Meditation

The problem with parables is that they are less like stories to be told and more like canvasses to be painted. The parable I will repeat below is not from any sacred text, nor any collection of ancient wisdom. Rather it is a modern parable, a parable for our times. It is The Parable of the Green Iguana.

First though, some scene setting...

I arrive at the house near Bodega Bay mid afternoon on the final day of the Group 4 Verger Retreat*. The Vergers had completed their "performance" the day before in which they presented themselves to their community, and made some powerful declarations about how they would be different - more decisive, more impactful, more present - than perhaps they had been before joining On The Verge the year before. So, the question on everyone's minds was: Now what?

The group had invited me to join them on this last part of their journey, and I was charged with helping the staff craft a powerful culminating activity for that evening. So, off we went for a walk on the beach at about five in the afternoon to design the activity that would begin at about seven. Just in time planning.

As the four of us - Roger, Leslie, Diana and myself - walked along the edge of the surf, I raised questions about initial intent. What was/is the purpose of the On The Verge (OTV) program? Why did they begin this process of bringing together emerging young leaders in the not-for-profit world to experience an intense year of self-discovery and community building? What intention did they hold for each "Verger" as they completed this phase of OTV? A valuable conversation ensued from that.

Each reminded the other about the "leadership gap" that is looming in the field. How many of us boomers will be aging out of this particular system and aging into retirement, or post retirement, sometime within the next fifteen to twenty years. We spoke of the need for these young leaders to be ready to take over the reins of these organizations, to continue the work that benefits so many people in the world. And then the conversation shifted.

It is not enough to merely develop new leaders for these organizations. It is essential that the leaders be much more creative in their approach to the work; that they create the unimaginable, not just sustain the already imagined. They will be inheriting a world where thinking inside a box will be like thinking inside a coffin. And that is when the parable came into the conversation.

As a way of focusing everyone's attention on this new paradigm, I told them the story of the Brown Iguana. It goes something like this...

There came a time not so many years ago when a boy decided to have a pet iguana. He brought the iguana home and took excellent care of it. He fed it regularly. Made sure the iguana had water. He did all the things that a boy should do when caring for an iguana. Since iguanas are carnivores, he was careful to feed his pet lots of meat along with some veggies. And he did such a fine job of it that his iguana had a beautiful brownish patina to it. Very distinctive.

As it happened, the boy was moving to a new city and could not take his iguana with him. So, he took the brown iguana to an animal preserve to see if they would take it in and care for it. They did of course, but were very curious about the brown color. They had never seen such an iguana. It was when the boy remarked that he fed his iguana meat along with some vbegitables every day that the manager of the preserve told him that iguanas were herbivores and not carnivores. And so the brown iguana joined the other iguanas in the preserve's terrarium. Its green patina even more distinctive along side the brood of green iguanas already there.

A few months later the boy returned to town and went off to the preserve to visit his iguana. When he got there, he looked everywhere for his iguana, but to no avail. There were no brown iguanas there now. They were all green iguanas, and he could no longer identify which one was his. To him all the iguanas looked exactly alike.

It is, as the Italians say, a good story, even if it is true. Well, true more or less.

Now here is the problem with parables. When I completed the story, I thought I had made such an impactful point that the entire design for the evening would flow like a waterfall, and all we would need do is cup our hands and capture the most important bits, and we would be well on our way. Except for one thing, that is - not all of us heard the same story.

My version of the story went something like this:

Before the boy had raised his iguana as a carnivore, the idea of a brown iguana was unimaginable. This brown iguana was the result of, albeit naïve, but still out of the box thinking. The brown iguana is a symbol of this new kind of leader, a leader the likes of which the world has never seen. And then, tragically, the iguana returns to the "real world" of iguanas. He becomes like all the other iguanas, indistinguishable, business as usual. You get the idea.

It turned out that there was another story being told at the same time. The other story went something like this:

There once was this iguana who had been raised a carnivore, and was deprived of some of its essential nutrients for some time. This was done innocently, but nonetheless the brown iguana was forced to live in a state of deprivation, at least as far as nutrition was concerned. Fortunately for the brown iguana, the boy brought his pet to a skilled professional who knew what iguanas needed to thrive. The iguana, now in a culture that would support its iguana-ness, became a herbivire, a vegitarian, who could become the powerful iguana it was meant to be.

There was a stunned silence when the three of us (matters not who the other two were) who held fast to the "truth" of the first version encountered another way to hear the story. So, just what were we up to with these Vergers? Were we interested in creating brown iguanas, who would be in and of themselves manifestations of unimagined possibilities? Or were we more focused on finding a way for each of these Vergers to find their authentic "inner iguana", and become passionate vegitarians in the world?

