This Complicated Mystery..

Call it a suspicion, but I think it's pretty safe to assume that no one is exactly who or what they appear to be. What I mean by this, more specifically, is that we tend to, or even learn to, bury parts of ourselves deep within the caverns of our beings. To know ourselves, truly and deeply, and to become known - these things take time, patience, and dare I say, a kind reverence. 

There are many melancholic lessons we continue to absorb with advancing age, but one of the beautiful things I continue to learn about myself is that there is so much about my inward parts still left to be discovered. Life, for me anyway, as time advances forward and certainty falls away, is a process of almost constantly unforming and reforming, bending towards some kind of invisible current that seems to be ever sweeping me forward. 

This process requires gentleness, openness and patience. It requires the realization that I am not unlike the saguaro cactus, whose discernable growth requires decades. Or that I am not unlike the monarch butterfly, on a thousand mile search for home, for community, for rest. 

I am an unfolding mystery, and so are you.

I'm a mystery of a trillion cells and a beating heart, firing neurons and flowing blood, and a myriad of other miraculous things happening and unfolding incessantly, unbeknownst to me. I'm a cosmic happening rooted in a local event, and so are you. 

I'm also a mystery of fragility, of aging, of softening, of time increasing the metaphorical rings marking each passing trip around the sun. 

When I seek to understand the mystery, both within and without, I turn to words. More specifically, I turn to stories. I suppose I'm not alone here. Story is part of the human condition. To share my story (and stories) unveils a bit of my mysterious soul to another, and vice versa. To honor my story means to hold it with a kind of reverence. Instead of reflexive naysaying or finding reasons to conjure fear that often comes with change; instead of admonishments or advice or rebuttals, embracing the mystery with a grateful heart. Real, tangible, juicy gratitude for the messy and sacred process of speaking these truths into existence. 

I am a being affected by history and by geography, by theology and anatomy, whether I know much about these subjects or not. And with this fragile thing called my life unfolding, I am also admittedly harmed or healed by human interactions. I, like you, am a paradoxical combination of many things, neither fully bitter nor sweet, neither fully angry nor joyful. I am complicated. But guess what? I Am. And you Are, too.  And that complication is beautiful.

You are complicated. Connections are complicated. Feelings are complicated. Nature is complicated. 

I've come to realize that we are not observers bypassing a creation we've been kept out of; but rather, we are a part of the very creation we recognize as mysterious, strange and complicated. We are symbiotic souls in need of fellow humans to hear and hold and witness and commune. 

But we Are. And we are here, together. And dammit, that's more than enough. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Ten.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

Dipping your toes into the ocean at first light. A monarch butterfly flittering around a sunflower. The familiarity of a song you listened to and loved as a kid. Children running around the park pretending to be wild animals. Salted butter and jam on a warm baguette. Relaxing in a cozy beanbag chair. Knowing you're exactly where you're supposed to be. 

Thanksgiving Musings..

I have come to believe that there is a space within all of us, a longing that wants to be known.

Often, we will hide our depths because we are worried about being rejected; or we will stifle our gifts and talents because we are fearful of failure, of not living up to them.

Much of the time, many of us harbor resentment because we no longer want to be known for who we once we're, but for the person we've grown into Now. Being trapped by the past is a heavy gig. 

If life consists of continuous growth, which I believe it does, then we should honor it - not only in ourselves, but in those around us.

I was once certain of so many things, but the older I get, the more I've learned to hold space for the mystery, embracing it like a friend.

I'm always learning and I make a metric fuckton of mistakes, but I have slowly come to realize that it is an act of love to hold others with a loose grip, to assume that they are not their history (or our shared history), to assume that they are not the same, that they continue to grow. One of the ways it has become easier to embrace this idea is by the simple act of listening more than I speak and by asking better questions when I do.

I won't leave you with any signaling about gratitude. There is nothing you are Supposed to be, feel, embody or carry on this holiday. The only insight I have is that, perhaps, a holiday dinner is a good place to start holding that space, embracing that mystery, honoring that growth. It's a good place to set down preexisting narratives, roles and expectations and replace them with humble hospitality, curiosity and genuine interest in who we are all becoming.

Suffice to say, you are welcome here, at my metaphorical table, in all your changes and complexities and beautifully unknown parts;  welcome, celebrated and loved. You are a person worthy of knowing. Come take a seat. 

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Nine

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

The sound of the wind rustling through the trees. A cup of coffee steaming in the chilly morning air. Throwing a plush toy or ball to a sweet pup who loves to play. A shared laugh with a stranger. Watching raindrops trail down a window. Biting into a big juicy cantaloupe. Knowing there's beauty in the world no matter what the cynics say. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Eight.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

The eternal perfection of grilled cheese and hot tomato soup. Wrapping a blanket around yourself like a cloak. Falling asleep to a familiar old black & white movie. Gentle waves lapping the shore. An opera aria that hits somewhere deep in your chest. The warm kindness of a smiling stranger in a coffee shop. 

Finding Divine Poetry Within The Mystery..

One of the most profound things I've come to believe after more than four and a half decades on this beautiful spinning rock is that mystery abounds. I don't know if one needs to believe in a divine creator to come to this realization, nor am I sure if I want to expound upon those beliefs now. Suffice to say I have them, and they continue to unfold and evolve with each passing day. But I can confidentially say, and share with you, that I believe in divine poetry. One can look at the glorious mountain ranges found on our breathtaking continent, formed over billions of years from earthquakes pushing up meters of metamorphic rock, collecting tectonic plates, and glaciers carving rifts and valleys with melting ice and snow that eventually trickled down to create deep, cold mountain lakes.

Regardless of whether or not one wants to place a firmly religious connotation to or on this process, this is, to my mind, a miracle. It's a miracle of time and matter. A miracle of chaos. A miracle of creation. We don't need literalism to believe in divinity. Besides, literalism kills poetry: more specifically, the poetry of gazing upon grandeur and explaining its majestic oldness away with literalistic verse and young earth theory.

I know there is a question of "why does it really matter?" And the truth is, maybe it doesn't in the grand scheme of unfolding life. I certainly don't write these words in a vain attempt to try to convince you of anything. I'm not a park ranger or a scientist and I certainly don't purport to be an expert on scripture or religion. But I do think that the possibility of oldness and evolution and an unfolding creation story that doesn't require literalism matters in our ability to hold wonder and stoke imagination. Among the many flaws of literalism would be that it allows us, and often even requires us, to leave our wonder and imagination at the door. It's like choosing a KOA campsite off the interstate rather than sleeping under the stars by a grandiose mountain lake formed over billions of years.

Literalism says: you don't have to think or wonder or doubt or even deconstruct. It simply hands you a one-size-fits-all belief system, wrapped up in a tidy bow.

Call me silly, maybe even brazenly foolish. But I'll take the mystery that abounds. I'll fumble for words, seeking an understanding of the divine poetry that surrounds me. This is the miracle that we're all a part of - as a witness, and maybe even as an essential component.

Mystery abounds. What a wonder to behold. Amen.

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Seven.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

Old lampposts lining a cobblestone street. Smoke rising from chimney tops on an evening stroll. The sweet crackle and hiss of an old jazz record. A neighborhood cat twirling around your ankles. Flower boxes in apartment windows. Warm apple cider. Knowing you have a place in this world no matter what.