One lone traffic light hung silently from a cable stretched high across a two lane road in the middle of a California desert highway intersection. The light was red for me as I slowed down to stop behind the only car waiting for the light to turn green. No other cars were around at this four way stop. As I waited, I noticed that we were in the middle of what is referred to as nowhere. I could see for miles in every direction. This was desert country. No trees or buildings or obstructions to the horizon.
As my car idled behind the car in front of me, I could see down the cross road highway in front of us, both right and left, for many miles. There were no cars or trucks to be seen. We were the only vehicles around for miles. Yet this gently swinging red light signal in front of us kept both our cars waiting ....waiting for the light to turn green so we could legally move on.
I carefully looked again to my right and left, and could easily see an empty highway forever. I wondered why this couple in front of me, in their very large four door car, didn't simply decide that it was totally safe to ignore the red light and drive on. Maybe even consider that the light may be out of order. My own curiosity asked, or rather demanded that I see how long they would wait before taking matters into their own hands. Me and my car sat idling for over five minutes while the light remained red, and the couple in front of me, remained waiting for a potential green light.
Ten minutes passed. The light was still red and no cars had passed in any direction. My curiosity was satisfied. As I slowly drove around them, I noticed their facial expressions implied they were actually following the rules, and the law --literally. I crossed over the empty and lonely highway through the red light, and beyond into the darkening desert sunset. Looking back in my rear-view mirror, I saw they were still there...waiting.
Now only a speck in my rear view mirror, I left them behind. At least I left their car behind, but I felt disturbed about their way of doing things. In my view, they seemed stuck in following rules, unable to make their own decision in unusual situations. I asked myself where is that part in me that may seem "stuck" to others, but not to me? Fortunately, I'm stuck in thinking of one.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
ORIGIN OF THE UNIVERSE: EILEEN
Eileen was the owner of a breakfast coffee house across the street from the university in Albuquerque, New Mexico. One Sunday morning, Meigra, my partner, and mother of our son, drove three hours from Taos, New Mexico, where we had been living, and unexpectedly discovered this simple outdoor breakfast cafe by "accident." As we sat outside in the warm sun, a woman we did not know, walked over to our table. Standing quietly, she made eye contact, leaned slightly over the table and said, "I recognize who you both are." A long silence followed.
I thought about being scared, but instead, I was excited.
Her eyes were unlike any I had seen before. The pupils had a yellowish ring around the edges. She asked to sit down. Although this event could have seemed strange, it was not. "My name is Eileen," she said, "I'm the owner of this restaurant." At this early Sunday morning breakfast time, people were waiting in line to be seated. The restaurant, inside and out, was crowded with students and families waiting to be served. Yet, Eileen, the owner-waitress, chose to sit down with us for reasons we had yet to know.
Instinctively, I knew I didn't need to know. My mind's need to make sense of things was suspended. "I'm going to sell my restaurant that I've owned for nine years," Eileen began. "I'm going to Mexico this summer for two months and discover the origin of the universe. I will camp out on the beach." She paused, again looking into our eyes. We were both still completely present, listening deeply, attentive. In this moment, not making sense made sense.
"I want the two of you to come with me. Will you?" "Yes," we both answered immediately. She smiled and pushed her chair back to stand. She returned to supervising the kitchen and serving customers.
A week later, on a quiet middle-of-the-week day, I drove down from Taos to meet with Eileen again. We agreed to meet at a riverbank walkway running through Santa Fe. We spoke of the upcoming adventure to find the origin of the universe - exactly what that meant didn't matter. Nothing more was said, or needed to be said. There was an implicit not needing to know. Eileen agreed to meet one more time following week to plan travel details.
Returning a week later, I found her restaurant had been sold, and the people that knew her well had no idea where she was, or what she was doing. Friends that had known Eileen for the nine-year life of the restaurant, knew nothing of her whereabouts or her intentions.
