Growing up

One of my teachers said that in order to have a deep and profound change you have to die to yourself first.  It is a notion that's stuck with me, although I didn't and still don't understand it fully.  Recently I had a thought that perhaps gives some insight to what this means, or at the very least what it means to me at this point in time.

It was the last day of the latest segment of the Feldenkrais Training Program I'm participating in and we were doing an Awareness Through Movement lesson (for more on the Feldenkrais Method go here: http://www.feldenkrais.com/method/frequently_asked_questions/).  During a rest I was sitting with a sense of sadness I had that the segment was coming to an end, and started questioning what it was that the sadness was about. 

In a sense it's normal to want to continue doing that which is most enjoyable and fulfilling rather than returning to that which is ordinary and mundane.  Anyone that is doing any sort of transformative work is doing so because on some level the current state of their life isn't working for them as well as it could be, so it is to be expected that a return from a focus on the transformative process to the life which is in part of product of what is being transformed away from would be met with a little sorrow.  However, in my case I have the tools to continue the transformative process on my own, and in fact that is the strength of the method-- to empower the individual to learn and grow autonomously and continuously.  In realizing that, I also realized the source of my sadness.  Each time I leave my peers and mentors, I feel again the sense of separateness and aloneness that comes from the realization that whatever change is to be done must be done by the individual-- if I want to experience a change in my life, I must become that change; no external circumstances or people can manifest that change for me.  If I desire change it is becuase I am unhappy with some part of myself.  If I enter into a process someone else has pioneered or created, if I seek instruction, then I am asking for help-- I feel inadequate to make that change on my own.  However, through the process of learning the system or toolset which ultimately becomes my vehicle, on some level I understand that all of my peers and all of my mentors can only provide me with the necessary tools for change-- in the end the change must come from within myself.  If I myself am changing, then I become a new person, in some respect other than who I was before, and if I am to become other than I was before, then at least part of me who was 'Me' as my previous self must cease to be.  In a sense I, or at least part of me, must die.

With this realization I felt a certain type of unwinding, or letting go.  That sadness which was before beneath the surface no longer felt like such a pressure struggling to break free; but as it was clarified and came to the surface it settled over me as a sort of acceptance of the way of the world.  Often such things dissipate once they are freed-- this became a part of me.

I sat with this sadness all that day, and into the weekend.  I watched the movie "The Crow" starring Brandon Lee (Bruce Lee's son).  My intent was to relax and watch someone move with exceptional physical organization, instead I felt the sadness of death bearing down upon me.  The movie (I think based on a comic book) tells the story of a man and his fiancee who are brutally murdered on the eve of their wedding.  According to legend, when a person dies a crow comes to take their soul to the land of the dead, only sometimes a person carries such sadness with them that they cannot rest.  In that case-- only sometimes, in the case of a great wrong-- a person's soul is allowed to come back into the land of the living to right the wrongs.  Naturally, Brandon Lee's soul comes back, and naturally there's a lot of ass-kicking going on.  However, as that's all going on, Brandon Lee's character is dealing with seeing the remnants of his old life and letting go of those things so that ultimately he finds peace and can return to the land of the dead and be reunited with the one he loves.  Within the transformative context, this evokes images of death, rebirth, failure, and redemption, and letting go-- a literal representation of a metaphorical process.  If the sadness of transformation had been recognized and accepted, then why the strong emotion associated with the imagery of the movie?

When we form ourselves and our personalities as infants or very young children, our primary directive is acceptance and therefore survival, since we are entirely dependent on others at that age to keep us alive.  Like any social creature, we strive to blend into the herd, pack, or tribe, and learn those behaviors which have allowed to tribe to survive for (from our perspective) all of time.  As human children, our personalities are rich with familial, cultural, and individual associations, yet the desire for identity and belonging still remain.  The transformative process entails letting go of one or more of our earliest identifications with ourselves, and so in a sense represents failure in one of our most basic functions-- that of assimilating ourselves into the tribe.  Additionally, our likes and dislikes are generally formed as much by nurture as by nature, if not more so (thus, someone of eskimo heritage born and raised in southern California may have no desire whatsoever to eat walrus eyeballs).  It is a very real consideration that we hold onto those parts of ourselves with are no longer moving us forward because we like them.  I may develop enough physical sensitivity to recognize that red meat doesn't make me feel good, and even advance to the point where I don't particularly enjoy the taste, but I have so many positive associations with treating myself to a nice steak or relaxing at a barbecue that it becomes difficult for me psycologically to not like red meat.  So when I enter into the transformational process and get to the point where I say "I'm not going to eat red meat any more," there is pain associated with that, in the form of sorrow and loss.

Since the transformative process often is a volitional one, the death of a part of ourselves which we like is frequently something for which we are entirely responsible.  All my life I have been drawn to the grotesque-- the human form transmutating into something more, be it angel or devil, or even heroes and superheros in movies.  I love the baroque sculptures of gods abducting maidens, the ascension of half-man, half-bird creatures to flight, and so on.  In part this represents internal conflict (like a John Woo movie) and in part it represents the struggle to transcend the self and attain enlightenment (like Yoda).  Either way, it is something I've always been drawn to, and in some part wanted to create in my own life.  I look now at what I feel is a significant insight into a place where I have been holding myself back for quite some time, and wonder at the success of allowing a part of myself to die.  Much like euthanizing a favorite pet who shouldn't be made to suffer, it is a painful thing to do, even when we know it is the right thing.  Though I am committed to the spiritual path I am on and regret nothing, I still look ahead at what's almost certain to come and the old axiom rings true:  be careful what you wish for...

