It was a joke at first, you see. Or I thought it was. My yearning for magic could be nothing else after all. Chasing elven tracks in forests, looking under bushes, searching among the flower petals for fluttering fairies – I knew they were there, even as I knew they weren’t. They couldn’t be, everyone knows there is no such thing as magic. I knew that. But I didn’t want to know it. I didn’t want the gray, cold, lonely world where every step brought danger, where one false move meant disaster. I wanted elven pointed ears and fairy’s light step.

And so when you said that there is a wizard living nearby, one that will turn me into an elf, I knew it was a joke. But I took the number anyway. And I made the phone call.

I drove to see the wizard few days later. It was cold and misty up in the mountains, fog swirled in the canyon where the wizard lived shrouding the rushing river, the ancient oaks, the lofty pines. It was as it should be, I thought, climbing up a narrow path, up the mountain slope to a little cabin. It was just right for the master to live up on top of the mountain and for the disciples to climb up and claim the teachings. Claim the magic for themselves.

The wizard had a white mane of hair and sharp, alert eyes peering from under bushy eyebrows. He looked at me and said something. Not much, one word, maybe two. I did not understand, but my body did. It woke up, suddenly it sprung to life, leaving me with nothing to do but to be and to feel. The wizard did not talk, he didn’t lecture, didn’t teach, didn’t explain. My mind, trained to thinking, considering, arguing, theorizing, was as useless as any old tool, discarded and forgotten. the mind that carried me through my life, that kept me safe, that was the mark of my worth, of my value, of my position and importance, had no place here. There was no room for my mind once my body woke up.

The wizard spoke a word and energy exploded behind my eyes. Warm, bright, soothing, blinding. He spoke another word, and another explosion – in my breast, at the base of my spine. Another word, and the glowing suns in my body connected in a rush of heat and force, and my body arched in response.

For a lifetime I sat in the armchair in the little cabin, up on the side of the mountain slope, facing the wizard. For a lifetime white, hot threads swept from the crown of my head to the tips of my fingers.
“That is enough” the wizard said, years later, and I opened my eyes. They looked the same then, my eyes, round and green, but they saw differently.

It was a different world, outside of the cabin. It was a different fog, pearly white and sparkling with raindrops. It was a different river, singing the songs with myriads of voices. And the trees were different, old, wise, rooted deeply in the earth, in the time, in life. It was a living world, and I saw a footprint of an elven foot at the base of a tree, and the flowers rustled as little fairies swooped in their mad, morning dance.

An idea occurred to me today, as I read an article about Wall Street and Main Street, and the wide rift between those two. The Wall st. not understanding the main st., the Main st. not understanding the Wall st.

Inside of the Wall street’s world, the rich people’s world, inside of their reality, the super rich bankers are not privileged half-gods, but a hard working people who receive just, and normal in their industry, rewards for their labors. They do not understand why they are being blamed, they do not understand why they are being held responsible.

And the Main street does not understand how the Wall street can possibly not understand. It is this lack of understanding, this split, that is the greatest issue, it occurred to me. It is not how much money who makes or doesn’t make, it is the two hermetically sealed worlds, two different realities that do not touch and do not meet. More than that, they don’t even acknowledge each-other’s existence.

“What would I do?” I asked myself, as I read this piece? What would I do if I had a problem, a big problem with something that Chris does. What would I do to address it? I could sit on our living room rug, and make a sign that expresses my outrage at his actions. I could invite my friends to sit on the rug with me and I would announce, loudly, to the house at large, that I will sit on this rug for as long as it takes for my grievances to be addressed and corrected. I would sit there until I saw the change I wanted to see. I might march up and down the stairs to his office, once or twice a day, for greater effect.

“And what would Chris do in response?” I wondered, as I envisioned this scenario, “what would the first words out of his mouth be?”. I imagined that it would be something along the lines of: “why didn’t you just talk to me about it?”

Why didn’t I just talk to him about it? Why? Why did I stage a protest, no matter how “peaceful”, to force him to my point of view, instead of inviting him to take a look into my reality – in conversation, in dialogue, in partnership? Why?