A year later, I again tried to find her. No one had seen her. We moved back to California where I continued to teach some university classes, and facilitate couples and groups in learning how to "work" with themselves, and practice changing any given perception of the world and daily life. One day, in the middle of a so-called group process, I asked a woman who had volunteered to explore a chronic body symptom, "When did you first notice this physical symptom?" In the next few minutes, I found myself asking more open ended questions, focusing or tracing back when a specific symptom was first noticed, whether it be a body symptom or an emotional one.
Automatically, I found myself seeking out the origin of things - some event or trauma that may have taken place months or years ago, yet I had no hidden agenda or destination in mind. Nor was I thinking like a therapist or psychologist. I was simply being present and attentive. Within minutes, when the origin was remembered, the symptom or feeling was instantly relieved. Sometimes tears, laughter and shaking followed.
In a dream one night, it came to me that whomever Eileen was, real or not, I had been reminded to Not have to know the why of things, but instead help find the seed and origin of symptoms and events that consistently grab our attention.
I thought about being scared, but instead, I was excited.
Her eyes were unlike any I had seen before. The pupils had a yellowish ring around the edges. She asked to sit down. Although this event could have seemed strange, it was not. "My name is Eileen," she said, "I'm the owner of this restaurant." At this early Sunday morning breakfast time, people were waiting in line to be seated. The restaurant, inside and out, was crowded with students and families waiting to be served. Yet, Eileen, the owner-waitress, chose to sit down with us for reasons we had yet to know.
Instinctively, I knew I didn't need to know. My mind's need to make sense of things was suspended. "I'm going to sell my restaurant that I've owned for nine years," Eileen began. "I'm going to Mexico this summer for two months and discover the origin of the universe. I will camp out on the beach." She paused, again looking into our eyes. We were both still completely present, listening deeply, attentive. In this moment, not making sense made sense.
"I want the two of you to come with me. Will you?" "Yes," we both answered immediately. She smiled and pushed her chair back to stand. She returned to supervising the kitchen and serving customers.
A week later, on a quiet middle-of-the-week day, I drove down from Taos to meet with Eileen again. We agreed to meet at a riverbank walkway running through Santa Fe. We spoke of the upcoming adventure to find the origin of the universe - exactly what that meant didn't matter. Nothing more was said, or needed to be said. There was an implicit not needing to know. Eileen agreed to meet one more time following week to plan travel details.
Returning a week later, I found her restaurant had been sold, and the people that knew her well had no idea where she was, or what she was doing. Friends that had known Eileen for the nine-year life of the restaurant, knew nothing of her whereabouts or her intentions.
A year later, I again tried to find her. No one had seen her. We moved back to California where I continued to teach some university classes, and facilitate couples and groups in learning how to "work" with themselves, and practice changing any given perception of the world and daily life. One day, in the middle of a so-called group process, I asked a woman who had volunteered to explore a chronic body symptom, "When did you first notice this physical symptom?" In the next few minutes, I found myself asking more open ended questions, focusing or tracing back when a specific symptom was first noticed, whether it be a body symptom or an emotional one.
Automatically, I found myself seeking out the origin of things - some event or trauma that may have taken place months or years ago, yet I had no hidden agenda or destination in mind. Nor was I thinking like a therapist or psychologist. I was simply being present and attentive. Within minutes, when the origin was remembered, the symptom or feeling was instantly relieved. Sometimes tears, laughter and shaking followed.
In a dream one night, it came to me that whomever Eileen was, real or not, I had been reminded to Not have to know the why of things, but instead help find the seed and origin of symptoms and events that consistently grab our attention.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
ALAN BUTTON: THERAPIST/SHAMAN
For eight weeks, one hour per week, I walked around Alan Button's psychologist office, sharing my sorrows, sadness, and "what to do's." Alan sat on a plush leather couch with a notebook and pen in his hand, appearing to take notes. Therapy was a new experience for me. I was desperate for someone to talk to that didn't have opinions, suggestions, or need to take sides.
