A KISS ON THE CHEEK

My father kissed me on the cheek just before I drove away.  He leaned in the driver's side window of my car and simply and gently kissed my cheek.  I felt his smooth cheek against mine, a familiar softness that brought a soothing feeling to my busy mind.   I was 23. 

A week later, I received a call from my brother that my dad had unexpectedly had a heart attack and died.  At his funeral, I was grateful that my last contact with him was that gentle  kiss.  As I listened to the kind words about him, I judged myself for not crying.  I thought I should be crying, yet I felt no tears.    

Decades later, I was staying with my 18 year old son in a big hotel in Los Angeles.   I looked out the window over the freeways,and realized that we were across the street from the cemetery where my father was buried.

I asked my son if he wanted to meet the grandfather he never knew.  "Sure," he said.  We climbed over a fence, crossed a wide street, then over an eight-foot high cemetery fence.  (They were closed on Saturday).   I had no idea where his grave site was among the thousands of headstones. 

Expecting a long adventure, we created a plan to walk parallel, searching row by row for his name among the thousands of gravestones.   One minute in, our search ended.  We looked down to discover my father’s grave site, his name and date of death inscribed in the stone.  He showed up unexpectedly.  My son stared at the stone.  I knelt down, my knees at the edge of the stone.   I read his name.  I cried.     

BEYOND HONOR STUDENTS

My child is an honor student...and so is yours.

All children are honor students.   Why not? 
All children belong here.  They didn't come here to make trouble,
or cause disturbance, to be mean, to be labeled slow, to onstantly

be compared to others,

or even be required to compete against friends. 

Of course, this is another perspective on children, and since it is my perspective,  I tend to like it a lot. 

Children are not deficient in anything,

except maybe some specificv vitamin.. 

Deficiency is someone else’s

belief of what should be

Could it be that children,
including us at one time, maybe even now, simply want to
connect with people, to use themselves in their own way....
a way that is creative, of value to others and ultimately

appreciated for who they are inside, not how they perform

for the approval of others? 

It seems, and probably really true, that what the world requires

is the ability for children and big people to see through

not only their own eyes, but through the eyes of others ….

to care about relationship more than being right,

to feel comfortable with difference,

and to value trusting oneself –

thus, possibly avoiding the next war, or belief

that “they” or “them” out there are an enemy.

Maybe even the people closest to us don’t need to change either.  The change could simply be our own.

That would be a relief. 

I am Bruce Scott

 

WORLD AND THE FIELD: A CHILD

Some children live in the "field."  Not the grassy field, but the bigger unseen one that surrounds all that we do.  This field is felt by exquisitely sensitive children and adults.  They simply feel it, yet often cannot identify or explain it.  As a result, they and others around them, might believe they are "too sensitive." 

Will, a seven-year-old boy, on the day of the Dark Knight theater shootings in Colorado, without hearing of the story, began to throw things in his home, a thousand miles away.  He screamed, ran around the house, swore a lot, broke things and seemed "out of control."

His dad, having just heard the story, came over to Will as he was breaking things.  He told him a 30 second version of the shootings...just a brief summary.   Will stopped immediately.  He came over to his father and they hugged tightly, closely, silently for minutes. 

Will cried.  The  father cried with his son.   In this moment, his father became aware that some children, even us, often sense or pick up events in the world that seem like they originate from within ourselves.   We have no explanation.   Often those behaviors that seem so disturbing are valid responses to pain, hurt and joy in the larger world.  Hugging, moving closer, and without having to know for sure what the cause is, and simply being silent with each other may be all that is needed.  Adults or children.

 Last Sunday,
my bicycle and I separated when it stopped and
I did not. 

  Physically, I am fine. The cuts and bruises have
healed rapidly.  Emotionally, the shock continues
one and off...in a useful way.  The last time I had
an owie or hurt is when I was 12 years old.  This is almost
a new experience for me to have felt so scared and
shocked.   And then to allow others to help me
and then receive it freely. 

I know when I offer help to others, I do it easily,
honestly and with "wanting to."  Whether it be physical
help, or emotional or simply being present, I want to.
When I am the recipient, I feel uncomfortable, probably wondering
whether I am imposing, being a burden....yet I can and will
receive it graciously.

Feeling my "being afraid," is yucky but welcome.  I honor it in
others.  It is sometime unfamiliar to me to actually have the real
fear come to the surface, and then be with it. 