Is it because I would assume he wouldn’t listen anyway? Or was it because I was angry and wanted to show him, to prove to him, to punish him? I could come up with countless reasons, true, I can justify the protest but, no matter how justified, I don’t see how this protest would lead to strengthening our relationship, to us opening to each-others’ perspectives, to each others’ point of view, to us inventing new ways for us to be together, ways that nourish both of us, that help us both grow, open, expand. No protest could have achieved that result – but a conversation would.

I have been … irked … by the OWS movement for quite some time without being able to articulate why. Something was bothering me there, something I could not put my finger on, and I believe I have found it: there is no conversation between the two worlds, there is no dialogue, there is no partnership.

The issue that splits this country into two uneven parts is the split itself, lack of understanding, lack of awareness of the other side’s reality and, if there is no conversation between those two sides, how can this split be addressed? How can it be healed, how can it be breached?

I thought about it this morning and I imagined a different kind of protest than the protest of two groups, separated by glass walls, police cordons, communicating with each other by writing signs on boards and shouting demands, related to the “other side” by bloggers and reporters. I imagined a protest of people who do not want to be separated anymore, who want to be in relationship, who want to communicate, who want to talk.

I imagined people from the streets, from the occupied squares, from the parks, coming into the board rooms and executive offices, and there talking to those they protest against. Every day, every single day, one person after another would come and talk. Have a conversation, begin a dialogue.

Yes, of course I know that one person would be turned out, another would be escorted out by security, or maybe by police, but the people would keep on coming, one after another, peacefully, gently, asking for no more than a conversation. Asking for some time to tell their story, and to hear the story of the executive they spoke with. No more than that, just a conversation.

What would happen then? Imagine that, if we could sit together, the very rich and the very poor and speak, share, talk, communicate. Like partners do. Imagine that.

What could happen?

I can not think of anything that would render humans unconscious of the reality around us more effectively than the concepts of right and wrong, good and bad, just and unjust. While we focus on determining what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s just, what’s unjust, we are missing what’s so.

To effect any change it is usefull to be present to the whole picture, to see the entire situation in all it’s implications. The ideas of rightness, justice, goodness, injustice, evil, limit the perspective drastically and make the change nearly impossible to occure.

It hit again this morning. I found a spot behind my ear, it wasn’t there before … or was it? Was it smaller? Did it grow? Have I seen it? Could I have forgotten?

The initial feeling of “this is okay, there is no need to worry about this” was swallowed by fear, quickly. Fear soon turned into terror and I froze. My insides froze, my head froze. A straight jacket of fear kept me stiff, rigid. I could not think, I could not speak, I could not live.

But this is not the first time, this has happened before. This fear has happened before. My mind knows that, while my body is torn to shreds, gutted, burned by fear. I can’t do anything, I am frozen, I can’t move.

But this has happened before.

Is this it? This time, is this it? Is it cancer? Will I die? Now?!

Now that everything is going so great, now that Chris creates amazing business deals, now that we are moving to Europe, now that the world lies at our feet, now?! Now will my life be reduced to running from doctor to doctor? From surgery to surgery? From one cure to another? Now?!

Now would be the perfect time – my mind informs me. Now you have to grow, now you have to graduate. The world might be at your feet, but you have to grow big enough to carry it on your shoulders. Now is the perfect time for you to collapse. Chris might be creating an amazing opportunities, but now you have to support it, now you have to be present here. What better way to bring him down, what better way to bring you both down, back to where it’s safe, back to what you know. What better way than to fall apart, now?

But what if this is real? What if this is not just my fear? Not just my hypochondria? What if? What if? What if!

Thoughts are flying in frantic patterns, terrible thoughts, scary thoughts, doubts, stories, nightmares. I follow them and stop – I can’t do that, I can’t think this, I can’t think right now. Stop.

I don’t think. I feel instead.

The feelings are deep, grounded. The fear, the terror, now without the scattered thoughts, is settled and calm.

I can feel this. I am feeling it. I am here.

I can be here, I realize. I can be here and I can feel this. All of it. It doesn’t hurt to feel, without thoughts the fear doesn’t scare me. Without thoughts the pain doesn’t hurt.

I am here.

This is what will happen when I die, I realize. I will be here and the thoughts will be gone. I will be present, like this. I can do this now, I don’t need to wait. I can be here, present here, now.

