EVERYTHING IS 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 most clever response.

Ten years later, today, I was 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.” He paused.  “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. 

BEING HEARD: A GIFT

I went to a psychologist once. I was emotionally desperate, and few around me could listen to hear my short story of desperation.  Friends tried to listen.  They cared.  They wanted to help me feel better.  I felt their desire to soften my dilemma, to be kind, to care.  For some, to fix me.

I decided to pay, for the first time, to see a psychologist person named Alan Button.  For eight weeks, one hour per week, I walked into his welcoming office, and for fifty minutes, I walked back and forth, never sitting, sharing whatever came to me, always moving on my feet.

I could sense his listening, really listening, seeing me through my eyes, holding space for me to express, explore, and discover. Eight weeks went by, and Alan never asked a question. Not one question   Yet, he was totally present every moment. I could feel it, without knowing I was feeling it.  I didn't use the word "present" then, I only sensed it.
 

On the eighth week, I spontaneously said, "Alan, I'm done." He smiled, put aside his note pad, walked over to where I stood,  embraced me with a warm full hug.  I melted into his arms, complete.  No more words.  Still embracing each other, he whispered,  "Bruce, you’re the most self actualized person I’ve ever met." 

 I didn't know what that meant, yet I sensed it was a compliment.  His gift was to see into me, separate from my words and story.  He was with me, an ally, their to be of service.  His only agenda was to be completely present, and trusting--- allowing me, like most people, to have the quiet space and silence to self discover. 

Thirty years later, having had no contact with each other, I called him.  Now 85, he remembered our time together decades earlier.  I told him the impact and influence he'd had in my life, and how I learned to deeply, authentically listen as he did, allowing others to explore without interference, or my need to diagnose or fix.  

We were silent together.  He cried.  I learned he had written a book in the 1970's, The Authentic Child. 

 

WONDER

I wonder about everything.  I wonder who created God.  Who created the creator of God?  I wonder why we are all here on this planet, how did we get here, who or what runs things?  Why am I even writing this for others to read?  Who are children, really?  Are they really in need of being trained, raised, educated, contained, graded, judged and seen as products required to follow the rules of others taller and older and bigger then them? 
I wonder about this stuff.  Always have.

Who is crazy?  I mean, are the diagnosed people crazy? I don't know.  Are the adults in the world that order bombings of other cities, people and countries crazy? I don't know.  I wonder.  Not all the time.  Just some of the time, when I am not busy doing stuff that keeps me busy.

Is declaring yourself an atheist the same as declaring yourself a Christian, a Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, or Morman?  Is my belief more believable than yours?  I wonder about all this.  What settles part of the wonder is the decision to believe everything. 

I mean, wonder has no limits nor borders.  I don't have to believe anything, or I can believe everything.  Wonder is beyond what to believe, or what is true.   Maybe, just maybe, I make everything up, and this is all a dream, and I wake up at the point people refer to as death.  And even death, could simply be another layer of wonder.