An unexpected divorce was happening in my life with two small innocent children feeling the pain, scare and hurt of it all. I was emotionally desperate, lost to explain why this was happening, and feeling no control over the events as they rapidly unfolded daily.
I reached out to a college psychology instructor who was also in private practice as a psychologist. I entered his comfortable office, and when asked to sit down, I chose to stand and walk around. Each week, I paced the room sharing stories, feeling things, and somehow, without knowing it, coming up with answers and sometimes seeing the absurdity of what people, including me, do to each other. in relationships. Alan, (Dr. Button), sat silently, never speaking or asking a question.
When the hour ended, Alan stood and we hugged. "See you next week Bruce," he would say, and I would walk away relieved and more peaceful. This same process went on for eight weeks - each time, I would walk around the spacious room talking and feeling, while Alan sat quietly on the couch taking notes . . . I think.
I could feel his presence all the time. I did'nt have words for what he offered, I just felt the emotional space in the room, his warmth and deep listening. At the end of week eight, I stopped moving around, and without hesitation, I unexpectedly said, "You know Alan, I'm done. I don't need to come back again." He put down his pen and notebook, stood and walked over to me. He looked into my eyes and said, "Bruce, you are the most self-actualized person I have ever met." I didn't know what self-actualized meant, but by his tone of voice, I could feel it was a compliment.
In later weeks, I realized that he knew that what I needed was silent space, to discover and explore internally. I did not know that. He knew that. That is why his only words over eight weeks were hello, goodbye, and his final comment. Had he attempted to diagnose, or ask probing questions, we both would have missed the point.
His relationship with me, demonstrated in later years, how I could be with others when I am seen as the therapist or healer person. I could simply "hold space" for others, and only sometimes, ask more questions.
Thirty years later, I called Alan Button at his home to acknowledge the impact he had on my life. He was now 82 years old. When I shared how he changed my life, he cried. I later learned that he had written a book in the 1960's entitled: The Authentic Child. His exquisite sensitivity, I later decided, was more of a Shaman's way - able to "see" clearly what people needed behind the story.
An unexpected divorce was happening in my life with two small innocent children feeling the pain, scare and hurt of it all. I was emotionally desperate, lost to explain why this was happening, and feeling no control over the events as they rapidly unfolded daily.
I reached out to a college psychology instructor who was also in private practice as a psychologist. I entered his comfortable office, and when asked to sit down, I chose to stand and walk around. Each week, I paced the room sharing stories, feeling things, and somehow, without knowing it, coming up with answers and sometimes seeing the absurdity of what people, including me, do to each other. in relationships. Alan, (Dr. Button), sat silently, never speaking or asking a question.
When the hour ended, Alan stood and we hugged. "See you next week Bruce," he would say, and I would walk away relieved and more peaceful. This same process went on for eight weeks - each time, I would walk around the spacious room talking and feeling, while Alan sat quietly on the couch taking notes . . . I think.
I could feel his presence all the time. I did'nt have words for what he offered, I just felt the emotional space in the room, his warmth and deep listening. At the end of week eight, I stopped moving around, and without hesitation, I unexpectedly said, "You know Alan, I'm done. I don't need to come back again." He put down his pen and notebook, stood and walked over to me. He looked into my eyes and said, "Bruce, you are the most self-actualized person I have ever met." I didn't know what self-actualized meant, but by his tone of voice, I could feel it was a compliment.
In later weeks, I realized that he knew that what I needed was silent space, to discover and explore internally. I did not know that. He knew that. That is why his only words over eight weeks were hello, goodbye, and his final comment. Had he attempted to diagnose, or ask probing questions, we both would have missed the point.
His relationship with me, demonstrated in later years, how I could be with others when I am seen as the therapist or healer person. I could simply "hold space" for others, and only sometimes, ask more questions.