2:46 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Curiosity (almost) killed the cat

Earlier this evening, I was working outside and wondering what would happen if you were wearing headphones when struck (or very nearly struck) by lightning.  While I won't say I regret the question, I will say it's not one I will have to ask again anytime soon.  Lightning is very, very loud, and headphones don't seem to affect the experience much one way or the other.

Problem solved.

8:17 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The Naked Truth

I have a disproportionate amount of stripper stories.  Not that I go to strip clubs more or possibly even as often as the average fellow, but for some reason while I'm there I can rarely manage to just hang out and watch the dancers dance.  This may be because I don't drink, so instead of getting hammered before or during the experience, I'm mostly just hanging out the same as I would anywhere else.

My first time at a strip club was my junior year in college.  In my acting class, we were assinged a project where we were to immerse ourselves in an area outside our normal activities as if we were a genuine participant in that activity, and based upon that experience we were to create a peice of art.  I had some ideas as to what I wanted to do that weren't working out-- namely, since I was even then a non-drinker, I wanted to immerse myself in the local bar scene and see what it was like.  Now I went to college in a medium sized city with a small-town feel in the midwest.  And as anyone who has ever been to a medium sized city with a small town feel in the midwest will surely know, the bar scene there is not that exciting.  Mostly a bunch of midwestern drunks sitting around a dark bar smoking cigarettes and watching a game or shooting a desultory game of pool.  Since I was on a budget and a timeline, I felt that I probably didn't have the resources necessary to really sink far enough down into the realm of drunken indifference towards life to get to an emotional state worthy of inspiring art, so I decided to up the ante a little bit by going somewhere a little bit further beyond my realm of experience.  Thus, strip clubs.

Once I made the decision, I had to find out where the strip clubs were.  I'm not sure how I did this.  Phone book?  Internet?  Casual conversation with my acting professors?  I'm pretty sure it wasn't the latter, because I had to look around a bit to actually find them, and if I had asked my acting professors they could have just told me straight out.  At any rate, I located a couple of clubs and after rehearsals one night I set out on my way.

(To be continued....)

8:50 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Dream

Dreams come with sleep, dreams which do not lie.  They bring with them love and loss, joy and pain, then fade with morning light.  What are dreams but a mirror of the self, the inner self which does not understand reasons for the past or hope for the future, but only shines with the myriad reflections of the now, the Now that lives in the heart and is felt rather than thought.  Flowing from the heart, is the dreaming life any less real than the life we live waking?  The joy is fleeting, and the sorrow which follows is correspondingly brief; yet what is time to one who loves?

2:18 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Ancient Spirits

Ancient spirits lie dormant in the lonely places, the quiet places, where footsteps pass as softly and imperceptibly as the flaking off of a single skin cell from a great beast shuffling through clouds of dust raised by a still greater herd of such beasts.  These spirits lie still and watch the passing of centuries as they wait for discovery to elevate them to the status of gods once again.

These forgotten gods are everywhere, vast pantheons longing for worshipers not to pray or bow before them, but simply to witness the passing of time and share a brief moment of union or togetherness to lend significance to the inexorable march of eons for beings who possess the wisdom of forever and therefore must patiently wait for a million inevitabilities to occur one by one.

My gods are the ones who live in rocks.  I spoke to them in the desert, and they answered me with a warm breeze blown across many miles of desert and before that across many lifetimes of Man.  A warm caress to echo coporally the warmth of a soul reaching out to another soul, of not the same era or species or even the same definition of life itself, but kindred spirits nonetheless.

I spoke to them high up in the Rocky Mountains.  I wandered aimlessly seeking I knew not what until I found them, and recognized they had been calling me.  I perched upon a rock covered with white moss, and there listened to the silence of the ages.  A warmth radiated upward, not of temperature, but of life.  I sat upon the rock and looked across the brush into the valley, and there I saw the inexorible march of pines closing in from all around.  In mere decades this ancient stone that had basked in sunlight for centuries would see the sun no more, but instead would be enveloped in woodland shade.  In time, centuries perhaps, this too would pass and the armies of trees that had marched so resolutely forward to encompass all the known world would fade to dust, and the sun would shine upon my stone once more.

I looked about me and there were other stones as well, already beseiged by trees, that once had looked over the same valley where I now gazed.  These, my rocks, had been calling me, perhaps for companionship, or perhaps so that I might gaze into the valley and feel the vast femine energy living deep within.

I returned from whence I came, this time not wandering, but taking the direct route.  I detoured that I might honor and commune with a rock I saw in the distance.  I knelt before this stone and offered my warmth, and was recieved.