Just need to say that I would love to come down again with Boye
and be with you, Jimmy Knight, and just be there.

love,
bruce
 

BEHIND BEHAVIOR

  
 "Depending on our belief, we, as children, came into this world involuntarily. We were conceived without our conscious consent. Some might say we chose our parents. And that could be true too. Either way, we got here because, in most cases, a female and a male wanted us to be in their lives for one reason or another.
 
 So, I suggest that we, as parents, teachers, psychologists and regular people delete the term "behavior problem."  These two words have become a common way to describe and identify little people, (the children), as they become older.  This is not a trivial thing. And it is not a right thing.
 
What is a behavior problem but someone elses judgment of my unwillingness to live, moment to moment, the way someone else believes I should. If, I as a little person in school, or at home, express my uniqueness, my creative energy, my spirit, do I become a behavior problem for you?"
 
 If that voice of the little person could speak, she might say, "I need to move. I need to draw.  I need to know what you are talking about, and be interested in hearing it.  But please, do not refer to me as a problem. I may be a problem to you because you do not know me, not inside. You are too busy to know me. 

Stop. Join me. Slow down. You will find there is much more to who I am inside, than a disturber. Ask me a question from wonder. Ask me what I want to know more about.  I will join with you as you join with me. We can collaborate. We can be allies."

BEHIND ALL BEHAVIOR

 "Depending on our belief, we, as children, came into this world involuntarily.  We were conceived without our conscious consent. Some might say we chose our parents.  And that could be true too. Either way, we got here because, in most cases, a female and a male wanted us to be in their lives for one reason or another.
 
 So, I suggest that we, as parents, teachers, psychologists and regular people delete the term "behavior problem."  These two words have become a common way to describe and identify little people, (the children), as they become older.  This is not a trivial thing. And it is not a right thing.
 
What is a behavior problem but someone elses judgment of my unwillingness to live, moment to moment, the way someone else believes I should. If, I as a little person in school, or at home, express my uniqueness, my creative energy, my spirit, do I become a behavior problem for you?"
 
 If that voice of the little person could speak, she might say, "I need to move. I need to draw.  I need to know what you are talking about, and be interested in hearing it.  But please, do not refer to me as a problem.   I may be a problem to you because you do not know me, not inside.  You are too busy to know me. Stop. Join me. Slow down.  You will find there is much more to who I am inside, than a disturber.  

Ask me a question from wonder. Ask me what I want to know more about.  I will join with you as you join with me. We can collaborate. We can be allies."
 

BEHIND ALL BEHAVIOR

 
 
 
 "Depending on our belief, we, as children, came into this world involuntarily.  We were conceived without our conscious consent. Some might say we chose our parents.  And that could be true too. Either way, we got here because, in most cases, a female and a male wanted us to be in their lives for one reason or another.
 
 So, I suggest that we, as parents, teachers, psychologists and regular people delete the term "behavior problem."  These two words have become a common way to describe and identify little people, (the children), as they become older.  This is not a trivial thing. And it is not a right thing.
 
What is a behavior problem but someone elses judgment of my unwillingness to live, moment to moment, the way someone else believes I should. If, I as a little person in school, or at home, express my uniqueness, my creative energy, my spirit, do I become a behavior problem for you?"
 
 If that voice of the little person could speak, she might say, "I need to move. I need to draw.
I need to know what you are talking about, and be interested in hearing it. But please, do not refer to me as a problem.  I may be a problem to you because you do not know me, not inside.  You are too busy to know me. Stop. Join me. Slow down.  You will find there is much more to who I am inside, than a disturber.  Ask me a question from wonder. Ask me what I want to know more about.  I will join with you as you join with me. We can collaborate. We can be allies."
 

WITHHOLDING JUDGMENT IS AN ACT OF LOVE

"So how can I be at home with my children, live a daily creative life, be in the world with others when I want to be with others, feel free inside, and voluntarily be available for those around me?  How can I feel and know I am using my creative energies all the time, absent the thought of sacrifice, guilt or belief I'm giving up something important to me?  One last "how can I."  How can I know what I'm doing, and who I'm being is for the highest good of everyone concerned?  What if, rather than be a good mom, father, partner, friend, or good anything, I see myself as the "elder" to all those in my life?  Not the elder in age, but in awareness, simplicity, humor, sensitive to others, able to lead as an emotional martial artist, victim only to my thoughts of believing I am a victim.  Maybe one more What if.  What if I knew that there is something right about everything?  Don't always know what that right is until minutes, hours, days or weeks later. 

