Siren Song

Hola Everybody,
I'm pissed because when I got home last night, I meant to post a blog -- keeping with my commitment to post one bog per day for the year. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until 3:00 AM... 

Gentlemen, consider the following: Imagine for a moment that through some random evolutionary adaptation, our penises grew from our foreheads instead of between our legs (after all, it makes more sense from a woman's perspective LOL). Now, imagine how it would feel if every time you went out in public women would make untoward remarks about the size (or lack thereof), shape, attractiveness, or unattractiveness of your penis. Complete strangers commenting on something highly personal, something you have mixed feelings about (because it’s either too small or too big, or bent at the head, etc.). Imagine that as soon as you reached puberty (or even before) women would make cruel, oftentimes publicly humiliating remarks about your penis. If you can imagine how this would feel (and let's be real: most of you would die if a woman so much as pointed at your penis and laughed), then you have a very small idea of what it feels like to be a woman and do something as mundane as take a walk.

Listening to the Songs of the Sirens

Excerpted from Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears
By Pema Chodron

Ulysses, the hero of ancient Greek mythology, exemplifies the courage it takes to consciously choose staying receptive and present when the temptation to get swept away is intense. 

When he was making the sea voyage home to Greece after the Trojan War, Ulysses knew that his ship would have to pass through a very dangerous area that was inhabited by beautiful maidens known as the sirens. He had been warned that the call of these women was irresistible, and that sailors couldn’t help but steer towards the sirens, crash their boats onto the rocks, and drown. 

Nevertheless, Ulysses wanted to hear the song of the sirens. He knew the prophecy that if anyone could hear their voices and not go towards them, the sirens would lose their power forever and wither away. This was the challenge that compelled him.

As his ship neared the sirens’ homeland, Ulysses told his men to put wax plugs in their ears and to tie him tightly to the mast, instructing them that no matter how hard he struggled and gestured, no matter how wrathfully he appeared to be ordering them to cut his ropes, they were not to untie him until the ship reached a familiar point of land well out of earshot of the sirens’ song. This story, as you might expect, has a happy ending. The men followed his instructions and Ulysses made it though. 

To a greater or lesser degree we will all have to go through similar discomfort in order not to follow the call of our own personal sirens, in order to step through the open doorway to awakening.

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My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…

Monday Madness [The Myth of Freedom]

Hola Everybody,
I have a few job interviews set for this week, one being a second interview. I don’t pray, but you should pray for me. LOL

The Myth of Freedom

Falling Water, house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright

A man is either free or he is not. There cannot be any apprenticeship for freedom.
 -- Imamu Amiri Baraka (1934 - 2014)

Many years ago I once became lost in a national park in Connecticut. I was in my late teens-early 20s and a busload of us city kids planned a trip, and we all trekked up to some park in Armpit, USA. I am a dyed-in-the-wool city boy. And when I say city, I mean city. Please, I’ve traveled around this country and some places that use the term are laughable. Yes, I am a NYC snob: for a long time I considered anything above 14^th street Hicksville. Anyway, I grew up in the city and the first time I saw a pig live, I thought it was a cow! When I thought of pigs, what came to mind was that pig Arnold from the 1960s TV sitcom, Green Acres.

Whatever… 

Anyway, as soon as we reached our camp site, always the adventurous one, I convinced another poor soul to go exploring with me. Long story short: we became lost for close to 48 hours. What happened was that we kept walking in circles. There was this lake not too far from the camp, you see, and I (being the Brainiac of the two) decided if we followed the lakeshore, we would eventually end up where we started. 

The thing was we kept walking in circles, not around the lake, but within a confined space. We realized this after hours of walking because we kept seeing a rock formation that looked eerily familiar. The reason for that was that it was the same rock formation! By this time, it had gotten dark and there was a pronounced early October chill. To compound matters, my poor friend had inadvertently fallen into a cascade that hid a cave and he was freezing. After a little deliberation, we came to the conclusion that the cave was the best place to stay for the night.

We had nothing -- no matches, flashlight, compass, food, nothing. Even if we had a compass I doubt we would know how to use it. Eventually, we had to stop because of that annoying country tendency towards complete darkness. I mean, you can’t even see your own hand in front of your face. Fuck! To make matters worse, I swore I heard a wolf’s howl. I’m serious! Now, I don’t know if wolves actually exist in some Connecticut state park, but to this day, I swear I heard a howl. In addition, I didn’t make things better by voicing my conviction that the cave we had taken refuge in was very likely some Grizzly bear’s home.