As I left I stepped out from the trees and was met by another ancient wind, this one not warm and caressing but cold and turbulent, blinding me with sand.  And as the sand stung my eyes and tears blurred my vision, I was transported to another time, to a vast desert far away, and ancient memories were stirred of struggles and lifetimes of desert nomads from long ago. I gazed across the distance and there saw a great stone ship rising from the desert sand.

As I approached the ship, I saw it was a great tumble of boulders.  These boulders were not organically arranged by some natural occurance, but rather were heaped all in disarray as they were pushed aside for a great building and beautiful lawns.  I could not, or would not, speak with these stones.  They were upset, disheveled, torn from their natural repose and cast asunder in confusion and dismay.  I felt that perhaps, had I ventured too close, some of the spirits might have tried to steal my body and use me for escape-- seperated from themselves, they sought some host that might take them to the peace they could no longer find in their customary homes.

Was this, then, what I was?  Could I be one of these ancient spirits, departed from my earthen haven and returned to this world as a man?  Is this the longing I feel inside me?  Is this why I am called to these remote places, these isolated spirits, to somehow regain a part of myself that was lost many lifetimes ago?  Or is it merely a direction, do they call me to guide me, to tell me that this struggle is not in vain, to offer a promise and hope that when realization is attained, I will once again return home...

9:11 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Bar Fight

The following is the text from an email I sent to a couple of my friends in May of 2005.



Saturday was a busy day, and it was going to be an exciting day. As soon as I woke up, I knew something was different about this day. I could feel it.

I started work at 7:30 and taught for three hours before going home to eat an early lunch before heading out to do the rigging at a local party venue where they were going to be holding the prom for a local high school-- Overland High School, as a matter of fact, which by pure coincidence is the high school that Aaron and I attended back in the day. We rigged the dance and met a woman named Kaira who was organizing the event staff, then it was back home for a light snack and to pack my bags for the evening before heading off to the first of 12 five-hour days of Gyrotonic teacher training. I would be in the training until 8:30, when it would be time to put my costume (i.e. a pair of shiny silver pants) on underneath my street clothes and go provide ground support for the girl doing the show at the prom before going to do my own show at a local night club.

The training was good, and as everyone else left I went into the dressing room to get changed. I put on the silver pants, then slipped on the jeans over the top. Up top, I had a skintight blue t-shirt of some spandex-like material that outlined the ribs under my pecs and made my arms look like a couple of great white pythons dropping out of the foliage above to crush some unsuspecting prey. The lines of my face were etched deeply from weeks of stress and sleep deprivation-- there were faint bags under my eyes and a certain detachment that only comes from a fundamental weariness of the crap of one's fellow man. I hadn't shaved in over 24 hours. The only civilizing influence on my thug attire were a braided leather belt and matching brown leather shoes. I looked in the mirror and thought to myself "damn, I'm looking pretty rough-- I don't know if I should be going to a high school prom like this." Nevertheless, after prom time I would be heading for the nightclub, where my street attire would be just about perfect. I might be a little out of place at the prom, but I knew I was going to look good in the blue and red lights of the nightclub. I was starting to feel ready.

The show at the prom came off with only the usual minor emergencies that come with doing an aerial show in a new venue with new DJs, and then I hunted down Kaira from earlier in the day to tell her where we were so she could bring us the check. Kaira came up to where we were waiting with the check for the show, and she kept looking my way as she spouted the usual pleasantries about wanting to work with us again, seeming very interested in taking classes from us, etc. She made a point of shaking my hand as we exchanged our farewells, and I thought to myself "someone wants to get to know me better-- or at least get to know me with my shirt off in a bungee harness." Nevertheless, I had work to do and no time for prom organizers. I found a friend of mine that worked at the high school to tell her we were on our way out, and as she told me she was planning to stay in town over the summer and to email her, I couldn't help but notice her eyes straying down to the skintight shirt on my chest. Damn right. I looked like a thug out of a rap video and the ladies were eating it up.

The prom was done (at least for us) and it was time to head over to the nightclub. Tonight was supposed to be a big night. It was the ten year anniversary of The Church, a huge Catholic church that had been built sometime in the 1800s and by the early 90's was condemned and set to become a downtown parking lot. An industrious Greek family bought it and it became the signature club for what is now one of the richest, most influential families in Denver. It was a big event and the club had been doing poorly for the past year, so it was time for something different. Something different came in the form of Club Rubber, a group out of Las Vegas that's known for their wild parties in a town that knows how to party.

When I arrived at the club, just moments ahead of my manager, there were lines all down the block. We got through security and headed up to the VIP. The club was still quiet, but they had run into some snags and were just opening the doors. We just got settled into our little corner of the VIP area when a parade of girls in very short shorts and fishnet stalkings came by-- these were the dancers. I only recognized one or two, so it looked like they had gotten some new girls that were more to the liking of the Las Vegas guys.

