WHAT IS IT ABOUT CHILDREN?

What is it about children? I mean, who are these little people that come into our lives, sometimes unexpectedly, more often with great anticipation? At birth, we hold and embrace and kiss them a lot. We protect and care for them. We love them unconditionally. We appreciate their innocence, laughter, play and ability to let us take care of them.

What do they bring out in us big people that tends to be so kind, compassionate, playful, soft, trusting and safe? Could it be true that children, from birth, can see quite naturally, who we really are inside, separate from our personality, clothes we wear, beliefs we carry, or work we do, or don't do? Could it be that children instinctively see beyond our personal self doubts, learned beliefs about parenting, and the ways we were all taught we were supposed to be? .

What happens to us and them, as they begin to walk and talk and become part of our planned schedules? What is going on here that the children in our lives that we cherish so, would do anything for, and once felt so overjoyed to be around,, may gradually start to appear more frustrating to us, distant, inconvenient, even less cherished? What is that about?

If we have conflicts, where do they come from? What is different? Why, if it has, does the world of school, chores, expectations, and what other people think, seem to take over the family, and bring up our greatest fears as parents, and often seem so frustrating, to the point where schooling and expectations often become the dominant part of family life? What is going on here? Are we as adults and parents caught in our own fears about the future? If so, are we aware of how these fears may be driving and separating us? Are we still able to hold, embrace and kiss them a lot, care for them, love them unconditionally, and appreciate their innocence, laughter, and ability to let us protect and take care of them?

Are we seeing children as who they are, or what we expect them to be? Don't answer that.
Well, answer it. What if the children everywhere are saying, "I don't need you to be with me. I need you to be with yourself. When you are with yourself, you are with me." When you are with yourself.......you are with me.

KISS ON THE CHEEK

My father kissed me on the cheek. I was 23 years old, about to drive away, for the day,from his small business in Los Angeles. As I sat in my car with the driver's side window rolled down, we talked for a moment as he stood just outside, next to my car door. As always, it was a warm day.

We both said, "see you later." Unexpectedly, he leaned his head through the window and kissed me gently on the cheek, holding the gentle kiss a few seconds longer than usual.. I could feel his smooth well shaven cheek next to mine. "Bye," we both said and I drove off.

That night, my older brother called to tell me my father had been taken to the hospital and later died. The next week, I went to his funeral and and sat with my mother, brother and lots of relatives. I thought I would cry, yet that did not happen. "I should be crying ," I thought to myself, yet did not feel like it. Not really. I judged myself for not crying.

Instead, I remembered how we had recently said goodbye and he had unexpectedly kissed me on the cheek. During the service, I could only recall his affection and his ability to show it. His moments of frustration and anger over the years, dissolved in the knowing of who he really was.

Thirty years later, my 17 year old son, Boye, and I, were at a conference at a Los Angeles hotel, which happened to be across the street from a cemetery. Surprised, I realized my father was buried in that cemetery -- a place I had not visited in decades, and had forgotten its location amidst the new freeways. Now it was across the street. I asked Boye if he'd like to meet my dad. We walked from the hotel, across a rarely used two lane road, climbed over a four-foot high fence, and without knowing where his grave site was located among the thousands, we stopped to stand under a tree, wondering what to do next. There, in front of us, only feet away, we saw his grave stone. We had yet to begin a search for it.

I knelt down on the grass and read his name on the small grave stone. I cried.

MISSY and STOREY : Going Over The Edge

An Introduction: Missy and Storey are both fourteen years of age, yet ageless.....(meaning they are beyond any category, identity or need for labels based on age or gender.) They are students at Village Free School in Portland, Oregon. This story describes what took place recently when they asked to meet with other students and friends to bring attention to, and practice, telling the truth directly to each other, rather than around each other,

The story describes what evolved and ultimately transcended everyday ways we often communicate with people around us, regardless of age or role. They went to the heart of relationships. A Native American friend once reminded me: "Everything in life is about relationship." Storey and Missy demonstrated what this looks like.