Thirty years later, I called Alan Button at his home to acknowledge the impact he had on my life. He was now 82 years old. When I shared how he changed my life, he cried. I later learned that he had written a book in the 1960's entitled: The Authentic Child. His exquisite sensitivity, I later decided, was more of a Shaman's way - able to "see" clearly what people needed behind the story.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
FROM PAIN TO COMPASSION
I was inspired to write this story and share it. I often find myself writing, not knowing why, but trusting that what is coming through is not only important for me, but may be for others too.
I was a six-year old boy, living in New York, and heading to my first day of school.
I had my little Superman metal lunch box swinging by my side as I skipped innocently and playfully along the cold morning sidewalk. My attention was abruptly drawn to a loud sound to my right, where a squeeky screen door had just slammed shut on an old porch of a house about 30 feet away. Startled, I looked over and saw another young boy running down the wooden stairs of this older two story house. He was running right towards me. I saw, what I soon learned, was hatred in his face, something I had not seen in my six years of life. "Get out of our neighborhood, you dirty Jew. Get out of our neighborhood. I hate you. I hate you, you dirty Jew."
Without thinking, I burst into tears as I turned around to run home two blocks away. As I ran, I cried and cried, trying to catch my breath between sobs. I ran faster than I could. I pushed open the front door, ran into my room, threw myself on the bed, and buried my head in my favorite pillow, sobbing. I didn't even know what a Jew was. I only felt that boy's hatred. Later, when I told my parents, they told me what a Jew was, and that I was one.
Within weeks, my parents and my brother and I, drove across country, moving to Glendale in Southern California. We found a tree lined street with Spanish style stucco homes, only a block from my new elementary school. My brother Carl, four years older, and I, walked to school each day. On the third day, once again attempting to get to my first grade class, a young boy about seven, whom I did not know, picked up some dog poop from his lawn and threw it at me, screaming, "Jew, Jew, Jew." This time, although feeling hurt and afraid, I ran on to school, which was closer than running home.
Our family soon learned, that at that time, Glendale was the home of the American Nazi party. In an attempt to scare our family to leave Glendale, my father's business was "set up" so the police could put him in jail for one month to force us to move. It worked. We moved 10 miles away to Los Angeles, finding a small two-bedroom home on a palm-tree-lined street, only minutes from the beach. I discovered kind friends, girls and boys, and, once again, my new school was only two blocks from our house.
The really good part of all the city and neighborhood changes we were forced to make, brought us closer to the ocean. I could now ride my bike to Venice beach or Marina Del Rey in 15 minutes. My father changed our last name from Simon to Scott, thus freeing us from being readily identified as Jewish people, and freeing my brother from being beat up anymore. We could safely hide who we were behind a name change. And it worked. I ended up going to a Los Angeles high school, the only one that was occupied by a blend of Whites, African Americans, Hispanic, Asians, and some disabled students. Everyone simply got along really well. Our high school was truly a working melting pot.
My childhood experience of being excluded, ostracized and hated, opened me up to feel compassion for other minority and marginalized groups, including women, African Americans, Asians, Native people, children, disabled, and Gay and Lesbians - all groups I got to work with, and be around over the years. My childhood hurt and pain was a blessing, helping me to deeply feel what many other people in the world live with daily, and cannot escape or find a hiding place behind a name change.
As I look at my life experiences, many of them included losing jobs while standing up for other people - yet feeling good about it. My natural instinct was, to support and stand with others who were marginalized - to become an advocate. I didn't have to take time to think about what was right. Instinct took over. I have been able to appear in court dozens of times for Native people who were wrongly accused and, because I am White, the courts more often than not, would free the Native people. I got to work in Black communities, with Hispanic farm workers in the Central valley, and simply get to know "others." And ultimately see others as me.
