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3
June 2008 |
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Hard work
spotlights the character of people: some turn up their sleeves, some
turn up their noses, and some don't turn up at all.
Sam Ewing
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When
you can't
have what you
want, it's time
to start wanting
what you
have.
Kathleen
A. Sutton
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There
is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find
the ways in which you yourself have altered.
Nelson
Mandela
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The
Changing Seasons of the Moment
Christina Feldman
Stand
still in the forest in autumn and let the trees tell you
their story. The vibrantly colored leaves falling
from the branches speak to us of the seasons of
life. Birth, age, sickness, and death--all the
seasons of change are held within the falling of a single
leaf. The leaf on the ground becomes part of the
loam that allows new seeds to grow. The leaf is not
separate from the tree but is born of the tree; it is also
not exactly the same as the tree. Intimations of
change are held in each passing moment and there is
nothing in this life exempt from that rhythm. We are
taught by those intimations; to try to interfere with a
passing season is to enter into conflict, struggle, and
sorrow. There is a freedom in absorbing the simple
truth of change--to live in harmony with this
understanding is to find peace in all the changes of our
lives.
Seeing
the changing seasons we understand the way to the end of
separation, conflict, and confusion. We learn to let
go, to let be. We stand amid the perpetually
changing seasons of each moment. Everything that is
born will die; everything that arises will pass
away. Nothing is exempt. Whenever we endeavor
to separate ourselves from this rhythm we create a world
of struggle and fear. Each time we cling to or grasp
any thought, experience, feeling, or encounter embraced in
the rhythm of change, we set ourselves apart from the
world. Mindfulness is the art of non-interference,
of not clinging anywhere. In not dwelling anywhere,
not fixating upon anything, we are present
everywhere.
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The
Buddha remarked, "The mind that does not cling, does
not become agitated. The mind that is not agitated
is close to freedom."
Standing
in the forest amid its life we come to see that no one is
making all this happen. The buds form on the
branches, the sun, the rain, and the richness of the soil
provide the conditions for those buds to develop into
leaves. The heat of the summer, the winds of autumn,
and the first frosts of winter all affect the life of a
single leaf, which will eventually fade and fall.
Everything is interdependent. Life interacts with
itself. If the conditions changed, if there was a
drought or the tree was damaged, a different process would
simply occur. The conditions of life are constantly
changing and perpetually affecting and influencing our
experience of each moment. We are not always in
control of these conditions and our commands are mostly
futile, but we are not powerless. The seeds of peace
lie within the mindful presence brought to each moment.
The
life of the forest is a reflection of our own life.
Within our body, mind, and heart, we experience the
process of change in every moment. Thoughts,
feelings, bodily sensations, and experiences all arise and
pass away. Our world of this moment is affected and
formed by where we are, what we are exposed to, and how we
meet the simple truths of each moment. It is futile
to believe that at the center of this unfolding and
interacting process there is a controlling entity.
As we learn to be intimate with ourselves and all things,
we understand that nothing and no one is separate from the
changing conditions of the moment. Our understanding
and sense of who we are undergoes countless changes in a
single day. The angry "me" changes into
the "me" of tolerance and patience. The
hopeful, excited "self" of the afternoon has
quite forgotten the "self" that brooded and
obsessed over breakfast. We begin to discover that
it is impossible to find any sense of "self"
apart from our beliefs.
The
deep, transforming understanding of change, suffering and
its cause, and the end of suffering, is the wisdom of
mindfulness. The secret of the Buddha's smile is
endlessly speculated upon. Perhaps he smiled at
himself for spending years searching outside of himself
for the freedom that was always in his heart.
Mindfulness is born in each moment we turn our attention
to where we are. With gentle, calm attention we
engage with this moment; probing beneath the surface to
understand the simple truth of the moment, we are taught
by it. Freedom is not complicated or distant.
We are asked to be present. Suzuki Roshi, a wise
teacher, reminded us, "To a sincere student, every
day is a fortunate day."
