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Trajectories of a human life seem to follow discrete patterns across fixed domains. After all, we are physical beings and cognitive beings and beings of self and personality. In any given moment, we could observe our body or our mind or our very self. For example we might think “my stubbed toe hurts” (body) or “I’m thinking too much about my toe” (mind) or  “I’m too much of a worrier” (self).

Each observation seems factual and solid. But is it?

After all, the toe pain passes along with thoughts about it and self-judgments in relation to it. The point here is that most everything in the moment seems solid and permanent before it is whisked away in another moment or two. The bottom line is that our sense of a fixed reality might be more illusory than it seems. Decades ago, the esteemed Person-Centered Psychologist of his time noted that we are “a process not a product” and he called this process “becoming a person”. We are not product or static. We are not solid and separate from everything else. A beloved Tibetan Buddhist Nun put it succinctly: “nothing solid is happening”.

This reflection reflects the wisdom of anicca or impermanence. Nothing lasts; all is process whether me or the days of my life. On a good day we could appreciate the day’s fleeting goodness all the more and on a bad day, well, it’s nice to remember that (from the Sufi Poets) “this too shall pass”.

We are a process; we are becoming; nothing lasts. The child’s body and mind give way to the teen’s. Our young adult body and mind age into middle age, then old age. We are becoming, in this sense, to our last breath. And maybe beyond…

In the fourth Century, the Bishop of Nyssa embraced these principles of process, becoming and growth by invoking the concept of epektasis. From the Greek, it connotes a kind of stretching out and evolving; “never to stop growing toward what is better and never placing any limits on perfection”… “God is indeed in you” (Beatitudes VI).

If there is an afterlife and how we arrive there no one knows for sure. Death empties us of body and perhaps of the brain’s mind as well.  Maybe we arrive with empty bags, no baggage, not a “me” anymore…and we somehow and immediately merge with the Godhead, the Buddha Nature on the spot. God is indeed in you!

But what if we arrive, as some believe, with bags full of the past: of childhood’s ego and egotisms as well as the identities and confusions developed from adolescence onward– a whole lot of ME at those Pearly Gates. It could be a messy afterlife. But perhaps, in that full suitcase case, we are in process too. In epektasis. We are becoming for eternity, we are less and less me (and my identity), and more and more the Essence (the Godhead) that has always resided in and around me.

In the first case, our beatific transition might be considered sudden and immediate; in the latter case, gradual and eternal. And one more thing.  What if these are one and the same? What if eternity is timeless; a mere split second? Then temporal notions of sudden and gradual disappear into that fateful eternity. Either way, what a fate, Amor Fati!

Maybe we should start unpacking now.

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A crying baby on a passenger plane creates stress for all-especially the baby. But otherwise infants are a beloved fascination for the astute adult. In truth, we might learn a few things from these blessed beings we all once were.

Notice, for example, how a baby in a crib reaches for and grabs a little light-blue rattle, then squeezes and shakes it in those delightfully random, repeated arcs, primary circular reactions. But then this little one spies a bright yellow and red caterpillar plush toy nearby: the sudden object of desire. Well, instead of rattle-release in favor of the plush toy, something quite strange happens. The more the child wants the caterpillar, the more they hold fast to the rattle in their grasp. Immense frustration follows, for there is no having the object of desire without releasing the object in hand.

Apoplectic cries and tears might follow. And maybe, a broad swipe with accidental grip-release, and the rattle flies; more tears, then eventual calming. Now, with the hand free to reach for that caterpillar, there is a squeeze (the toy makes a crinkle sound) and a baby’s sense of delight!

This lesson of when to hold on and when to let go is with us everyday of our lives.

Preschoolers are deeply concerned about pee and poop. And decisions on evacuation can stymie the best of them. When do I hold on? When do I let go? Mistakes have messy consequences and may invite the ire of big people. For all involved, these high stakes dances around the potty chair can lead to shame or to autonomy. After all, a good poop, holding on and then a proper letting go, is something to be proud of!

Young kids throwing a ball learn an optimal grip and release to achieve their target, and herald their competency. And life’s targets just keep on coming as teen and young adults continue to learn this lifelong lesson on enduring or giving up and in…and the pacing for each. Self-evident is the inarguable virtue of knowing when to pursue and when to let go of relationships, careers, poker hands and stocks in portfolios. Sometimes we must hold fast to what we have. But sometimes when we hold on to what we’ve got too hard and long, we are not so free to reach for something new. The Old Taoist Master said, “watch the timing”.

