Another World is Probable

One of the things that’s been bugging me is the disposable nature of the goods our society makes. Appliances aren’t built to last anymore, they’re built to break, because if something breaks then we’ll buy another one.

A few years ago I had to return a cable box or internet router, something like that, to AT&T. The UPS store THREW AWAY perfectly good power chargers and cables because AT&T doesn’t take them back. That means working, functional cords and cables end up in a landfill. I’m angry just thinking about it. Where is the reverence for life? Why aren’t we holding inanimate objects as sacred? Should inanimate even be sacred? Is something only sacred if it has a soul? Do inanimate objects have a soul?

When I stare into the eyes of something living and breathing, like a cat, it’s easy to say, “Yes, this creature has a soul.” But what about something like a rock? Or something man-made like concrete?

Right now I’m trying to hold everything as sacred.

In my quest for the answer, I turned to the work of my spiritual teacher, who seems to have written about everything. He said there are two components to everything in the world: consciousness and Prakriti. Prakrti is a Sanskrit word that has no English equivalent but is similar to nature, or creation. Prakrti has to use consciousness to create anything; it’s the basic building block for all of life. It’s like a sculptor using clay to mold different shapes: The clay becomes a pot, a vase, a cow, but its origination is still clay.

Obviously there’s a difference between a cat and a calla lily (many differences, actually) and part of that difference according to my spiritual teacher, is the exertion of Prakrti. When the force of Prakrti is strong, the creation becomes more dense or crude. When the force of Prakrti is weaker, the creation becomes more light or subtle. If I’m maintaining my clay analogy here, Prakrti can be likened to soil and consciousness to water. The more Prakrti, the more soil, the thicker the clay. The more consciousness, the more water, the thinner the clay. A rock is very crude and dense so it has more Prakrti than consciousness, but it still has consciousness.

If a rock has consciousness, what does that mean for us? For me, yesterday as I walked down the street, my feet pounding the pavement, it meant the world took on a different hue. It meant I starting thinking about how concrete has a consciousness. How everything around me is sacred and an expression of consciousness/source/the divine. No longer is a piece of cardboard a meaningless bit of disposable packaging, but instead something more precious that it pains me to toss away so easily. Everything suddenly becomes more valuable and something I want to express my reverence for.

I’m not sure I can articulate what I mean, but there’s something about knowing that the keys upon which I type have consciousness that makes the experience more transcendent and special. It brings out the caretaker in me who wants to make sure every object is used to its fullest capacity. It changes my mindset from, “I can throw this away and always get another one,” to, “I want to cherish and reuse this for as long as I can.”

I dream of a world where we all have a reverence for everything. A world where we treat ourselves and everything around us as sacred. A world where we cherish each and every thing in the known universe because we recognize it, too, has consciousness.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

The post I wrote last week about chasing likes made me question everything else in my life. Where am I headed? What is it I hold dear, and what, exactly is the goal of my life? Up until this week, I would say I’ve had a foot each on two different horses. One horse is headed toward self-realization and service to humanity. The other horse is headed toward name and fame, wealth, love, and making money doing what I love.

When I realized accolades and accomplishments don’t have any lasting effect, that they don’t make me happy for long, I started to wonder about the other things I’ve been chasing after. What about the desire to be a best-selling author? Or to find a great love? Or to make a living writing and talking about spirituality? That last one could turn into a whole separate blogpost, but for now, all I’ll say is I’ve realized I don’t have to monetize everything in order for it to be valuable.

Don’t get me wrong, I would LOVE to see this in person, but should that be the goal of my life?

What about all those once-in-a-lifetime experiences? All the places I’ve traveled to? Is that the goal of my life? Should it be? Chasing experience after experience? My dear friend Amal Jacobson discussed this in an essay he wrote about such an experience. He said, “But what did it all amount to? Experiences I could pocket away like fashion accessories? Something I could uselessly recount to somebody someday as proof that I had lived?” That’s been the case for me. When I want to seem exciting and interesting I’ll trot out a travel story, or casually mention that time I did whatever. But for what? As proof I lived?