By this time in our walk it was getting near the dinner hour, and we had still not come to an agreement on the design for the evening. Yet, strangely we had. We each had the experience of being positioned into looking at the parable in one particular way - the right way. The parable allowed us to break that frame, and enter into a conversation about being the change we wanted to see in the world by being the change we wanted to see in the Vergers.

When the evening activity began, we set the frame for what we hoped to accomplish and a structure for how we thought we might proceed. To be sure, given our experience on the beach, no mention was made of iguanas, neither green nor brown. After we made our design proposal, the Vergers had other ideas - better ones actually. They entered into a deep dialogue about both their fears and aspirations, as they were about to reenter a culture that is not primed in the least to receive them. They made specific requests of each other. And by articulating what they needed to sustain themselves in this new Verger culture, they became even more aware that they were in fact building on the very culture that they began creating almost exactly a year before.

As the evening progressed, it became clear to me that some of the Vergers were brown iguanas and some were green iguanas. The important insight I left the evening with was that most all of the Vergers were passionate iguanas eager to change the terrarium.

So, perhaps the parable was not so troublesome after all.

* If you don't know about Vergers, keep reading. It will be a bit clearer in a paragraph or two. And if you want to learn more about On The Verge, you can find it here.

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12 June 2006
Napa, CA

The first word that came to mind when I scanned the images of this year’s PeaceWalk was diverse. When photographing PeaceWalks past, I found that I had to work a bit back then to capture images of people from different faith traditions, different races, and what have you walking together. They were there to be sure, but they were not present the way they were this year. It took no effort on my part to capture such images because for the most part that is just how the walk was. From my vantage point it seemed that there was a lovely effortlessness to the intermingled conversations that flowed through the day. This speaks to me of the power of action over time (here too), and our human need for repetition and ritual in order to feel secure enough to move about freely in what was once strange terrain.

I also became aware of how many young people there were. Maybe that has always been the case with the other walks as well. It was hard to tell when I looked back through some of the archival images. Perhaps it is more a matter of my own perspective as I grow older. Mindful of what Bertrand Russell once said – “One must care about a world one will never see.” - I am keenly aware that whatever the ultimate impact of such events as the PeaceWalk may have on our world (and “impact” may be the wrong word here) it probably will not occur during my lifetime. I am also reminded here what Bertrand Russell was reported to have said when he was asked what he would do if he learned that tomorrow was the last day that the earth would exist. He said that he would go out and plant a tree.

And once again my mind circles back to that word, diversity. It is important here to note the word’s origin. It comes from a Latin word, diversus, which means “different, unlike, opposed, and hostile”. So I imagine that what was really present on that overcast Sunday afternoon was a remarkable lack of diversity. Unlike became an opportunity for curiosity, rather than suspicion and hostility. And different became an invitation to explore new territory and strange, yet beautiful, architecture, rather than to stand rigid and opposed to that which on the surface appears so alien and at times dangerous.

The daunting task now may well be to strive for even more diversity in PeaceWalks to come. Martin Luther King, I believe it was, once said that the way to defeat an enemy is to make him your friend. The questions now may be: Who was not present at the PeaceWalk? What barriers – perceived or real – kept them away? What must I do to take that first step toward defeating that “enemy” with an open hand? And in a slightly different vein, is it now possible to create an atmosphere in which even some of the most conservative faith communities can feel welcomed and included? The answer might be not yet, or it also might be that, regardless of the atmosphere created, some faith communities will feel the risk is too great, or the chasm still too wide. It is humbling to recall how little control we often have over how we are perceived in the world.

The PeaceWalk is a moment when the possible becomes visible. It is a moment when the unthinkable becomes commonplace, and when insurmountable chasms become nothing more than cracks in the street unnoticed as the walkers step over them on their journey together. The walk this year reminded me once again that we are all pilgrims, and if we choose to journey alone we will most certainly lose our way.

Of all the images I was able to capture, three of them have stayed with me. One is of Imam Mohammad Shehatah, from Al Aqsa and Father Kevin Moley, from Saint Peter the Apostle's Church. In a way it is an ordinary picture of two men sitting together. On the deeper level it is a picture of two leaders within their faith traditions making a powerful statement about hospitality and generosity. Another picture - my favorite one actually* - is a touching scene of the imam sitting alone in the sanctuary of the church beneath a statue (of St. Peter perhaps), with an angel on the side, and a crucifix at the edge of the image. Seeing how comfortable and peaceful the imam is in the midst of so many icons - unlike anything in his Muslim tradition - is a testament to his quietly courageous leadership, his commitment to building community, and to his life as a teacher. The final image also involves the imam. In this last one he and Rabbi Avi Winokur, from the Society Hill Synagogue, embrace in the sanctuary of this beautiful house of worship. We need more experiences like these that repeated often enough would truly become miraculously ordinary.