Contrary to what some people may assume, there is no better wingperson for a young man on the lookout for hot women than a 50 year-old female Aerial Fabric Manager/Real Estate Agent. Being a salesperson, my manager is naturally gregarious, so as soon as she starts chatting with a nubile young vixen, I immediately stretch my back, flex my arms, and appear totally disinterested in everything going on around me. That way, when the manager introduces me, the dancer (or whoever) feels that they have to make an impression on me as I pretend not to have noticed them or their fishnet-clad 22 year-old ass (how I could have not noticed their ass when they've just spent the past 5 minutes making sure their micro-shorts ride up into it just perfectly is beyond me, but there's no reason for them to know that). So I met the dancer and immediately forgot her name, or even what she looked like, other than that she had brown hair and a nice ass, and excused myself to the restroom. There's only one restroom in the VIP, so you have to wait your turn. As I was waiting, out of the corner of my eye I saw a girl who had carefully ignored me as I walked past her checking me out. I was contemplating this fact when the two tall blondes who had been in the bathroom finally came out, and made some flirtatous comment. I acknowledged them and went to go pee-- it was just about showtime.

Now, I don't usually recieve this much attention from ladies at the club-- or anywhere for that matter. I assume the attention was due in part to the fact that I exercise for a living and was wearing clothes that showed the effects of that, in part due to the fact that I was showing the effects of weeks of stress and sleeplessness and therefore looked like a much tougher character than I actually am, and in part due to the fact that I was at a crazy nightclub party were there were far more beautiful women than I've seen in a nightclub anywhere this side of Miami. And when I am approached by a beautiful woman, I don't generally respond as if I could care less that they even existed or sat to pee (although in all fairness I would have to say it was a pretty effective tactic for me that night), but the fact is that I was there to do a show, and everything else would have to wait 'till after. There are cameras everywhere in that club, so if you're not doing your job, someone is going to notice. Once you've DONE your job, however, there's nothing wrong with having a little fun from time to time. And I was planning on having some fun. I was getting lots of attention from the ladies. I looked good and I knew it. I had driven seperately from my manager, so I was free to do what I wanted. Ever since the first time I was propositioned by a woman on the dance floor, I always carry a contact lens case and some protection in the show bag. And my stock always goes up after a show, so if the ladies were friedly now, before the show, then after the show was over.... It was a good night. Something was coming my way. I could feel it.

Showtime. Take off the jeans. Put on the bungee belt, and strap it up tight-- around the waist and through the crotch. When you cinch up one of those belts, it makes your ass tight like a balloon popping out of a straw and your package bulge like John Holmes in a speedo. It's a little uncomfortable, but you get used to it. Downstairs to the dance floor. The bouncers are clearing a space. Take the shirt off. Walk into the circle, and the crowd starts to cheer. Swing the arms in one final warm up, and start to climb. I start out climbing fast, working off the adrenaline, not using my legs at all. About 10 feet up I slow it down and start to use my legs-- I don't get to practice regularly any more, just a run through before a show, so it's best to conserve my strength. I'm on the bar. Clipped in. Take in the crowd--find the ladies. Take in the room--they've moved the lights. For the ladies in front, I do it with my eyes-- express a little passion and let them imagine it's for them. For the ladies in back, I just flex the back muscles a little to bring out the definition and let them imagine whatever they want.

The first few tricks are from a static bar. Drop off the back of the bar, a couple of flips, and back up. Off the stomach. Do a back lever, and make it look harder than it really is. Kill the bounce and spin-- fast. The crowd is going now-- they always love the spin. Back up to the bar and start to swing. The first trick is sitting on the bar and dropping of backwards at the back of the swing. I let go. I'm off the bar. Spinning fast. Too fast. Bring it upright. The lights are moved. Nothing but white light in my eyes. Doesn't matter-- I can feel where I am. Here comes the bar-- reach for it....

The white lights in the ceiling are matched by white lights exploding in my head. I missed the bar. It hits me in the face. When I can see again I'm falling backwards and the bar is far above me, caroming wildly at the end of it's ropes. Everything is in slow motion, and I'm flying backwards with my arms and legs out in front of me like the boss villain who just took the killing blow in a Bruce Lee movie. My brain is registering things-- the bar hit me in the face-- I have to keep going--- what's the damage-- someone on the floor says "oh, damn!"--- out of synch-- my nose is going to bleed-- get yourself back up to the bar.... I'm back on the bar. I have to go on. Can I do one more trick? One more, before the blood comes. Back off the bar again. Swinging. Drop off the back. Spinning. Blood rushing backwards into the sinuses. Back to the bar. Style for the crowd. Back sitting on the bar. The nose lets go. I'm spraying blood all over my chest. It's raining blood onto the cleared space on the dance floor below me. Here comes the fabric. Unclip the bungees. Climb down fast. Style for the crowd. Celeste, the security girl, is mopping blood off the floor with a rag. I take it from under her foot and put it to my face. Stagger through the crowd and have my manager help me with my shirt. She takes me back to the VIP where I try to pull myself together. I find a mirror and my nose is huge and swollen. There's a line of cracked skin around the outside. I'm sure it's broken....

We spent the next hour with me lying on my back on the roof of the club, stuffing wads of kleenex covered with Vaseline up my nose and putting ice on my face and the back of my neck. My sexy blue shirt is less sexy now that's it's spotted with blood, and my rough features look a little rougher with a swollen nose and blood in my goatee. After numerous wads of tissue and ruining a couple of bar rags, we get the bleeding to stop and get me out of the club. My manager insists that I follow her driving to my house so she can make sure I get home safely. Instead of spending the night as a bigger than life superhero in the arms of a narcissistic dancer or a girl from out of town with a wild streak to explore, I'm spending the night in a stupor on my vinyl couch with a bag of frozen corn pressed to my face and my head propped up on pillows, contemplating my own hubris in dismissing so many ladies secure in the notion that there would be more to come, and knowing that going for a year and a-half without any serious practice on the bungee trapeze is too much to ask for without consequences.

