Category: Windy Thoughts and Things Needed to be Said

By car, by train, by boat

Ah, to travel. And for what purpose? To experience places beyond my front yard, of course. By car, the other place might include a grocery store or the local used bookstore, or the post office; it might include the experience of visiting a friend and catching up. And, of course, there are the greater adventures by car, traveling to our great national parks, Yellowstone to Mesa Verde, and places in between, camping under the stars.

But to experience far-away places, my most favored way to travel is by sailboat. All that I need is on board: my sleeping quarters, food, water, clothing, and books to read. Once the sails are set, the sea pulls me into her arms where I’m rocked to sleep or tossed in its more exuberant moments of tempest and storms. The longer I’m at sea, the more peaceful and joyful I feel. My ego lies down, and I find myself to be little more than a piece of dust in the immensity of the universe floating on this blue globe in an endless black space. Though a sailboat can, and must arrive, in larger ports in order to clear customs – those malignant cities on the edges of land masses big or small – a sailboat can move away from those noisy, dirty places and slip into the untouched bays and coves, less touched by “civilization.”

I no longer have a sailboat, and it’s been many years since I’ve sailed. Sailing is slow, as travel should be, traveling 100 to 200 miles a day, so much different than I would travel now. To visit another country, I zoom to an airport to hop on a plane to take me to the other side of the world, flying over great expanses of land, missing all the sights to be seen had I been down on the ground. But when I arrive in that foreign land, I stay in cheap hostels, and I always opt for public transportation — the local “chicken” buses or trains, however it is the local people travel — so that I can experience the place to which I’ve traveled and not the mirror image reflected in hotels or promoted through the travel brochures back home.

What is “success”?

Humanity is the only organism that even contemplates “success.” All other organisms just go about the process of living — breathing, eating, nesting, procreating, dying — without any contemplation of succeeding or failing. For we monkey-minded individuals, we set goals, and success is overcoming our self-imposed challenges or hardships — whether mental, physical or spiritual — by maintaining a continued focus as we climb to the top of our mountains.

There are times, success may be defined by others. As a writer, success is when readers discover my book and — thoroughly enjoying it — they recommend it to others or buy it as a gift to share (Aweigh of Life under my pen name of e.d. snow). But as the author of that book, my sense of success is very personal. Since writing is a long and arduous journey, success is in having completed that journey, having gotten it published, and ultimately feeling confident that it’s well written and I accomplished what I set out to achieve.

But the definition of “success” is a spinning top. For a drug addict or alcoholic, success could be scoring the next fix or it could be finally turning the key and committing to a clean-and-sober life and establishing a supportive community. What is deemed “success” will always be relative to who is watching the movie called Life and how thoughtful the perceived goal was.

They do say there are no winners in war, but for those engaged in it, success for the aggressor is killing and destroying as much as possible until the defender is crushed and surrenders. As the defender, success is in gathering the forces of spirit and the resources and tact to crush the aggressors, driving them from their space and territory. For the UN and peacekeepers, success is in garnering and maintaining a peace treaty.

For me, success can never be achieved if the goal is wealth and riches, which I believe  fuels of all wars, because those who aspire for such will never be satisfied. They will clamor for more. Success is in finding peace within our own internal wars and damping down the weapons of anger, jealousy, greed, sloth, envy, restlessness, and, yes, doubt.

Success is witnessed in the achievements of little seven-year-old Aneeshwar Kunchala who  writes his own poetry and creates his own YouTube blogs on saving the earth and gets international recognition for it. Success is having the courage to give voice in order to change the human dialogue, to bring focus to the existential issues facing humankind, those voices being heroes like the Greta Thunbergs, Martin Luther King, Jrs., and Nelson Mandelas of the world, who took on the challenge to be spokespeople for all.  Yes, like writing a book, ultimate success will depend upon how many hear the cries and react and act to effect the change necessary for humanity’s survival.

Success is being able to touch the depth of one’s spirit and heart in the midst of the worst of adversities and from that depth gather the strength to help others.

Success  is being able to be a still pond in the midst of all challenges in life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is there a book that changed my life?

Pondering on the question of whether or not a book changed my life, I would be quicker to say there was one book that woke me up and ultimately steered me down a certain path. I’ve often wondered if I even had a choice, and if I’d chosen differently who would I be had this book not appeared in my life. Did it change me? It definitely steered my course towards being mindful and making changes in how I behave in life — not that I was always successful, but it got the wheel turning. And I cannot ignore how blatantly obvious the Universe was in placing this book in my path. Such an event is not to be ignored! So the wheel begins to turn with Ouspensky’s In Search of the Miraculous as a book that possibly changed my life.