So, there were, hungry, cold, fearful, and lost.

the next day we somehow found our way to a road, and by then our people had a whole posse looking for us, which ruined the trip for everyone else. We walked down the road until we came upon some ranger in a car who then proceeded to ask us if we had seen two Puerto Rican kids walking around lost… DUH?!?! Hellloooo?! Fuckin’ hicks… 

Of course, being philosophically inclined, I found all sorts of metaphors and meaning behind our little adventure, while my companion, who was freezing to death, cursed me the whole time. Still, it fascinated me that left to our own devices, we kept walking around in circles. Shit, we tried to walk differently, making lefts, where we had previously made rights, and still we walked in circles. What does that say about our own habitual patterns, I asked my friend, as he conjured new swear words for my edification.

For the next fifteen years of my life, that incident was to become a metaphor for how I lived: doing what I wanted, how I wanted, when I wanted, and mistaking that for freedom. I think many people mistake “following their bliss” for freedom when in actuality walking around in circles without a compass is the ultimate prison. It’s the ultimate prison because though we can’t see the bars, they exist as surely as real prison bars. In a very real sense, we’re all “doing time,” in some way or another.

True freedom, for me anyway, takes practice. Actually, it takes a set of practices that serve as a guideline and map to freedom. Walk around rudderless without direction long enough and you’ll find you’re creating the same mess repeatedly.

Habitual Patterns

I like to say that I became free while I was incarcerated and this is very true. Many years after that incident in the woods, I was incarcerated at a maximum-security facility. I’m not proud of that, but I have to admit there’s some irony in this story -- at least for me there is -- so I find some humor in all this now. It was early spring, my favorite time of the year, and I was in a prison yard looking at some mountains and feeling really depressed about being locked up.

Then it hit me... I was actually free. Just like that! I realized that though the state could control and confine my body, only I could give the permission to imprison my mind. It may not sound like a lot to you, but for me it was transformative experience. The fact that I could choose to be free no matter where I found myself blew me away.

Looking back, I understand now that it didn’t happen all at once, that my epiphany that day wasn’t something spontaneous. I understand now, my realization came about because of the work I had put in, but it hit me that day like a bolt of lightning in the middle of a completely dark country night: I was free. Free, right then, at that very moment.

It was amazing. I could choose to be free! This couldn’t be true. Nevertheless, I felt it in the very fiber of my being, this freedom was real, alive, a part of me, a part of my heritage as a human being. When I went back to my cell later that day, I shared my revelation with my neighbors and they all started laughing at me. They were, like, “Eddie, you in prison, bro.”

And they were correct, of course, at the gross (vs. subtle) level of reality, I was incarcerated. However, my realization was that while I could be coerced into prison physically, only I could give another permission to incarcerate my heart and mind. What I saw clearly for the first time that day was that I was giving the prison authorities this permission to take my mind, to imprison my heart. From that day on, I became free and my life, even within the prison walls, changed dramatically. I no longer felt at the mercy of sadistic prison guards or all the other insanity that goes on in prison. From that day on, I was free -- really free -- and all my interactions reflected this realized freedom. What happened was that people began responding to me differently: guards, who previously were able to press my buttons, didn’t know how to deal with the newer, free me, for example, leaving them confused and anxious.

Other people incarcerated with me would ask why I looked different: was I exercising more, did I gain weight? Eventually, my freedom permeated my immediate surroundings and those in contact with me began doing their own inner work, in the process transforming our collective prison experience. The effect was so palpable that I was eventually transferred from that location because I was deemed too dangerous. But by then it was too late, even in solitary confinement, they couldn’t take my freedom away.

I became free that early spring day and though there are times I choose to give up my freedom -- especially when I come into contact with people with hate in their hearts -- I have chosen freedom more often than not these past 25 years. My personal liberation, I have found, is not individual, dedicated solely to me, but instead it comes with a responsibility and an awareness that it affects everything around me. That other prison we all share, the myth that we are separate from others, has also dissolved and as a result your personal liberation is also important to me.