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Internationally
known
Buddhist teacher
Christina Feldman
shows readers how
to awaken to the
present in order
to capture those
moments of peace
and stillness, and
bring balance and
harmony to their lives. |
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Living
Life Fully, the e-zine
exists to try to provide for
visitors of the world wide web a
place
of growth, peace,
inspiration, and encouragement. Our
articles
are presented
as thoughts of the authors--by no means do
we
mean
to present them as ways that anyone has to live
life. Take
from them what you will, and disagree with
whatever you
disagree
with--just know that they'll be here for you
each week. |
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Reach
Out
Jerry White
No
one survives on their own, and no one thrives alone,
either. Yes, you might feel an excruciating
loneliness after one of life's hurtful blows.
But we are simply not built to survive solo.
Isolation will kill us, not protect us. We
humans are social animals made for community. Even
when family and friends annoy the hell out of us,
they remain an essential part of our survivorship.
One must find peers, friends, and family to break
the isolation and loneliness that come in the
aftermath of crisis. We have to let the people
in our life into
our life. In our hour of need, we may even
depend on the grace of mere acquaintances or total
strangers. Some will surprise us, coming out
of the woodwork to help. Others -- very often
our best buddies and closest siblings -- will
disappoint us terribly.
I often told myself during points of crisis when I
felt tempted to isolate, "Dammit, just make a
call to someone . . . " To survive, we
must find empathetic souls -- sympathetic
surrogates. Our inner victim
may shun this, preferring to retreat into a
shell. However, our inner survivor
craves people. We need to find people who
understand what we are going through. Social
support is absolutely essential.
I have never been a big believer in the
"self-made man." We all live off
previous generations, combined gene pools, and
preexisting social networks. We have benefited
from anyone and everyone who has ever been kind to
us, encouraged us, taught us, mentored us, or
parented us.
Still, when you are in a deep, dark, relentless pit
of pain, it's hard to think of others. But
make no mistake about it, they are there.
Others are in the room with you, in the wings of the
hospital with you, in prayer for you, in kitchens
cooking for you, on cell phones spreading the word
on your behalf. In trauma, you may have become
the lead character, but there is an ensemble cast of
participants and a host of witnesses. How you
keep the door open to relationships will determine
the extent to which you are able to thrive years
later.
I benefited greatly from social support while in
Israel. Frankly, if you're going to step on a
landmine, you might want
to do it there, where trauma is sadly normal.
You'll find a lot of peers and families who have
known your suffering -- they've been there.
And when you share a hospital room with others in
the same predicament, you don't have a lot of time
to brood alone.
In the hospital, I shared a room with "guys
like me." Hundreds were getting blown up
in Lebanon at the time. If I'd come back to
the States I would have had plenty of great friends
and family, but no one who had experienced war
injuries. Back in Boston, it was difficult for
my relatives to understand; few people were thinking
about war and terrorism, let alone minefields.
In Israel I was normal. I had peers and we
supported each other. It was another key to
recovery.
Friends and classmates from my studies at Hebrew
University heard about my accident and many made the
three-hour pilgrimage repeatedly, taking two or
three buses from Jerusalem to the hospital in Safed.
My room was an open-door party place of sorts.
They'd bring guitars and cookies and music.
The atmosphere was so Israeli casual that friends
even slept on spare hospital beds. I suspect
they wouldn't have allowed that at Mass General in
Boston.
With so many people coming and going, it was clear
that social support -- a primary ingredient for
overcoming crises -- was not missing from my
life. Perhaps I was spoiled with too much, if
there can be such a thing. There were days
when I was exhausted by support . . . I didn't want
to have everyone and his uncle pouring through to
gawk or make small talk with me. But still,
too much is better than not enough (if you have to
choose). I certainly can't complain.