The feelings change, shift, open. Trauma moves. Anger, fear, hate, pain, moves slowly, majestically. I feel it, I am with it. The feelings don’t feel good, but I do. Safe, calm, grounded, present. Because I am here.

The feelings are not what I am, though my thoughts would have me believe otherwise. The feelings are. I am. they move and change. I am.

I can graduate here, I realize. I can not only be here, present, but I can grow here, I can open. I can move on.

This is wonderful, I realize. This is wonderful.

Stories, series of stories told by people who know how to live, who know the rules, who follow the rules.

I read about the rules as I stretch my arm …

“No, this is not how you stretch your arm!”, says the rule “this is wrong, you have to do it like that!”…

I move, flex my fingers … “No, not like this! This is the rule for how you flex your fingers, like this…”

I turn … “No, this is wrong, this is the wrong way to turn, the sinful way, it will have you damned, it is how you fall! Here, this is how you turn, this is how you stretch, this is how you roll, this is how you move, this is how you live, this is how you think!”

I move and stop … arrested, corrected, fixed, righted.

My body grows tense, rigid … I move just a little … “wrong!” … I freeze …. I try again, slowly, maybe this way … “no! wrong!” snaps the rule.

I stop. Shocked, terrified, blank.

My body is frozen, rigid, tight. I can’t move anymore, I wouldn’t dare to move for the fear of rolling my hip the wrong way, the shameful way, the damnable way. I can’t think, the risk of thinking an improper thought is too great. Inside of the blank, tight, constrictive box I can not move, breath, feel. I am frozen, and it is just as well.

I do not need to move, breath, feel. The rules do it for me.

The regulations, the rights and the wrongs, the meanings, the ways – they are all here, pulling on strings they’ve attached to my arms, folding my legs into proper configurations, setting my feet just so, rotating my head into the proper position, at the proper angle.

I watch the rules as they move me, twist me, rotate me. I watch the rules, trapped inside of the tight, small box of my frozen body, immobile, blank, shocked. Shocked into being a puppet. But a proper puppet, a right, good, moral, upstanding puppet. A well adjusted puppet.

The rules pat me on the head, they are pleased with me. “Good girl!”, they say.

“But there is space here, within those rules” I allow myself to recognize, “in every rule that pulls on my hands there is a space, there is an experience. If I can be there, feel there …”.

I feel the space, the space within the rule. I flex my muscles tentatively … there is no protest. I move a bit more … and a bit more … nothing! “I can move here!” I realize with elation. Here, within the very heart of the rule, the very meaning of the rule, I can move and nothing stops me! I can move how I want to move, I can move my way!.

I wave my hands, they are my own again! There are no strings here, inside. Here I am myself again, within the rule, within the experience of the rule. I roll and twist and bend in a way that is mine, that feels good, that feels open, spacious, and I can feel the rule, I can feel it’s experience in my body and I move with it, twist with it this way and that, my way.

“This is how I dance with this rule … I choose … this is the right rhythm for me, the right form for me, the right relationship for me!”

Here, it is all me now – how I dance, how I move, how I relate. With the rules, within the rules.

There is only space to be what I am, when I choose to experience this space.

I woke up too early. There were noises around me, water running into the bathtub, birds singing their morning songs, dogs joining in the chorus with spirited barking.

I did not open my eyes, I did not want to enter the day just yet.

In the hazy, undefined space I felt love … it didn’t feel good … I was not quite myself there, not all the way real … there was unconsciousness there, trauma …

Childhood trauma, that’s what it was.

I looked there, the unconscious place opened and drifted away and I was present, present in relationship as what I am, in relationship with what he is…

Here there was no trauma – there is no trauma here, I am here, he is here. We are, and the space is unlimited, the possibility here is unlimited, for what I am, for hat he is, for what we are.

This is the meaning of honoring, a thought passed my mind, this is the very essence of honoring, this is what honoring means.

“I love you” did not hold this presence.

“I am with you” … this is what I say in this place: I am with you, I am present with you.

I say “I love you” and it feels flat, constricted. There is need, an attachment there, limits, ways of coping with reality, ways of surviving.

I say “I am with you” and there is only what I am, nothing else, only the presence for everything else, for anything else to open and become.

Honoring Presence

I am with you