Ultimately, I have learned that my freedom demands I choose happiness. I never even knew I had that choice. It is my responsibility as a human being, actually, this choice. This is why I always say that everything we ever need for our happiness exists right here, right now, this very moment… this very life. This is true whether your prison is made of concrete and bars or psychic defilements.

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…

Attention and the Creative Impulse

Hola mi Gente,

Have I ever mentioned I’m a cinema junkie? Yup, it’s been me and Maria Menounos since I left my last gig. In case you don’t know, Maria is the host of FirstLook, a show that’s highlighted before the main feature goes up. I like her. It’s been me and Maria these past few hard months. Anyway! I get to see most of films for free thanks to a connection. Don’t ask, because I’m not telling. LOL

Today is Saturday and it’s usually about art and creativity around here. I came across something recently that inspired the following… 

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Georgia Okeefe -- Orange Poppy in Morning Sun

Awakening into the Moment

I was enjoying a moment with a Georgia O’Keefe painting not too long ago and I was struck by the attention and care she gave to even the tiniest of details of her subject matter. To gaze upon an O’Keefe is to come face to face with an incredible amount of focus and a soulful incarnation that leads you to a whole new way of looking at flowers. I think that what makes O’Keefe an enduring artist is that she forces a paradigm shift in the way you look at things. You will never look at a flower the same way after looking at an O’Keefe. In a magazine article, I came across the following quote:

In a way -- nobody sees a flower -- really -- it is so small -- we haven’t time -- and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time. If I could paint a flower exactly as I see it, no one would see what I see because I would paint it small like the flower is small. So I said to myself -- I’ll paint what I see -- what the flower is to me but I’ll paint it big and  they will be surprised into taking time to look at it -- I will make even busy New Yorkers take time to see what I see of flowers.

This reminds of the reality that as human beings often caught up in the dust of life, we so much as look at things as overlook them. This impulse to be in the moment and create meaning in the often overlooked details of life -- to see as O’Keefe puts it, “to paint what I see” -- is the creative incubator of art. You see, whether you’re an artist or not, the creative flow begins when you awaken the moments of your life as they are passing. It begins by paying attention in a nonjudgmental mind state also called “mindfulness.”

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization… 

Sunday Sermon [Waiting to Inhale]

Hola mi Gente,

I spent all day yesterday indoors waiting out the snowstorm. And no, I don’t give a shit that you live in some Armpit, USA, non-temperate zone, hillbilly backwoods, bullshit state. I live here because I like it here. ::blank stare:: 

Oh yeah, and talk all that caca the next time there’s a seismic quake or some redneck accidentally shoots you while you’re eating at a Denny’s in one of those open carry states.

Today? A story...

* * *

Waiting to Inhale

(or Drowning in Love)

A wise woman and her student were standing by a pool chatting about longing and ambition. “What do you want more than anything else?” the wise woman asked.

“To perfect my ability to love all of creation the way I love myself.” the young man replied.

At that very moment, the wise woman tackled the student and before he could react, shoved his head beneath the water. Accustomed to his teacher’s sometimes-unorthodox manner of instruction, he didn’t resist.

One minute went by. Then another. The student began to struggle and kick, but his teacher was strong. Finally, she released her grip and the student surfaced, struggling for breath.

“What did you want more than anything else during these last few minutes?” the wise woman asked.

“Nothing else was in my mind except the desire for air,” the student managed to gasp.

“Excellent!” beamed the wise woman. “As soon as you are equally single-minded in your desire to perfect your ability to love all of creation in the very manner in which you love yourself, you will achieve your goal.”

My name is Eddie and I'm in recovery from civilization... 

Labels: Skillful compassion, Compassion, Mindfulness, Unconditional regard, Love, Unconditional love

Blurb: What do you want more than anything else? the wise woman asked.

Bearing Witness

Hola mi Gente,

Man! It was cold this morning. Looking for work is harder than actually working. SMDH… I committed to posting at least once everyday, and I usually prepare the post the night before, but I wasn’t able last night. So here goes, my blog for today.

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The Heart in a Heartless world

I retreated during the 80s, for the most part, from active participation in terms of politics. I viewed Reagan’s rise and the neoconservative onslaught in the same way as Gil Scott-Heron did -- as the coming of Winter in America. A new America was coming, I saw, and it was an America heartless to its core. The 80s saw a rollback on civil rights gains, the decimation of the middle class and labor, and meaner, angrier, and less effective government. The 80s, ironically, were also a time of my personal passage through the heart of darness. I barely made it through the 80s alive.