This wisdom rings true from our first day to our last; from our first breath to our last breath. This will be our final lesson. Our well-lived lives will inform those last breaths. For at the end, these may be erratic breaths, shallow breaths-all natural of course and not generally painful. But if we have built the knack for it, there is surrender to respirations however they come. These are our fleeting and precious holdings on and lettings go- to the last agonal breath.

What happens next has been a cause of wonderment for living creatures since our ancestors packed graves with tools and supplies for the afterlife. What comes next is the crux of the mystery. The great 18th Century German polymath wrote that “the highest state man can attain is wonder.”

Whether man, woman or child; whether facing life or facing death, wonder is a pretty good way to go.

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We talk a lot and occasionally to good ends. Perhaps we do not appreciate our communicating gifts, in part because speech is so pervasive. And listening so scarce!

Grasshoppers hum out to their fellows with rapid strokes of antennae or wings. Ants deposit a pheromone trail for safekeeping: to guide, to elude predators, and to pursue food sources. Pheromones you may have heard are also pretty good for attracting mates! Safety, food and sex are high stakes for tiny creatures and big ones too. One wonders why insects are so good at communicating even as humans can be pretty darn bad at it. Perhaps, unlike us, grasshoppers truly hear the sounds of their sidekicks.

When did talking rise to the pinnacle of our social experience? When did listening descend to a postscript? Our world of Talkers seems to louden after each Tech advance from telephones, to the internet, to social media. Such cacophony! Now most everyone has a platform, demanding influence, likes and listeners. But with everyone expressing, no one is left to be receptive, to receive; to bear witness.

The Psychotherapy Room occupies a sacred space in this communication paradigm. It’s blessed like a Priest’s Confessional or the Sacred Circle of a Shaman or like going alone to the teacher in Dokusan. Special communications join there and knowledges exchange. Listening is integral. Clients in psychotherapy enjoy, muddle through, and struggle with these exchanges. But there prevails a special overarching experience: to be heard, to be witnessed. Some clients realize that whether by family or by friends or by colleagues they have never or only rarely been heard. Think of it! And then ponder about how increasingly normalized this tragedy has become in our world of Talkers.

Ironically, the deep desire to be heard elevates loquacity. The more we want to be heard the more we seem to speak. And the more conversations take place in vitro (lab of the mind) and not in vivo. Inner monologues and dialogs are fine only if they do not displace communicating with another: I-I versus I-Thou. Picture a world of neurotics mistaking interior me-to-me conversations for the real thing.

This delusion has exploded today across social media mirages. Ours has become an asocial and lonely world. Legions have turned away from their human counterparts only to nuzzle with human illusions transmitted on smart-phones. Many more will look to artificial intelligence and chatbots to try to nourish social and belonging needs. But there is no there there. Tiny pockets of society are already collapsing because of it…youngsters are more vulnerable but all are at risk. We are starving for each other.

Sometimes, when things fall apart, opportunity arises for something new. Perhaps we now arrive at such place and such a time; a time to be still and listen deeply; to gaze into the eyes of the other; to pause and feel the miracle of that other human life before us; and to watch the otherness disappear into our shared humanity.

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What it must have been like in our first days to encounter the gods above and all around us that delivered every possible comfort and nurturing. By breast and bottle we were fed; by blanket warmed and by lullaby entranced into sleep. As time went by, we did not notice the imperfections, the lapses. And later, even as we noticed, it was hard to accept that Mom and Dad were not quite the perfect deities we had imagined. There is disappointment. All parents fall from the supernatural grace bestowed on them by sensorimotor and preoperational intelligence and our wish for heaven on earth.

Some parents fall harder than others. And they are not the only ones.

Complications arise with this fall from pedestals, yet we seem to be hard wired to never give up on the search for the perfect friend, lover, teacher, and coach. And in this Age of Influence, screens manifest an almost infinite array of gods and goddesses we so want to believe in! Who does not want a perfect hero to emulate; to explain things; to guide us through troubled waters? Like those perfect parents…we never had.

Perhaps our problem comes in what we are looking for in our heroes.  After all, there is within us something bigger and much deeper than a parent to be projected (more on that later).