Our son, now 16, came to me in a dream before he was born. He said many things that I recorded. One of his statements was, "I am coming here to dissolve the artificial barriers between people." And he does that. Together, we easily and automatically find ways to connect with others. Those little boys of my childhood that caused so much emotional hurt and pain in my early years, also handed me the gift of greater compassion. I was disturbed by them, and now feel only gratitude.
I was a six-year old boy, living in New York, and heading to my first day of school.
I had my little Superman metal lunch box swinging by my side as I skipped innocently and playfully along the cold morning sidewalk. My attention was abruptly drawn to a loud sound to my right, where a squeeky screen door had just slammed shut on an old porch of a house about 30 feet away. Startled, I looked over and saw another young boy running down the wooden stairs of this older two story house. He was running right towards me. I saw, what I soon learned, was hatred in his face, something I had not seen in my six years of life. "Get out of our neighborhood, you dirty Jew. Get out of our neighborhood. I hate you. I hate you, you dirty Jew."
Without thinking, I burst into tears as I turned around to run home two blocks away. As I ran, I cried and cried, trying to catch my breath between sobs. I ran faster than I could. I pushed open the front door, ran into my room, threw myself on the bed, and buried my head in my favorite pillow, sobbing. I didn't even know what a Jew was. I only felt that boy's hatred. Later, when I told my parents, they told me what a Jew was, and that I was one.
Within weeks, my parents and my brother and I, drove across country, moving to Glendale in Southern California. We found a tree lined street with Spanish style stucco homes, only a block from my new elementary school. My brother Carl, four years older, and I, walked to school each day. On the third day, once again attempting to get to my first grade class, a young boy about seven, whom I did not know, picked up some dog poop from his lawn and threw it at me, screaming, "Jew, Jew, Jew." This time, although feeling hurt and afraid, I ran on to school, which was closer than running home.
Our family soon learned, that at that time, Glendale was the home of the American Nazi party. In an attempt to scare our family to leave Glendale, my father's business was "set up" so the police could put him in jail for one month to force us to move. It worked. We moved 10 miles away to Los Angeles, finding a small two-bedroom home on a palm-tree-lined street, only minutes from the beach. I discovered kind friends, girls and boys, and, once again, my new school was only two blocks from our house.
The really good part of all the city and neighborhood changes we were forced to make, brought us closer to the ocean. I could now ride my bike to Venice beach or Marina Del Rey in 15 minutes. My father changed our last name from Simon to Scott, thus freeing us from being readily identified as Jewish people, and freeing my brother from being beat up anymore. We could safely hide who we were behind a name change. And it worked. I ended up going to a Los Angeles high school, the only one that was occupied by a blend of Whites, African Americans, Hispanic, Asians, and some disabled students. Everyone simply got along really well. Our high school was truly a working melting pot.
My childhood experience of being excluded, ostracized and hated, opened me up to feel compassion for other minority and marginalized groups, including women, African Americans, Asians, Native people, children, disabled, and Gay and Lesbians - all groups I got to work with, and be around over the years. My childhood hurt and pain was a blessing, helping me to deeply feel what many other people in the world live with daily, and cannot escape or find a hiding place behind a name change.
As I look at my life experiences, many of them included losing jobs while standing up for other people - yet feeling good about it. My natural instinct was, to support and stand with others who were marginalized - to become an advocate. I didn't have to take time to think about what was right. Instinct took over. I have been able to appear in court dozens of times for Native people who were wrongly accused and, because I am White, the courts more often than not, would free the Native people. I got to work in Black communities, with Hispanic farm workers in the Central valley, and simply get to know "others." And ultimately see others as me.
Our son, now 16, came to me in a dream before he was born. He said many things that I recorded. One of his statements was, "I am coming here to dissolve the artificial barriers between people." And he does that. Together, we easily and automatically find ways to connect with others. Those little boys of my childhood that caused so much emotional hurt and pain in my early years, also handed me the gift of greater compassion. I was disturbed by them, and now feel only gratitude.
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