Fortunately, all I got is a broken nose. If it was any lower I would have lost some teeth, and it it was any higher, I might have been dangling unconcious from the bungee cords in front of 1500 people, dripping blood from a head wound. So that was my first bar fight-- my pride and I got in a fight with the bar, and we lost...

8:37 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Warrior Spirit

Amongst martial artists, much is made of the warrior spirit-- that quality of courage, tenacity, and resourcefulness that allows us to carry the fight even or perhaps especially when we are hurt or scared.  The sort of "never say die" attitude that propels mortals to the level of the elite in sports circles, high-school dropouts to million dollar homes in the business world and upon which Sylvester Stallone has built a long career of Rocky and Rambo movies.  When our back is to the proverbial wall, will we rouse to the sound of war drums and step forth into battle?  For many of us, we can look in our hearts and honestly say "yes."  Indeed, many people long for the occasion when the drums will indeed beat loudly enough for each of us to clearly sense the booming resonance echo in our hearts so that we can muster that which we know lies dormant beneath and step forward to death or glory.

But what of the opponent that does not fight?  Can we hear the drum that beats softly, as softly as the slow and steadily fading beat of a human heart, stilled to quiet by the empty oppression of causelessness?  How shall we face the enemies of expectation and bland, good-natured mediocrity?  The warrior spirit we see raised triumphant before us rages, defies, or bleeds with near divine sacrifice; can we be carried forward on a wave of inspiration when the only disruptions to the vast pools of our humanity are the merest drops of pebbles into a limitless sea, and not the tsunamis of earth-shaking inspiration or misfortune?

To charge into battle and thereby live or die may be the easiest part of the war we fight against the listless resignation that threatens to consume us, for it is the daily march through hunger, loneliness, and cold which weakens our spirits and breaks our will.  It is not the direct challenge we need fear, but the challenge which never comes, instead seeking to undermine our resolve simply by refusing to offer anything against which to strive.

8:16 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Long Drive Home

I knew I probably wouldn't make it to the top of the hill.  A few minutes ago, I hadn't been sure that I would make it out of the parking lot, and watching the cars ahead of me slide and get stuck on the slick snow that continued to fall, I was pretty sure I didn't have a chance unless by some miracle I managed to make it to the top without stopping.  Considering the volume of traffic that got stopped at this particular intersection under the best of conditions, I knew my chances were slim indeed.  I moved across the stoplight letting people out of the Super Target when it was my turn, and started my run at the hill.  About half way up, traffic was stopping and I saw an opportunity to squeeze between the SUV in front of me and the car that was being loaded onto the flat bed tow-truck.  I had planned to go straight, but if it meant that I could keep moving I would make the right turn and take a more circuitous route home.  As soon as I got by the tow-truck I knew I wasn't going to make it.  I had travelled too far out of the line of traffic to the deeper snow near the side of the road, and the added friction in front would be enough to break the rear wheels loose and send the back end of my pickup sliding down the grade to the gutter, from which there was no way I would get enough traction to drive myself out.  Nevertheless, I wasn't going to move anywhere if I didn't stay on the gas, so that's what I did.  Things played out pretty much as I expected.

I spent 20 minutes or so sitting in the truck, burnign gas, watching traffic, trying to drive my way out of the gutter (literally) and calling my parents to see if my dad (a handy sort of fellow) had any ideas.  I couldn't reach my dad for help or advice, and the with the roads being as bad as they were, I wasn't sure there was anything anyone could do to help me, anyways.  What happens to cars abandoned by the roadside during a snowstorm?  Are they ticketed?  Towed?  Do they just sit until the snow melts?  I knew the situation was special, as they were already calling it the Blizzard of '06, but I didn't know if that would make things better or worse.  I had heard horror stories of what happens at the impound lots, and I had neither the time nor the money to deal with getting my car back from the city or some towing company.  It was a situation where you had to make your own decisions and no one could help you.  We face these decisions all the time in life, but they always seem highlighted when it's a material decision with definite and tangible consequences.

I sat for a few more minutes, my mind a blank.  I just wanted to get home.  I was feeling an odd mixture of weariness and anticipation—tired from the daily struggles in my personal and professional lives, looking forward to the holiday and seeing old friends, all the while realizing that nothing was going to change.  Christmas is like that:  weeks of inorganic anticipation crammed down your throat culminating in a vague realization that some part of you buried deep down inside wanted to believe that yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause and that things will be different and you will find the happines you were promised all along for no reason whether you deserved it or not, and that small part of you buried deep down inside is disappointed once again and dies just a little bit, and that small part was more important to you than you ever knew because it was the glue that held you together and now you're just a little bit less of what you might have been if you could only believe that a fat man with magical raindeer could somehow make a difference in the world.  These were not so much words in my head as a boiling undercurrent of emotion, stemming from a part of myself which has been subjugated by the larger, perhaps more foolish majority which tells me who I am and what I must be and do in order to thrive in the world I live in. 