Fritz and David remained my core support, changing
bedpans and urine bottles on demand, washing me,
shaving me, helping to deal with the basics, while
still keeping their sense of humor as I yelled each
time they knocked the bed without warning,
triggering new ripples of pain. I also recall
fondly the blond nurses on missions from Denmark --
Krista, Anne, Hannah, Irene -- saintly beings who
brought light (and shortbread cookies) with each
visit. My Jerusalem classmates brought comfort
food, good humor, and music, including Ray, who
played guitar and sang the same hymns again and
again, at my insistence.
A few weeks after my accident, an Israeli stranger
paid me a little visit -- an extraordinary moment in
which another survivor reached out to me. He
walked up to my bed and said that he, too, had
stepped on a landmine, but in Lebanon.
"Can you tell which leg I lost?" He
was wearing blue jeans and walked with a perfect and
steady gait back and forth in front of my bed.
Was he showing off? Was I in the mood for this
game? "I can't tell." I really
couldn't. "That's my point," he
said. "The battle is not down there, but
inside you, in here and up here," pointing to
his heart and then to his head. "By the
way, do you still have your knee?"
Yes. "Can you still have
kids?" I think so; yes, it still
works. "Then what you have is a nose
cold. You'll get over it."
He turned and walked out of my room as steadily as
he entered. I never met him again, and to this
day I don't remember his name. But I'll always
remember that visit, that moment. It posed a
choice, a mental fork in the road. I thought
to myself, If
this Israeli guy can do it, I certainly can.
Maybe I'd be okay in the end. Maybe I would be
able to walk and then run and swim and play tennis
again. Women would still be attracted to
me. Maybe I'd eventually start a family.
It dawned on me that losing my leg wasn't the same
as losing my life.
I believe this provocative peer visit was the
beginning of reclaiming my power. Just as
Albert Schweitzer describes, "At times our own
light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from
another person. Each of us has cause to think
with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the
flame within us." Well, if you're out
there, my anonymous amputee visitor, shalom
vey todah hevri -- "Peace and thank
you, my friend."
Copyright
© 2008 Jerry White. Jerry Whiteis the author
of I Will Not Be Broken, and is a recognized
leader of the historic International Campaign to Ban
Landmines, co-recipient of the Nobel Prize for
Peace; as well as cofounder of Survivor Corps. He
lives in Maryland and Malta with his with Kelly and
four kids. For more information, please visit: www.survivorcorps.com.
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The
loss of a loved one, a painful divorce,
or a serious physical injury---we must all,
at one point, face tragedy---unavoidable
moments that divide our lives into
“before”
and “after.” How do we muscle our
way
through tough times and emerge stronger,
wiser---even grateful for our struggle?
In 1984, author Jerry White lost his leg---
and almost his life---in a landmine accident.
He has endured the pain of loss and the
challenge of rebuilding. As co-founder
of
Survivors Corps, White has interviewed
thousands of victims of tragedy. With
this book, he shares what he has learned.
White outlines a very specific five-step
program to coping with disaster;
to achieving strength and hope; and
to turning tragedy into triumph. |
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There
are so many things that can provide
us with peace.
Next time
you take a
shower or a bath, I suggest
you hold your big
toes in
mindfulness.
We pay attention to everything except
our
toes. When
we hold our toes in
mindfulness and smile at them, we will
find that
our bodies have been very kind
to us. We know that any
cell in our
toes
can turn cancerous, but our toes have
been behaving
very well,
avoiding that
kind of problem. Yet, we have not been
nice to them
at all. These kinds of
practices can bring us
happiness.
Thich Nhat
Hanh |
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We
collect data, things, people, ideas, "profound
experiences,"
never penetrating any of them. . . But there
are other times.
There are times when we stop. We sit
still. We lose ourselves
in a pile of leaves or its
memory. We listen and breezes
from a whole other world begin
to whisper.
James
Carroll |
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Eyes
Wide Open
tom walsh
Have You
Stopped to Listen Today?
