Work, Ego

After 20 years in my chosen field of work, I still love what I do.  On Sunday afternoons, I start looking forward to Monday morning; what will I do tomorrow, what will I create?

At the moment, my position requires that I train and advise, in a day-to-day service environment.  I am an implementer, not an administrator.  My biggest decisions affect the agency, but not the whole field. 

So it was with some apprehension that I attended a policy group last week.  My boss couldn't make it, and she asked me to go in her stead.  Upon entering, I saw people I've known for many years, some for as much as twenty years.  They greeted me warmly, but I felt out of my depth.  There was nothing for it but to put my head up and act with confidence.  In the group, I began to share my opinions and my vision for the future of our collective endeavor.

As I did so, a curious thing happened to my sense of self.  I heard myself talking with confidence and with experience.  My views were careful and reasoned.  As I heard my own voice, I realized that if someone else had said those things, I would have thought that person was wise and determined and tough.  A person who knows that compassion is not easy or simple, a person who knows that the hardest thing about doing good is accepting that you will fail along the way, and you'll have to live with that.

As I heard my voice, I heard a stranger talking.  This hardened, patient, quietly wise person could not possibly be me.  My sense of self would not allow it.  But it was un-deniable that I was the one who was speaking.   And in that moment, I saw and felt my ego step out of the way and allow me to be the "me" that I had become.

In that moment, I experienced "me" without an ego in the way.  Just for a moment, I was only the assembled aspects of awareness and action, a point in space-time where something was being done without a doer.

These moments come along frequently in my work now.  I've learned to watch for them, to give in to them when they sneak into the room and sit down beside me.  I know now that every time they happen, I come away more aware than I was.

Connections

A few nights a week I stop for groceries at a little market here in Eugene called the Red Barn.  I love connecting with people, and going to a store is a place where it can always happen.  There's a moment of forced togetherness there that feels like an opportunity.

Because I like connecting so much, I know most of the people who work at the Red Barn.  But there's one who is newer, and I still haven't broken the ice.  Today could be the day, though, I can feel it.  As I come to the counter she smiles and says hello and starts checking out my things.  A few times, I've said things like "how's the day treating you?" But she's only given polite answers.  I'm looking for that unguarded moment, that "I know you now" moment.

I'm trying to think of something to say when I reach into my coat pocket to look for change and my hand rests on a chocolate-covered Oreo cookie. Before I even know what I'm doing, the words are out of my mouth:

"You know what's so great?" I say, holding up the cookie in its neon pink foil wrapper.

"What's so great?" She says, and her smile is a little skeptical.

"When you put something really nice in your pocket and then you forget it's there until later."

And then, it's there.  The completely un-guarded, we-connected smile.  It's big and lazy and lopsided, and it tells me a little bit about what kind of person she is.  She says something about finding money in her pockets when she does laundry.  But it doesn't really matter what she says, because the smile was the thing.  It was the smile that marked the moment when I made a brand new connection. My guard came down too, and just for a moment there was no "otherness" between us.

I wonder what will happen next time.

Rain drop, tea cup

Today my walk in the woods was one of those days when you are never out of your rain gear, even for a minute.  Fully protected from the pouring rain, I become an island of warmth moving through the lonely woods, the sound of raindrops on my hood a constant companion.

Before I left today, I made some hot tea and put it in my little silver thermos.  About two miles in, it sounds really inviting.  I sit on a rotting tree stump and fish around in my old black messenger bag for the thermos.  Pour a cup, take a sip.  The liquid goes down hot, and the steam rises into my hood, fogging my glasses.  I hear the "plunk" sound of a rain drop landing in water.  It is so silent in the woods today, I can hear individual rain drops landing here and there.

That one landed in a puddle somewhere.  But I see no puddle anywhere.  Then it happens again, and I locate the sound.  The rain drops are falling into my tea cup.  As I look into the cup, it happens again. "Plunk" goes the rain drop, and there is a shiny ring of ripples in my little tea cup.  As I watch, the tea settles down, and just for a moment, I can see a reflection of the tall woods in the surface of my tea.  As I try to pick out details, another rain drop plunks into the tea, and the image is shattered.  But just for a moment, and then it is back.

I move the tea cup closer to my body so the bill of my hood shelters it from further rain drop impacts.  There, by my raincoat, I can read the image in my cup; a reverse of the tall, misty trees above my head.

Shortly after, it's time to turn around and head back.  The miles unravel on the muddy path and soon I'm back in the world.  But the image of the tall trees rippling in my tea cup remains with me.

Normal

The horrifying symptoms of my latest health scare have abated.

Last night, in physical comfort, I watched a movie until I was sleepy, and then, I slept.  I woke at 3 am, got a drink of water, watched the full moon for a few moments, and then slept some more.  And this morning, I showered, made coffee and read the news.  Somewhere around 10am it occurred to me that normal was back in my life.

Lately, when the pain recedes and the fear dies down, I find myself doing normal things, like making coffee, or looking at the moon.  Or making the bed or doing laundry.  These things are so precious now.  My title today is "Normal" but maybe it should be "Precious."

These days the moments of doing something common, pain free, are cast in sharp relief, because of past pain.  With attention, each moment, every moment, is crisp and new and disclosive.

Today I went to a record store and bought some Sarah Vaughn and Dizzy Gillespie.  The store is in an old house.  The wood floor is made of dark, old planks and it creaks when I walk on it.  The vinyl LP's are in cardboard covers with paper sleeves inside.  When you remove them, they are shiny black.  In the middle, on the labels, it says "Columbia" or "Mercury" or "ASCAP."  They have their own smell, and indeed, the entire House of Records here in Eugene, Oregon smells of memory and music and vinyl and the joy of attention.

At home, I put some Dizzy Gillespie on the turntable and I begin to make Chili.  The wall heater hums, taking the chill out of my studio, onions and cumin fill the house with cheerful smells and Dizzy resonates.  They are all melded in a seamless experience.  A timeless experience.  It could be 1947 and I could be making chili in a studio apartment in Eugene, Oregon, listening to jazz.  Or it could be 2067 and I could be doing the same thing.

Each moment crisp and new and showy.

Transformation

Today, at long last, the doctor had some encouraging news for me.  It's been a long haul, one difficult thing after another for the last six months, and living in pain and fear the whole time.  Finally, the doctor offers hope.

And I can feel the quality of my attention shift.  It's a subtle progression.  First, of course, there are tears of relief, sitting in the car in front of  the doctor's office.  They pass, and I start to drive into town to do some shopping.  I'm surprised to find I don't feel ecstatic.  My sense perceptions are hyper-clear, suddenly.  I've experienced that before, after times of high stress.  My theory about it is that when we are in stress, we tend to tune out information that isn't relevant to the on-going threat or problem.  Then when it's over, sense perception floods back into our awareness and it seems powerful because it is fresh

I've experienced the same sensation after a long sit, or other mindfulness practice session.

My emotions seem to be dominated by something I can only inadequately describe as peace and acceptance.  Curiously, it is the same feeling I've had during some of the worst moments, without, of course, the fear and pain.

It's a feeling I want to keep on having.  It reminds me of the Buddha's advice to "suffuse yourself in this feeling, this state" once you have found it.  Tonight, I'll spend a quiet evening at home, and tomorrow maybe go for a short walk in the woods.  Maybe when I'm walking tomorrow, the state will settle on me once again.