I’m going to quote the great bard himself, William Shakespeare, who said:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

In the end, the things I’ve longed for will crumble into dust. My life is but a brief candle, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing unless I change which horse I’m riding. I’m coming to the same conclusion as Jim Carrey who said, “I hope everybody could get rich and famous and will have everything they ever dreamed of, so they will know that it’s not the answer.” I think you’re right Jim, those things are not the answer. Infinite happiness does not come from finite objects, it can only come from something infinite. That something is God/cosmic consciousness/brahma/higher power/source – an entity with many names. I will gladly accept blessings along the way such as a great love, but I can no longer make finite things the goal of my life.

It’s become clear to me that the goal of my life is to merge with the Supreme and to help others along the way. To be of service in any way I can, but to recognize first and foremost I am an instrument. I am a finite self looking for an infinite Self and nothing short of that will give me the infinite happiness I seek. I get glimpses of infinity when I meditate – not all the time, but enough to assure me I’m headed in the right direction. I have that wish for others too.

I dream of a world where we all take a look at what the goal of our lives is. A world where we recognize what will give us the happiness we truly seek. A world where we each dance with the divine and awaken the spirit within.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

I had an interesting experience this week where I decided nobody cares what I write, that the content I put out in the world has no value, and therefore I should stop writing and delete my blog altogether. Nevermind that earlier this week a friend told me unsolicited she liked my post on perfectionism. If I’m not getting a thousand likes on facebook, hundreds of retweets, and a million page views, there’s no point.

Let’s be real here: I’ve been chasing likes and placing all of my validation in the external world. My life is setup for it because as a journalist, I measure the success of a story by its page views and popularity. The trouble is, this blog is not like other blogs, and my reason for writing week after week is not to garner a million page views, but because I’m working through stuff and want to share my experiences with others. Part therapy, part service, this blog is not a money-making endeavor and when I use the normal yardsticks of other blogs, of course I and my writing will fall short.

I chase likes the way birds chase prey.

What’s interesting to note is that even when people tell me they enjoy my writing or a particular post, it goes in one ear and out the other, which is what happened today. I appreciate the comments, they’re gratifying, but they don’t stick. Clearly, even a bottomless pit of adulation wouldn’t satisfy me because there’s something else going on here. I’m pretty sure that “something else” is me, and how I’m feeling about my writing.

I’ve noticed when I feel good about anything – an article, an outfit, baking cookies – I don’t care if other people like it because I’m self-satisfied. When I’m self-satisfied, compliments stick like Velcro because they affirm something I already think, and criticisms slide off like Teflon because I don’t believe them to be true.

What I’m saying here in a long-winded way is if I’m constantly checking facebook to see if people liked a post, or if I’m becoming too concerned with page views on my personal projects, it means something else is going on. It means I’m giving other people the power to tell me what my worth is. It means I’m letting my self-esteem ride on whether or not people can be bothered to show they “like” something. That’s a little bit kooky.

I’m not sure what else to say other than that. How can my precious self be measured and quantified? How can I boil my being down to an electronic interaction? When I think about the people in my life, I would say it’s absurd to believe their worth is dependent on how many likes they generate on facebook. Now I need to start doing the same for me.

I dream of a world where we know our worth is independent of outside factors and other people. A world where instead of chasing likes we’re catching self-love. A world where we realize we are precious, invaluable, and loved beyond measure. A world where we realize our self-worth cannot be quantified.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

Last week my neighbor’s car was broken into while it was parked in our gated lot. Normally when something like that happens, I immediately assume I’m next. Never mind that I don’t have a car, a break-in of some sort is inevitable! It doesn’t even have to be a break-in, it could be getting bit by a spider; if we’re in the same vicinity and something happens to you, I think the same thing will happen to me.

I had an interesting experience the other that showed me this is far from being true. What happens to other people won’t automatically happen to me. Two people can occupy the same physical space and have completely different experiences.

As I rode the bus on Thursday, I looked out the window and noticed the barest glimmer of a rainbow, which I tried to capture on my phone.

It was so hard to capture this rainbow. Sorry you can barely see it. =(

I started texting everyone and my mother, so excited was I about this rainbow, especially when the bus crested a hill and I noticed the rainbow ringed the sun – it wasn’t a vertical rainbow like I normally see, this rainbow arced from one side of the sun to the other.

