IT'S JUST THE MOTION--CALM AND MINDFULNESS

So looking for advice from me about calm and mindfulness may be like getting pointers about humility from Charlie Sheen. I'm a seeker I suppose, and turns out, I've had an island of calm within me for awhile. Didn't know it, but it's been there. Remind me about it sometimes, because it goes missing for years on end.

I wasn't much of a big wave surfer in my time. What I did learn about being knocked ass-over-teakettle was calm. It can be frightening being beat down by a wave. After being churned, buffeted, even knocked into the sand or reef, I'd reach inside--wait, knowing eventually the wave would pass over. As long as I had air, I knew I could find the surface. Swimming and struggling could lead one deeper. Instead of fighting to surface in the storm, I waited for the storm to pass. Then, in a couple of strokes, I'd surface. Obviously, waiting for the calm always paid off.

The other oasis of calm comes from my short experience with rock climbing. I used to be unnaturally afraid of heights. It caused a lot of problems in my childhood, and actually to a lesser extent, the fear lasted into my 30s. Then, one day, it just seemed to disappear. To prove that heights didn't scare me anymore, I decided to go rock climbing in Yosemite. Rock climbing is an exercise in mindfulness. Every nerve, every sense concentrates on the next hand-hold or foot-hold. Then, despite all preconceptions of safety and security, a tiny crack, bulge, or indentation becomes a place to stand--safe harbor. Normal ideas of what is safe vanish. Safe is a place to stand, without fear and with a sense of calm.

Again, I had forgotten my ability to find these safe spots on my own.

I would like to add a note to a friend of mine about the story I wrote about ghosts. This person wrote me about the existence of ghostly scents of her loved ones. Currently I am reading A Vision by William Butler Yeats, the Irish poet. In this book about the occult, and Yeats writes about scented visitations as well.

Thanks to those of you readers who believe in me. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

It's Just the Motion by Richard Thompson (with Linda Thompson)

When you're rocked on the ocean, rocked up and down, don't worry
When you're spinning and turning round and around, don't worry
You're just feeling sea-sick, you're just feeling weak
Your mind is confused and you can't seem to speak
It's just the motion, it's just the motion

When the landlord is knocking and your job is losing, don't worry
And the baby needs rocking and your friends are confusing, don't worry
You're just feeling sea-sick, you're just feeling weak
Your mind is confused and you can't seem to speak
Oh, it's just the motion, it's just the motion

Blown by a hundred winds, knocked down a hundred times
Rescued and carried along. Beaten and half-dead and gone
And it's only the pain that's keeping you sane
And gives you a mind to travel on

Oh the motion won't leave you, won't let you remain, don't worry
It's a restless wind and a sleepless rain, don't worry
'Cause under the ocean at the bottom of the sea
You can't hear the storm, it's as peaceful as can be
It's just the motion, it's just the motion

Blown by a hundred winds, knocked down a hundred times
Rescued and carried along. Beaten and half-dead and gone
And it's only the pain that's keeping you sane
And gives you a mind to travel on

Oh the motion won't leave you, won't let you remain, don't worry
It's a restless wind and a sleepless rain, don't worry
'Cause under the ocean at the bottom of the sea
You can't hear the storm, it's as peaceful as can be
It's just the motion, it's just the motion
It's just the motion, it's just the motion
_____________________________

Spirituality--Descent to Hell--and Back--Reexamining Beauty and Forgiveness

My dear friends. I have recently had an epiphany. Sometimes a view of hell can be as instructive as a visitation from the gods. Now, it is my job to attempt to convey what I have learned without seeming to preach. No one wants to hear preaching from me. So, if I begin to become to preachy, feel free to bring it to my attention. Sometimes--okay, often I get carried away with things I've learned.

I will begin this blog with forgiving someone who I  have failed to respect for a long time. So, I'm sorry self. I'm sorry I have been so hard on you for so long. I think I am going to give you, I mean me, a break.

This last week I was in a group of people having a discussion about spirituality. In the period of a few minutes I learned a lot about spirituality, beauty, and ugliness. The conversation went around the room about what we thought about the subject. Some of us talked about going to church; I spoke about the spirituality of art, specifically about turning stone in sculpture and Bernini; and some people had other ideas about what connection with a higher power means.

Then we came to Kate (not her real name.) Kate is not one of the beautiful people. She is obese, in her mid-to-late-seventies probably, and wears a permanent frown it seems. People are not drawn to her. I wasn't, knowing it was wrong not to be, but I did not think she might have much to say. So, when it became Kate's turn to talk about spirituality, I did not expect much. Let me paraphrase her remarkable story.

One day she was shopping in a thrift store, and on one of the upper shelves, she spotted a small "suitcase." She asked the clerk to get it down so she could look inside the case. The case contained a violin--not a cheap violin, but a beautiful, hand-made violin, that she knew was a real find for the price. The instrument had no bridge, and no strings. Kate brought it home, then replaced the bridge and the strings.