The Story: No one spoke. In their discomfort, the students gazed silently at the floor. No one knew what to say or do next. Storey, a 14 year old young woman, broke the silence as she addressed the seven other female and male teenagers sitting in the room.

"I asked that we all meet," she began in a strong clear voice, looking directly into the the eyes of each person, "because people talk about me behind my back. I want you all to talk to me directly to my face. I might feel hurt and react, but I will get through it. Behind my back makes me angry and I can't trust you. I don't feel safe. If there is something you want me to know, tell me personally and directly. I want that."

A few of the young people shuffled a bit. One defended himself. Another offered explanations. A 16-year old blamed Storey, accusing her of being too sensitive. Explanations, blame and growing tension filled the room. More silence. Storey took a deep breath, and in the same clear voice without blame -- sounding like a blend of request and command, repeated, "talk to me directly. I want that." Her eyes glanced around the room, searching for a clue that she was being heard. She apparently saw none. Believing she was not heard, she leaned forward slightly, appearing defeated, frustrated, not knowing what to do next.

Minutes passed in tense silence. One person stood, and walked out of the room. Missy, a tall 5'10" 14-year-old young woman suddenly sat up in her chair. Her abrupt movement captured everyone's attention. Her facial expression transcended her age; as though something in her, or beyond her, was taking charge. All eyes were on Missy, sensing she was about to say or do something no one had done before at this school, or possibly any other. Everyone looked up in anticipation, waiting, expecting.

Methodically, slowly, Missy made eye contact with each person, one at at time, pausing long enough to capture their full attention before moving on to the next. With the connection made, she turned in her chair to face Storey. Missy was calm and committed. No one moved. No one spoke. Her facial expression implied, "You will hear me. This is the truth of things."

Missy's eyes met Storey's, and held.

"Storey," I love you, she began. "I love you." Storey was visibly uncomfortable. Missy paused until her words were received, then repeated, "I love you Storey." Storey's eyes moistened. A few tears formed. Again, silence.

Missy turned to face the next person. "David, I love you. I love you David." David seemed embarrassed, yet remained silent. ”I love you……..I love you," she repeated to the young person sitting next to David, then paused long enough for her words to be received. The young woman shifted a little, but her eyes remained transfixed to Missy. Missy's expression was beyond serious. It demanded to be heard and believed.

With each person, Missy repeated the words, "I love you." Missy's little sister, Katie, for the first time in her young life, began to quietly share the feelings she carried inside her about herself and her world. Everyone listened. Simply listened and heard her words and fears, and feelings. That was all that needed to happen...simply listen and hear each voice without comment, advice, or judgment.

When Missy said I love you to the last person, no one spoke. The room was quiet and free from tension.....Only Silence. Feelings. Stillness.

MR. OHLY: 7th grade

I believe I went to school for so many years of my life just to meet Mr. Ohly. By the time we met in the seventh grade, I had already sat through over 7,000 hours at one desk or another. I "did" those hours because I believed I had to. Later, after I had completed more years of college, I stopped to wonder one day, "what was all that about?"

I believe it was the meeting of Mr. Ohly, a 7th grade teacher. All the other years of sitting, listening, and reporting back a variety of facts, were the background context for his gift to me. A gift I felt at the time, yet only fully appreciated many years later.

For only a few seconds, Mr. Ohly put his warm large hand on my shoulder as I sat at my desk doing an assignment. It was the kind of touch that is filled with recognition, kindness, encouragement, and the "you are OK just the way you are, love." I didn't know that in my mind then. I didn't have words.

As he moved to the next person in front of me, his hand shifting from my shoulder to the shoulder of the girl in front of me, my eyes watered, and my head went down automatically to hide the tears. Had I felt safe to feel completely, I would have cried. I knew it then and I
knew I would have been embarrassed and even been made fun of. I was not ready for that.

So, instead, I had quiet tears. A silent voice inside me whispered, "he likes me. He just likes me."