In 1969, 19 years old, I sailed from Hawai’i to San Francisco, falling in love with deepwater sailing. Upon returning to Hawai’i, I bought the Wanderer II, a 24-foot gaff-rigged cutter, with all intentions of sailing around the world by myself. Besides the sails and necessary equipment to sail, there were two books onboard. One was The Autobiography of a Yogi by Yogananda (a book I never got around to reading until 2010 when I moved to Costa Rica).

The second was In Search of the Miraculous, which conveys the teachings of George Gurdjieff, a Russian philosopher, mystic, and spiritual teacher. It was deep and heavy reading for my naive and unworldly mind. I remember studying that book like my life depended upon it though. There was something being taught that no one, no education, had introduced me to. And I’m happy to say, Houston, there was ignition and lift-off from the ground of sleepwalking into a glimmer of a higher consciousness. Though I would fall asleep again and again, the wheel was turning and the direction of my life seemed to have shifted.

I ended up selling the Wanderer a year later, freeing myself to crew on other boats. I made two more deliveries from Hawai’i to the Mainland before I caught a boat to the South Pacific where I sailed and lived for seven years. The ocean itself deepened my focus, lending its contemplative space to my mystic ruminations. I eventually returned to the U.S., as a parent, entering the path of family and responsibility. As those years rolled past, the spark was kept alive by books and workshops by the then current popular spiritual teachers like Gary Zukav and Deepok Chopra and others.

Of course, I’d indulge in novels that brought tears and laughter, as well understanding and compassion, but I continued reading books in pursuit of this higher consciousness, in search of that mystic enlightenment. Those readings began to lean towards Buddhism. Of course, I’d read Siddhartha in high school; but I revisited it with a deeper understanding. I read David Wright’s Why Buddhism is True, The Essence of Buddhism by Traleg Kyabgon, Jack Kornfield’s books, as well as dozens if not hundreds of others, devouring the philosophy and thought.

Then I read Peter Coyote’s memoir, The Rainman’s Cure. The wheel of life turned me a bit further down the path. Coyote’s book was pivotal in me realizing that reading about Buddhism was far different than the practice of sitting on the cushion and actually meditating. It was with that awareness instilled by Coyote’s memoir that I began, and continue, my meditation practice in the Thai Forest tradition and the teachings of Ajahn Chah.

Becoming more mindful and focused, I found that my meditation practice provided the discipline to finally sit down and write my memoir, Aweigh of Life, the experiences of those seven years sailing and living in the South Pacific 45 years previously.

The process of writing Aweigh of Life was — quite unexpectedly — an extremely cathartic experience. After all, one must be very honest with oneself when writing a memoir, and in that honesty, well-hidden “secrets” are often revealed. Though it’s a “sweeping tale” (as one reader put it) of my adventures, including the unique experience of giving birth to my first child on a remote island in Papua New Guinea, and interlaced with historical, cultural and geographical descriptions, the writing process itself brought into the forefront of my awareness what had been driving me my entire life to be aweigh of life. Recognizing myths I’ve lived by — I have found — heightens my meditation practice, my mindfulness, and the wheel keeps turning.

So I could say that Aweigh of Life is that book that changed my life because of the cathartic experience in writing it and the next level of awareness it brought to me? Or I could say Ouspensky’s In Search of the Miraculous was that book, 50 years ago, that ignited that spark to pursue a more awake life of contemplation, meditation, and mindfulness?

Or I could say it all just is the way it is. I am the way I am. Nothing changed me.

Who knows for sure if a book or anything at all changed me?

It all just was the way it was.

It just is.

Rain

On the metal roof of the van in which I live, the dance begins. The solitary tap dance of a single drop gathers momentum as its companions are called forth to perform. In dis-gust, the wind blows those tiny dancers aside, to drip down the side of the van, as if to conclude the rain dance. But the misty cloud of falling water that followed and had been waiting in the limbs of trees, gathering the strength of the storm, becomes a grand orchestra whose beat thumps and jumps, pumps and dumps down in its thicker tones, baritone plops and bass-string pops. For a time, it plays a more harried, almost frantic, beat as it pounds down, selfishly obliterating all other sounds … before it’s silenced by the sun.

Whispers of rain came as

Tinkles of sprinkles
Dancing like galloping ants
Rustling green foliage

Musical stanzas
Orchestral liquid movement
Ghosting petrichor

Thunderheads roiling
Shadowy billows retreat
Memory puddles.

Why do I write?