At this point in the story, Kate's eyes looked off into the distance, and she described the instrument as a child sent to her from above--delivered by angels perhaps--with the purest of tones--it played itself, she said. I had never once heard anyone describe an inanimate object with such love and tenderness. It turns out, Kate had played in a couple of major orchestras in San Francisco and the San Jose Symphony. Here was this person, who we all had ignored, who possessed the soul of an angel perhaps, and rare talent. God knows, it is not easy to gain a position in any symphony or orchestra, and she had played with the SF Ballet Orchestra, and SF Chamber Orchestra.

This should be the end of a beautiful story about dispelling some myths about what makes a person beautiful, spiritual, and worthwhile upon this earth. Unfortunately, it ended badly. Before Kate finished her story, and she had not gone on and on with it, the "leader" of the group interrupted her and stopped Kate in her tracks. Nothing beautiful in this man's soul. I fear he cost Kate a great deal of harm. I certainly had a totally different opinion of this wonderful woman after her story. This leader though acted as if Kate were a wounded animal, and he were a predator.

The first dog that Lynn and I owned together, Maurice, somehow was an animal that other dogs picked on. I don't know why. We found him chewed up one day by the neighbor's dog, and after that, he seemed fair game for any other male he encountered. He never initiated these confrontations, he just seemed a target. Kate I fear is another of these creatures that draws the ire of the alpha-males of this world. I hope some higher power will protect her in the long run. Unfortunately, I fear she will someday be found "half-eaten" on the savannah of modern America. From what little I know about her, she has been wounded far worse by those who should have known better.

I apologize for such a bummer of an ending. Wish it could have been better.

Look, I definitely owe apologies to a number of people in this world. I have made a lot of mistakes in my time. Unfortunately, a bunch of people who deserve an "I'm sorry" from me will never hear it. And a lot of you who read my stuff have been so supportive and caring. I thank you for that. Your faith in me has been amazing. My family too has been there all along.

Right now, I am throwing off the "lost" label I have wallowed in for such a long time. It has been a comfortable place for me, it meant I didn't have to work very hard to evolve. I know I can be up and down like crazy. Well, okay. No promises. I'm working on it.

Thanks all for reading. Bless you all.

REAL GHOSTS--TARZAN. No not Tarzan the Ghost.

I am becoming more a believer in things that go bump in the night. A few of my friends here have given me more insight into the spiritual realm. I honor their beliefs and thank them for giving me information and their confidences without naming those friends. You guys know who you are, and thanks again.

I am sorely tempted to offer this third-hand, "true" ghost story in the form of fiction. I am not feeling well or sharp enough to tackle this. This is a compelling story I think, nonetheless. I am going to "disguise" some facts anyway, so as not to give away locations, etc.

First, I was just watching one of those early Tarzan movies on television. Tarzan rides up astride an elephant to the elephant graveyard. (I think of old ivory, something one friend of mine likes.) Anyway, Tarzan rides up all manly, and Jane rides up, slung in perfect model pose, draped across the head and the trunk of the beast. Marvelous, and Maureen O'Sullivan pulled it off.


The ghost story takes place in a firehouse. Supposedly, somewhere near was a cemetery. I have tried to check this and I can't find any trace of the cemetery in old records. Firemen work shifts of four or five days on site, and several days off. They sleep at the firehouse.

In a certain bedroom of the firehouse, a ghost is present. This ghost is in the form of a girl or young woman in a white hood. One of the firemen, who sleeps in the bed, in the haunted room, sees her at night, even now. When she sits, he feels the bed move. He sees her often. She comes, and sits at the end of his bed. She does not speak from what I understand, nor does she particularly "vex" him with stunts or moans or crying. No rattling of chains is heard--no pleas are made. This white hooded figure simply comes and sits on his bed.

This is not a recurring dream. The fireman is not confused or insane. This ghost comes--whether he is awake or asleep, sits on the bed. The bed moves with her weight. The fireman did not reveal his story to others.

The fireman decided to call a psychic--ghost buster if you will, to rid himself of his guest. The psychic came, assessed the situation as they will, and made these recommendations. I am sorry for giving away such secrets, but I will. The suggestion from the psychic was to put a palm frond from palm Sunday under the haunted bed. This was done.

Next, the fireman was told to put a coin from a certain year in the window--no I don't know the year, to shove a toothpick in the door lock. Ay, so there is the rub... The lock already had a toothpick in it, and the window already had a coin oif a certain year.

The fireman began to ask around. Yes, the other men that sleep in the room have seen this white hooded figure. Now, she still comes, and politely leaves apparently when she is told that there is no time for her. I love this story.

I am no fan of any television show that purports to prove ghosts with cold feelings, the pulling of hair, or infra-red lights. I do believe that people believe they see ghosts. Ghosts are a staple of mysticism throughout the world. Flood stories too, and there are other common themes in religion and mysticism throughout the world. I will not try to convince you. There is no proof of ghosts, or God if you will, or that romantic love is any more than a slightly sick feeling in one's gut. Yet we see ghosts and trust God and love. Who am I to disbelieve such phenomena any more than I can disbelieve the existence of the universe because I don't understand it?

Hope you like this story. Peace.