What if I am willing to know, even if I don't believe it all the time, that I am capable of having room for all kinds of people that pass through my life?  Because I question everything, I believe everything.  I notice all the judgments of others that sneak in unaware, and I silently dissolve them so I can be present for everyone, including myself.  I know that personality, and who I think I am, are only the surface layer.  I can "work" on my doubts and fears, waiting for them to go away, or I can recognize I already am what I seek to be,and the doubts and fears can simply be observed, allowed to exist, and given a seat at the table.  It is true that "any withholding of judgment is an act of love,"

The world around me, including family,"friends," and perceived enemies, are only there to help me discover the vast ability we have to stay open to everything, especially people and events that make no sense to us.  This is all a practice.  The end result is practice.  Death is practice.   We can give ourselves permission to be stupid, smart, wise, brilliant, slow, good, bad and above all.....spacious.   Some around me may join me right away and say thank you.  Others may say "huh?"  Both are ok.

NOTHING IS WRONG: I WANT TO PLAY

Justin is seven-years-old and lives in Somerset, England, with his mum and dad and brother. Louise, his mum, emails me weekly, and calls once a month.  How we discovered each other is secondary to what she recently shared with me. 

Louise and her husband Jon, had been frustrated, with their young son Justin, constantly hitting them when he walked by.  He had been doing this for many months with no explanation.  Jon often reacted angrily, and in frustration, would punish seven-year old Justin. 

Over the months, she wondered what she could do to stop his hitting.....which physically hurt.  The family was in conflict with each other over how to treat Justin.  They thought of taking him for psychological help....wanting to fix him and make him better.  Friends suggested that Justin needed professional help.  Louise discovered the answer. The difficulty was not with Justin, but with she and her husband. 

After the last hitting spree, she calmed herself, found her neutral voice, and instead of reacting, she wondered what could be right about this ongoing pattern? 

In a quiet and calm moment, finding her own sense of wonder, she asked Justin, "What can I say or do when you hit me?"   Justin sat back with a sense of relief.   "Your voice. It's angry."
 
"Is there something I can do differently," she asked. "Yes, Play." 

Louise had tears of relief.  She realized that her young son wanted to engage with her and his dad.  He wanted to play.  He wanted his parents to be in the room, when they are there, not in their minds, thinking stuff.  "It was like he was saying, when you are in your mind you are not here."   The hitting stopped.  Now they play. 

"How simple," Louise wrote me.  "He is so in his body, like most children are.  They want to feel their bodies, to move and connect with others.  That is their job.  How so very simple. Louise then turned to her husband, and said, "You want to be appreciated too, and know I appreciate you."   He cried. 

KRIS AND THE SERIOUS PEOPLE

Six-year-old kristopher was on his bed upside down, holding a head stand.  His extra long blond hair was dangling and reaching out in a variety of directions.  He was so much himself, flexible, pliable, completely in his body, and unaffected by events around him.  He just was.  The word "free" probably describes what I was seeing....and feeling. 

In the next room, his parents and five other adults were engaged in a planning meeting related to starting a non-profit school for democratic education; a school where young people from age six to eighteen would all be together and in charge of their own educational process.

I first met Kris, in a vertical position, as he ran into the room where the more serious adults sat on the floor in a circle, talking business and planning stuff.  Kris, now head up, with feet on the ground, nimbly ran through the center of the serious adult circle.  No one seemed disturbed by his actions or presence, in what could be perceived as "interrupting the adults." 

He was free to be himself, and mingle with the adults, allowing space and attitude for Kris to be Kris.  I was so impressed with the way seven-year-old Kris was welcomed, respected and seen as an integral part of the group, that even though the school had yet to be complete on paper, or have a physical site, we signed up our eleven-year-old son....... only after asking for his opinion.

BLENDED COLORS

A seven-year-old African American boy was sitting across from his white mom, just a few feet away from me, in a coffee shop. They were engaged in serious conversation. She was listening intently, completely present with him, as his hands animated his words. They faced each other directly, their eyes in constant contact.

At first, I simply appreciated seeing the blended color family being with each other. Then my attention shifted to how their eyes met…how the mother was so completely engaged with her son and his animated way of telling her a story. She was genuinely with him completely, her body posture suggesting she wanted to be exactly where she was.