In contrast, the two women sitting in front of me on the bus didn’t notice a thing. They were caught up in complaining about their health problems and various other troubles. Here I was having a transcendent moment, marveling at the beauty of the world, and in the same physical space, the women in front of me were not. This episode demonstrated to me that sharing physical space is not an indicator I’ll share the same experience. This means my neighbor can get her car window smashed and I can be fine. This means I can be safe even when others are not. This means other people’s realities don’t have to be mine.

I’m not sure I can convey my sense of relief here, but there’s something freeing about coming to recognize what happens to other people won’t necessarily happen to me. That I can occupy the same zip code but not the same reality. I can witness rainbows and butterflies while other people are gabbing on the bus. My life can be different even when we’re sharing the same oxygen and there’s something hopeful and liberating about that.

I dream of a world where we all live in rainbow realities. A world where we understand our realities are different from those around us, even if we’re in the same spot. A world where we recognize we each have our own lives and what’s common may not apply. A world where we witness the rainbows.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

This post is a bit of a rehash of one I wrote four years ago because I’m noticing perfectionism surfacing once again.

I think if I’m perfect then other people will love me. This is kind of a problem because I’m not perfect. Even more damaging is the fear that if I make a mistake or do something wrong, that love will be taken away from me. That means every time I make a mistake I’m scared I’ll be abandoned.

Yikes. That means there’s a whole lot of pressure to never make a mistake and always do the right thing. In this context, it makes sense why if I send the wrong email attachment or tell a fib, my freakout is not on par with the event itself because the whole thing becomes much more serious.

Prickly bits make a cactus what it is, perhaps it’s the prickly bits that make us human.

I’ve written before about mistakes being the zest of life, which I think is true. I honestly believe mistakes are part of the learning process, and nothing beats the expansive feeling that comes from learning. At the same time, I’ve felt a desire to be perfect right out of the gate. To know everything immediately. To be a star pupil. To be an award-winning writer. To know how to invest my money and become a millionaire. I want to know right now and I want to do it perfectly. Otherwise you won’t love me or continue to love me.

What’s interesting is I don’t feel the same way about other people. Other people are allowed to be flawed human beings who make mistakes and I love them just the same. But me? Pssst. I hold myself to a different standard.

That’s not cool and it also doesn’t make much sense because perfection does not guarantee love. I called a perfect show as a stage manager and no one seemed to notice or really care. Even when I do things “perfectly” it doesn’t seem to make a difference. And you know? It never will because perfection is not a requirement for love.

In fact, a friend told me once perfection is scary. When he meets seemingly perfect women, he’s intimidated because he can’t relate to them. It’s our flaws that make us likable because it’s just as C.S. Lewis said: “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’”

People will never love me more because I’m an all-star or never do anything wrong. People love me for who I am, not because I never make mistakes. I am allowed to send the wrong email attachment because there is no inverse relationship between the mistakes I make and how much I’m loved. I can be, and am, loved no matter what. I already know that’s true for others and it’s time to make it true for me.

I dream of a world where we realize love is associated with who we’re being, not what we’re doing. A world where we experience unconditional love all the time. A world where we allow ourselves to make mistakes because we know love will still be there. A world where we let go of our outdated beliefs and ideas because they no longer serve us. A world where we know perfection is not a requirement for love.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

This week I’ve been ascribing meaning to things that don’t need to have them. For instance, my face is broken out and the meaning I’m ascribing is I’m ugly, unattractive, and will remain single for the rest of my life. Because of a zit. I do the same thing whenever I gain any weight. Really, what it means is I’m stressed, not sleeping well, eating something I’m allergic to, and/or imbalanced hormonally.

I bring this up because how often do we torture ourselves by ascribing meaning to things when they’re not needed? Someone not accepting a friend request on facebook means they hate us and don’t want to be friends. When we haven’t heard back from a job interview it means the position has been filled. In truth, someone not accepting a friend request means they didn’t accept a friend request. Not hearing back from a job interview means the company hasn’t gotten back to us. That’s it. Not that we’re terrible people who will never be hired again or any of the other things we think it means.