And then I was moving.  A part of me which is the part of action was moving me, not with a rush or with a sudden burst of energy and determination, but quietly, smoothly, and unobtrusively.  I do not know when it happened, as it has not happened this way before.  I know only that I had some money and an uncashed check in my pocket from when I had left work 50 minutes ago with the intention of running some errands.  I made sure I had my wallet and keys, and then climbed out of the passenger side of the truck, keeping myself out of traffic. I stepped into the snow, which was already up to the midpoint of my shins, and began walking towards the bank to cash my check.  I needed a shovel, and something to keep me warm while I worked, as the coat I and light weight pants I had on were not enough.  As I neared the bank I could feel the wind lashing my face with frozed snow.  I later learned that the storm brought gusts of wind that reached up to sixty miles per hour.  I seriously doubt if these winds were more than twenty or twenty-five.

After the bank, I walked across the parking lot (a very large parking lot) a couple of hundred yards to the Super Target, where I bought a shovel.  I looked at the collapsable car shovel, and decided it was pathetic, opting instead for the full-blown ergonomically designed snow shovel supreme.  $17.99, baby, and I found it to be worth every penny.  That took care of the shovel, now it was time to get warm.  Right next to the Target was a brand new Sports Authority sporting goods superstore—my kind of place.  It just so happened that there was a vest I had my been coveting.  I had been debating buying it for myself that very day before deciding it would be safer just to head straight home.  I went to the sporting goods store and tried it on, all the while carrying my snow shovel through the aisles, ignoring the odd looks the employees and customers were giving me.  I laid my shovel against the racks beside me as I tried on the vest to be sure it fit.  It was a little looser than I would have preferred, but I decided it would work just fine.  I took it up to the store and paid for my bright blue vest, and I put it on right there in the store—all 32 lbs of it.  This is a very special vest, as it has pockets for 80 individual ½ lb weights.  There were 16 weights that had not been put in, yet, so I just carried those with me.  Armed with a new shovel and firmly ballasted down, once I got back to my truck I began to dig.

I have practiced tai chi continuously for several years.  One of the skills we practice in tai chi is the ability to generate a pulse of force in the pelvis and core and send that pulse like a wave through the body out to the limbs.  This is called fa jin (sounds like "fa chere" in the Beijing dialect).  One of the traditional methods of trainig fa jin is to shake a long pole.  One of the methods of pole-shaking is to cirlce the pole in a path up and backwards as if you were pitching hay into a loft, or perhaps shoveling snow over your shoulder.  I had a weighted vest, I had a shovel, and I had literally hundreds of pounds of wet snow in my way, so I did what any self-respecting martial artist would have done—I began to practice.

After high-school I took a summer job as a landscaper for a small landscaping company.  Small trades companies like that survive on a small margin, and this one was no exception.  The only way to compete with the big guys who get the big discounts from supply companies is to work harder and faster.  If the company wants to work harder and faster, that means the guys on the crew have to work harder and faster.  I learned several things that summer.  I learned that thin wirey guys are often stronger than big guys.  I learned to lay sod and build retaining walls.  I learned some Mexican words.  And I learned how to use a spade and a shovel.  Using a shovel is not like what twenty-somehting guys do on the weekends to get that big spring project done, or what middle-aged guys do when they want to dig up a garden patch.  It is not an act of poetry or the expression of a lonely human soul condemned to toil on a chain gang for a victimless crime of passion in the drunken foolishness of youth.  When I use a shovel, it is an act of violence.  It is not the violence of anger or hatred, it is the violence of will galvanizing to iron and forcing itself out of the realm of thought, feeling, and emotion into a physical act which must be performed.  It is this iron will that gives the working man his contempt for the white collar bumpkin—the man who is only powerful and capable when society agrees to make him so.  When all else is stripped away, when there is no one to look to for help, or to intervene on your behalf, what is left?  Who are you?  What are you?  Is there steel within, or are you nothing more than an fragile crust surrounding an empty shell?  Many people are capable of rising to the occasion of a crises, only most are never put to the test, and will never know their true limits.    I do not know my limits.  I do know how to use a shovel.

I dug around the front of my truck, piling the snow high along the roadside.  I cleared most of the space in front of my truck, leaving a small ridge to help keep cars from sliding sideways into my truck as I was working.  After the front was mostly cleared, I moved around to the sides, clearing out the space between the wheels and throwing the snow in the back of my truck for extra weight on the rear wheels.  As I was digging I noticed a guy using a car scraper to clear out the snow in front of his friend's car.  He asked to borrow my shovel.  I found this to be odd.  After all, I was clearly using it, there on the roadside with my truck wedged into the snow.  Nevertheless, I allowed him to borrow it.  Why not?  I guess his reasoning was that I clearly had work to do, whereas he just needed it for a moment.  I had pretty much given up on my day, knowing that even when I got home I wouldn't have anything in particular to do.  I could clean the house a little, practice tai chi a bit, read The Fountainhead.  Of course, these are the types of things I do daily anyways, and don't really seem very exciting in the light of a huge snowstorm right before the holidays.  It seems that such an event should inspire behaviour a little outside the mundane to mark it's significance, if it is to have any at all.