Let’s start with this: All of us are flawed and some of us tragically so; hamartánein; flawed and downfallen. Think of the famed Buffalo Bills running back accused of uxoricide; the revered Labor Leader implicated in serial sex abuses; the alleged child rape perpetrators: a Prince; a Governor; a Movie Director. Even the persona, Miranda Sings, was alleged to have groomed and formed inappropriate relationships with underage fans. We seem to imbue some heroes with an imagined (Perfect Parent) greatness that obscures a deeply defective nature. All of these were heroes to some and ultimately grave and bitter disappointments.

So what about that something within us, bigger and much deeper than a Parental Projection?  Almost there…

Seeking Superstars, we have lost track of what heroism is, of the everyday hero’s journey: our own lives of challenge, of triumph, of pain and unsatisfactoriness. We all brave it all, our very imperfect quest. And when you think about it that way, heroes abound!

We could be inspired and learn so much from the imperfect but heroic friend, lover, teacher, and coach. So we must not fall into a trap of our own making by projecting a Perfect Parent/Perfect Person across a very human figure. An impulsive firing of such an exemplar could be an unfortunate, unforced error. As inevitable shortcomings appear, our disappointment would lead to termination, and a serious job opening for the next would-be Superstar in our lives. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Yikes!

Our delusion resides in the very wish for the Perfect Parent- a test all parents fail, as do all subsequent potential occupants of that nonpareil-sized hole in our hearts. It takes courage to accept that there are no Perfect Parents and no Perfect Superstars to fill their shoes. There is just us.  A little over eight billion of us (heroes abound), who can never ever fill that heart hole for the Perfect Parent…and should just stop trying.

Now let’s get to what is bigger and deeper, even than Mom and Dad!

There is an old Zen saying, “if you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him”. The wise Buddhist Psychotherapist from Washington, DC, authored a book with that title and submitted that “if you have a hero, look again: you have diminished yourself in some way.” Beyond parents, we ought not project the inner hero, the Buddha nature within, onto anyone either. After all we are, each of us, the hero we have been searching for!

This is our remedy and what might fill our ailing heart. We could reclaim our own inner (imperfect) hero and begin to see the inner hero that resides in all human beings.

We are in good company.

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Children talk it up when seeking a path out of responsibility, post-infraction. There flows a river of forgetting, not-knowing (the rule), blaming others, and all manner of excuses based on “the dog ate my homework”. Our social order necessitates life lessons to ameliorate this universal shortcoming. Sometimes scoldings and punishment seem like the reasonable intervention. And sometimes they are.

But if we fail to kindly take the child’s side as we deliver a strong life lesson, the negative affect is retained and the lesson is lost. Think of it this way: loss of a driving privilege may be the ideal consequence for breaking curfew with the family car. But if delivered with parental anger and attitude, there is no learning except “my parents are jerks (or a more colorful expletive)”. Besides, when delivering an agreed upon (think “behavioral contract”) punishment, there is no better time to take the kid’s side: “I am sorry you got home so late: no driving this weekend but you get a fresh start next week and i know you can do better”. After all, in a family shouldn’t we all be on each others side?

Of course, too often we are crazed in opposition to each other. We over-ameliorate irresponsibility, this very human flaw.

Parents blame children for these derelictions. Think of it: a child blames a sibling, then a parent blames the child for wrongly blaming a sibling. The immature schema of blame is never replaced by its mature alternative, responsibility. The starting point of this essay.

When blame dominates a family system, self-blame is inevitable. Unkind punishments from without become self-attacks from within: I am bad, no good, unworthy, even worthless. Ruminations tear at us and tear down ego-structure. We develop mistrust, shame, doubt, guilt, inferiority, and overwhelming confusion. In this instance, personal responsibility fades into the distance as self-blame gobbles up the territory of our everyday life. Children (and adults) become self-piteous, powerless excuse-makers.

Instead, lessons of responsibility are better taught as empowerments: the ability to respond to circumstance. Those lessons run deep and deserve a family dialog that illuminates the causes and effects of our mistakes, even (and especially) those with harm done. No blame. After all, there are always reasons for human behavior and if we are to grow it is imperative to understand them.

Responsibility: Reasons, but no excuses!

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Tell me a story!

It’s a child’s plea whispered or even demanded (so often at the twilight of bedtime). These stories might be ancient or hot off the presses or made up by parents on the spot. But it is undeniable that kids need to hear those tales, featuring the irresistible protagonist who is none other than themselves.