This person is a cool, confident world traveler. Oh wait, I can’t know any of that. . .

I touched on this a few weeks ago in my post “All in the Head,” about anxiety. However, I’m also noticing ascribing meaning to things sometimes doesn’t create anxiety. Sometimes it’s a lie or a way to create melodrama.

Yesterday, I heard spiritual teacher/writer Adyashanti and he said we’re addicted to the stories we tell ourselves, whether they’re painful or not. Ain’t that the truth. It wasn’t until this week though that I became even more aware of how I’m spinning out and getting upset over small things because I’m making them large by ascribing meaning to them. A zit is no longer an indication of stress, but instead becomes a sign that I’m doomed to a life of spinsterhood. Weight gain suddenly means I’m unlovable. These are quite big leaps!

When we start to ascribe meaning to things, we get wrapped up in our selves, our egoic nature, and are unable to rest in the knowledge that we are the Buddha, as Adyashanti would say. Ascribing meaning I think is like cobwebs in the attic – if we don’t address them, pretty soon the attic is covered in cobwebs and that’s all we see anymore. When I ascribe meaning to things, I detach from reality and keep myself from being present, and really, I’d much rather be the Buddha.

I dream of a world where we stop ascribing meaning to things that don’t need them. A world where we keep things in perspective. A world where we detach from the addictive stories we tell ourselves. A world where we allow ourselves to be the Buddha.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

The other day, a man menacingly said, “Smile! You so pretty,” while I walked by him. On this same walk, I passed a grocery store with some police activity and witnessed a fight almost break out while waiting for the bus. One woman accused another of touching her stuff and was ready to issue a smackdown over it. So much so, that she followed her down the street. Not only that, two bystanders crossed the street gleefully in the hopes of watching the potential fight.

My response was, “What’s with all the aggression today?” In that moment, it became clearer to me exactly why sensitivity is a gift. I didn’t enjoy seeing the aggression; I didn’t want to fight the menacing man. I was horrified by all of the events.

Sometimes I feel like a sensitive baby deer. But that’s a good thing.

If you’d said to me two months ago that sensitivity is a gift, I would have scoffed. In fact, a friend did say that to me and I did scoff because my whole life I’ve been accused of being too sensitive. Sensitivity was always a burden, a curse, something I wanted to be rid of. I wanted to toughen myself up, grow a thicker skin – anything that was an antidote to sensitivity seemed like the way to go.

When I witnessed all of this on my walk, I realized sensitivity is needed in this world to keep it from being filled with aggressive, menacing people. The sensitive souls are the ones that balance all the harshness. They are the ones who say, “This is not OK,” and try to do something about it. The sensitive people are the caretakers, the artists, the advisers. Without sensitivity, we lose some of our humanity. That’s a big statement, I know, but it’s the sensitivity, the empathy, that allows us to connect with one another and move away from our baser instincts. Not everyone is as sensitive as I am, and that’s great – we need the tough-skinned people in the world too – but most people have at least some sensitivity. Considering the world we live in right now, maybe we need more sensitive people.

As a sensitive person, I can’t stomach people hurting each other or neglecting each other. Can you imagine what the world would be like if our leaders felt the same way? Would we have the same number of wars? Would there be so much poverty? Would the environment be in the state it’s currently in? Maybe when someone says to me, “You’re so sensitive,” I can say, “Thank you, it’s one of my best qualities,” because sensitivity is what makes me the caring, creative, idealistic person that I am. How can that be anything but a gift?

I dream of a world where we all embrace our sensitivity. A world where we recognize being sensitive is what makes us loving and compassionate. A world where we use our sensitivity to our advantage to make the world a better place. A world where we recognize sensitivity as a gift.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

The other day the blinds fell off my window. They landed in such a way that nothing was broken or harmed – no small task considering my desk sits in front of the window and is littered with knickknacks, a monitor, my computer, my printer, etc. When the blinds, fell it got me thinking about the unavoidable, uncontrollable things in life.