When I got my shovel back, I could see a woman was stuck a little further back.  Between the two cars stuck in the road, there was only a narrow corridor left for traffic to pass around the outside.  It seemed that it would be helpful and not too much effort for me to dig her out a little bit and help free up traffic a little bit.  Besides,  didn't have anything else to do that day, and no work the next day, either.

For the next three hours  I worked hard digging out cars and helping to push them up the hill.  For a good portion of that time I had help.  A young man, shouted "Hey, how ya doin?"  and pitched in helping people out.  He had been meeting his parents at the Wendy's at the bottom of the hill, and jumped in simply because that's the kind of guy he was.  At one point a bunch of Mexican guys jumped in, bringing another shovel and strong bodies.  We all worked together, not saying too much, just keeping busy.  We really made progress when there were five or six of us—we could get two or three cars unstuck at once.

I learned something about cars.  The small sportscars with front wheel drive and low clearances were the worst.  The sedans with traction control were tough, becase they're heavier cars and the engine cuts out whenever the wheels start to spin.   In ice like that, you have to spin your wheels all the way up.  Mercurys were bad, too—probably too heavy and not enough weight in the back end, because of their muscle car heritage.  The traction control interested.  There was no manual override.  Someone decided that the car was smarter than anyone who was likely to be driving it.  It made me reflect on priviledge.  My company provided underground parking, and I almost couldn't get my truck up the ramp from the garage.  And here were these guys with their $70,000 BMWs, not only incapable of getting up the hill, but rendered powerless by the machine they paid so much to obtain.

I learned something about people.  At first, everyone was grateful.  Everyone understood the situation.  We'd dig someone out and they'd shout "thank you" as they plowed up the hill.  They knew how bad the road was.  They knew we were helping just to help.  They knew the last thing we wanted was for them to stop for any reason.  For God's sake, if you've got it going, don't stop! 

After a while the Mexican guys left.  I never even saw them go.  It was down to me and the easygoing young man with the kind of goodness and personality you just have to love.  These are the kinds of people that make folks, folks.  The weather was getting worse.  The wind was picking up again and it was getting colder.  I looked down at myself and saw that I was caked with snow— it must have looked like Frosty came to life and went to work instead of hanging out with badly drawn 8 year-olds for a change.  My easygoing friend went in to get some water, so I was alone again.  I noticed a change in the people.  Earlier, everyone had been trying to get along as best they could, just accepting help where it came and triying to get out of the snow.  These people were more impatient.  We had done our work well when there were several of us, and everyone now seemed to think it was just ordinary traffic and snow conditions.  I walked down the hill to dig out a car and give it a little push.  Two gentlemen in nice clothes came to help me.  The older gentleman said "Let's see if we can get this car unstuck."  The way he said it set off a lightbulb for me and I realized—this guy has no idea.  He thinks it's just this one car.  Don't you know—it's ALL the cars!  We got the car moving.  He got back in his immaculate BMW.  This car was beautiful, even among BMWs.  It was painted gold, or maybe is was just gold plated.  It was that kind of car.  It was also a stuck car with traction control.  He couldn't understand why this was happening, and he didn't know what he should do, or what he could do.  He had stopped voluntarily, because he wanted to help.  Now he had a heavy car with traction control, and there was no one but me to push.  I didn't think I could do it alone, but I kept trying.  Inch by inch we moved up the hill.  Now another car was stuck.  I left him to dig her out.  She was standing by her front wheels, a pretty girl with beautiful dark curls.  She had an accent.  She told me it was her first time driving in the snow.  I grinned at her and told her it wasn't usually like this.  I dug out in front of her front tires and gave her a push.  Before she got back in the car I told her once she had it moving to not stop no matter what.  Another car was stuck.  An SUV angrily drove by.  The guy in the expensive BMW had advance another couple of feet.  There was too much to do, too many cars, too many people, too much snow, falling as fast as the heat from the tires could melt it.  I couldn't do it all myself.  I thought of Sisyphus forever rolling a boulder up a hill, only to watch it tumble back down.  I didn't have much more left in me.

Another guy came to help.  He had a big work truck with steel toolboxes and duallies in back.  He helped me get two cars in front of him unstuck.  He commented that no one was willing to let anyone in line.  He was frustrated because he couldn't get out onto the street with all those cars in the way.  I didn't bother to tell him that all of those people had probably been waiting in line for over two hours to travel the past 3 blocks.  His truck had a lot of horsepower.  My easygoing friend was back, along with a guy who's car had died.  Once we finally got the heavy load over a hump of compressed ice, he laid on the gas just like he should have, and I could feel the torque in the form of chewed up dirt and snow pelting me in the legs and he crawled up the hill.

