chuckles and a few raised eyebrows. As we gather our belongings, I am delighted for how resonant this outing feels with another happening, the ongoing Potluck Tea Party in NYC's Central Park. I am awed at how dots connect.

Joining in today are Musho, who painted the wondrous party poster and happens to be a longtime fan of tea, esp. Japanese greens. His wife and founder of Communal Table, Deena, is smiling brightly as we introduce ourtselves. Many of us are foodies in one way or another. Deborah, founder of the vegetarian bistro Counter, shares that tea is a passion. Heads nod with delight in shared recognition.

Mark and Vinny share that daily consumption of tea is a pleasure and how excited they are for this outing. Zak speaks of his wife, currently living in Beijing, and how while visiting her, he was introduced and soon become enthralled with the elegant "gung fu" ceremony, which we are soon to enjoy. Days earlier, in his email rsvp, he writes, "totally stoked!!!"

Our destination: Flushing, Queens and Fang Tea, which is hosting a "tea expo," culminating after a month on Chinese New Year. As the poster for the happening says, Fang Tea:

features wonderful, small-batch, family-farm and wild-grown teas from Taiwan and mainland China. Also featured are a wide array of tea ware crafted by local and international artisans.

We head down via the elevator (except for the kids, who zip down eleven flights of stairs) and stroll out along the joyful bustle that is Broadway. Hopping on the subway, we change trains at Times Square to get on the #7, for a leisurely ride into the heart of Queens. Juliette sits down and opens her book, The Garden of Eve. by K.L. Going.

Above her head is a poster that says in big print, "Be Aware."

I ask to see her book. The back cover reads,

Evie receives a mysterious seed as an eleventh-birthday gift and meets a boy who claims to be dead. When planted, the seed grows into a tree before their eyes, but only Evie and the boy can see it - or go where it leads.

As the train shifts to being above ground, I notice through the window stretches of open space, frozen over ponds and bare trees, as well as big lots holding city buses and subway trains. On the exterior of each is an American flag.

As we travel, some enjoy conversation and some read. Sebastian sits beside Juliette, engrossed in a book of manga. I glance at frames in his book, which blend with frames outside the window. The world is passing by and we with it. Soon enough, we arrive at the last stop, as the train goes again under ground.

Here we are. Main Street, Flushing.

As we come up the stairs, Musho says, "hey, we're in China! That didn't take long." I look up and see a mammoth billboard over the busy intersection. It reads, "Welcome to China 2011." We cross the street, whose upper traverses are decorated with red paper lanterns, and arrive at a cozy hole-in-the-wall, for a round of fresh steamed buns. This place serves what I've never experienced anywhere else, calling the filling, "salted vegetables." The bright salty greens make for a tasty counterpoint to the slightly-sweet white bun.

I greet a fellow who's slurping down some noodles. He looks like he's down on his luck, clothes unwashed in some time. Still, he's quite content because at a little over $1, these are affordable eats. We exchange notes on the relative merits of the various condiments as I pass out the buns to our crew. We step outside to munch and mingle.

The sun is shining and a steady stream of people pass by. This clearly is a main thoroughfare. We finish munching and continue down the street, then cross over through small mounds of snow to the other side.

Walking through the revolving door, we enter the Sheraton East Hotel. This is home to the tea expo. As we turn the corner, a statue of a benevolent looking figure resting in a grove of bamboo greets us. This we think is the image of Kwan Yin, which represents the feminine expression of compassion. So much so that a famous tea is named after her.

As soothing music plays over a speaker, I notice a captivating poster, which displays steam rising from a kettle. The caption reads,

Let tea be your guide, and take you into the wondrous realm of the Tao.

Below this, in smaller print, it says,

From the world of Zen, bring forth the essence of tea and let it guide the experience of the Truth within your mind.

I'm thinking, "OK, here we go . . ."

We soon are greeted by Judy Chen, interpreter and liaison for Fang Tea. She offers us a tour of the expo's displays and shares a brief history of Fang Tea. Wanting to preserve the unique art of growing, harvesting, and preparing a wide range of chinese teas; relationships have been cultivated with those specializing in this. Also, international artisans continue to explore the relationship between tea and teaware. The materials used as well as the process convey a craft that is at once steeped in tradition as it is unfolding, like the leaves themselves.

She shows us a series of small teacups. On each is painted an image of one of the many implements of Kwan Yin. She is said to have one thousand hands and in each a different tool. It seems that compassion comes in many forms and each is quite pragmatic.

Judy then walks us over to a mammoth wooden table, reserved for host and guests to enjoy tea. Behind it hang seven scrolls with calligraphy. She explains that these are a series of Zen tea poems. They can be experienced as a progression in the Tao being a "way" of life, as expressed through daily activities. The last one consists of four characters.

It says simply, "Zen and tea, one way."

We smile in unison as she invites us to split into two groups of eight. She prepares to serve as host at one and a new friend, Kyle, prepares to serve at an adjacent table. Each of them has studied the art of gung fu. Their radiant faces enliven the room. We sit down.

Another server of sorts joins us. It's Naomi, who has offered iced jasmine tea beside me for several years at our Potluck Tea Party. She lives nearby. She and Michelle, another member of our tea tao-ttling group, are familiar with japanese tea ceremony, or chado (also translates as "way of tea"). They, like the rest of us, are curious about and eager to experience the Chinese ceremony.

I move from one table to the other at a leisurely pace. Unsure of what exactly is my role, my heart leads. I want to ensure that everyone is comfortable.

Judy and Kyle have chosen a "light Oolong" to start. The dry leaves are appreciated by all as the small "pot" for steeping is heated with hot water poured from a nearby kettle. This "pot" looks more like a cup and is called "Gaiwan." It comes with a lid, which serves as a filter for the loose leaves.

Each Gaiwan is superby stunning. The glaze on the one Judy uses is an unsual and sensuous shade of red. Chinese New Year abounds in the color red as it generally connotes happiness in Chinese culture. A subtle while distinctive orchid is painted over this glaze. Kyle uses a Gaiwan with a soothingly bright shade of yellow overlaid with just a few delicate blossoms.

After the tea steeps briefly, it is poured into a serving cup with a spout. Judy explains that this is the "fairness cup." She says that it ensures that everyone receives the same strength brew. She pours the tea into tiny white porcelin cups, which at the same time, are quite wide when held to the lips. This helps one sip the tea and then enjoy sniffing its sublime aroma. We breathe it all in and enjoy the first sip. I look down the table and see transfixed guests.

I get up and move to Kyle's table. I whisper to Deena, "ask him why that is called the fairness cup." She smiles and within a few minutes I overhear her asking. He offers some words and then also explains that the name literally translates as "ocean of tea." This ocean receptacle is equally stunning, and appears to be a fired clay suffused with blue-brown speckles. The name seems fitting. He pours, filling everyone's cup. Smiles flowing down the table, guests and host drink together.

Multiple steepings follow. I lose count after seven. Finally, Judy and Kyle each show us the completely unfurled tea leaves, placing them on lovely square-shaped plates. These are whole leaves. They glisten, like our faces.

For a time, we browse the tearoom and some purchase tea and teaware. As we prepare to leave, Judy introduces us to her teacher, who invites us to return. Putting on my coat, then turning the corner, I notice the poster again. The first sentence stands out:

Let tea be your guide, and take you into the wondrous realm of the Tao.

Indeed . . .

click here for accompanying slideshow