Even in earshot of the lamentations about war and suffering that were at the center of the day, the PeaceWalk, like Bertrand’s sapling, speaks to me of hope. And hope always cohabitates with its two siblings, faith and love. I cannot have hope unless I have faith that something already exists even though I have no evidence to point to and thereby give it certainty. And there is no hope without love because it is in the binding force of love that I am capable of apprehending faith and hope in the present moment.

Finally, a word of gratitude. I am grateful to all who were so patient and forgiving as I intruded into spaces that are usually left more quiet and contemplative. Thank you for every smile that came my way. I realize that there are all too few of them in my life at times, and I found them in abundance during the walk. Thank you for bringing your beautiful children who made it impossible for me to take a bad picture when they were in them (like here, and here and here...)

And thank you all for rekindling hope for me, and gently waking its sleeping brother and sister. It is good to have them awake as I continue on in this pilgrimage we call living.

May we all know peace as we walk together.

Edd

* As a little bonus for reading this meditation, I added an unpublished site with a black & white image of the imam at Saint Peter's. For me the simplicity of the moment is best captured in black and white. (Besides I am still partial to black and white photographs even in this age of digital.) Here is the link.

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April 25, 2006

Many years ago I had a teacher who encouraged me by saying that, whenever I had to write from my heart, I only had to ask two questions. The first one is: What is true for me right now? And then to ask: How do I feel about that truth? So, I applied that teaching to this reflection about the PA C.A.R.E.S. forum I attended and the video I saw yesterday in Harrisburg.

What is true for me is that there was no sense of shame. Watching the film, and hearing the voices of the others, who suffered so much more than I could imagine, moved me beyond words. And then I could not help but think about the others – still in the shadows, still without a voice – the ones no one knows exist, the ones who are so unspeakably alone with their pain. And my heart aches for them.

I can see them and understand why they prefer the shadows to the light.

I can hear their unuttered cries, and even primitive whimpers, as their bodies feel again and again what they have worked so hard to forget.

I know them as they come so close to being intimate with another - so close to letting themselves be seen, to letting themselves be loved - only to move a half step back. I know that they step back not so much to create a rift as to create a gap, a gap that others try in vain to bridge.

I feel their anguish as those gaps begin to widen, as they feel themselves isolated on a small piece of ice floating farther away from the very ones they yearn to be close to.

I stumble along with them as they are lost in a rainforest of feelings, longing for a machete, for a sharp edge of reason, that might cut through the tangled vines of sadness and anger, shame and powerlessness, and the loneliness that twist about their souls.

I am touched by the hope they still have that the simple acts of being seen and being heard can impact the world. I can hope with them even as I know what they say to themselves when no one can hear them. I know they say that no one can stop this endless cycle of pain. No one can really create a safe world for children.

Yet, even when they are feeling most resigned and depleted, still they choose once again to take the risk, take the plunge into the icy waters that surround them. Even when they despair, they make the effort to connect with those who are all around them – all those around them each trying in their one way to show them that they are not alone, that their voices do matter, that they will not be abandoned or let down again.

I see them, I understand them, I hear them, I am touched by them, and I hope with them because I am one of them.

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15 March 2006

[The other day my laptop along with a back up were stolen. Most of my writing was stored on those laptops. It is all gone…]

The journey into a life of awareness begins for most of us in a moment of helplessness. When our lives are going well, we do not feel any need to change them, or ourselves. We are content to go on as we are, coasting, serene as planets in their orbits, or caribou on seasonal migration. Our habits of mind are sufficient to sustain us through the days. We are unperturbed, and half asleep. John Tarrant, The Light Inside the Dark.

Today feels like the day after the day after a funeral. There is so little around me now to remind me of what I had lost. Yet, being around all that is familiar to me in this moment is in its own way a poignant reminder of what no longer is – what is now an isn’t.

Strange to think of all that writing as an isn’t, but that seems to be what it is now. I wonder at the use of the word “seems” here. Do I still hold on to the possibility that it will all turn up again soon?

I recall with remarkable clarity the day I went with Jill* to her father’s house after he died. We went into his empty bedroom. There were just three of us on this trip – me, Jill and her very young nephew, Trace, who would have been a great grandson on the family tree.

The empty bed was carefully made, the bedspread smooth and the pillows fluffed, as if someone would be retiring there soon.