Those blinds? They had to fall because the tab that locks them into place became loose and I pulled them in such a way the entire contraption crashed to the floor. However, it was pure luck that kept those blinds from hitting me in the head, or smashing into my computer monitor, or destroying my trinkets. But was it really luck? I don’t think it was. When I reflect on my life, it’s clear there is some kind of benevolent force watching out for me – call it higher power, call it God, call it a guru, a guardian angel – but there is definitely something.

I’d like to think in some ways I’m wrapped in yarn.

Contemplating the blinds, I started musing about the not-so-pleasant things that are also out of my control, like getting hit by a car or broken into or mugged or anything else. Maybe for whatever reason (fate, karma, samskaras) certain things must happen, they must take place, but a benevolent force is softening the blow for us, keeping it from being as terrible as it could be.

When I got hit by a car as a pedestrian in November 2013, all I could think was, “Why me? Why did this happen to me and why didn’t any benevolent force stop it?” All the faith-oriented people around me kept saying, “Your higher power is the one that kept you from needing to go to the hospital!” but I didn’t buy it. Why should I put my faith and trust in some unseen force to keep me safe if I’m not going to be safe? If I’m going to get hit by a car anyway? What I’m coming to here is acceptance – I cannot keep someone from hitting me again or breaking into my home anymore than I already am by cautiously crossing the street and locking my doors. I’ve spent a good chunk of my life worrying about these things and it certainly hasn’t been beneficial. In fact, it’s kept me in a lot of fear.

I said to a friend the other day I struggle with turning this safety stuff over to my higher power, but I can at least give it a shot. If need be, I can always start worrying again, but I’d like to try this trust thing. The blinds are a small example of being taken care of, but I’ve seen larger examples too, like trees that fall in such a way they avoid houses and cars. So maybe for today I can affirm my higher power will keep me safe when possible, but when something must happen to me, at the very least higher power will soften the blow.

I dream of a world where we turn over our fear of future negative events. A world where we trust that some things are inevitable, but there is still a benevolent force watching out for us. A world where we have faith the blow will be softened.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.

More and more I’m noticing that what we all want is to be seen, heard, and understood. We want people to empathize with us, to recognize what we’re going through and trying to express.

This week I had some angry interactions with others. They became upset over something that involved me, but wasn’t really about me. My first reaction when someone explodes in my direction is to cower, to take it in. My next reaction is to become angry in return, to meet anger with anger. Finally, I turn to empathy and say, “I hear what you’re saying. It sounds like you feel _____.” When I’m able to get to that empathic place, the person cools down and says, “You’re right, that’s exactly how I feel,” and then we’re able to have an honest conversation. The honest conversation is where the solutions come from.

Are we hearing each other the way we listen to a song?

A friend told me recently the hardest part about relationships for her is going deeper when she’s wounded. That instead of running away from her partner when he gets upset, or trying to hurt him back, is getting to that empathic, vulnerable place. I found that to be true for me too, especially when I’d much rather throttle the person’s neck. I’m not saying anger doesn’t have its place – it absolutely does – but sometimes its better to express anger to a neutral third party. Instead of escalating a heated situation, it’s often better to call up someone else and vent.

I find this to be true for other emotions too. When I’m sad, sometimes I want someone to tell me things will be OK, or to help me problem solve, but oftentimes I’d rather someone said, “I hear you. That sucks,” and then let me cry. I usually know what I need to do so I’d much rather have support than advice.

I first wrote about empathic listening or nonviolent communication in 2009. I’ve been using some of the methods I picked up ever since and find it just as inspiring now as I did then.

What I find so encouraging about empathic listening is its potential for huge and lasting change. It’s been used to reduce violence in hospitals and curb bullying. Plus Marshall Rosenberg, the founder of nonviolent communication, negotiated peace deals with terrorists using the method. I can’t help but wonder how much of the violence in the world is because people are not getting their needs met? How often are we resorting to angry words and louder voices in an effort to get people to understand where we’re coming from? Not everything can be solved with empathic listening of course, but I honestly think some problems can.

I dream of a world where we make an effort to see, hear, and understand each other better. A world where instead of firing off an angry invective, we try to access an empathic place. A world where we bring more love into our conversations, especially the hard ones. A world where we can honestly say we do hear one another.

Another world is not only possible, it’s probable.