And the tale so often invokes an antagonist and antagonisms aplenty. There are conflicts conquered, with lessons and morals and life instructions toward “living happily ever after”. Now that’s a good story!


With children, we do not need to explain how the mechanism of storytelling puts them at the center of every plot. They just know! Perhaps that is because our brains are story-attracted brains from the start. Stories promote life lessons, socialization and the assimilation of values. Such a brain has evolutionary advantages for groups, individuals and their progeny.


Story-attracted brains actually think in stories; we become the story. From early on we think in narratives that consist of thoughts and images often propelled by emotion. We remember in stories and we plan in them too. These capacities are an advantage to survival, and maybe sometimes, our happiness.


The story-oriented mind can bring people together with common cause narrations and shared advantage for all. Good stories. Of course, some stories pull groups apart. And competing narratives can and do pit tribes against one another with spats and rumbles and wars. Within individuals, negative thoughts can unleash stories of war upon the self. These can degrade to self-contempt and self-destruction. Lesser outcomes might include a bad day, un-satisfactoriness and deflation. Those are the bad stories.


Perhaps one of the most insidious, if not altogether bad, functions of stories is to inflate a compensatory, false self: “me, Me, ME”. Sometimes called our “storyline”, these ubiquitous narratives address deflation with an armor of conceit or worse: an over zealous selfishness and sense of entitlement.


Such a problem has led some to consider the alternative of inner quiet and no story at all. We could drop our self-serving storylines and engage fully with life on life’s terms. No agenda. No scheming. The trouble is most find it hard if not impossible to go from bad stories to no story at all. Those bad stories seem to grip us…and if we are honest, many of us hold on tightly to them too.


How might we proceed?


While difficult at first, we could start attending to good stories that reduce narratives imbued with automatic negative thoughts, and rest in our blessings. We nudge forward stories that promote themes of loving kindness, compassion, generosity and serenity. With imperfect but consistent effort those personal narratives slowly change.


What else? We could unplug from compulsions with social media and be inspired by the myths, parables, koans and chronicles that highlight our basic goodness and wisdom. These perennial philosophies abound across time and space, so we should pause and listen.


While bad stories anchor us to egotisms within and between human beings, good stories seem to calm us, even liberate us. We could be delivered, moments at a time into the serenity of no story at all:


that wonderful pause and silence at the end of every outbreath.

Hope is good, right? Wait a minute, I heard that hope is actually bad. Well, maybe not exactly.


Let’s just say that hope is tricky.


We could imagine that hope occupies a continuum stretching from no hope to high hopes. No hope, the absence of hope, is hopelessness, a state that social scientists have rightly associated with depressed states, even suicide. Surprisingly, some very wise teachers have suggested that we cultivate a mindset of hopelessness. But why?


To understand that as anything but utter madness, consider the other end of the continuum, high hopes. That is, through the ceiling, ultra-optimistic hope. As a temporary or lingering state, that kind of hope feels pretty good, even ecstatic. Such a mindset deserves a deeper look.


Most will admit that high hopes occasionally rendezvous with big realities and that great aspirations might be the very path to realizing those big dreams. It happens. But what about lofty hopes so extreme that our leaps become hard landings, half-steps and stumbles? We land disoriented and empty handed. There is disappointment…and discouragement and depression and giving up. Our hopes and expectations can become, not uplifting, but an anchor taking us down. That is the nature of false hope.


Perhaps, we have this continuum all wrong. The extremes of high hopes and no hope have their moments of course. But a better guide might be to start with honest hope. That kind of aspiration is basic and true. For honest hope we must summon our courage and rationality as well as our fundamental truthfulness as we abandon self-deception. It is unsettling to imagine that this approach messes with the continuum of hope we started off with. After all, the answer to hope may not be quite as easy as to keep it high or keep it low, and then go on auto-pilot.


Instead, hope seems more of a moving a target. We could abandon the delusion that there is some static bulls-eye and all the trembling that goes with the pressure to hit it.


This new conception of hope is as fluid as the blood in our veins. As light as the air we breathe. Our ever-changing life demands that hope be ever-changing too. Mindfully, we could begin to notice that there is a natural, dynamic relationship of hope to circumstance. Ever-changing hope is hard but genuine. As precious ideas about hopes high and low disappear, we might discover, moment to moment, honest hope for ourselves.