I write to give form to a feeling – whether emotional, physical or perceptive – so that others might have the experience for themselves or that they might better understand what I experienced, if they feel the need. I write to give form to a visceral sensation that otherwise would disappear into the nothingness of life.

I write to capture old transmissions coming from afar, believing that everything in life already exists and that writers are simply receivers, picking up the threads of ancient stories to tell again. Having no barriers as they move through the ether, I write them down quickly before they’re gone without even an echo. I write to reconstitute the endless variations of existence revealed in those transmitted stories.

I write because I have thoughts that others don’t understand. I write to stay in touch with my reality and to avoid an argument about their reality.

I write with the hope that I will transport myself — or a future reader — to realms into which my imagination travels, to worlds and places that otherwise would simply not exist.

I write to capture dreams.

I write to argue against perceived injustices.

I write that I might filter myself before I speak, that I might not injure another with criticisms or harsh words. I write to express an anger that, at that moment, should never be expressed, and yet my soul clamors for the catharsis that comes with its expression. Once expressed, I’m content to leave those angry words to rest silently on paper or in the bowels of my computer.

I write to explore meanings I’ve given to past experiences so that I might go back through the time line of my life and revisit what beliefs I’d clung to at that time. I write to see the myriad of iterations I’ve lived on this earth, capturing those myths I lived by at that moment before I wrapped myself into different costumes life called me to wear. Like a photographer, I’m driven to capture that image, those moments in time to preserve them so that, as an armchair visitor, I can reenter that imprisoned moment.

I have old family photos that go back into the early 1800s, but there are no words or stories told of their aspirations, fears, trials and tribulations. Now, with the world becoming more digitalized where photos may never be passed down to future generations, it becomes even more important that I write to preserve what life was like back in “these old days.” I write for a grandchild or great-grandchild and those that follow that they might be better able to understand the epigenetic dysfunction that haunts them, so they might understand what they inherited, or simply that they know the stories of the bloodline from which he or she descended. As my memory fades with the years, I write for the seventh generation. But I also write for me, to capture those moments, minutes — now years — of memories that are moving so far out into the universe of time that they’re becoming foggy ghosts with little form.

I write because I can’t help myself.

Haiku for Uvalde

No comprehension
In these life’s ragged moments
Empty in the void

Hear the mother hen
Squawking distress heartbreak grief
Skunk’s hunger sated

Loud rolling thunder
Image fading too slowly
Empty weeping arms

Handcuff mothers’ fear
Protecting children dying
More guns men laughing

Peace found within fields
Memory of loving days
Mountain heart endures

Back from Bedlam

Apropos, I suppose, I woke up this morning with James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” running through my head. The song appeared on his first album Back to Bedlam (named after a famous psychiatric hospital in England). Of course “bedlam” is descriptive of my anguished frustration and confusion as to “how can this keep happening” — these senseless murders of young children. With the tune playing through my mind as I came out of sleep, I was also well aware of the counterpoise necessary to rebalance myself after giving permission for that one voice to blow off some steam and heed the call to get loud.

I reflect that thirty-plus years ago, when I was 40, I started training in kung fu. At first it was simply a disciplined way to get exercise, but as I moved into the art, it became one of my deepest psychological journeys.

Early in my training, I was tasked with learning a series of moves: a straight punch to the face, an elbow to the chin, and knee to the groin (all with full control because that, in essence, was what we were training to have:  control). I performed the move — quite well, I thought — with hardness. “Look at my warrior strength!!” my ego beamed.

My sifu stopped me and said, “Good, but now I want you to do it slowly and softly.” I looked at him, and I said, “Well, I can’t do that. That’s not who I am,” so ingrained in this persona that who “I was” was hard and strong and direct. But he was not going to argue with me; he gave me the choice to do it slowly and softly or to get on the ground and do 50 full-body pushups with my partner kicking me in the stomach on each plank. I kid you not, but without hesitation I dropped to the ground to do that instead of having to be soft.

My sifu, not expecting that to be my choice, stopped me. In essence, the choice changed to “do it soft and slow or end your training.” Because I felt “it” happening, I wanted to argue that I could not do “soft,” and I told to him, “I will cry if I have to do that.” He said, “That’s okay.” I replied, “No, it’s never okay to cry, especially in kung fu.” He chuckled and said, “It’s always okay to cry.”

A higher, wiser Self stepped up beside me (I now recognize it as the Spirt side of Mind/Body/Spirit) and “held” me while I went through that controlled move. And I cried. “Again,” my sifu said. Again, I did it softly and slowly, and I cried more deeply. “Again,” he said.  And I sobbed as I touched feeling so scared and vulnerable in allowing myself to be soft. Through the following seven years of training in kung fu, my challenge was to learn to “yield,” to honor my yin energy, to find the balance between the yin and the yang. I achieved Brown Belt rank before arthritic issues at age 47 (probably the physical manifestation of years of hardness) ended my physical training.