My friend and the guy with the dead car went to find jumper cables, while I kept working to free the tide of floundering cars.  I caught a break when no cars were actually dead on the road and made an exit to the Wendy's at the bottom of the hill.  I needed to eat something.  I got to the entry of the restaurant and was confronted with my friend's family all standing around in front of the door.  They looked at me somewhat strangely, but definitely friendly.  All the men were going out to help push the dead car off the road.  I trudged back out with them.  We were about three car lenghs back from the driveway into the Super Target lot and in the far lane.  We got someone who would let us through, then we had to dig out and push-start two cars to clear a path to push the dead one into the lot.  As soon as we got into the driveway, the snow was too thick to push the car any more, but we were out of traffic.  While my friend's dad was digging out chain to tow the dead car into the parking lot proper, there was nothing for me to do relative to that, so I took my shovel and went into the Wendy's.  I said hello to my friend's family, who were all but laughing at me.  Someone, it might have been his mom, met me with a small cup of hot chocolate.  Someone said I had a little piece of snow on my beard.  I kept trying to wipe some water off my eyebrow until I realized it was an icicle hanging down.  My hat and gloves were soaked and covered with snow. I shook them out and dropped them on the floor.  I shook out my jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.  I took off the weight vest.  I felt light and tall.  I went into the men's room to dry off a bit, and realized what everyone was looking at:  I had a ring of ice around my goatee that was nowhere less than half an inch thick, and in places closer to three-quarters of an inch.

While I ate my lunch I couldn't help but overhear the conversation a man was having on his cellphone at a nearby table.  Mostly because he was a loud and obnoxious jackass.  He was talking loudly into his cellphone while his mother was finishing her lunch across the table from him, voicing his opinions on traffic and cars and whatever else came to mind.  He was looking out the window at a car that had gotten stuck sideways in the intersection, saying that traffic was moving slowly because everyone was slowing down to look.  Ordinarily, when faced with that sort of arrogance and stupidity, I would feel a strong urge to slap the jackass.  Thinking back on it, I want to slap him now.  Ignorance is one thing, but when combined with the arrogant assurance that you are correct and everyone else is most likely inferior to you, it is almost unbearable.  However, I had spent the past three hours looking into the hearts and souls of humanity, seeing people struggle with a sort of subdued desperation trying to cope with a situation for which they were fundamentally unprepared.  It was in their eyes, their faces, the very way in which they choose to drive their cars not knowing of anything else to do but try, even if they didn't know how.  In that light, this fool became merely another person who didn't understand the storm from being in it, who could only view the world in the way it had been presented to him.  Until he himself was laid bare before his inability to handle a situation which held great meaning for him, his illusion would remain firmly locked with his experience of life and the world, and nothing short of terror itself would ever penetrate the façade.  I couldn't help but notice the way the image of the fool on the phone was completed for me with the last touch which I didn't even know was missing until I saw it in place as he duped his tray into the garbage:  there in his left ear as he held the phone pressed tightly to his right ear was the bluetooth reciever which he no doubt habitually wore so he could stay in touch with his minions at all times.  The phone in one ear, the bluetooth in the other, providing bulletproof shields between the world outside his head which does not revolve around him and the world inside his head, which clearly can revolve around nothing else.

I had intended to leave after eating—to go straight to my truck, dig myself out, and be on my way home.  The first car I passed on my way up to my truck found a young girl pleading with me to help her, as if it would be a great thing if I could take just a moment and help a person on this cold and wintery day.  I dig her out and a few other cars on my way up to my truck.  When I was about half way up the hill, I was joined by a couple for fellows in coats pushing cars.  I was happy to see it was my Mexican friends from earlier in the day.  We got another car up the hill, and then I turned to my truck to finish the job I had started what seemed like a lifetime ago.  They looked at me and asked "is this YOUR truck?", echoing the question of the cashier in the restaurant when I mentioned that my truck was up at the top of the hill "oh, that's YOUR truck?  Are you stuck there?"  I told her I didn't know if I was stuck any more or not.  Somehow it didn't seem like such a big deal any more.  In the space of a couple hours, somehow, some way my truck had become The Truck at the Top of the Hill, a sort of monument to the day's proceedings.  How often do you get to drive off in a landmark?  My Mexican friends asked me if I needed help, and I told them I should be fine.  They walked back down the hill to move some more cars.

I eventually made my way home, taking not the straightest route, but the path of least resistance.  Not to miss the obvious:  the shortest distance between two points has never been a straight line, and I doubt it ever will be.  I had left work at 11:00 AM, and I got home—all of  six miles away-- at about 4:20.  The rest of the night was strange.  The house, the quiet, even the fatigue that reached through my muscles and seemed to settle deep in the fibers of my bones, all of it seemed pale and unreal after the experience in the snow.  No wind, no ice, no cars, no human struggle.  Nothing, just tired.  They say that once a soldier has been to war, has seen combat, then nothing else in life seems real.  War is reality, and everything else is just a dream, a moment of rest before combat begins anew. I can only imagine.

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Resonance

The distance between hearts is not measured in minutes or miles.  It is measured in beats, breaths, or footsteps.  The heart beats slowly to hear the suspended breath waiting, trembling, finally diving deeply down only to resurface and wait once more.  Footsteps are better, moving away from the self, covering the sound of a slowly beating heart.

Take a walk to quiet the mind and calm the heart.  Walking through the dark, travelling in diverse directions out through the streets and down through the heart, searching and seeking and finding only echoes.

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