NOT TOO SENSITIVE

My friend, Sara, a mother of two children, recently told me that as a little girl, she was told she was "too sensitive... and made too much of things." As we walked, she shared how she came to
believe it...and often made herself wrong for "sensing and feeling" things that others did not, or at best, did not notice.

She wondered what she could do to "not" be so sensitive, to not feel things so deeply, and to just be "like everyone else."

As a little girl, she noticed when people were being nice instead of honest. How adult voices changed when talking to children. How her stomach ached a bit when she thought she was not being told the whole truth. She blamed herself for even noticing these things. "It seems that so many people around me are pretending, hiding; afraid to reveal who they are inside, and what they are seeing or feeling. I am too."

Sara's story matched mine, and many people I have known, "Instead of the label Too sensitive," I suggested, without knowing what I was about to say, "You have a gift of exquisite sensitivity;
the ability and willingness to feel deeply. You get to notice the background, unspoken, unexpressed, truth of things. Medicine women, Shamans, and often people mentally diagnosed, have this skill and gift, and they too are often marginalized or dismissed."

Sara smiled, open for the first time, to the possibility that she may not be wrong or a bad person. "But...but...but what do I do with this so-called gift if it causes others to be critical of me, or roll their eyes?" We were both silent. The kind of silence that comes naturally just before a revelation.

"I know," Sara said, "If my exquisite sensitivity is a gift, and I believe it is, then I can simply practice being respectful of others, especially children, I can take seriously the things my children say that often sound silly or obvious. I might ask them another question. I can be more sensitive to their perception of how they see the world. I can give to them what I would have wanted, and want right now. I can even honor myself for thoughts that seemingly make no sense." She paused. "I sound like some wise woman, don't I? Hmmmm....I am."

WARREN: OUTSIDE HIS BODY

Warren is a quadrapeligic, resting on his back now for twenty-five years, able only to turn the pages of books placed before him on a special book holder. He turns the pages with a slight movement of his lower arm, as his fingers brush the pages.

This is not a feel=sorry-for-me story. It could be but it isn't. I met Warren twenty-years after he had fallen during a gymnastics meet at age 18. With a broken neck, he was paralysed from the neck down.

I unexpectedly wandered into Warren's room at a convalescent home where I had been visiting someone else. He looked up from his book and smiled. "Hi," he said with an even wider smile. He seemed to generate his own energy and life force. Over the years, lying only on his back, he had read all the bibles, the Koran, Buddhist teachings, Taoism, and most literature ever printed. Even Carlos Castaneda.

One day, I asked, "What’s it like for you to be lying on your back for more than twenty years, not able to use your body like all those around you?"

He smiled that smile again....an all-knowing smile. "Oh, I'm not in my body Bruce. I'm in my spirit."

He then handed me a book he had been reading, as a gift. Doesn't matter if you know who Carlos Castaneda was. The title of the book was Fire From Within.

OUTSIDE THE TRANCE

What's happening in the world in a variety of cities and countries, is also going on inside of us. It is not just about change; it's about breaking the trance of everyday life that we have unintentionally, even unknowingly carried since birth.

The trance, as I see it, assuming I am outside the trance, are all the beliefs that may not be our own, that we have carried with us forever, taught to us by others. Beliefs about women, men, children, education, schools, money, work, self judgment, skin color, religions, relationships, sex, parenting, body size, age, dying, and living.

These beliefs, often hidden by their familiarity, (everyone else does it this way), disguise who we are inside, our passions, our creativity, our essence, and our unlimited ability to care about everyone without judgment of what they wear, or the pain they may carry behind their sometimes disturbing behaviors.

These beliefs, not our own, are revealed by the tension our bodies carry, the symptoms we experience that we call "sick," out of sorts, "it's just the flu, or a cold, or ....." The symptoms are real, and the hurts hurt. And sometimes these hurts and pains and symptoms are the body getting our attention to pay attention, slow down, feel, make contact.....question everything, say hi to strangers, sit down and breath. Question. Look into the eyes of everyone.