Though most people move through life disguised and dressed in one persona (mine at that time was a hardened, closed-off warrior superwoman), if we become aware, we recognize we all have different voices, or selves, within us, each of which needs to be recognized and honored in order to free ourselves. It was during those years of training in kung fu, in my search to rebalance myself, I was privileged to be introduced to  a wise woman and practitioner of Voice Dialogue, a process through which a person learns to identify and become aware of these different voices or selves in order to become a more balanced individual.  Though far from practiced in the process myself, I recognized its importance in helping me achieve an emotional equipoise in my life.

Back in those days of kung fu, I had to learn to listen to this young, weak child that was never allowed to cry and that had to wear armor to get through life. Not only had that armor ceased to serve me, it had become destructive. Through kung fu — and Voice Dialogue and shamanic work, and eventually meditation — I got in touch with my world of archetypical energies that all serve me when in balance, but also can be destructive or hindering when one outshouts the other.

The Lover’s voice in James Blunt wrote and sang those beautiful songs. “You’re Beautiful” is an incredibly sad song about unrequited love, expressing the intense emotions of James Blunt when he saw his girlfriend with another man and he didn’t do anything about it (in the official video he jumps endlessly off a wall, down, down, down to …?).

Yesterday my Warrior ranted and played the bagpipes and banged on the drums of frustration. This morning, my Priest sat in silent meditation. In the bedlam of our “modern world,” I continue to listen for and await the voice of wisdom and spirit to illuminate the way.

May peace and love find us all and be the loudest voice and the brightest light to show the path forward in the bedlam of our world.

Rainy Day Poetry

Tap the water table beneath your feet
Roll down the mountains in relief
Feed the ground and clutch the air
Smell the wind that blows so fair.

Ride the oceans, touch its depth
Climb up mountains, feel its breadth
Search deeply through tangled roots
Reach even higher for tree’s fruits

Feel the rain or hear it tap
Or warm by the fire against the coldsnap
Hear the talk of branch on bough
Release all tension in your brow

Yes, it’s cold and gray and dreary
Suffer not for you can be cheery
When wrapped in the songs that nature sings
Bringing all things beautiful on its wings

 

 

A Most Interesting Road Trip

I’ve been on a road trip the past 10 days, which is why I haven’t been getting to my blog, but my, oh, my, what an adventure! It started simply enough, driving down to see my daughter in Oregon City, then out past Boring to visit my friends in the Columbia Gorge. I rendezvoused with my 35-year-old son in Issaquah, and my granddaughter in Seattle. All and all it was an almost perfect road trip, but nothing to raise a Monkey’s Eyebrow to. So to spice it all up, before I took the ferry home, I decided to mosey off to the back of beyond, do some exploring which turned out to be Nothing that was Boring or Dull.

(Author’s note, in case you don’t get it: All italicized names are real names of towns and street signs, though the distances traveled could only happen in one’s imagination. Also, it is slightly R-rated, so if you’re sensitive, stop near Santa, Idaho — though a slight downgrade from the North Pole — and wait for my next blog post).

As I started following a map and road signage in italics, I felt it was all a Riddle to be solved. Curiosity got the best of me, maybe like Jump Off Joe felt when he met Tom Dick and Harry over by Jackass Butte. Yes, I found Friendship in Book but it was Difficult trying to understand folks pronouncing Zzyzx Road as the way to get to Hell For Certain. In a Pinch, trying to Jot Em Down, the Recluse in Fingringhoe insisted the shortcut was through Weiner Cutoff, Condom, and Clit, but for obvious reasons, I chose to go down to Booger Hole in the opposite direction from Goofy Ridge. Though I found myself briefly at Happy Corner near What Cheer, it was a Tightsqueeze. I experienced a brief Surprise when I drove down Goa Way, finally feeling a bit more Neutral before I realized I had gotten Nowhere.

I got in a Funk because I could not find Money to spend, being so poor I couldn’t even buy a Bread Loaf or Two Eggs. Speeding through Knockemstiff and then Hooker, I stopped briefly in Hopeulikit but there was a Little Snoring in Onacock down Fanny Hands Lane, so once again, I carried on down another street that some Dickshooter named Dingleberry Road which took me directly to Cocking Fuckborough, a town that at least asked visitors to “Please don’t laugh at our village’s funny name.” That was kind of Cool, I thought, but it was no Fluffy Landing when I skidded at Greasy Corner, ending up at Bacon Level near Deadhorse, wondering where that bacon might have come from (but pretty sure why that corner was greasy).