I saw no age difference. I imagined what he or any child must feel like when an adult person, parent or not, is honestly present, and wants to be. She was not only listening, she was hearing him with her eyes as well. She cared about what he was saying. No hurry. No rushing. No busyness....just her presence in his world...and his presence in her world.

She even leaned forward a bit to be close to him. Their eyes never wandered from each other. I was reminded of how it feels to have someone slow down enough to just be there. The simple and sacred act of being together,

THE JOY OF CRYING

A mom was on her knees on the sidewalk, leaning into a baby stroller in front of me, her face nestled next to her little boy’s face as he cried. She held him close, being with him as he cried. 

 "I just want to cry," he said quietly.  In the warm sun, on this quiet residential street, she simply held her cheek next to his, repeating, "You just want to cry, of course." They seemed to have no where to go, no hurry. As I walked slowly past them, she acknowledged my presence with her eyes, and remained completely present with her boy.  

Together, they wrapped their arms around each other as he cried quietly, then silently, then not at all. She was his witness, his support, his permission to express himself in his way in that moment. 

For a moment, I longed to have easy access to tears freely, without self judgment, guilt or believing I needed to have a reason. I knew that crying was a natural expression and did not need to be about sadness ....or even about anything at all. “What would it be like,” I wondered, “if all women, men, girls and boys, and me, could cry spontaneously when it is there to do, would there be fewer words spoken?"  I smiled.........a tear..

ISN'T EVERYTHING FICTION?

Some years ago while sitting in a coffee shop in Taos, New Mexico, writing a book I did not know would be published, a man and his wife walked by my table. I recognized him as a well-known famous writer of books and screen plays, yet I was so completely absorbed in my laptop screen, lost in a story, that I did not completely take in his celebrity.

If I had, I might have been intimidated or a bit shy. "Are you writing fiction or non-fiction?” this celebrity person asked. Without thinking, I replied, "Isn't everything fiction?” Surprised by my answer, he turned to his wife and I heard him say, "God, he's right. He’s right." I went back to typing the flow of words emerging from somewhere within me. For a moment, I was impressed by myself for coming up with that instinctive response.

Ten years later, today, I am sitting in a coffee shop in Portland, Oregon, writing what seems to be transitioning into a book. A man with a beard, and appearing to be a street person, or at least fitting my stereotype of a street person, sat down on the stool beside me. The smell of a cigarette smoker filled the space around me. “Hi,” he said, looking in my direction. I noticed my quiet judgment of him, and at first, felt disturbed.

He sensed my thought. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disturb you," he said. “Go on and do your work.” Hearing him, I paused and stopped typing. I turned to face him directly. “You know, people are more important than machines. I’m sorry. I’m glad you are here and we can talk together.” He smiled, revealing some missing teeth. “Today is my birthday,” he replied. “I’m 50 today, and Starbucks has given me a free coffee drink, pastry and anything I want today. Are you a writer?" he asked. "Yes, sometimes I write."

"Are you writing fiction or non-fiction?" he asked, as though he knew the history of that question. "Isn't everything fiction?" I replied. We stared at each other. His facial expression gradually transformed into a knowing smile, as though he knew the truth of those words. I no longer felt a distance between us. He knew. I knew. “Thank you,” he said, then stood up, excused himself and went outside for a smoke.

YES, YOU CAN DO IT

A five-year old little girl was quietly sitting on a four-foot high metal fence overlooking the
Santa Cruz Pacific ocean, just a few feet from a cliff beneath her dangling legs. Her father stood behind her; his arms gently but securely holding and bracing her for safety.

They were quiet together, lost in the serenity of the sun glistening on the waters below as surfers found waves to ride.

It was time to go. The father quietly picked up his daughter from the fence as she gently resisted leaving her sitting spot. She resisted with her entire body, seemingly wanting to stay longer. He removed her anyway, placing her on the ground several feet back from the fence. Free from his arms, she started to run back to climb on the railing.

'"Oh you just want to prove something eh?" he said, his tone not mean, yet judgmental and sounding more like a reaction to her determination.

A brief moment later, as though he had heard his own tone of voice, he added, "Go do it." This time, his voice carried a tone of confidence in his daughter, and maybe freedom from his own fear. It was a shift to "Yes, you can do it, I trust you. And I can support the trust you have in yourself."

He released his hold on her. She ran free. When she reached the fence, she placed both hands on the top railing, pulled herself up part way...then dropped back down to the ground, turned, and ran back to her dad, into his arms...and they hugged each other. No words. They walked away holding hands.

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.

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."