My journey back to the living was sparked by a response to suffering. First, it was my own personal suffering, but having been granted another go at it, I realized that I could never be truly alive if I forgot I am connected to everything. I also believed a collective mindset geared to advantage the advantaged didn’t make sense (mink coats don’t “trickle down”), and I watched, horrified, as science and works of art were savaged by ideologues of a vengeful and jealous God.

Fast forward to today and I sometimes find myself fighting against burnout, or struggling against the feeling that it doesn’t make any sense to fight at all. After all, people don’t get it, I think too often. Or, there is too much apathy and people are more interested in the “reality” of TV shows than their own reality. And I sense I am not too far off the mark.

Sometimes -- not too often -- an issue arises so overtly reprehensible cannot be successfully spun by a corporate-owned media surfaces and people awaken a little. They become inspired or angered by needless poverty, the arrogance of unchecked power, the brutality of a justice system predicated solely on punishment, or at how there are so many who have been forgotten. Whenever something egregious happens, great inspirational speeches are offered at huge events, and we speak out, we protest, we rage and we rally.

And... nothing happens.

Nothing changes; we deflate, feeling powerless, impotent, weak, and sickened by it all. Sometimes it gets so that I can’t stand to read another study, write another opinion or report, attend another conference, or participate in another panel. I despair... I despair of losing my heart in a heartless world. Last night, listening to Obama's State of the Union speech, I thought back to the elation that accompanied the his first election. For once many people in this country saw one of the marginalized rise above systemic inequality to the most powerful office in the world and many were heartened. Though I for the most part never agreed with Obama’s politics, I too was heartened. I was able to go to a poll and cast my vote for a fuckin black man! Okay, he’s too centrist -- at best, he and other centrist democrats are Eisenhower conservatives -- but still: damn that felt good!

We do not need more strategy sessions, we know what we need to do. The solutions we need are already here. The world we want is within our grasp. All that is needed is the courage to stop destroying so many for the sake of ideology. Too often I find myself on the brink of burnout and I find myself back where I started, pulsating with anger and frustration.

I recently left a job I really loved because I needed to get myself together. I did not know it at the time, but my mind/ body was asking for a time out. These past five months have given me the time and psychological space I needed to step back, to reflect, and clarify my vision. I needed to lick my wounds. I was joking with a friend and former colleague last night that I had taken a poor man’s sabbatical. I was not out there somewhere studying a lost tribe or doing some research with the security of knowing I had a gig when I was finished, but I feel so much stronger because of this precious time. Now I need to find work, or end up in some debtor's prison. LOL (I am only half-joking. If you have an opening for a good strategic thinker, hit me up. :) )

I have learned some valuables lessons in recent years. For one, I have learned that burnout can help me keep my fires burning. How? Well, that’s another blog, but it’s all about feeding the demons rather than banishing them to the darkness. Burnout now feeds me instead of the other way around. In my experience, burnout happens when I forget that I am only part of a larger process of change. I am not the wave, but I am part of it.

Burnout happens when I forget to take care of myself. Secondly, and more importantly, I have learned to bear witness, to stand alongside those enduring great suffering. Sometimes “the work” is to be simply present, listening with an open heart. Listening with the same care a child gives when holding a live and precious egg in its hands. It is through this witnessing that we can heed the voices of the suffering and shed a light on unchecked power. I miss that… I miss going into prisons and talking with my brothers and sisters and trying to amplify their voices in order to uncover racism and inhumanity

Most importantly, and counter intuitively, I have given up hope for saving the world, or even attempting to change it.

I had to give up that notion. I had to surrender that in order to discover what I’m really supposed to be doing: how best to be a part of healing force. I had to go beyond hope and fear and break from the shackles of success or failure. Today I am still learning what right action feels like. Its clarity, its energy. I still get angry, enraged, and frustrated. I try not to be driven by these emotions but, rather, use their energy to propel me toward compassionate action. I do know that I cannot be an interface for this compassion until I transcend hope and fear and bear witness and then act judiciously... at least that’s my intention.

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…