Desperate to return to Paradise but at least try to find Sublimity, I thought I’d go to the Blue Mountains. But I immediately started questioning the morality of the area when I saw Humptulips and Loveladies standing at the edge of Whorehouse Meadows. The morality squad had apparently tried to change the name to Naughty Girl Meadows, but that idea went down the Crapper — which, by the way, was a town that really swirled down the Drain, because — as the story goes — folks in Burns Down convincingly proclaimed themselves more Needy of the services and more Rough and Ready to keep the name, because, though Remote, they were competing with the Intercourse Pretzel Factory over near Ticklenaked Pond. It need not be said that most decent men quickly said Aloha to that whole area, and would Zigzag to avoid Truth or Consequences which would of course result in Gouge Eye in Bitchfield if their women got wind of where they’d been.

Though I had left Boring in search of anything not so Dull, I began to Desire to return to a more Happy Corner. But I found it hard to escape some of the routes, feeling trapped in an endless Bear Dance. It seemed it was all a Sweet Lips Community wherever I turned. Right outside of Tightwad, I entered Ugley. Upon driving down Done Movin’ Lane, only briefly did I think I’d found my exit but realized it wasn’t Goodenough. The sign then told me to drive slowly past Cocks, but possibly I did not drive slow enough because I ended up at Wankers Corner, which was Halfway to Why (which of course at this point I had been thinking Why for quite awhile) where I was so desperately praying to enter Humanville, but, no — Oh Hell no — it turned into a Three-Way with a Dildo, followed by a Failing Plunge to Virgin. At this point, Cut and Shoot was a Hazard though it no longer seemed Peculiar.

I stayed long enough to hear about Blue Ball who clearly stayed too long in Titty-Ho, but he had missed the turn, I’m told, to Idiotville and so arrived Spread Eagle with someone else’s Bastardo where the whole town came out yelping Yeehaw and throwing Rabbit Hash at him like Windpassing, which blew the doors wide open at the Smut Eye Grocery. I knew for sure now that I was in Satan’s Kingdom, which they claimed was simply a state recreation area, but it was actually a Flasher town in Young America. Every town on the map was leading me either to Lizard Lick — or was that Dick Lick Springs or Beaver Lick? Lotsa licking going on everywhere I went is all I know. All I could think was Oh Pity Me. I honestly did, and Whynot? It was a nightmare as I turned down Uncertain Road, past Bucket of Blood Street — a labyrinth, for sure — before I came to No Name. I was beginning to realize I might have arrived at Low Point right off of Middlefart when a Bend took me straight to Asylum.

Now completely in a Panic and wanting to get home, I drove down Bad Root Road to Point No Point where I came to Climax so slowly I almost missed Penistone. Near Crapstone, Embarrassed as I was, I had to use a bathroom but they wouldn’t let me use Pee Pee Creek, so I carried on down A Dog Will Lick His Butt But Won’t Eat A Pickle Road which dead-ended in Accident. There was a toilet in Bathtub Gulch but it wasn’t very clean because the sign said, “Please put toilet paper only in the toilet. Everything else goes in the trash,” and apparently everyone had followed those instructions. I was quite getting desperate to get out of this nightmare when I suddenly arrived in Half.com where there was a sign that said “That Way To Earth.”

Feeling like it had all been a nightmare, I started to see more familiar territory. I passed through Muckanaghederdauhaulia, which I knew translated as Piggery Between Two Expanses of Briny Water, so I was confident I was finally coming out of the darkness I had entered. All I’d wanted to do was to escape things that were Dull and Boring, maybe like the bartender who named his town Äteritsiputeritsipuolilautatsijänkä because he wanted to name it a name no one else could use — or misuse like I just have.   Thank Dog or the Universe, I thought. Whynot?

Almost home, I passed through A Spring Where Two Buffaloes Were Killed With the Same Shot, aka Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein. From there, I came over the ridge, and I finally breathed in the sweet tranquility of home-sweet-home, though I’ve never been able to pronounce it in all the years I’ve lived there, but its translation brings me Serenity and Comfort, and eases my soul: Saint Mary’s Church in a Hollow of White Hazel Near the Swirling Whirlpool of the Church of Saint Tysilio With a Red Cave — Such a lovely sounding name  — Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.   I think I’ll stick to Boring and Dull after that seemingly immoral trip to Hell’s Canyon.