This is a
question that I don't like asking myself often, for usually the
answer is "no." And while I don't usually get
angry with myself over things--I know it's worthless to do so and
it accomplishes nothing--I also know that stopping and listening
to the world is one of the most important things that I can do if
I'm to be a happy person, or if I'm to be able to help others to
reach some sort of happiness in their lives.
"There
are times when we stop." Those times are the most
refreshing, most invigorating times of all for me, yet they don't
happen frequently enough. Too often, I get caught up in the
hectic pace of what I have to do, and I find it difficult to pull
myself out of the hurry and the stress and shift my focus. I
find it hard to slow down and realize, "Wait, I can
decide just how drastic or important this really is to me.
The world isn't going to end if I change my speed a bit and take
myself out of the picture for an hour or two."
One of the
most stressful jobs I ever had was one of the easiest--I worked as
a maid at an Army hotel in Munich. The Munich American Guest
House no longer exists, but back when I worked there, it was the
center of my world, as it was an important source of income and it
gave me a place to live while I was in Germany. But the
stress there was awful--the leadership was convinced that the best
way to motivate people was to threaten to fire them, and we were
constantly reminded just how quickly we could be let go. And
since we were Americans living in Germany, it wasn't like there were tons of other
jobs that we could get if we did get fired.
Add to that an
atmosphere of gossiping and back-stabbing, and you get a place
that could make you crazy, that could make life very unpleasant,
that could make you dread going to work.
I worked there
a good seven months before something happened that was very
simple, yet very profound. I took a couple of days off and went skiing in the Alps with the family of a friend. And I
got hurt after only about ten minutes on the slopes (I had never
skied before). My friends were good at teaching me how to
ski, but they didn't teach me how to stop if I got going too
fast--they told me what I should have done after the fact.
It hurt a lot,
but the next day was very important--it snowed and we stayed
indoors, watching the huge flakes come down, enjoying the silence
and the beauty of the moment. It was during that snowfall
that I realized just how stressed-out the job had me, and just how
much I was letting it stress me out by putting the amount of
importance on it that I was.
Yes, the job
was important--earning our way through life is important to all of
us. But I was letting it control me, letting it consume me,
and that wasn't healthy at all. I watched the snow come down
and realized that was important--the beauty of life all
around me, the beauty of stillness and peace and quiet. And
I could have those things even if I kept the job--I could get by
fine if I didn't let the job take over my perspective and become
my major focal point.
I love the
saying that I work to live, and I don't live to work. The
saying illustrates very well the problems that I had with the job
I was doing. But after that day in Murnau when I felt the
peace of life while watching a heavy yet gentle snowfall, the job
was no longer a burden, for I no longer allowed it to be the focal
point of my life. I still did my job well--even better, in
fact--but I didn't lose sight of the much bigger picture that
we're all a part of. I still faced stress and I still had to
listen to the gossip and the threats and the subtle innuendoes
that are so often a part of such a work place, but I didn't let
them bother me.
I've had
consuming jobs since--I spent four years in the Army later, and
it's the very nature of the Army to consume its people. And
while I have lost focus for very short periods of time, I always
remember the job at MAGH and the beautiful snowy day, and that
memory provides me with the ability to see clearly once again.
So stop and
listen, and hear what life is trying to tell you. Hear the
silence that's available to you--feel the peace that's such an
integral part of this beautiful world in which we live. Hear
the breeze that's blowing outside, and pay attention to the birds
that are singing--really pay attention. Hear them; listen
to them. Truly hear your spouse or your parent or your child or your friend--hear
what they have to say, understand it, let it sink in before you
reply. Recognize the fact that they're
fellow-travelers with you on this planet, just trying to do their
best. And try not to let things consume you so much that
you're blind and deaf to the beauty of our world.
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Life
Life, believe, is not a dream,
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
foretells a pleasant day:
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
Oh, why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly.
What though
Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though Sorrow seems to win,
O'er Hope a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, virtuously,
Can courage quell despair!
Charlotte
Brontë
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