Trace seemed confused. Where is he? he wanted to know. Gone, Jill said, adding, He died. The little boy obviously did not understand. He kept looking around the room with an inquisitive look – as if this were a game of hide and seek. Then he did something remarkable, even magical. He stood at the foot of the bed, and slowly raised the cover. I sensed that he was expecting to see the old man’s feet. Turning around toward us he shrugged his shoulders a bit, and said, Gone. As soon as he said that, he ran past us out of the room giving no more thought to the event – he flew off like geese over a still lake.

In that moment I was given a wonderful teaching from my little Buddha. Like many teachable moments I only now begin to grasp it. He is gone. I am not gone. Can I have a cookie? he seeemed to be saying.

So now in this moment I can say, My writing is gone. I am not gone. Perhaps I will have some tea.

After disasters have struck, like the firestorm in the Oakland Hills that time several years back, I have heard people talk about how devastating it was for them. Others spoke about how it simplified their lives. I noticed that some people worked incredibly hard to recreate their homes as close to the way they were before all the devastation. And still others took it all on as a way of creating a new beginning for their lives. And then still others left the area – too sad and traumatized to bear witness to the loss.

I noticed that for me I had no such responses. I did not lose a home. No one died as the result of my loss. I did lose my writing, a lot of writing, a whole lot of writing… Yet, my mind is no less cluttered, my life not simplified any more than it already was. I have no urge to try to recreate all that I wrote in the past – and for much of that muddled writing maybe a quiet death in the shadows of the criminal world is too romantic an end for such average scraps and scribbles. And a new beginning? Oh well, another one of those seems hardly new.

No, today is a grey Wednesday morning. I am not gone. This writing is not gone. I have a cup of tea waiting for me when I finish these last few lines.

This bit of writing right here on this page, these words, are the steps I am taking into the rest of my life.

Later these steps might include some errands, and likely a trip to the city. More steps that I can take today because, if a little boy had pulled up my covers this morning, he would have found my feet.

* Jill is a dear friend who lives in Colorado. Her father was a large animal veterinarian. Not sure why that detail is imprtant, but it must be since I included it here.

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A holiday meditation on the shortest day of the year...

21 December 2005
Berkeley, CA

The skies were overcast as I drove down to Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley this morning.  I was headed to Masse's, a lovely little sidewalk cafe situated in a block of other pleasant shops and bookstores and such.  I was planning to sit under the awning, drink some coffee, and write my Morning Pages. Pulling into the parking space near the cafe I had this thought: Well, I thought to myself, if there is going to be any sunshine today, it will have to come from inside me.  Unfortunately, the weather inside was about the same as outside.

Suddenly, a man appeared next to the car.  A homeless man in soiled clothes with a matted grey beard, and deep, dark eyes.  His age could have been anywhere between forty and sixty.  He had a face that seemed to measure age as occurrences of humiliation and degradation, rather than the number of days he has lived - be they sunny or overcast.  As he peered into the car, he motioned with his thumb and forefinger rubbing them together in that same pantomime I once saw Shylock use in The Merchant of Venice.  Is it universal?  Could I ask for yuan on a sidewalk in Beijing, or euros in Venice, just by making those same gestures?  Probably so.  In any event whether I was startled by his sudden appearance, or whether I was just asleep in that moment, I shook my head gesturing No.

I don't know what it was, maybe it was his complete resignation.  Or maybe it was his complete lack of either anticipation or expectation, and then his lack of disappointment, or resentment.  I do not know. Whatever it was, his reaction as he walked away woke me up.  I immediately regretted my response.  In that moment I felt lost. Utterly alone.

He continued walking down the street stopping to gesture to a clutch of shoppers standing on the sidewalk in front of Saul's Deli - a bit of New York City without the cold weather and transit strikes. I retrieved my bag from the back of the car and stood for a moment watching him.  I almost called out to him, but didn't.  I stood there silent, trapped in a paralysis of my own self-consciousness and private shame. And I realized that I had this opportunity to make amends, but I didn't.  And then he was gone.  He seemed to just disappear, as if he turned a corner in the middle of the block.  It all seemed like magic.

And then I had this thought: What if he is the least among us? What if his suffering is a vast ocean to my little duck pond?  What if this were the moment when I could save my own soul and I let the moment pass? And then as quickly as it emerged, the thought receded into those dark crevices in my mind where such thoughts seem to go after a time.

I bought my coffee and sat at the little round green metal table outside the cafe and began writing, feeling as unsettled as the wobbly table was on the uneven pavement, but determined to write through it anyway.  I was just about finished my last page in the entry, maybe five or six lines left.  I had just written this part:

Not mattering is so different from "whatever". Strange how differently I experience the world these days.  Not all the time certainly, but much of the time.  How insubstantial every "thing" is. How much solidity there is to a thought or a feeling.